Margaret

“Sire!’ Corbett saw Bassett feel the man’s throat. ‘I think he is dead.’ A young deacon, his gold vestments swirling around him like the dress of a woman, hurried up to Winchelsea. ‘My Lord Bishop,’ he stuttered, ‘the priest is dead.’ Winchelsea glanced sideways at the king. ‘Have his body removed,’ he replied softly. ‘And do not finish the service.’ The man, bowing and bobbing, scurried away. Winchelsea turned to the king. ‘Your Grace,’ he said wryly, ‘it appears there will be no sermon.’ ‘And will I get my taxes, my Lord Bishop?’ ‘Not till this matter is resolved,’ Winchelsea snapped back. He leaned over to the king. ‘I must urge Your Grace to respect the rights of the Church, fought for and protected by the papacy and sealed with the blood of the martyred Becket.’ The king leaned forward, his face suffused with rage.”
― Paul Doherty, The Angel of Death

“Then de Montfort, resplendent in liturgical robes as well as his own arrogance, walked back to the altar where the mass continued.”
― Paul Doherty, The Angel of Death

“Suddenly de Montfort went rigid and the ciborium slipped from his hand, dashing the white hosts like snowflakes onto the altar steps. The man’s hand went out, pointing at the king, his usually skull-like face now almost cadaverous, the skin drawn tight, the eyes bulging. Corbett rose, his hand searching for the knife beneath his cloak. De Montfort’s mouth opened and shut like a landed carp, then with a loud cry he fell headlong down the steps, his”
― Paul Doherty, The Angel of Death

“They say grief’s like stepping on a rake,’ he says, pausing in his tea-making to try and get this right. ‘A rake? As in a garden tool? You’ve lost me.”
― Celia Anderson, 59 Memory Lane