The Young Lovell

  VI

  John Sherwood, Bishop Palatine of Durham, was seated in a deep chair, inthe vestiary of his dwelling in Durham Castle. He had just come inthere from the cathedral, and he was very weary with having sung asolemn mass for the soul of Sir Leofric Bertram, one that had, in timespast, been a great benefactor of that see. This mass was sung everyyear upon the second day of July and, along with the oration, it lasteda full two hours. He had had a little fever too, and was weak with themonthly bloodletting which had been done the day before; for the PrinceBishop and his household were bled upon the first day of each month.Moreover, he was fasting till then, and it was close on the stroke ofeleven.

  So, although a good dinner awaited him, of five courses, each of fifteendishes, he had felt so tired that there, in his own vestiary--for he didnot wear the vestments of the cathedral or the monastery, but, in allhis canonicals, walked across the green from the cathedral down to thecastle with the people all kneeling and candles and a great cross andhis crozier carried before him--he had fallen down into the deep chairin his mass garments. It made it the worse that his vestiary was up twoflights of stairs in the castle that was old and not well arranged.

  This vestiary was a large hall, but so tall that it seemed narrow and,in spite of two deep window spaces, its sombre vaulting of stone went upinto darkness. The Bishops of Durham had always very many and verysplendid vestments of their own, not belonging to the cathedral, and soon three sides of the room and from twelve feet high or more there werechests of oaken wood to hold vestments, with round cupboards in whichcopes could be laid out. In the two angles of the wall between thewindows were all manner of great pegs and wooden bases upon which armourwas hung or displayed. Upon three of these pegs were three helmets, thegauntlets hanging beneath them. Below each were the breastplates, thethigh pieces and so on. The great swords, with their crossed hilts, andscabbards covered in yellow velvet, were in stands along the bottom ofthe wall, like a fence. Above them were the more splendid andbejewelled plumed hoods for his falcons, their jesses, and leashes forhis hounds; and tall steel maces made, as it were, panels between them.Spears or lances this Bishop had none, his arm being the heavy mace. Hehad four suits of armour, a black one, English, and kept well greased,for rainy weather or dangerous times; a French one of bright and flutedsteel that he wore on Spring days; and one Milanese, very light and sobeautiful in its lines that it pleased him to see it--a steel helmetthat seemed to float like a coif, without a visor at all, and steelchain-mail as light as silk yet impenetrable even to the steel quarrelsof arbalests.

  These three suits were arranged upon the wall. The suit of state, ofblack steel inlaid thickly with gold, stood upon a stand, like athreatening man, between the two windows and catching the light fromeach. This piece came from Nuremberg, where it had been worked for thePrince Bishop of Muenster, but he dying, the Bishop had bought it of theheirs. Upon the helmet was a prince's circlet of gold and all thebreastplate, the thigh and kneepieces were hammered and graved andinlaid in gold with scenes from the life of Our Lady. Her Coronation inHeaven was shown upon the visor. This fine piece the Bishop wore onlyupon occasions of great state, such as if he should make a progressthrough the Palatinate with the King upon his right hand out ofcourtesy, since, of right, his left alone belonged to the King and theright to the Pope of Rome alone. This Bishop Palatine thought himself adelicate rather than a splendid prince; he had, before being Bishop,spent many years in Rome, as the King of England's friend and advocate;so he thought that better could be done by a display of simplicity andelegance, for a sovereign Bishop, than by great profusion of coarsethings. Thus, such Bishops as Anthony Bek, that was Patriarch ofJerusalem as well, had had forty suits of mail to his own body alone.

