Medieval 2 Quotes

Every time you take one path, you must live with the memory of the other: of a life left unchosen.

Apparently it is also called the ‘Staff of Power’? It is an ancient relic that supposedly was found by the Blair clan in Bala and has been a protected by them over the centuries. Robert Reid – The Son

Why would an all powerful wizard come to protect Hillfoot? Why would he even be in this part of the Alol? Apart from in stories and folklore did a wizard actually exist anyway?” Robert Reid – The Son

If you die fighting, I want to die fighting with you.

Valdin softened slightly. “Ramon you have been very well paid for this trip and I am sure that for a little extra gold the crew will not miss their shore leave. My job is done.” With that the huntsman shook Ramon’s hand and left the ship. Robert Reid – The Son

She then continued. “All of the iron work was destroyed. Melted lumps of iron lay all round the smithies but there was one fragment that remained whole, a motif from one of the cannons, a dragon’s head. Below the fiery mouth, words were embossed in the metal, ‘Lex Talionis’.” Robert Reid – The Son

Blair continued. “The old man only visits me in dreams. Dressed always in black with amber fire as his companion, he is older than the mountains. He is the fire of othium and he comes with an ancient name, Oien. He demands you take your throne and raise his armies. You will rebuild for him the glory of the second age.” Robert Reid – The Son

The hunters’ crossbow bolts are capable of bringing down most of the animals they hunt, but not the auroch. To kill an auroch the hunters would fire three bolts into the animal, each of them coated with what they call ‘the juice of the yew’.” Robert Reid – The Son

As Audun detached the orb from the staff he heard the old alchemist’s words echo in his mind. “Your anger is good Audun, your power lies in your anger.” Audun opened his eyes again and lay back down in the wet grass as the words repeated themselves. Robert Reid – The Son

My Lady, one of the rumours in the inns gives the wizard a name. Adun, a disinherited Aramin child from an ancient myth, supposedly arisen after hundreds of years from his grave in the Doran Mountains. It stuck me as a strange coincidence that the child’s name was so like the name of the Captain of the Swan.” Robert Reid – The Son

The wizard broke out from his mountain grave As his red fire filled the cave The miners ran to escape their doom All in its path red fire would consume The fire would destroy Sparsholt Before cannons at the Alol melt On Tamin Plain the flax would burn And reveal a name… Arin The time of the wizard is here Destruction, death and fear Some say the world will end Others say a child is seeking revenge I am a minstrel and not a seer All I know is… The time of the wizard is here Destruction, death and fear Robert Reid – The Son

Back in medieval times, " I said, "we used oil of vitriol for its healing properties. No doubt that's why Commodus had some in his infirmary. Today we call it sulfuric acid." Meg flinched. "Isn't that dangerous?" "Very." "And you *healed* with it?" "It was the Middle Ages. We were crazy back then.

Footfalls in the hallway, outside the door, alerted Audun to the fact that they had company. The steps were light, a woman’s step, Audun suddenly thought. A moment later the woman entered the room. Her light brown hair was tinged with grey, and the rich black velvet gown she wore spoke to her status. The hazel eyes swept the room. In that instant Audun knew with certainty the identity of his visitor. “Good morning, grandmother. Have you come to offer me my crown?” Robert Reid – The Son

As his frustration grew he spoke to the orb. “I have the power, and you will obey me.” A few orange sparks danced down the staff and fizzed out as they hit the wet grass. Frustration turned to anger and Audun slammed the tip of the staff against the ground and shouted. “You will obey me.” In that moment the orb started to glow red and the staff became alive with amber flashes. Audun’s anger seemed to burn like the fire now emanating from the tip of the staff and as he raised the tip toward the first forge the red fire leapt across the open ground and the smithy exploded with a roar like thunder. Robert Reid – The Son

«He grins and straightens, wings high and regal behind him. I glare at his costume. It’s so typical him. A mix of medieval and rock star: brown leather forearm guards with studs over a ruffle-cuffed white shirt, and a cavalier doublet in burgundy with a gold lace overlay. The hem hits above his muscled thighs, so the skintight burgundy hose taper smoothly into knee-high brown boots, leaving nothing to the imagination. Worst of all, he has a crown. He dressed as a fairy king. The irony doesn’t escape me. I scowl. “Problem, luv?” He looks down on me from behind a gold lace half mask while adjusting the ruby-jeweled crown over his blue hair with velvet-clad hands. Tiny moth corpses are suspended in the rubies, like stained-glass fossils. I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be the only one wearing anything tight enough to need a codpiece. Always have to be the showstopper, don’t you?” “Oh, I assure you, what I chose to show is only the start.»

