Dodu and Roupen emerged from the neighbouring house, the young lord with a small bag in one hand and a bowl in the other. Dodu carried a crock and a wooden cup. 'I knew there would be ale,' he said, placing the crock carefully at his feet. He sat down and began to pour out the sweet brown liquid.

'I found salt,' said Roupen, offering me the bag. From the bowl, he produced two large eggs, and a wedge of hard, milky-white cheese. He handed the eggs to Padraig, saying, 'Maybe we could boil them.'

'I have a better idea,' replied the monk. Taking the bowl from Roupen's hand, he cracked the two eggs against the side and emptied them into the bowl. Then, taking the cheese, he broke off a portion and proceeded to crumble it into the bowl, whereupon he reached in and stirred the eggs and cheese with his fingers very fast until the mixture was a pale yellow colour.

Roupen watched, fascinated. 'Are you a cook in your monastery?'

Padraig smiled. 'The abbey is not large,' he explained, 'so each of us must take his turn with the various chores.' So saying, he up-ended the bowl into the cooking pot with the meal and water, which was beginning to simmer on the flame. He reached for the bag of salt, withdrew a small handful and shook it into the pot as well. 'Now then,' he said, taking up a stick from which he began stripping the bark, 'we wait.'

We passed the ale cup around the circle to occupy ourselves while we waited for the pot to boil. Sarn, having decided that his mast might wait until he had a bite to eat, joined us and demanded his share of the ale, which Dodu reluctantly supplied. After a time, the pot began to boil, and Padraig stirred it with his stick. Sarn went into the house to see if Dodu had overlooked any jars of ale. I lay back and closed my eyes, and listened to the pot burbling away. The smell of the porridge brought the water to my mouth, and my stomach growled. I was just remembering the last meal I had eaten before leaving home, when I felt a touch on my arm.

I opened my eyes, and saw Roupen kneeling over me; his eyes were on the yard behind us. I rolled over and looked where he was staring and saw only the trees of the wood behind the field. 'What do you see?' I asked.

'Someone is there,' he whispered.

Padraig stopped stirring; he placed the stick across the top of the pot, and gazed into the deep-shadowed wood.

'Are you certain?' I asked. The young man nodded. I stood and motioned Padraig to my side. 'We will go have a look. You stay here and guard that pot,' I told Roupen.

Padraig and I walked to the end of the yard, and started across the field, watching the trees for any sign of movement, but could see nothing in the shade. We halted at the edge of the field, and I called into the wood. 'Come out! We have seen you. There is nothing to fear. We need your help. Come out so we can talk to you.'

We waited. No sound or movement came from the wood. I started to shout again, but Padraig said, 'Let me try.' He advanced a few more paces alone, and raised his hands in priestly blessing. 'Pax vobiscum! In the name of our Great Redeemer, I give you good greeting.' He paused and waited for a moment, then added, 'I have made a meal of porridge. Come and share it with us.'

'What are you doing?' I complained. 'There is barely enough for us.'

Ignoring me, Padraig said, 'The porridge is ready. Please, come and eat.'

'We cannot feed the whole countryside!' I complained.

'Hush, Duncan. Be still.'

The over-generous monk repeated his invitation, and we waited some more. Perhaps Roupen was mistaken, I thought; no doubt, hunger had him seeing things. Before I could suggest this to Padraig, however, I heard a rustle in the leaves and out from the forest stepped a wizened old man with a small knife in one hand, and a broken tree branch in the other. His wrinkled face was set in a glare of defiance as he challenged us to do our worst.

'Peace, father,' Padraig said. 'We are pilgrims, and mean no harm.'

The old man came on a pace or two further and then halted. He raised the broken branch in his hand and pointed it at Padraig. 'Are you a priest, truly?' he asked in crude Latin.

'I am,' replied Padraig, still holding out his hands. 'Come, let us break bread together, and you can tell us what happened here.'

The man threw down his rude weapon and gave a nod of approval to the two old women cowering behind him. 'All is well,' he called. 'That one is a priest.'

At this the women ran forwards and fell upon Padraig; they seized his hands and began kissing them, and crying aloud praises to God. The monk allowed himself to be handled for a moment, and then turned and herded his new flock towards the house.

Upon reaching the yard, they went at once to where Roupen was waiting beside the pot of porridge, and stood looking longingly at the steaming, bubbling food. Sarn and Dodu appeared just then, having searched the second house to no avail.

The old people recognized the haulier and ran to him. 'Dodu! Dodu!' they cried and began gabbling at him in a strange language. He patted them on the shoulders and listened, his expression growing sorrowful. Finally, he raised his head and said to us, 'They have been robbed – two days ago. No doubt it was the same bandits we met on the road.'

Dodu listened some more, and then said, 'They took all the pigs-six of them, you know-and the two cows as well. Anna's husband tried to prevent them, and they thumped him on the head.' The old man made a motion with his hand, showing how the blow had struck his friend; his mouth turned down in a frown of sorrow and disgust. 'He died yesterday,' said Dodu. Exchanging a few more words with the old farmer, he added sadly, "They buried him in the woods beside the stream, where they have been hiding.'

The old women nodded vigorously and pointed to the woods behind them. It seems they had seen us coming down the hill and, fearing another attack, had run into the woods. That had probably saved them from injury when the boat came crashing through their house. I pointed this out, and then led them to the side of the house and showed them the wreckage. They clucked their tongues and muttered to one another, but all-in-all appeared far more interested in the porridge than the ruin of their poor dwelling.

One of the old wives crawled into the house through the hole in the wall, and began rummaging around in the debris. She brought out some wooden bowls, and passed them to her friend. From another corner, she produced a bag and passed that to me. When I opened it, I found hard bread in small loaves. Next she found a wooden ladle, which she carried to the boiling pot and, with a flick of her hand, dismissed Roupen from his post.

Settling herself beside the pot, she dipped in the ladle, blew on the food to cool it, and then tasted. She puckered her lips, and then called a command to the old man, who hurried away at a trot. He went to the storehouse and disappeared inside – emerging a few moments later carrying a brown bundle the size of a baby, which he brought to his wife.

She lay the bundle in her lap, and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a fine side of smoke-cured bacon. Taking a small knife from her sleeve, she began cutting off strips of meat and dropping them into the porridge. Next, the old man produced two onions which she also cut up and stirred into the pot with the ladle.

In a little while, the aroma wafting up from the pot had improved marvellously. The old woman tasted again, then smiled a wide, gap-toothed grin, and we all took up our bowls and gathered around as she ladled out the thick stew. We crumbled the hard bread into the steaming porridge, raised the bowls to our lips and lapped up our first meal in three days.

There was enough to ease the hunger pangs and give us strength to pull the wagon away from the house. We spent the rest of the day helping clean up the wreckage, and moving their few belongings to the other house which, owing to a hole in the roof, they had not been using for several years.