The Wistful Silence
The list of dead men was written in a hand that shook, the ink smudged where sweat had stained the parchment. Sir Aldric read the names twice, his eyes tracing the familiar script of Lord Vane’s clerk, and when he saw the name of his squire, Thomas, he felt a cold stone settle in his gut. It was the year of our Lord 1348, and the air in the courtyard of Calais smelled of rot and wet wool. He...
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