Guillaume d'Anzeray sat up in his bed, watching the old woman fussing and chanting with her powders and her incense. So far her prayers and her medicine had done naught but give him a headache and a knotted bowel. Resentful of anything that stood between him and his pleasures, he didn't hold much with nuns at the best of times, but to have one at his death bed seemed preposterous hypocrisy, and he grew annoyed that he'd ever allowed it. Who sent her here anyway? He couldn't remember. At times like these he missed his favorite whore, but he'd be seeing her again soon. In the fiery pits of hell, if this muttering old baggage had anything to say about it. With long, callused fingers, he groped for a wooden bowl beside his bed and threw it at the elderly nun. Since it was his usual way of getting her attention she barely flinched, but finally paused her mumbling prayers and turned slowly to face him. He licked his dry lips. "Bring them in to me then. 'Tis feeding time at the old man's trough." Without a word, she stepped over the bowl that spun at her feet, took a candle to the door of his chamber and lifted the iron latch with a clank.
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