The White Ladies of Worcester by Florence Louisa Barclay (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

with spreading nostrils, panting. . . . The rider has passed within. . . . Your men, my lord, are leading away the steed." The Knight returned to his place. "Brave beast! Methinks they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale."

Symon of Worcester made no reply.

He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, listening for footsteps which must be drawing near.

They came.

The door, at the far end of the hall, opened.

The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance.

"Well?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities.

"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without delay."

"Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward.

The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet approached.

A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, appeared in the doorway. Not pausing for any monkish salutations or genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace.

Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily sealed.

"I bring from Rome," he said--and his voice rang through the chamber--"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness the Pope."

The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bishop rose, a noble figure in crimson and gold, and the dignity of his high office straightway enveloped him.

In complete silence, he stretched out his right hand for the letter.

The dusty traveller came forward quickly, knelt at the Bishop's feet, and placed the missive in his hands.

As the Bishop lifted the Pope's letter and, stooping his head, kissed the papal seal, the Knight kneeled on one knee, his hand upon his sword-hilt, his eyes bent on the ground.

So for a moment there was silence. The sovereignty of Rome, stretching a mighty arm across the seas, asserted its power in the English hall.

Then the Bishop placed the letter upon a small table at his right hand, seated himself, and signed to both men to rise.

"How has it fared with you, Roger?" he asked, kindly.

"Am I in time, Reverend Father?" exclaimed the youth, eagerly. "I acted on your orders. No expense was spared. I chartered the best vessel I could find, and had set sail within an hour of galloping into the port. We made a good passage, and being fortunate in securing relays of horses along the route, I was in Rome twenty-four hours sooner than we had reckoned. I rode in at sunset; and, your name and seal passing me on everywhere, your letter, my lord, was in the Holy Father's hands ere the glow had faded from the distant hills.

"I was right royally entertained by Cardinal Ferrari; and, truth to tell, a soft couch and silken quilts were welcome, after many nights of rough lodging, in the wayside inns of Normandy and Italy. Moreover, having galloped ahead of time, I felt free to take a long night's repose.

"But next morning, soon after the pigeons began to coo and circle, I was called and bid to hasten. Then, while I broke my fast with many strange and tasty dishes, seated in a marble court, with fountains playing and vines o'erhanging, the Cardinal returned, he having been summoned already to the bedchamber of the Pope, where the reply of His Holiness lay, ready sealed.

"Whereupon, my lord, I lost no time in setting forth, picking up on my return journey each mount there where I had left it, until I galloped into the port where our vessel waited.

"Then, alas, came delay, and glad indeed was I, that I had not been tempted to linger in Rome; for the winds were contrary; some days passed before we could set sail; and when at last I prevailed upon the mariners to venture, a great storm caught us in mid-channel, threatening to rend the sails to ribbons and, lifting us high, hurl us all to perdition. Helpless and desperate, for the sailors had lost all control, I vowed that if the storm might abate and we come safe to harbour I would--when I succeed to my father's lands in Gloucestershire--give to the worthy Abbot of an Abbey adjoining our estate, a meadow, concerning which he and his monks have long broken the tenth commandment and other commands as well, a trout stream running through it, and the dearest delight of the Abbot being fat trout for supper; and of the monks, to lie on their bellies tickling the trout as they hide in the cool holes under the banks of the stream. But when my father finds the monks thus poaching, he comes up behind them, and up they get quickly--or try to! So, in mid-channel, remembering my sins, I remembered running to tell my father that if he came quickly he would find the good Brothers flat on their bellies, sleeves rolled back, heads hanging over the water, toes well tucked into the turf, deeply intent upon tickling. Then I would run by a short cut, hide in the hazels, and watch while my father stalked up through the meadow, caught and belaboured the poachers. My derisive young laughter seemed now to howl and shriek through the rigging. So I vowed that if the storm abated and we came safe to port, the monks should be given that meadow. Upon which the storm did abate, and to port we came--and what my father will say, I know not! Fearing vexation to you, my lord, from this untoward delay, on landing I rode as fast as mine own good horse could carry me. Am I in time?"

The Bishop smiled as he looked into the blue eyes and open countenance of young Roger de Berchelai, a youth wholly devoted to his service. Here was another who remembered in pictures, and Symon of Worcester loved the gallop, and rush, and breeze of the sea, which had swept through the chamber, in the eager young voice of his envoy.

"Yes, my son," said the Bishop. "You have returned, not merely in time, but with two days to spare. Was there ever fleeter messenger! Indeed my choice was well made and my trust well placed. Now you must sup and then take a much-needed rest, dear lad; and to-morrow tell me if you had need to spend more than I gave you."

Raising his voice, the Bishop called his Chaplain; whereupon that sinister figure at once appeared in the doorway.

The Bishop gave orders concerning the entertaining of the young Esquire of Berchelai; then added; "And let the chapel be lighted, Father Benedict. So soon as the aurora appears in the east, I shall celebrate mass, in thanksgiving for the blessing of a letter from the Holy Father, and for the safe return of my messenger. I shall not need your presence nor that of any of the brethren, save those whose watch it chances to be. . . . _Benedicite_."

"_Deus_," responded Father Benedict, bowing low.

Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bishop's ring; then, rising, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his forehead, and said: "A bath, my lord, would be even more welcome than supper and bed. It shames me to have come in such travel-stained plight into your presence, and that of this noble knight," with a bow to Hugh d'Argent.

"Nay," said Hugh, smiling in friendly response. "Travel-stains gained in such fashion, are more to be desired than silks and fine linen. I would I could go to rest this night knowing I had accomplished as much."

"Go and have thy bath, boy," said the Bishop. "This will give my monks time to tickle, catch, and cook, trout for thy supper! Ah, thou young rascal! But that field is _Corban_, remember. Sup well, rest well, and the blessing of the Lord be with thee."

The brown riding-suit vanished through the archway.

Father Benedict's lean hand pulled the door to.

The Bishop and the Knight were once more alone.


CHAPTER XXIV


THE POPE'S MANDATE

The Bishop and Hugh d'Argent were once more alone. It was characteristic of both that they sat for some minutes in unbroken silence.

Then the Bishop put out his hand, took up the packet from Rome, and looked at the Knight.

Hugh d'Argent rose, walked over to the casement, and leaned out into the still, summer night.

He could hear the Bishop breaking the seals of the Pope's letter.

Below in the courtyard, all was quiet. The great gates were barred. He wondered whether the steaming horse had been well rubbed down, clothed, and given a warm mash mixed with ale.

He could hear the Bishop unfolding the parchment, which crackled.

The moon, in her first quarter, rode high in the heavens. The towers of St. Mary's church looked black against the sky.

The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the White Ladies' Nunnery at Whytstone. How strange to remember, that beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand. Yet then----

He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment.

How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and doubts.

In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full. Would he be riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him?

As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her face the light of a purposeful radiance."

Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she stay, or would she come?

The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the cloud silvering.

If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she would come.

He began to count, slowly.

At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him.

But at ten, the Bishop called: "Hugh!" and turning from the casement the Knight answered to the call.

The Bishop held in his hands the Pope's letter, and also a legal-looking document, from which seals depended.

"This doth closely concern you, my son," said the Bishop, with some emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight's hands.

Hugh d'Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax taper burning beside the Bishop's chair. But some instinct he could not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned. He stood to read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to the flame of the candles.

Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered