His door rattled and then flew open. Silently, Brother Berthold lit the bedside candle, nodded, and shuffled away. Cuthbert sighed, and his breath enveloped his face in vapor. What kind of life was this, to be lived in the shadows – to be lived in desperate longing?
wrapped in coarse wool /
in his windowless cell – /
pitiless morning /
After a silent breakfast of stale bread and ale, Cuthbert looked forward to another day of copying ancient texts. After so many years, he had thought his fingers would be tougher by now. Instead, he had lesions – painful, never-healing blisters – on his index and middle finger.
Yet he could not – would not – complain. …
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