Nothing but that Motohashi Keiko on the (bright sunny but warm) weekend.
A few dozen more pages of A Distant Mirror, a few more (single) pages of The Death of the Necromancer, a bit of McKinley's The Blue Sword (because its limited third has a distinct voice, unlike Necromancer), some more stories from The Green Man. Nothing much inspires, alas.
Looked at Helen Waddell's The Wandering Scholars last week, might go on with it if attention will focus. I studied Latin from the age of twelve and took university courses in it, but it never struck me as a language anyone might actually *speak* until it hit the middle ages. (I remember Plautus and how impenetrable I found him. 'This is colloquial Latin? Colloquial Latin makes no sense.') Verse-wise, only Catullus was comprehensible, to say nothing of poetic; the tricks of the other poets turned what was supposed to be glorious verse into double crostic word puzzles. Could never see the beauty in that. So I'm bemused at these churchmen and scholars extolling this or that Roman writer, with quotes Waddell tosses off and doesn't bother translating. At least she isn't quoting Provencal or Occitan verse, or not yet, which puts her one up on her coevals who wrote about Chinese poetry at the same time.