CHAPTER XX
HOLLY AND MISTLETOE
Symon, Bishop of Worcester, had bidden Sir Hugh d'Argent to sup with him at the Palace.
It was upon the second day after the Bishop's conversation with the
Prioress in the Convent at Whytstone; the evening of the Nun's Play
Day, granted in honour of his visit.
The Bishop and the Knight supped together, with much stately ceremony, in the great banqueting hall.
Knowing the Bishop's love of the beautiful, and his habit of being punctilious in matters of array and deportment, acquired no doubt during his lengthy sojourns in France and Italy, the Knight had donned his finest court suit—white satin, embroidered with silver; jewelled collar, belt, and shoes; a small-sword of exquisite workmanship at his side. A white cloak, also richly embroidered with silver, hung from his shoulders; white silk hose set off the shapely length of his limbs. The blood-red gleam of the magnificent rubies on his breast, sword-belt, and shoe-buckles, were the only points of colour in his attire.
The Bishop's keen eyes noted with quiet pleasure how greatly this somewhat fantastically beautiful dress enhanced the dark splendour of the Knight's noble countenance, displayed his superb carriage, and shewed off the supple grace of his limbs, which, in his ordinary garb, rather gave the idea of massive strength alone.
The Bishop himself wore crimson and gold; and, just as the dark beauty of the Knight was enhanced by the fair white and silver of his dress, so did these gorgeous Italian robes set off the frail whiteness of the Bishop's delicate face, the silvery softness of his abundant hair. And just as the collar of rubies gleamed like fiery eyes upon the Knight's white satin doublet, so from out the pallor of the Prelate's countenance the eyes shone forth, bright with the fires of eternal, youth, the gay joy of life, the twinkling humour of a shrewd yet kindly wit.
They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye reached the dark panelling of the walls.
The light seemed to centre in the Knight—white and silver; the colour, in the figure of the Bishop—crimson and gold.
In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly supplying every need.
At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the black shadows, and vanishing in silence.
The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway.
"Benedicite," said Symon of Worcester, looking up.
"Deus," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance.
Then he stood erect—a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl.
He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way round the table.
"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great door.
"Yea, verily! Mistletoe and Holly," he repeated, as he strode to his cell. "The Reverend Father sups with the World, and indulges the Flesh. Methinks the Devil cannot be far off."
Nor was he.
He was very near.
He had looked over the Chaplain's shoulder as he made his false obeisance in the doorway.
But he liked not the pure white of the Knight's dress, and he feared the clear light in the Prelate's eyes. So, when the Chaplain closed the door, the Devil stayed on the outside, and now walked beside the Chaplain along the passage leading to his cell.
There is no surer way of securing the company of the Devil, than to make sure he is at that moment busy with another—particularly if that other chance to be the most saintly man you know, and merely displeasing to you, at the moment, because he hath not bidden you to sup with him. The Devil and the Chaplain made a night of it.
The Bishop's gentle "Benedicite" spread white wings and flew, like an affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill passage beyond.
But, just as the great door was closing, it darted in again, circled round the banqueting hall, and came back to rest in the safe nest of the kindly heart which had sent it forth.
No blessing, truly vitalised, ever ceases to live. If the blessed be unworthy, it returns on swift wing to the blesser.