This Matter of Faith
This Matter of Faith
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News and Views

In lieu of anything new, here's something from book III...

3/29/2019

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“Does it not frustrate you, to come halfway to the Holy Land and go no further? To get to the Eternal City, then sit and drink wine at a corner taverna? Have you seen the Coliseum? The Forum?”
“I must go to deliver Mary's message to St Peter's. I may worship there if we are still here tomorrow.”
“George, this place is the centre of the world.”
“No, Edward,” de Winter replies with a hint of condescension, “it was the centre of the world. Now it is just a ruin where the Pope happens to make his home. Those buildings you've drawn might be impressive, but they belong to the past.”
“The future is dark. The present is burdensome. Only the past, dead and buried, bears contemplation.”
“You've been working on that.”
“I think I might write history. That would be my first line. Then, I think, 'bound as our lives are to the tyranny of time, it is through what we know of history that we are delivered from our bonds and escape - into time.' If I were rich, that is what I would do. That is what I have begun doing, here, whilst I have a little money to spend.”
“You need to find yourself a girl,” de Winter jokes, before realising the insensitivity of his comment. “I'm sorry, Edward. Perhaps a little distraction would suit you well.”
“Rome is all the distraction I need.” Strelley looks at de Winter, holding his gaze for a long time, but failing to convince him. “I have thought about her every day. That has not stopped me wanting to see Rome. Or Constantinople. Or Casablanca.”
“Guy has fallen for her.”
“Yes. I saw that in his face when you arrived. Of all the women...”
“He is like you.”
“A little too much, perhaps.”
“A little too much.” De Winter strokes his moustache, considering. “Did you ever...?”
“No. I don't even think I touched her hand. She is still little more than a child. I would not... Every thing that has happened to her... Her mother killed by her father. Her father who he was. Her brother the king. Her uncle trying to have his way with her. I could not...”
“Thomas Seymour will be lucky to be alive when we return. He did not give up on Elizabeth after you were gone.”
“Treason?”
“It will be hard, if it is made public, for Somerset to avoid having to make an example of hin. He did not behave honourably.”
“Is she safe?”
“Longshawe did his best. As did Guy. She was removed to Denny's.”
“Away from him.”
“He is not a rival, Edward. She does not care for him.”
“And yet she might marry him. If he has managed to do away with Catherine.”
“Do you know? Catherine is dead.”
“I had heard.” Strelley pauses, thinking. “I should not be jealous of Elizabeth, because I do not even want her to want me. It would be easier if she did not. But I would be. Jealous, I mean. Were she to marry, or take a lover.”
“I think I understand. But more than anything, she needs your counsel, your protection, your presence. We have come to return you to her, whatever the end she desires.”
“Let us all hope that my presence is enough.”

This way, the news feed is updated, but I can concentrate on writing book IV! 

And if you haven't read book III, or indeed the first two, you know what to do.

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    Andy Richardson

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
    Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
    For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
    And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before.
    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
    All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

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