The abbey church of St Jude was illuminated by a single candle on the altar, which shivered in the ice-edged March wind that penetrated the twisted oak of the doors. The wavering light filled the hollows of the altar steps with pools of shadow, spilling over the rough limestone floor. The lofty heights of the nave were darker than the snow-filled night outside, the ancient timbers creaking in counterpoint to the low moaning of the wind.

A voice, as cracked and aged as the silenced bell in the church tower, began a familiar chant, as a line of monks emerged into the flickering range of the single flame. The prayer drifted on, fourteen humble heads bowed in reverence, fourteen voices flowing over the pebbles of confession, the rhythmic cadences rippling through the chill musty gloom. The monks knelt, faces pinched and lined, hands knotted and gnarled with arthritis, shoulders sharp under the heavy robes. The order's full complement was twenty-four, but the long winter had taken its toll. Set upon its holy island site, remote from the support and charity of the faithful, supplies had dwindled and stores had not been replenished. Then came the sickness like a thief, which had stolen first vigour and then life. Nine brothers had been consigned to the care of the Lord, although their plundered bodies lay, stiffly waiting and partially covered by a snowdrift, under the east wall of the church. Brother Edmund was not expected to survive the night.

Brother Bernard, the youngest member of the order, took his place at the end of the altar rail and accepted the tiny morsel of stale bread that was proffered. He waited, quiescent, as the communion cup was presented to each monk in turn.. When the goblet was offered to him, he raised his glance to stare into the pain-fringed eyes of the elderly abbot, removing the chased silver from his surprised and nerveless fingers. A whisper and rustle amongst his black-robed brethren conveyed their puzzled astonishment at this unforeseen event. Slowly, Brother Bernard stood and raised the chalice towards his lips, paused momentarily, then drained the contents. The wine, such a familiar taste, held a hint of sweetness, as though the cup had once held honey. He watched the faces of his beloved colleagues, saw the puzzlement turn to anxiety, as one by one, they felt the first touch of the poison on their body. The abbot sank to his knees, reaching a hand, as cold and fragile as an icicle, to touch him, before closing his eyes with a sigh. Like a settling of crows, the other brethren followed, their robes billowing out into untidy puddles on the yellow stone.

'Forgive me father, for I have sinned.' The familiar words slid from his lips reluctantly, like the last drops of wine from the chalice, clinging to the beaten rim, as it slipped from his dying hand to strike the flagged floor with a chime sweet and true enough to reach the ear of God.