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The River Thames Sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight.

Rays striking the surface of the water amid white caps raised up by the occasional gusts

of wind.

Close to the banks, a stand of oaks rustled in the breeze.

The trees' branches were full of leaves, sprouting in the relative heat of the early

English summer of the year 1455.

Little sound disturbed the quiet of the spot.

Simple, undecorated wood and stone markers sheltered in the shade of the trees.

Further away, back toward the imposing stone walls and tall spire of the new parish church,

the mounds of freshly turned earth marked the most recent graves.

Many of them disturbed the open ground of the church show, all of them dug in the past

few weeks.

A summer play had accompanied the turning of the weather toward something a touch more

pleasant, a sudden fever followed by a quick death.

The people of London suffered for it.

The quiet, trampling of feet broke the near silence of the placency.

The parish priest led the procession, his white vestments swaying in the breezes he walked.

Behind him came a woman, perhaps thirty years old, clad all in the black of a morning

widow.

Her name was Margaret, and her gate was steady and sure, her head held high, her eyes

...