The great thief of Normandy brought cowardice upon the North mount of France. The guise of uncertain truth beguiled in the dance of the honeybee. A meat-eater whose grounds were the pasture of pines, a sacred place of old. A Queen dethroned. The sickle of death disguised by a familiar coat they had come to know. Laced in gold the winged prince made his home by the passing of the saint; the tree that had stood for a time. He fed off the creation he despised. On the eve of his demise he wrote for the forest that which would dictate the downfall of the Queen.
“To what does man owe the benefit of law?”