Magdalene paused for a moment with a pot of honey in her hand, thinking of William of Ipres, who had protected – and used – her for so many years. He was with the king now, preparing to take the massive stronghold of Devizes. Inside, Magdalene shivered, her hand tightening on the honey pot. She prayed for his safety. A tight bond had grown between William and herself over the years, and it was no longer only because William stood between her – a whore with no rights and no other protection – and the law that she worried about him.
'It is the best honey, mistress,' the grocer said. 'I do not think you will find better anywhere in this market.'
[...]
They chaffered for a while and came to an agreement. Magdalene really had not minded the price. William had been very generous when he compensated her for her trip to Oxford. Perhaps he had felt a little guilty because she had remained to serve his political purposes against her lover's will, and that had infuriated Sir Bellamy of Itchen so much that he had left her.
Tears rose to her eyes and she set her teeth and blinked them away. A whore does not cry over a man, she reminded herself ...
(From The Prologue by Bernard Knight)
The bishop picked up a thin book from the rough table at which he sat and brandished it at the abbot. 'Is this the product of a Christian brother – or the ravings of the devil that lives within him?'
Conan opened the covers of wood covered with black leather that were bound over a thin sheaf of yellow parchment. He held it out towards the abbot and riffled the pages under Alither's nose.
'What demonical evil is this? Who in Ireland has ever seen the like of this before? Can you doubt that Satan had a hand in this?'
Alither had no need to look at it; he was only too familiar with the weird volume that, along with its author, had been the bane of his life for the past few months. Though the script was neat and regular, the content of the text was beyond comprehension.
'Perfect Latin, beautifully penned!' continued an exasperated Conan. 'And what does it mean? Gibberish, blasphemous gibberish. Apparently claiming to foretell the future, blasphemously encroaching on God's Holy Will, which has preordained every action until the end of time!'
'Tears are to be kept private,' her mother had said.What of pain and despair? Were they also to be hidden? Shut away out of sight like soiled linen? How was she to endure this? Night after night? Time stretched ahead, a tunnel of black, stark loneliness.
Only one candle burnt, flickering as a draught toyed with the flame. Emma turned her head, watched the yellow glow flutter dark shadows along the walls. From down in the Hall the noise of celebration rumbled up through the floor. Some of the men had joined the women, resuming the dancing and pleasures of earlier in the evening. A crash; the shriek of a woman's drunken laughter; the deeper bellow of a man's voice. Had a trestle table been knocked over? From the clatter of pottery and metal it sounded as if it had.
The wick untrimmed, the candle began to smoke, then gutted out, the only light coming from the strip beneath the doorway.
Do not shed tears in public, mama had instructed. Well, she was not in public, there was no one here to see her cry.
