The Golden Mirror
The rain in the March of 1347 did not wash the world clean; it merely made the mud deeper and the stench of the rotting hedges along the King’s Road more pungent. Thomas, a scribe of thirty years whose hands were stained permanently with the indigo of his trade, walked with a heavy step, his breath pluming in the cold air as he moved away from the stone walls of St. Aldhelm’s Abbey. He carried...
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