William was now becoming infuriated. “That bastard of a feudal lord, that peacock who gained fame for having been the Aquinas’s gravedigger, that inflated wineskin who exists only because he wears a ring as big as the bottom of a glass! Proud, proud, all of you Cluniacs, worse than princes, more baronial than barons!” “Master . . .” I ventured, hurt, in a reproachful tone. “You be quiet, you are made of the same stuff. Your band are not simple men, or sons of the simple.