Charlotte wondered if she would have recognized the crazy much earlier if he looked more like Steve Buscemi then Mr. Medieval Hotness.

You will marry me. We will be together. I will not discuss this again.” His dark eyes turned into bottomless, black pits. “Capisce?” he growled. Barbarian. Or, is he a medieval bastard? Dammit why didn't I pay closer attention to time periods in history class?

He was aware for the first time of how quiet the city had gotten. After dark the streets and canals seemed to empty out. As if Venice felt less of an obligation to pretend to be part of this millennium at night, and had reverted to its medieval self again.

Claiming to be offended is a great way to elevate yourself at the expense of others: “Look at me! I'm a much better person than you! And I judge you! I condemn you! Shame! Shame! SHAME!” These social media shamings bear an uncanny resemblance to medieval witch hunts.

The more one knows, the sooner one grows old.

What is magic but a science not yet discovered?

Okay." Nate took a deep breath. "Now that we're all caught up on the new no-no's of the house, what do you say we find a tarp and some duct tape and MacGyver ourselves a new window in the living room? Just, you know, to keep out the wind ... and the leaves ... and any sharp-toothed woodland creatures prone to attacking people in their sleep." Tristan raised a brow. "What?" Nate shrugged. "Death by dragon? Awesome. Death by rabid forest squirrel? Not cool, man. Not cool." "You're immortal, Nate," Gabriel said. "So? That doesn't mean I want rabies." Nate shook his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have medieval aliens to defeat.

You deserve to enjoy being a person you like.

It was time to make my move. Like the old saying goes. Carp Diem. Seize the fish

You’ve never been a peasant in medieval France, Harry,” Bob said. “Life was hard for those people. Never enough food, shelter, medicine. If you could give yourself a fur coat and the ability to go out and hunt your own meat, you would have jumped at the chance, too.

She pinched her nose against the stench as I squirted oil of vitriol around the door. Vaporous tendrils curled from the seams. "What is that stuff?" "Back in medieval times," I said, "we used oil of vitriol for its healing properties. No doubt that's why Commodus had some in his infirmary. Today we call it sulphuric acid." Meg flinched. "Isn't that dangerous?" "Very." "And you healed with it?" "It was the Middle Ages. We were crazy back then." I held up the second syringe, this one filled with water. "Meg, what I'm about to do - never, ever try this on your own." I felt a bit silly giving this advice to a girl who regularly fought monsters with golden swords, but I had promised Bill Nye the Science Guy I would always promote safe laboratory practices.

We shall dedicate this battle to the woman who freed us.” Sir Klas turned from halfway up the stairs. “She is the bravest of us all.” “Ja!” the other soldiers shouted. “She is our lioness! We shall fight for her!” They

So this was love then—wanting to give only pleasure to the beloved; constantly searching your mind for love tokens that would bring a smile to her lips or a sparkle to her eyes. He deeply regretted it had come so late in life, but since his heart’s desire was Eleanor who was so much younger than he, it could have been no other way. He was grateful it had come at all.

I should like the woman I choose to be very honest, generous, and to have a sincere faith in God, rather than mindlessly following the rules.

She was so lovely, it hurt his chest to gaze at her, especially knowing she was courageous and clever too.

It was the builders, not just the takers, who changed the world.

[Joy] is not a thing of shame. It is why I fight. It is why my sons bled. Never be ashamed of joy.

Smart people are always learning something new. Stupid people just stay stupid. Remember that.

She had no right to enjoy his touch. She was a terrible friend in that moment, because she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him to love her! To always be near to hold her and protect her.

Here was a group of guys that would look right at home at a table in the cafeteria of the Googleplex, the Microsoft Redmond campus, or a science fiction convention, but they were in Medieval England, dressed as wizards, and they were all looking at Martin.

