We know that Suffolk set out from Paris with Ralf Boteler, the abbot of Fecamp, and Giles Clamecy, on or about 12 November [in 1424]. On the following Tuesday he met with an accident in a certain village near Amiens, a beam falling on his head as he lay in bed.
Ouch! Suffolk was taken by litter to recuperate in Paris, where, according to Guillaume Benoit, the then-unmarried Suffolk was pining for love. To cheer him, Benoit read him love poetry (which to me would have the opposite effect, but what do I know?) and summoned the musician Gilles Binchois, to whom Suffolk gave two ells of scarlet cloth in exchange for writing a rondeau.
I do hope I'll get to work this into my novel somehow, as aside from the poetry, it's not every day that the ceiling falls in upon a man lying in bed.
Now for some odds and ends. Having finally finished reading some books for review, I've had a chance to start Michelle Moran's Cleopatra's Daughter, which I'm enjoying thoroughly. Pick up a copy!
And thanks to my darling daughter and thoughtful husband, I am now the proud owner of a Snuggie ("the blanket with sleeves"). Mine is blue, and I can hardly wait for winter to come so I can bedazzle my neighbors by walking Boswell in it. (I can even buy Boswell a matching one.)