A house that he had loved came down about Montjoy’s ears. A garden that he had tended the swine rooted up. One came and threw filth against his Love.
He seemed to understand this monk and the monk to understand him. For an instant they were brothers in suffering and rage.
Sow it with salt—Silver Cross!
Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew. Who best to send to cardinal and to Rome on that business? Procure their degradation! Have them cursed with bell, book and candle!
The whore—let her be burned slowly until she was ashes!
O Isabel—Isabel—Isabel!
O Kingdom of Heaven that hath suffered wrong!
Montjoy sat with a working face. He sat in his great chair on the dais in castle hall and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. At last he spoke with voice of one underground who has fire still but has lost the light of day. “Well, as for thee, monk—”
“Give me, no more, that name!” cried the man addressed. “The monk is dead. I am Richard Englefield, the Smith!”