Magdalen, who was by far the best choice for Lord Thornbeck. Except me. Avelina would be good for him. She could make him stop scowling, could make him believe in love and goodness. She could love him out of that dark thought pattern he seemed to be in, thinking about his lame ankle and about his poor dead brother and how he could not save him. But

When she was with Lord Thornbeck, it was so difficult to keep from talking to him. She was so drawn to him, to his opinions, his deep-brown eyes, and his rich, rumbly voice—which was exactly why she needed to stay away

Britain has 450,000 listed buildings, 20,000 scheduled ancient monuments, twenty-six World Heritage Sites, 1,624 registered parks and gardens (that is, gardens and parks of historic significance), 600,000 known archaeological sites (and more being found every day; more being lost, too), 3,500 historic cemeteries, 70,000 war memorials, 4,000 sites of special scientific interest, 18,500 medieval churches, and 2,500 museums containing 170 million objects.

I was tired of being called a coward. I was tired of believing it.

You tug and strain like a young horse when it's first tied up at the stake, whenever you are tied by your heartstrings.

A person’s heart should be what she was judged by, rather than whose blood ran in her veins.

This was raw. This was primal. This was real.

You will be the death of me, woman.

Knowing this was the same man from last night now clad again in his hunky knightly armor was a strange aphrodisiac. Yeah, a hot look, no denying.

He came down the nave, walking with his graceful stride, dangerous and tear-stained.

She was no longer a coward, forcing bravery from herself—she was brave. “You’re not going to kill me,” she said, and with swift impatience, she jabbed her elbow in his gut.

Alas, sometimes man plans but the gods laugh.

The first stars had kindled in a sky gone royally violet, and the moon heaved a faint silver curve over the ragged line of palaces.

El concepto del embrague le parecía un castigo medieval. ¿Qué sentido tiene ponerle tres pedales? Las personas sólo tienen dos pies.

Will you be my conscience, hellcat?” He sounded amused. “I do not jest,” she said. He held back her hair and traced his forefinger along her temple. “Nor I. I am in dire need of one.

significance), 600,000 known archaeological sites (and more being found every day; more being lost, too), 3,500 historic cemeteries, 70,000 war memorials, 4,000 sites of special scientific interest, 18,500 medieval churches, and 2,500 museums containing 170 million objects. Having such a fund of richness means that it can sometimes be taken for granted to a shocking degree, but

I never was the type of noblewoman to stay by the hearth while the men rode into battle anyway. As my father always used to say with the shake of his head, the blood of the Old Tribes runs strong in me.

But she could make the margrave fall in love with her if she wished. She could. She felt it in the way he looked at her and spoke to her. And what was just as bad was, she could fall in love with him too.

Had his chancellor and his wife become enchanted by Lady Dorothea? He was not enchanted. He only wanted to delve deeper into her temperament. In truth, she was the only lady whose answers had piqued his curiosity. But she was not at all what he had thought he wanted—a docile, quiet, simple maiden. Besides,

Lord Thornbeck lifted her onto the saddle. He looked her in the eye, and her breath stilled in her chest. There was such an intense expression on his face, but there was also something else . . . tenderness. He

She straightened and crossed her arms. “I can’t sleep with you,” she blurted. … “As you please.” “As you please?” She stepped back, the rough wood of the bench bumping her upper calf. She’d braced herself for a battle and now felt oddly deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me into it?” “I need not talk women into lying with me.

Avelina raised her hand to her face, the one Lord Thornbeck had squeezed a moment ago, and was overcome by his familiar scent—the smell of evergreen trees and mint leaves the servants put in his laundry. Warmth washed over her as she remembered how he had held her tight, much tighter than necessary, sitting on the balcony floor. Surely

Several Mohammedan countries in North Africa and the Middle East are precisely in a period of fourteenth-century development and can show us, in a number of respects, a reflection of what the European medieval world was like. Similar towns, their houses piled one upon another, narrow swarming streets, enclosing a few sumptuous palaces; the same extremes of appalling misery among the poor and of opulence among great lords; the same story-tellers at the corners of the streets, propagating both myths and news; the same population, nine-tenths illiterate, submitting through long years to oppression and then suddenly rebelling violently in murderous panic; the same influence of religious conscience upon public affairs; the same fanaticism; the same intrigues among the powerful; the same hate among rival factions; the same plots so curiously ravelled that their solution lies only in the spilling of blood!

