The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XLVII

THE BISH­OP IS TAK­EN UN­AWARES

Symon of Worces­ter, seat­ed be­fore a ta­ble in the li­brary, pon­dered a let­ter which had reached him the evening be­fore, brought by a mes­sen­ger from the Vat­ican.

It was a call to re­turn to the land he loved best; the land of sun­shine and flow­ers, of soft speech and cour­te­ous ways; the land of heav­en­ly beau­ty and seraph­ic sounds; and, more­over, to re­turn as a Car­di­nal of Holy Church.

His ac­cep­tance or re­fusal must be penned be­fore night. The mes­sen­ger ex­pect­ed to start up­on his re­turn jour­ney ear­ly on the mor­row.

Should he go? Or should he stay?

Was all now well for Mo­ra? Or did she yet need him?

Sure­ly nev­er had Car­di­nal's hat hung poised for such a rea­son! How lit­tle would the Holy Fa­ther dream that a ques­tion af­fect­ing the hap­pi­ness or un­hap­pi­ness of a wom­an could be a cause of hes­itan­cy.

Present­ly, with a quick move­ment, the Bish­op lift­ed his head. The li­brary was far re­moved from the court­yard; but sure­ly he heard the clat­ter of hors­es' hoofs up­on the rav­ing stones.

He had hard­ly hoped for Broth­er Philip's re­turn un­til af­ter sun­set; yet--with fast rid­ing----

If the Knight's an­swer were in all re­spects sat­is­fac­to­ry--If Mo­ra's hap­pi­ness was as­sured--why, then----

He sound­ed the sil­ver gong.

His ser­vant en­tered.

“What horse­men have just now rid­den in­to the court­yard, Jasper?”

“My lord, Broth­er Philip has this mo­ment re­turned, and with him----”

“Bid Broth­er Philip to come hith­er, in­stant­ly.”

“May it please you, my lord----”

“Naught will please me,” said the Bish­op, “but that my com­mands be obeyed with­out par­ley or de­lay.”

Jasper's obei­sance took him through the door.

The Bish­op bent over the let­ter from Rome, shad­ing his face with his hand.

He could scarce­ly con­tain his anx­iety; but he did not wish to give Broth­er Philip oc­ca­sion to ob­serve his tremu­lous ea­ger­ness to re­ceive the Knight's re­ply.

He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread up­on the floor. It struck him, even then, that the lay-​broth­er had not been wont to en­ter his pres­ence with so mar­tial a stride, and he won­dered at the ring of spurs. But his mind was too in­tent­ly set up­on Hugh d'Ar­gent's let­ter, to do more than un­con­scious­ly no­tice these things.

“Thou art quick­ly re­turned, my good Philip,” he said, with­out look­ing round. “Thou has done bet­ter than my swiftest ex­pec­ta­tions. Didst thou give my let­ter thy­self in­to the hands of Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent, and hast thou brought me back an an­swer from that most no­ble Knight?”

Where­fore did Broth­er Philip make no re­ply?

Where­fore did his breath come sharp and short--not like a stout lay-​broth­er who has hur­ried; but, rather, like a des­per­ate man who has clenched his teeth to keep con­trol of his tongue?

The Bish­op wheeled in his chair, and found him­self look­ing full in­to the face of Hugh d'Ar­gent--Hugh, hag­gard, dusty, trav­el-​stained, with eyes, long strangers to sleep, re­gard­ing him with a som­bre in­ten­si­ty.

“You!” ex­claimed the Bish­op, sur­prised out of his usu­al gen­tle calm. “You? Here!”

“Yes, I,” said the Knight, “I! Does it sur­prise you, my Lord Bish­op, that I should be here? Would it not rather sur­prise you, in view of that which you saw fit to com­mu­ni­cate to me by let­ter, that I should fail to be here--and here as fast as horse could bring me?”

“Naught sur­pris­es me,” said the Bish­op, testi­ly. “I have lived so long in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that hu­man va­garies no longer have pow­er to sur­prise me. And, by our La­dy, Sir Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, her peace of mind undis­turbed, the wom­an whom I--act­ing as mouth­piece of the Pope and Holy Church--gave, not two weeks ago, in­to your care and keep­ing.”

The Knight's frown was thun­der­ous.

“It might be well, my Lord Bish­op, to leave our blessèd La­dy's name out of this con­ver­sa­tion. It hath too much been put to shame­ful and treach­er­ous use. Mo­ra is safe and well. How far her peace of mind can be left undis­turbed, I am here to dis­cov­er. I re­quire, be­fore aught else, the en­tire truth.”

But the Bish­op had had time to re­cov­er his equa­nim­ity. He rose with his most charm­ing smile, both hands out-​stretched in gra­cious wel­come.

“Nay, my dear Knight, be­fore aught else you re­quire a bath! Tru­ly it of­fends my love of the beau­ti­ful to see you in this dusty plight.” He struck up­on the gong. “Al­so you re­quire a good meal, served with a flagon of my fa­mous Ital­ian wine. You did well to come here in per­son, my son. If naught hath been said to Mo­ra, no harm is done; and to­geth­er we can dou­bly safe­guard the mat­ter. I re­joice that you have come. But the strain of rapid trav­el­ling, when anx­iety drives, is great. . . . Jasper, pre­pare a bath for Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent in mine own bath-​cham­ber; cast in­to it some of that fra­grant and re­fresh­ing pow­der sent to me by the good brethren of San­ta Maria Novel­la. While the no­ble Knight bathes, lay out in the ante-​cham­ber the com­plete suit of gar­ments he was wear­ing on the day when the sud­den fan­cy seized him to have a swim in our riv­er. I con­clude they have been du­ly dried and pressed and laid by with sweet herbs? . . . Good. That is well. Now, my dear Hugh, al­low Jasper to at­tend you. He will give his whole mind to your com­fort. Send word to Broth­er Philip, Jasper, that I will speak with him here.”

The Bish­op ac­com­pa­nied the Knight to the door of the li­brary; watched him stride along the gallery, silent and sullen, in the wake of the has­ten­ing Jasper; then turned and walked slow­ly back to the ta­ble, smil­ing, and gen­tly rub­bing his hands to­geth­er as he walked.

He had gained time, and he had suc­cess­ful­ly re­gained his sense of suprema­cy. Tak­en whol­ly by sur­prise, he had not felt able to cope with this gaunt, dusty, des­per­ate­ly de­ter­mined Knight. But the Knight would leave more than mere trav­el stains be­hind, in the scent­ed wa­ters of the bath! He would reap­pear clothed and in his right mind. A good meal and a flagon of Ital­ian wine would fur­ther im­prove that mind, mel­low­ing it and ren­der­ing it pli­able and easy to con­vince; though tru­ly it passed com­pre­hen­sion why the Knight should need con­vinc­ing, or of what! Even more in­com­pre­hen­si­ble was it, that a man wed­ded to Mo­ra, not two weeks since, should of his own free will elect to leave her.

The Bish­op turned.

Broth­er Philip stood in the door­way, bow­ing low.

“Come in, my good Philip,” said the Bish­op; “come in, and shut the door. . . . I must have thy re­port with fullest de­tail; but, time be­ing short, I would ask thee to be­gin from the mo­ment when the bat­tle­ments of Cas­tle Norelle came in­to view.”