The summer of the year 1350 rolled inexorably into autumn. The fierce Provençale sunshine eased to become a soft, more mellow warmth, bathing old Avignon in a gentle light that reflected off the yellow sandstone so characteristic of the town’s buildings. Dawn arrived later, dusk sooner than the previous sultry months; residual daytime heat dissipated into chilly evenings. It was the season to replenish the family’s log store in anticipation of a fire in the hearth, with the hours after supper spent around its cheering, comforting blaze. But not every family had the wherewithal for a decent supper or logs, for which they had to journey outside the town and cart them back. The only woods within the walls were at the Rocher des Domes, but the removal of timber was strictly regulated by the Pa