The visitors then turned their attention to the universities, where it was decided that the learning of the scholastics and the medieval doctors should be abandoned in favour of the humanist learning approved by Erasmus and other reformers.

She closed her eyes, since he was behind her and couldn’t see her anyway, and seared this last kindness into her memory, this feeling of warmth and safety. For a moment in time she had been a lady, someone who was wanted . . . by the Margrave of Thornbeck, a man who was easy to talk to, even when she was trying not to talk to him, a man who would risk his life to rescue a woman who had made a fool of him and who was only a servant. He would have married her. She was wanted. But

I want ye,” Lachlan choked out, surprised at his words and the desperate sound of his own voice. He did not look at Bridgette as he spoke but kept his gaze down to the ground as a war between honor and desire raged within him. “I want ye more than I want air to breathe.

A woman wishes to be swept up by a man’s fervent feelings for her, by love and longing and depth of feeling. She does not wish to be married for her father’s coin or her noble birth or because she is a sensible choice. She wants to be wooed, even after she is married, to be cherished and loved for her very self, not just because she has a beautiful face, long after she has passed the age of freshness and youth.” She

You are the husband of my heart, and the love of my life. Wherever I am, whatever I do, you are joined with me and I with you. The part of me that matters will live with you forever. I accept the chain that binds us with joy, because in this unity I have known the purest freedom.

In the medieval marriage service the wife had pledged to be ‘bonner and buxom in bed and in board’. This has the nice alliteration of an older language. Now both partners were asked to ‘love and to cherish’ ‘for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health’.

His heat, his erotic pull—she could feel it. A weird, pulsing, virtual pull tugging at her skin, her nerve endings. Made her want to…touch. Made her want. The more she resisted the urge, the stronger it became. It would be a relief, really. To just…touch. One little touch. Just one.

He dragged his lips up the soft skin of her neck and gently nipped her ear lobe, sipping on the soft flesh. Her hands splayed against his chest. Expecting a shove, his senses careened when her fingers fisted his surcoat. Their ragged breath overloud in the forest, he eased his face away, nose rubbing against her jaw on his retreat, and sought her eyes. Hers darkened and—Lord help him—held no censure, only interest. He stepped back.

John Houghton, in his article on Augustine and Tolkien, has made the point that there are in fact “two moments in the task of theology.” On the one hand, the theologian must “de-mythologize” and so render intelligible to his audience the meaning of divine revelation or sacred scripture by explaining it in terms of what they already know.2 It is this first task of theology with which St. Thomas was primarily involved, translating, as I suggested in the Introduction, the mythos of biblical revelation into the logos of Aristotle and the “vernacular” of late medieval scholasticism. “On the other hand,” Houghton continues, “the theologian faces the task of recovery, of restoring the power of images and stories that have grown weak from cultural change or from mere familiarity. In this sense the theologian’s task is not demythologizing but mythopoesis as...‘re-mythologizing’...

She clung to him without even opening her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as he sat back on the floor of the balcony. Her breath was coming hard. She pressed her cheek against his chest. His heart beat in her ear, thumping nearly as fast as her own. “You are safe now. I have you. You are safe.” He held her even tighter. Avelina

She had thought Raymond handsome. But the Raven was something beyond handsome. Beyond gallant manners and teasing glances. He was like the old, old stories, like the unknown man who waited on a darkened hill, the mist around him, hand outstretched ... In the stories, if a woman went to him... she did not return. But she wanted to go ... She wanted.

