The Golden Farce
Thomas. The name was not spoken, but it hung in the air of the small, damp room like smoke from a snuffed candle, summoned by the weight of the thing he was holding. It was the year of our Lord 1348, and the light coming through the shutters was the pale, sickly yellow of early autumn, casting long, thin shadows across the floorboards. Thomas, a squire of thirty-two years, lay rigid in his bed,...
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