“Sodomites!” William had come to Gloucester Cathedral to hear Mass on this bright Sunday after Midsummer, as he had been doing more or less devotedly since his illness in the spring. He told himself it was only prudent. Cold iron was no use against what stalked him—but he still had some hope of good Norman Christianity. He liked a good sermon, too: a little brimstone was good for the soul. A rousing chorus of damned souls, an angry God, a voice duly thundering from the pulpit, was almost as ente...rtaining as a troupe of mountebanks. This priest of Gloucester, speaking in the bishop’s stead, was in splendid form. But William had not expected to be taking the brunt of it. Oh, it was veiled in the Bible and a pack of parables, but the man’s eyes were on William and his escort, and when his long white finger stabbed the air, it stabbed toward the king. “Lost in lust,” he intoned in a melodic snarl, “wrapped in one another’s arms, bearded kiss to bristling bearded kiss—bodies locked that never were meant to fit together so—”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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