Olavismo. 1. Estilo de pensamento filosófico muito peculiar, que substitui o argumento pelo xingamento e o conceito pelo palavrão. 2. Fruto da expansão dos meios tecnológicos de informação, que, utilizando selfies e vídeos autoproduzidos, deixam aparecer na rede pessoas como se fossem “professores” e “intelectuais”, posando nas telas ao terem no fundo estantes decoradas com livros mal lidos e mal compreendidos. 3. Nome de uma corrente de fake-pensamento. "4. Expressão oriunda da composição de “Olá” e “revanchismo”, combinando alguém que chega de repente para dar a ideia aos governantes sem ideias de en-direitar o país com rifles e rifas e quem se sentiu a vida toda complexado por nunca ter conseguido entender o que é uma ideia e muito menos uma filosofia. 5. Nome da corrente ideológica que seduz, encanta e lidera o bando de ressentidos do país. 6. Uma forma bem específica de saudosismo: saudades da era medieval, saudades da teocracia, saudades de D. Pedro, saudades dos bons costumes. 7. Modo borrágico de expressar opiniões que procuram, em tese, chocar o senso comum, mas que nada mais fazem além de corroborar o pior dos sensos (o qual, infelizmente, muitas vezes é comum e quase sempre predominou ao longo da história). 8. Movimento de desespero final de quem quer encontrar uma identidade para chamar de sua e um líder para chamar de seu. 9. Espécie de fanatismo religioso que cultua o ódio e a intolerância travestidos de intelectualismo. 10. Seita seguida por pessoas particularmente vulneráveis a uma retórica violenta e macabra, mas perigosamente sedutora. 11. Doutrina do ter-razão-em-tudo quando não se tem razão em nada. Atribuindo a base dessa doutrina do ter-razão-em-tudo ao filósofo alemão Arthur Schopenhauer, é fácil constatar como olavistas não possuem o menor conhecimento nem de alemão e nem de filosofia, tendo (mal) entendido o próprio nome de Schopenhauer como “chope raro”, que, bebido, gera mal-entendidos dos princípios básicos da erística e da dialética. Com bases em erros fundamentais, o olavismo derivado desse “chope raro” (confundido com Schopenhauer) desenvolveu uma errística dislética, que se vale de argumentos nefastos (do latim nefas que significa ilícito) para destruir as questões mais lícitas do pensamento, da sociedade e da cultura. 11. Tradução google para o português bolsonarista da tradução google para o inglês trumpista da tradução google russa do resumo dos clássicos da extrema direita europeia, assinada por Dugin, ideólogo de Putin.

I didn’t want to see, or accept what you could do, because it didn’t fit with the world as I saw it. I didn’t want to admit to things I didn’t understand.

Killing is desperation, not strength. To live without killing…that is a strong society.

While I wasn’t the hero I’d imagined, I didn’t have to be the wretch Ulric and his goons saw.

So where did the first god come from?" I asked Ealstan. "licked from a rock by a cow," Ealstan said with a perfectly straight face. "Uh..." "It was a very special cow.

Terze: 9a.m. Nones: halfway between noon and sunset, Lauds: 3 a.m. or at dawn. Prime: around 6 a.m. Tierce: around 9 a.m. Sext: midday. Vespers: was the twelfth hour, or sunset.

She might be a girl, but when the time came, she would have the heart of a warrior, until her heart beat its last.

Hot-blooded men make war. It’s up to cool-headed queens like us to make the peace.

Reinhart tried to concentrate on the numbers and lists on his desk, of the expenses of the previous month, but his mind kept wandering, mostly to Lady Dorothea.

Why could he not have chosen some other woman? Why Avelina? But he knew why. It was because she had seemed good and kind and had expressed her thoughts without any false pride or pretense. He had admired her forthrightness and her compassion. And although he had never thought of a wife with strong opinions was a good thing, he actually found he liked her opinions-or at least admired her for having them. He wanted to get to know her, to know everything that was in her heart. He wanted to marry her and, surprising even himself, to love her.

These social media shamings bear an uncanny resemblance to medieval witch hunts.” If you were accused of being a witch back then, you were shit out of luck. Being accused was all it took. Forget “innocent until proven guilty.” Nobody bothered to prove your guilt. Nobody dared to speak up on your behalf, for fear of being called a witch sympathizer. Because if you were seen as the friend of a witch, you were the next one to be accused of being a witch. As soon as a woman was accused of being a witch, she was a pariah without any friends. Nobody wanted to be seen in public with her. The whole village ganged up on her. Everyone was trying to outdo everyone else in their antiwitch fervor: “Look at me! I'm throwing rocks at the witch! Look at how much I hate witches! I am definitely NOT a witch myself!” Whenever I see a social media mob ganging up on a celebrity for supposedly saying something “offensive” it reminds me of the Salem witch hysteria: “That's racist! And me calling you a racist proves that I'm definitely not a racist myself! That's sexist! I shame you! And that means I'm definitely not sexist myself! I shame you for being a bad person. That means I'm a good person! Look at how really really offended I am! That means I'm a really really good person!” According to the bible, Jesus said "let he who is without sin throw the first rock." But a lot of people seem to think he said: "If you throw rocks at someone else, it proves that you're without sin.

