Vita Edwardi Secundi I grasped Demontaigu’s arm. He was pale, unshaven and unwashed, like a man who’d suffered a bad night’s sleep and a day equally as troublesome. I was not able to converse with him, but followed Spit Boy as he led us through the palace grounds down to King’s Steps. It was early evening. A waiting barge took us quickly towards Queenshithe, where we disembarked. Spit Boy, who regarded it all as a great game, scampered before us like a puppy leading us through the streets. The day was dying, the city emptying. I suffered what I call the horrors, an eerie blood-chilling experience that has never waned over the years: it is provoked by moving swiftly from one extreme to another. I’ve sheltered in comfortable courts, in luxurious palaces, in chambers lined with tapestries, only to step into a world completely different. I have often reflected on this. How the times I’ve lived in are not moderate, but intense in every way. I have worshipped in cathedrals where the stone arches like a hymn and the light pours through beautiful multicoloured glass to bathe the nave in all the glory of heaven.
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