  So there, now, Bishop Sherwood sat, leaning back in his chair andcrushing up his cope which was a grief to his vestiarius, an old andorderly man. For this was a very splendid cope of black velvet fromGenoa; it was worked with broad silver in pomegranates, the sacredinitials being of seed pearls over silver, and the vestiarius did notlike to see it crushed. The crozier leant against an oaken case in thecorner; and a great cross was against the heavy table where the Bishopsat. The Bishop had sent away his pages and attendants, saying that hishead ached so that he could not bear the opening and closing of caseswhere these things should be placed. He had sent for some wine, amanchet of bread and a little salt to refresh himself with and these, invessels of silver, stood before him. He had made shift to pull the richglove off his right hand, and so he had taken a sip of wine and wasdipping the bread in the salt. He felt himself a little refreshed.Before him, upon the table, stood two mitres, and his glove lay betweenthe 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 thewindow with his jaw falling down. The sunlight was streaming in. Thevestiarius considered with disfavour--for he was a sour old priest--thatthe Bishop was undoubtedly ill, and God knew when he should get thosevestments put away, which should be done before the stroke of noon. Sothe Bishop passed his hand across his eyes, after he had made the signof the cross repeatedly.

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

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

  "That may well be," the Bishop said. He was a little afeared of theanger of his vestiarius, who had been with him twenty years, and wouldnot let him do as he would. So he continued for a little looking at thenapkin they had laid beneath his refection. It was worked in whitedamask 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 hisservant, the Bishop raised his eyes to the two mitres that stood beforehim. Both were of white silk stuff, very curiously and beautifullysown, but one was high and the other more squat. The Bishop was about tospeak of these, to placate the old sour man--for it was in such thingsthat he took most interest. It was very quiet in that room.

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

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

  For those, as the Bishop saw them, were evil days and full of suddenperils that must very suddenly be reported to him. And, as far as perilfrom the North went--and mostly from Alnwick way--he knew no man, monkor laymen, that could more swiftly warn him. Besides, the Bishop heardhis 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 weretoo ignorant, with a rustic simplicity; the monks of Durham were toohaughty; those of Belford too learned; those of Alnwick too set upon theglory of their abbey. The ecclesiastical lawyers quibbled too much overparcels of land; the knights were too formal and concerned for the stateof the see. But this monk Francis loved God and considered the world.

  The Bishop had been reflecting in that way for some time whilst themonk, entering in his woollen robes had knelt beside his chair. Thenthe Bishop stretched his hand languidly out and the monk set his lips tothe ring upon it. So the Bishop pointed a finger to the taller of thetwo mitres.

  "This is my new one," he said, "it has just come to me from Flanders,while I was at mass."

  The monk Francis looked upon the new mitre.

  "I have never seen finer stitching in silver," he said. The vestiariussaid h
arshly:

  "I consider the old one more fitting. For a Prince of the ChurchMilitant it is more fitting. It sits more squatly upon the head, like ahelmet."

  The monk Francis looked upon him, and seeing that the Bishop did notwish to speak, he said:

  "That is true! But then this new one, with its greater height is moregraceful and seemly. Moreover there is room upon it for another panelover the forehead. The old one, you perceive, has only a picture of thecrucifixion of our Lord worked in pearls and silk. Whereas the new onehas below it a picture of Our Lady at the Tomb. It is always good tohave a picture of Our Lady."

  This was a thing that the vestiarius could not gainsay. So he broughtout:

  "Well, if the Bishop and monks are content with it, it may work to thegreater glory of God;" and then he said: "Prince Bishop, I would haveyou go to another room that I may put away your vestments."

  The Bishop stood up upon his feet and the vestiarius went down upon hisknees. So the Bishop blessed him and put his hand heavily into the armof the monk Francis.

  "You shall lead me to my chamber," he said.

  "God help us," the vestiarius cried, "shall I not first take off yourvestments?"

  "I had forgotten," the Bishop said. So he stood by the table whilstthat old man took off the great cope, the silver cross and the whiterobes and stole that were beneath and fetched a purple gown edged withfur--for he considered that Bishop to be cold and weak with the bloodthat had been let from him the day before as the custom was. Upon theBishop's head he set a furred cap, covering his ears, and hung round hisneck once more the silver chain with the great crucifix in silverdependent. And so the Bishop, when he had drunk a little more wine,went up the stairs slowly to his chamber, and the vestiarius called inseveral pages and young boys and saw to it that they laid thosevestments away in due order.

