At shortly past one in the morning, the guestmaster, Brother Roland, was not likely to be changing the bed linens or delivering a portion of the "two hogsheads of wine" that St. Benedict, when he wrote the Rule that established monastic order in the sixth century, had specified as a necessary provision for every guesthouse.

St. Bartholomew's does not provide any wine.  The small under-the-counter refrigerator in my bathroom contains cans of Coke and bottles of iced tea.

Entering my front room, prepared to shout "Varlet," or "Blackguard," or some other epithet that would sound appropriate to the medieval atmosphere, I found not an enemy, but a friend.  Brother Knuckles, known sometimes as Brother Salvatore, stood at the window, peering out at the falling snow.

Brother Knuckles is acutely aware of the world around him, of the slightest sounds and telltale scents, which is why he survived the world he operated in before becoming a monk.  Even as I stepped silently across the threshold, he said, "You'll catch your death, traipsin' about on a night like this, dressed like that."

"I wasn't traipsing," I said, closing the door quietly behind me.  "I was skulking."

He turned from the window to face me.  "I was in the kitchen, scarfin' down some roast beef and provolone when I seen you come up the stairs from John's Mew."

"There weren't any lights in the kitchen, sir.  I would've noticed."

"The fridge light is enough to make a snack, and you can eat good by the glow from the clock on the microwave."

"Committing the sin of gluttony in the dark, were you?"

"The cellarer's gotta be sure things are fresh, don't he?"

As the abbey's cellarer, Brother Knuckles purchased, stocked, and inventoried the food, beverages, and other material goods for the monastery and school.

"Anyway," he said, "a guy, he eats at night in a bright kitchen that's got no window blinds - he's a guy tastin' his last sandwich."

"Even if the guy's a monk in a monastery?"

Brother Knuckles shrugged. "You can never be too careful."