It is said that all great journeys begin with a single step, but in the case of Jean Bellimont, scribe to the Bishop of Troyes, it began with one brief, impulsive act.
It happened as he was returning home one dismal winter’s evening. Fog clung to him like a dark, damp blanket, and his mood as he plodded through the streets was as dour as the night itself. Earlier that week he’d somehow managed to displease Bishop Guichard, and today it had all come to a head. He’d been rebuked in front of his colleagues, and the anger and humiliation still rankled. He trudged along the Rue Saint Denis deep in thought, counting the injustices inflicted on him. The flickering lamps created a halo of light in the mist, and his lone footsteps echoed between the surrounding buildings. Smoke from the surrounding chimneys swirled downwards into the narrow lane, and the only sound accompanying him was the steady clip-clopping of a single horse and cart from somewhere nearby.