Bernard Cornwell Quote
They’re mean bastards, those monks, I said. I was supposed to deliver a weekly cartload of firewood to Saint Rumwold’s, but that was a duty I ignored. The monks could cut their own timber. Who was Rumwold? I asked Willibald. I knew the answer, but wanted to drag Willibald through the thorns. He was a very pious child, lord, he said. A child? A baby, he said, sighing as he saw where the conversation was leading, a mere three days old when he died. A three-day-old baby is a saint? Willibald flapped his hands. Miracles happen, lord, he said, they really do. They say little Rumwold sang God’s praises whenever he suckled. I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit, I said, so does that make me a saint? Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject.
They’re mean bastards, those monks, I said. I was supposed to deliver a weekly cartload of firewood to Saint Rumwold’s, but that was a duty I ignored. The monks could cut their own timber. Who was Rumwold? I asked Willibald. I knew the answer, but wanted to drag Willibald through the thorns. He was a very pious child, lord, he said. A child? A baby, he said, sighing as he saw where the conversation was leading, a mere three days old when he died. A three-day-old baby is a saint? Willibald flapped his hands. Miracles happen, lord, he said, they really do. They say little Rumwold sang God’s praises whenever he suckled. I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit, I said, so does that make me a saint? Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject.