Den franske forfattaren Pascalle Monnier har studert mellomalderhistorie og moderne historie i Frankrike. Bayart (nydeleg gjendikta til engelsk av poeten Cole Swenson) er ein collage, ei glidande rørsle mellom notid og fortid, mellom skildringar av hendingar og landskap som beveger seg fram og attende gjennom tida, som to fotografi eksponerte over kvarandre; bitar av historiske dokument, brev, skildringar av veggteppe frå mellomalderen, dataspel, brokkar av samtalar. Bayart er ein ung riddar, han døyr i 1520. Ein av dei vakraste tekstane i boka er denne, der Bayart ligg på likstrå.
the trees the branches sway lightly over his head masking the sun the full moon into bands of light and shade the branches slowly alternate the shadow and the light the gold light of the sun sieved through the tender green almost yellow leaves between the branches of the lime and the silver light of the moon and the black shadow of the leaves and the branches he watches the leaves and the shadow and the light he lowers his lids closes his eyes on the blue shadow and the light the shifting leaves that rock him his horse lowers his head his neck an arc covering his body, a yellow sheet striped with green his shroud will be his armor they cannot get it off and near him a cage containing two birds he's still wearing the ribbons from a joust long ago and the pages standing in a circle near him cry the pages form a circle they are moving very slowly all their movements are slow he remembers the games he played as a page and the page's ribbon that he still wears hidden under his mail and hears music coming from a nearby tent he should have been born at the edge of the sea in a fort not far from the waves waiting for the tide to pull back and then running up to draw lines in the sand and then he could have had a blue boat and slept inside the sharp smell of tar in the silt and dried kelp the tree is bending down soon its branches will touch his brow the night is bright and clear the undergrowth the leaves also lean over the sky is white the night is deep blue the night is the color of a blue and gold standard near the bending tree are voices beyond number he is walking down a corridor of voices a weight pressing into his chest his armor too tight and will soon be his shroud he could have worn a crown of garnet velvet and a purple cloak edged in ermine owned hounds lived close to the castle and protected the peasants but the pages put flowers all around him flowering branches the flowers the branches cover his body he tastes bergamot and bitter syrup and walks through a forest of blue and white and red the forest is a cloth strewn withs flowers and flowering thistle a lady and her servant dance on a blue flowered island the forest forms a wall around the island where the lady and her servant dance the island is blue in the red forest there is a gentle lion and dogs and monkeys seep soundly at the servant's feet the knights comes into a clearing grown in with high grasses the bending tree forms a vault first dark then light the branches brush his brow Bayart closes his eyes on the blue shadow slowly taking over he is running down a corridor of voices in the distance is his father speaking softly and smiling the tree in bending cradles him caresses him the wind stirs the vault of trees moving the leaves and lets in the sun his armor sparkles is covered with flowers soon will be his shroud