“The fellow had a hot heart and too ready a hand. He is slain, perhaps. God rest his soul.”
Rosamunde told nothing of the imagined truth, and of the beginning of her hate. Isabel had not seen Tristan in the hall.
Anon, robed, and fed by the Bishop’s clemency, she was taken by Christopher the Canon past the iron-coated sentry at the door. As a prisoner she passed through her own home, where the galleries were empty, the chambers void. The Bishop’s men had looted the place; they were carrying the plunder to the ships. The champion of the Church was worthy of his hire; many a cherished relic saluted Rosamunde’s eyes no more. The hall itself seemed grey and empty despite the streaming sunlight through the narrow windows set high up in the wall.
Bishop Jocelyn awaited her, sleek, polished, buxom of face, a most creditable sympathy pervading his mood. The heretic pleased, if the heresy offended. He bade Canon Christopher set Rosamunde a stool, thrust a silver mug aside with his hand, spread his tablets, crossed himself, and began.
“Madame,” he said, “I have given you audience alone, that we may talk the better. Mark you—how the sun shines, and that June is with us. The blood of the earth runs brisk and warm. It is my purpose here to persuade you to live.”
There was a suggestive comfort on the complacent face. The man’s philosophy smacked of compromise. That he was not unloth to pardon her, Rosamunde could see full well, yet she mistrusted his voice, strident with sanctimony, his soft, mobile mouth, his glittering eyes.
“Whether it is better to lie than to die,” she answered him, “out of the abundance of your righteousness, you can tell me, Lord Bishop.”
“Daughter,” he said, mouthing his words with an air of relish, “surely it is better to procrastinate for a month, than to be damned instantly and for ever.”
“Your charity foredooms me—thus.”
“Madame, St. Peter has the keys of heaven, and we are St. Peter’s ministers.”