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1632 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 1, 2000
The wax candle melted down to a stump.
I'm prisoner here.
This is no Romance of Arthur or Peredur. I'm not about to scale the walls, fight off armoured men with my bare hands, ride off into the sunshine. What happens to valueless prisoners taken in war is pain first, broken bodies second, and an unmarked, unchristian burial afterwards. I am in their city. They own it now.
Snow whirled faster from the invisible whiteness of the sky into the glade. Snow covered the green ivy, the red berries of the holly. Snow froze on the spindly brown arcs of briar. A great huffing animal breath came down from the altar of the ruined green chapel. Ash watched its whiteness on the air. Animal-breath hit her in the face, warm and wet.
A great paw trod down from the stone altar.
[...] one must remember that exaggeration, legend, myth, and the chronicler's own prejudices and patriotism, all form a normal part of the average mediaeval manuscript. Under the dross, there is gold. As you will see.
History is a large net, with a wide mesh, and many things slip through it into oblivion. With the new material I have uncovered, I hope to bring to light, once again, those facts which do not accord with our idea of the past, but which, nonetheless, are factual.
That this will then involve considerable reassessment of our views of Northern European history is inevitable, and the historians will just have to get used to it!
I look forward to hearing from you,
Pierce Ratcliff
The priest stared. "You're a woman!"
Ash muttered, "That's why I keep you on the company books, Godfrey. Your acumen. Your intelligence. The rapidity with which you penetrate to the heart of the matter." She shot a look at the lantern and its marked hour-candle, burning steadily where it sat on the trestle table. "It's nearly Nones. Godfrey, go and give that unruly mob out there a field-mass. Do it! I need time."