And what is it you want?” Her breath caressed his lips. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she leaned her body closer to his. “I want to see you laugh and smile every day. I want to hear you tell me you love me. I want to kiss you . . . every day.” He pulled her body against his. “Now tell me you love me.” “You are very impertinent,” she said, her voice breathless and her cheeks turning pink,

A little pebble starts an avalanche. [...] You lose a little—and that makes you wonder if you deserve to lose. So you lose some more. You’re behind, no matter how you scramble to stop it. [...] No one thing had ruined me. It had just…piled on. [...] You’ll have accomplished something truly special.” “Which is?” “You’ll have gotten out from under that avalanche, Johnny. You’ll have escaped.

Ulric had been wielding guns to awe them, blowing apart people who angered him. But these people were used to bullies. They weren’t impressed by the ability to kill. [...] They were impressed by the ability to live.

Here is another vignette of medieval England. John and Agnes Page, from a village in Kent, took John Pistor to the manor court. Agnes Page had purchased John Pistor’s wife in exchange for a pig worth 3 shillings; John Pistor was happy with the arrangement for a while, but eventually he asked that his wife be returned to him on payment of 2 shillings. The bargain was agreed, but Pistor did not pay the sum. The jury found against him.

She closed her eyes for a moment and it flooded back to her—how Lord Thornbeck had rushed to save her, how he had pulled her off the horse with one arm, her body pressed against his as he carefully lowered her to the ground. Instead

Reason. And who are you, Love? says Reason. Are you not also one of the Virtues, and one of us, even though you be above us? Love. I am God, says Love, for Love is God, and God is Love, 1 and this Soul is God through its condition of Love, and I am God through my divine nature, and this Soul is God by Love’s just law. 2 So that this my precious beloved is taught and guided by me, without herself, for she has been changed into me. And this is the outcome, says Love, of being nourished by me.

The last, and neo-Platonic, wave of Paganism which had gathered up into itself much from the preceding waves, Aristotelian, Platonic, Stoic, and what not, came far inland and made brackish lakes which have, perhaps, never been drained. Not all Christians at all times have detected them or admitted their existence: and among those who have done so there have always been two attitudes. There was then, and is still, a Christian ‘left’, eager to detect and anxious to banish every Pagan element; but also a Christian ‘right’ who, like St Augustine, could find the doctrine of the Trinity foreshadowed in the Platonici,2 or could claim triumphantly, like Justin Martyr, ‘Whatever things have been well said by all men belong to us Christians’.3

His hair was mussed, and his teeth were very white in his swarthy, dust-streaked face. With his autocratic facade stripped away, and his eyes sparkling with enjoyment, his grin was so unexpectedly engaging that Lillian experienced a curious melting sensation inside. Hanging over him, she felt her own lips curving in a reluctant smile. A loose lock of her hair dangled free of its tether, sliding silkily over his jaw. “What’s a trebuchet?” she asked. “A catapult. I have a friend who has a keen interest in medieval weaponry. He…” Westcliff hesitated, a new tension seeming to spread through his taut body as he lay beneath her. “He recently built a trebuchet using an ancient design…and enlisted me to help fire it…” Lillian was entertained by the idea that the normally reserved Westcliff was capable of such boyish antics. Realizing that she was straddling him, she colored and began to wriggle off him. “Your aim was off?” she asked, striving to sound casual. “The owner of the stone wall we demolished seemed to think so.” The earl caught his breath sharply as her body slid away from his, and remained sitting on the ground even after she had gotten to her feet.

