“…The monk blinked, trying to keep his tired eyes open in the flickering candlelight. Night was giving way to dawn, yet there was still so much to write… His weary fingers could barely move across the parchment anymore…”
These lines could easily be the opening of a mystical tale, perhaps something straight out of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose. But my intention isn’t to spin you a story in that style. On the contrary—I’d like to draw your attention to a true scene from a medieval night, one that quite likely gave birth…