“This very day they descend on Paris.” The Monk stabbed a finger westward and heads swung around to follow his gesture. Odile shrank back against the wall. “Swathed in their black finery, borne on the backs of Catholic servants!” Pain flared in Odile’s head, the sickle-thorn burying deep.
“These crimes, this effrontery, can not--must not!--go unchallenged!” One of the strangers, a red-capped young man, leaned in to his neighbour. His neighbour nodded vigorously.
“The Calvinists and Lutherans have no desire to simply go their own mistaken way in peace.” The Monk’s face twisted into a snarl, baring yellowed teeth, and the thorn dug deeper with each word. “They would see us crushed in their wake, rent and devoured and shat upon the earth!”
-- The Hand of God, by Jason Crowe
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