An older monk, white-haired, sour-faced and resentful, supervised them. I roamed the monastery and eventually found myself in a dank corridor where three miserable-looking monks were copying manuscripts. Next morning it was raining like the world was ending and so I waited until the wind and weather had done their worst. "I just want bread," I finally made them understand, "cheese if you have it, and some ale." I threw money on the hall floor. Uhtred of Bebbanburg was within their walls and such is my reputation that they expected me to start slaughtering them. I was traveling home with a dozen men, it was a wet winter's day, and all we needed was shelter, food, and warmth, but the monks behaved as though a band of Norsemen had arrived at their gate. I forget where except that it was in the lands that were once Mercia.
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