The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXXII

A GREAT RE­COV­ERY AND RESTORA­TION

Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter, at­tend­ed by his Chap­lain, chanced to be walk­ing through the Precincts on his way from the Pri­ory to the Palace, just as the men-​at-​arms bear­ing the stretch­er came through the great door of the Cathe­dral.

Fa­ther Bene­dict, cowled, and robed com­plete­ly in black, a head and shoul­ders taller than the Bish­op, walked be­hind him, a some­what sin­is­ter fig­ure.

The Bish­op stopped. “Pre­cede me to the Palace, Fa­ther Bene­dict,” he said. “I wish to have speech with yon­der Knight who, I think, comes this way.”

The Chap­lain stood still, made deep obei­sance, jerked his cowl more close­ly over his face, and strode away.

The Bish­op wait­ed, a ra­di­ant fig­ure, in the af­ter­noon sun­shine. His silken cas­sock, his sil­very hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and search­ing, not on­ly made a spot on which light con­cen­trat­ed, but al­most seemed them­selves to give forth light.

The steady tramp of the men-​at-​arms drew near­er.

Hugh d'Ar­gent walked be­side the stretch­er, head erect, eyes shin­ing, his hand up­on the hilt of his sword.

When the Bish­op saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the lit­tle pro­ces­sion as it ap­proached.

He held up his hand, and the men-​at-​arms halt­ed.

“Good-​day to you, Sir Hugh,” said the Bish­op. “Hath your pil­grim­age to the shrine of the blessèd Saint Os­wald worked the re­cov­ery you hoped?”

“Aye, my lord,” replied the Knight, “a great re­cov­ery and restora­tion. We start for War­wick in an hour's time.”

“Won­der­ful!” said the Bish­op. “Our La­dy and the holy Saint be praised! But you are wise to keep the pa­tient well cov­ered. How­ev­er com­plete the restora­tion, great care is re­quired at first, and over-​ex­er­tion must be avoid­ed.”

“Your bless­ing for the pa­tient, Rev­erend Fa­ther,” said the Knight, un­cov­er­ing.

The Bish­op moved near­er. He laid his hand up­on the form be­neath the blue and sil­ver cloak.

“_Bene­dic­tio Do­mi­ni sit vo­bis­cum_,” he said. Then added, in a low­er tone: “Be not afraid, nei­ther be thou dis­mayed. . . . Go in peace.”

The two men who loved the Pri­oress, looked steadi­ly at one an­oth­er.

The men-​at-​arms moved for­ward with their bur­den.

The Knight smiled as he walked on be­side the stretch­er.

The Bish­op has­tened to the Palace.

It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glo­ry in his eyes, and tri­umph in the squar­ing of his broad shoul­ders, the swing of his stride, and the proud poise of his head.

The Bish­op was white to the lips. His hands trem­bled as he walked.

He feared--he feared sore­ly--this that they had ac­com­plished.

It was one thing to the­orize, to spec­ulate, to ad­vise, when the Pri­oress was safe in her Nun­nery. It was quite an­oth­er, to know that she was be­ing car­ried through the streets of Worces­ter, help­less, up­on a stretch­er; that when that blue pall was lift­ed, she would find her­self in a hos­tel, alone with her lover, sur­round­ed by men, not a wom­an with­in call.

The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bish­op, and he trem­bled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about.

Al­so he mar­velled great­ly that the Pri­oress should have changed her mind; and he sought in vain to con­jec­ture the cause of that change.

Ar­rived in the court­yard of the Palace, he called for Broth­er Philip.

“Sad­dle me Shu­lamite,” he said. “Al­so mount Jasper on our fastest nag, with sad­dle-​bags. We ride to War­wick; and must start with­in a quar­ter of an hour.”

A por­tion of that time the Bish­op spent writ­ing in the li­brary.

When he was mount­ed, he stooped from the sad­dle and spoke to Broth­er Philip.

“Philip,” he said, “a very no­ble la­dy, be­trothed to Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent, has just ar­rived at the Star hos­tel, where for some days he has await­ed her. She rides with the Knight forth­with to War­wick, where they will join me at the Cas­tle. It is my wish to lend Iconok­lastes to the la­dy. There­fore I de­sire thee to sad­dle the pal­frey pre­cise­ly as he was sad­dled when he went to the Con­vent of the White Ladies for their plea­sur­ing and play. Lead him, with­out de­lay, to the hos­tel; de­liv­er him over to the men-​at-​arms of Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent, and see that they hand this let­ter at once to the Knight, that he may give it to his la­dy. Lose not a mo­ment, my good Philip. Look to see me re­turn to-​mor­row.”

The Bish­op gath­ered up the reins, and start­ed out, at a brisk pace, for the War­wick road.

The let­ter he had in­trust­ed to Broth­er Philip, sealed with his own signet, was ad­dressed to Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent. But with­in was writ­ten:

_Will the Count­ess of Norelle be pleased to ac­cept of the pal­frey Iconok­lastes as a mar­riage gift from her old friend Symon Wygorn._