I enjoyed talking to you,” she whispered softly. “I wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid if I drew your attention to me, you might . . . that is . . . I knew I could not marry you.” Could he hear regret in her voice? No, he didn’t want to hear that, did not want to believe the best about her or to think about her pain.

Love. This Soul, says Love, is flayed by mortification, and burned by the ardor of the fire of charity, and her ashes are strewn by the nothingness of her will upon the high seas. In prosperity she has the nobility of the well-born, in adversity the nobility of one exalted, in all places, whatever they be, the nobility of the excellent. She who is such2 no longer seeks God through penance or through any sacrament of Holy Church, not through reflections or words or works, not through any creature here below or through any creature there above, not through justice or mercy or the glory of glories, not through divine knowledge or divine love or divine praise.

Reinhart rubbed his face with his hand. He could still smell her light, flowery scent, like springtime and lilacs, could still feel her in his arms, and his heart skipped a beat. Seeing her dangling from the balcony, hanging over that deep ravine, knowing she was one moment away from death, sent a bolt of lightning through his veins. Thank You, God. He had arrived in time. He

You picked the lock.” The king was staring at her again. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He suddenly burst out laughing, then nodded. He leaned forward, staring at Lord Thornbeck. “She passed all your tests, better than the other ladies, did she not?” “Yes, sire.” “Would you say you found her to be the most noble of all the ladies who were here for your bride selection?” “I would.” “She is obviously very clever. She is the one you chose, and therefore I give you my blessing to marry her. And after all the clever, courageous things she has done, I shall commission my troubadours to write a song lauding the deeds of Avelina of Plimmwald, the wife of the Margrave of Thornbeck. She is a jewel among the women of the empire, and you could not do better, Thornbeck.” Had

Magdalen's eyes were wide and her mouth hung open. She was so sweet and beautiful. She would make a wonderful margrave's wife. Avelina had already made up her mind that the margrave had not killed his brother. She simply could not believe anyone who was so particular about who he was going to marry, and who seemed so concerned about orphans, could have done such a despicable thing. At least, she hoped not.

Suddenly Lord Thornbeck rode straight up beside her and grabbed the reins. “Hold on to me!” While Lord Thornbeck forcefully pulled back on the reins and leaned on the horse’s neck, Avelina clutched Lord Thornbeck’s shoulders. His arm encircled her waist as he lifted her out of the saddle. He held her tight against his side until the stable workers were able to take the reins. Then he lowered her. Her feet touched the ground and her knees crumpled.

And if Magdalen was waiting for her at the balcony, then she must already be with Lord Thornbeck. A pang of jealousy attacked her like a bird of prey, its talons gripping her heart. No. She stomped her foot to force her heart to listen. I will not allow jealousy to get hold of me. Magdalen was her friend, and Avelina could never have Lord Thornbeck anyway. She hurried toward the balcony. She would be joyful for Lord Thornbeck and Magdalen. So why did she have to blink away tears as she walked? When

Gower is the first English writer to use "history" as an English word. He regularly rhymes the term with "memory," for to his way of thinking history and memory are correlative. That is, without history, there can be no memory; and without memory, there can be no history. But the point of historical knowledge is not to enable people to live in the past, or even to understand the past in the way we would expect a modern historian to proceed; rather, it is to enable people to live more vitally in the present.

I am sure you know that a woman of good character, modesty, and prudence would not make her wish to marry you very obvious. She will not be hovering around you, trying to force your attention to her every moment." She spoke carefully, hoping he would see the contrast in her description between Lady Magdalen and Lady Fronicka. "She would not try to make you look unfavorably upon another woman to make herself look good. She might seem quiet and reserved, but that is only her Christian meekness and sobriety shining through.

