I was sharing a ham and artichoke pizza with a friend. From my coffee table she picked up a book entitled Medieval Cruelty.
“You know,” she began hesitantly. “I don’t think I really know what the word medieval means.”
I gave her a questioning look.
“It means knights and swords and horses, right? Kinda corny?… Cheesy.”
I put down my pizza. Took a sip of Narragansett.
“Ever hear of The Black Death? Cathedrals, crusades, kings? The Inquisition…”
She smiled delphically.
There was another book on the table, Tournament, by David Crouch.
“How about jousting and tournaments? You know, troubadours, courtly love…”
“What was that word you just used?”
“Jousting?”
“No, the other one.”
“Troubadours.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Troubadours, you know, poets singing about the beauty of a lady. The art of courtly love.”
She took a thoughtful munch.
“Never heard of it.”
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