The Young Lovell: A Romance

by Ford Madox Ford

So there, now, Bishop Sherwood sat, leaning back in his chair and crushing up his cope which was a grief to his vestiarius, an old and orderly man. For this was a very splendid cope of black velvet from Genoa; it was worked with broad silver in pomegranates, the sacred initials being of seed pearls over silver, and the vestiarius did not like to see it crushed. The crozier leant against an oaken case in the corner; and a great cross was against the heavy table where the Bishop sat. The Bishop had sent away his pages and attendants, saying that his head ached so that he could not bear the opening and closing of cases where these things should be placed. He had sent for some wine, a manchet of bread and a little salt to refresh himself with and these, in vessels of silver, stood before him. He had made shift to pull the rich glove off his right hand, and so he had taken a sip of wine and was dipping the bread in the salt. He felt himself a little refreshed. Before him, upon the table, stood two mitres, and his glove lay between the silver dish of bread and the wine cup.

Then the vestiarius, who stood in the doorway, perceived that Bishop, all black and silver, lean forward in his chair, gazing out of the window with his jaw falling down. The sunlight was streaming in. The vestiarius considered with disfavour—for he was a sour old priest—that the Bishop was undoubtedly ill, and God knew when he should get those vestments put away, which should be done before the stroke of noon. So the Bishop passed his hand across his eyes, after he had made the sign of the cross repeatedly.

"Gilbert," the Bishop said, "my eyes are very tired."

"It would be better, then," the vestiarius said, "not to look out at that window upon the sunlight. You have tired them with looking upon the picture of the new missal while you said mass."

"That may well be," the Bishop said. He was a little afeared of the anger of his vestiarius, who had been with him twenty years, and would not let him do as he would. So he continued for a little looking at the napkin they had laid beneath his refection. It was worked in white damask with the letter M, being the initial of Our Lady's name.

After a while, being anxious to lessen his weakness in the eyes of his servant, the Bishop raised his eyes to the two mitres that stood before him. Both were of white silk stuff, very curiously and beautifully sown, but one was high and the other more squat. The Bishop was about to speak of these, to placate the old sour man—for it was in such things that he took most interest. It was very quiet in that room.

There came a knocking, like a fumbling at the door. So the vestiarius went to it, and, opening it by a crack, whispered out by that way. And then he turned and said sourly:

"Here is a monk. A monk of Belford called Francis. He says he has your word that he may come to you at all times and seasons." The Bishop made a sign with the hand, that hung over the arm of his chair, that that monk should come in. And indeed the Bishop had given orders that the monk Francis should come in to him at all times.

For those, as the Bishop saw them, were evil days and full of sudden perils that must very suddenly be reported to him. And, as far as peril from the North went—and mostly from Alnwick way—he knew no man, monk or laymen, that could more swiftly warn him. Besides, the Bishop heard his conversation with pleasure and counted him a very holy young monk, so that he would gladly have had him for his confessor.

He accounted him the best adviser that a Bishop could have in that see. For of the religious that he had round him there, the lay priests were too ignorant, with a rustic simplicity; the monks of Durham were too haughty; those of Belford too learned; those of Alnwick too set upon the glory of their abbey. The ecclesiastical lawyers quibbled too much over parcels of land; the knights were too formal and concerned for the state of the see. But this monk Francis loved God and considered the world.