Love. This daughter of Sion1 does not long for Masses or sermons, or fastings or prayers. Reason. And why, Lady Love? says Reason. These are the food of holy souls. Love. That is true, says Love, for those who beg; but this Soul begs for nothing, for she has no need to long for anything which is outside her. Now listen, Reason, says Love. Why should this Soul long for those things which I have just named, since God is everywhere, just as much without them as with them? This Soul has no thought, no word, no work, except for employing the grace of the divine Trinity. 2 This Soul feels no disquiet for any sins which she once committed, 3 nor for the suffering which God underwent for her, nor for the sins and the troubles in which her neighbors live. Reason. Oh God, what does this mean, Love? says Reason. Teach me to understand this, since you have reassured me about my other questions. Love. It means, says Love, that this Soul is not her own, and so she can feel no disquiet; for her thought is at rest in a place of peace, that is in the Trinity, and therefore she cannot move from there, nor feel disquiet, so long as her beloved is untroubled. But that anyone falls into sin, or that sin was ever committed, Love replies to Reason, this is displeasing to her will just as it is to God: for it is his own displeasure which gives such displeasure to this Soul. But none the less, says Love, in spite of such displeasure there is no disquiet in the Trinity, nor is there in such a Soul who is at rest within the Trinity. But if this Soul, who is in such exalted rest, could help her neighbors, she would help them in their need with all her might. But the thoughts of such Souls are so divine that they do not dwell upon past4 or created things, so as to apprehend disquiet in themselves, for God is good beyond all comprehending.

Love. Meditation of Pure Love has only one intention, that she might always love faithfully without wishing for any reward, and the Soul cannot do this unless she is deprived of herself, for Faithful Love would not deign to have any consolation which came by the Soul’s seeking. Truly not. Meditation of Love knows well that it is for the best1 that she must not exert herself2 except in what is her task, and that is to will perfectly the will of God, and she leaves God to work and to order his will as he pleases; for whoever wills that God might fulfill his wish to experience his comforts does not place his trust solely in God’s goodness, but trusts rather in those

Here before you lies the memorial to St. Cefnogwr, though he is not buried here, of course.” At her words, an uncanny knowing flushed through Katy and, crazy-of-crazy, transfixed her. “Why? Where is he?” Traci stepped forward, hand on her hip. A you’re-right-on-cue look crossed the guide’s face. She pointed to the ceiling. Traci scoffed. “I meant, where’s the body?” Her American southern accent lent a strange contrast to her skepticism. Again, the tour guide’s arthritic finger pointed upward, and a smile tugged at her lips, the smokers’ wrinkles on her upper lip smoothing out. “That’s the miracle that made him a saint, you see. Throughout the twelve hundreds, the Welsh struggled to maintain our independence from the English. During Madog’s Rebellion in 1294, St. Cefnogwr, a noble Norman-English knight, turned against his liege lord and sided with the Welsh—” “Norman-English?” Katy frowned, her voice raspy in her dry throat. “Why would a Norman have a Welsh name and side with the Welsh?” She might be an American, but her years living in England had taught her that was unusual. “The English nicknamed him. It means ‘sympathizer’ in Welsh. The knight was captured and, for his crime, sentenced to hang. As he swung, the rope creaking in the crowd’s silence, an angel of mercy swooped down and—” She clapped her hands in one decisive smack, and everyone jumped. “The rope dangled empty, free of its burden. Proof, we say, of his noble cause. He’s been venerated ever since as a Welsh hero.” Another chill danced over Katy’s skin. A chill that flashed warm as the story seeped into her. Familiar. Achingly familiar. Unease followed—this existential stuff was so not her. “His rescue by an angel was enough to make him a saint?” ever-practical Traci asked. “Unofficially. The Welsh named him one, and eventually it became a fait accompli. Now, please follow me.” The tour guide stepped toward a side door. Katy let the others pass and approached the knight covered in chainmail and other medieval-looking doodads. Only his face peeked out from a tight-fitting, chainmail hoodie-thing. One hand gripped a shield, the other, a sword. She touched his straight nose, the marble a cool kiss against her finger. So. This person had lived about seven hundred years ago. His angular features were starkly masculine. Probably had women admiring them in the flesh. Had he loved? An odd…void bloomed within, tugging at her, as if it were the absence of a feeling seeking wholeness. Evidence of past lives frozen in time always made her feel…disconnected. Disconnected and disturbed. Unable to grasp some larger meaning. Especially since Isabelle was in the past now too, instead of here as her maid of honor. She traced along the knight’s torso, the bumps from the carved chainmail teasing her fingers. “The tour group is getting on the bus. Hurry.” Traci’s voice came from the door. “Coming.” One last glance at her knight. Katy ran a finger down his strong nose again. “Bye,” she whispered.