Philip Augustus; or, The Brothers in Arms

by G. P. R. James

"But if report speaks right," replied the hermit, "thy flock has no need to cry; as the interdict has not yet been enforced within thy diocese, father bishop."

"True! unhappily too true!" cried the prelate, imagining that the hermit imputed blame to him for the delay. "But what could I do, brother Bernard? God knows--praised be his name!--that I have the most holy and devout fear of the authority of the blessed church of Rome;--but how can I bear to tear the food of salvation from the mouths of the poor hungry people?--Besides, when I did but mention it to the king, he cried out, in his rude and furious way:--'By the joyeuse of St. Charlemagne! bishop, take care what you do! As long as you eat of the fat, and drink of the strong, you prelates of France mind nothing; but let me hear no more of this interdict, or I will smite you hip and thigh! I will drive you forth from your benefices! I will deprive you of your feofs, and I will strip you of your wealth!--and then you may get rosy wines and rich meats where you can!"

A sort of cynical smile gathered round the hermit's lip, as if in his heart he thought Philip's estimate of the clergy of his day was not a bad one: and indeed their scandalous luxury was but too fertile a theme of censure to all the severer moralists of those times. He contented himself, however, with demanding what the prelate intended to do.

"Nay, on that subject, I came to consult you, brother Bernard," replied the bishop. "You have ever shown yourself a wise and prudent man, since you came into this place, some seven years ago; and all you have recommended has prospered.--Now, in truth, I know not what to do. The king is furious. His love for this Agnes--(if God would but please to take her to himself, what a blessing!)--is growing more and more. He has already cast out half the bishops of France for enforcing the interdict, and seized on the lands of many of the barons who have permitted or encouraged it.--What can I do? If I enforce it, he will cast me out too; and the people will be no better. If I do not enforce it, I fall under the heavy censure of our holy father the pope!"

"You know your duty, father bishop, far better than I can tell it to you," replied the hermit, with what might almost be called a malicious determination to give no assistance whatever to the poor prelate, who, between his fears of Rome and his dread of losing his diocese, laboured like a ship in a stormy sea. "Your duty must be done."

"But hearken, brother Bernard," said the bishop. "You know John of Arville, the canon of St. Berthe's--a keen, keen man, though he be so quiet and calm, and one that knows every thing which passes in the world, though he be so devout and strict in his religious exercises."

"I know him well," said the hermit sternly, as if the qualities of the worthy canon stood not high in his esteem.--"What of him?"

"Why, you know that, now William of Albert is dead, this John is head of the canons of St. Berthe," replied the bishop. "Now, you must know still farther, that a few days ago, the young count d'Auvergne, with his train, came to Paris, and was hospitably received by the canons of St. Berthe, in whose church his father had been a great founder. As the interdict is strictly kept in his own part of the country, the Count could not confess himself there; but, wisely and religiously, seeing that years might elapse before he could again receive the comforts of the church if the interdict lasted, and not knowing what might happen in the mean time--for life is frail, you know, brother Bernard--he resolved to confess himself to John of Arville, the canon; which he did. So, then, you see, John of Arville came away to me, and told me that he had a great secret, which might heal all the wounds of the state."

"How!" exclaimed the hermit, starting up. "Did he betray the secrets of confession?"

"No, no! You mistake, brother Bernard," cried the bishop peevishly. "No, no! He did not betray the secrets of confession; but, in his conversations afterwards with the young count, he drew from him that he loved this Agnes de Meranie, and that she had been promised to him by her brother as he went to the Holy Land; and that her brother being killed there, and her father knowing nothing of the promise, gave her to the king Philip. But now, hearing that the marriage is not lawful, he--her father, the duke of Istria--has charged this young Count d'Auvergne, as a knight, and one who was her dead brother's dear friend, secretly to command her, in his name, to quit the court of France, and return to his protection: and the count has thereon staked life and fortune, that if she will consent, he will find means to bring her back to Istria, in despite of the whole world. This is what he communicated to the reverend canon, not, as you say, in confession, but in sundry conversations after confession."