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"...Somme seyde, wommen loven best richesse, Somme seyde honour, somme seyde jolynesse, Somme riche array, somme seyden lust abedde, And oftetyme to be wydwe and wedde...'
"' My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee..."
---- The Wife of Bath's Tale, Geoffrey Chaucer
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Strata Florida Abbey, Wales Year of Our Lord, 1539
We broke down the doors at dawn.
They say that monks are peaceable men. But I have seen lions fight with less hatred and heat in their hearts than the white-robed priests who opposed us. The younger ones straddled the altar, defending their precious psalters and golden chalices. Unarmed, they were, but they fought, changing from singing birds to striking eagles as swift as the fiery arrows of Heaven itself.
Behind them, the abbot bellowed for peace. An old man, fat with good living, he had a voice to shake the high rafters and fists the size of hams. He shoved his jewelled crucifix in my face as I advanced towards him. The ruby of the Sacred Heart glittered blood in my eyes. He thought to frighten me with his threats of brimstone and damnation. He thought to make me bow to his authority.
I haven't bowed to a priest since the Dominicans burnt my Josephine at the stake for our beliefs. I spat in his face and flung the idolatrous bauble into the corners of the hall.
The altars were littered with similar trappings. Golden bowls for the Eucharist, ancient caskets with pieces of bone and skin crushed inside. At first I thought to grab my loot, make the dawn raid worth my while. But the memory of Thomas Cromwell's piggy merchant eyes was as a hot breath on the back of my neck. The Lord Chancellor knew the value of this abbey to the last clipped coin,
