Three long weary weeks have I lain in this bed, gazing at the gloom all around me in this melancholy chamber. I am heartily sick of all the tapestries in front of me and on all the four walls; brightly coloured as they are they cannot pierce through the enclosed darkness surrounding me. Candles burn constantly, the flickering lights are the only bright sparks in the room. The heavy curtains, drawn tight against the light outside, give me a sense of gloom and despondency as I lie here gazing for the six hundredth time at the knights in armour, the white horse and the praying bishops in front of me.
I pick up my book and try to read from the scriptures but find it almost impossible to concentrate and anyway, the candle light is hardly adequate. Soon, verily, the midwife will appear, buxom a
