the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
I counted the groschen in the stump again. The monks at Sedletz ask a heavy price for a year of masses, and I am not close enough. Godfrey's soul cannot wait forever in the flames.
Nota scribaeDictated in the dark. He kept looking over his shoulder at the trees.

God rest him, William, but a few pennies for ale would do the living some good.
The living are not burning in purgatory, Thomas.