  The Bishop's chamber had been taken out of a Norman gallery with pillarsand arcades. Here many men-at-arms in parti-coloured woollen garmentsof natural wool and yellow, sat about on the floor or between thearcades, playing at dice together or drinking from flagons. Theirimmensely long pikes stood against the arches beside them. One, withhis eyes shut, leaned back against the wall, saying prayers in penancefor a crime he had committed.

  The Bishop, upon the monk's arm passed slowly down this corridor to hischamber which had bare walls painted yellow in honour of St. Cuthbert; agreat quantity of books, very big or very little, were upon shelves. Agreat many manuscripts in rolls lay upon other shelves, and papers thatoverflowed from chests, of which there were five, along one wall. Therewas a pallet bed in this room; a three-cornered stool and a coarselyhewed lectern; a prie-dieu and a crucifix. Thus it was a very bareroom. This Bishop, though he affected somewhat great state before thepeople, was, in secret, a very ascetic man.

  Few people, however, came into this bare room--not even his highestofficers. The square windows--but that had been done in BishopSkirlawe's days just a hundred years ago--were filled with bright glass,showing once again the history of the translation of St. Cuthbert. Allin little squares this history was, monks with shaven heads crouchingdown as if the space would not contain them, and the head of Dun Cowshowing yellow against a background of glass shining like pigeon's bloodrubies. One of these little, square casements hung open and through itthe distant landscape showed clear, with hills grey and woods grey-blue,astonishing for its tranquillity.

  So, the monk Francis being sat up on his three-legged stool, the Bishopbegan to pace up and down before the long window space--backwards andforwards over the tiles, with an immense swiftness. Once he turned hisface imperiously to where the monk sat and said harshly:

  "Pray God, you bring me no ill news."

  The monk, who had been gazing, out of respect, at the tiles, raised hisglance to say:

  "I think it is rather good news."

  The Bishop said:

  "I thank God!" and touched his fur cap. Once again he resumed hispacing, biting his lips and clenching and unclenching his fingers.

  Suddenly, in the stillness there resounded a rustle of wings, and,balancing unsteadily upon the iron frame of the open window, thereappeared a blue pigeon that craned its head to one side or the other,watching the Bishop. From outside there came a still greater rustle ofwings.

  Then the monk's face grew colourless.

  "Father in God," he said in a low voice, "what is that fowl?"

  The Bishop turned his lean head round over his shoulder, when he saw thepigeon that gazed anxiously at him, he smiled a kindly and soft smile.

  "That is my weakness, Brother Francis," he said. With his brushing stephe crossed the smooth tiles towards one of the chests that was filledwith parchments. As he lifted the lid that pigeon flew from the windowon to his shoulder. And immediately another pigeon took its place inthe opening. "Brother Francis," he continued, "you are a stern man, yetbe indulgent to my weakness. It was your namesake that was called 'ofthe Birds.' And in Scripture you may read the exhortation: 'Be yeguileless as doves and with the wisdom of the serpent.'" So he liftedthat chest-lid and took from it a little linen bag of pease.

  Then the face of the monk became radiant.

  "Father in God," he said, "I thank heaven for this. For those verywords I used twenty hours ago and now you use them again."

  "Why," the Bishop said, "what harm ever came from these pretty fowls ofheaven?" The pigeon on his shoulder stretched its neck out to reach hismouth with its bill. Urgently and insistently it did this. And otherswere entering the window space. Then, before the flutter of their wingsshould drown his voice, the Bishop said that these birds reminded himthat his dinner hour was come. And he begged the monk Francis to tell apage that he should find amongst the men-at-arms in the gallery that theLord Bishop would have his guests sit down to dinner and eat with a goodappetite; whereas he himself was a little indisposed and would have hisown cook send up to him four eggs with a little saffron and some of thedrink called clary, such as the cook knew he wished for when he was ill.So, the monk Francis went out and, after some time, found that page, whowas playing knucklebones with another in the stairway. And when themonk had cuffed him well he sent him upon his errand, and so went backto the room. The Bishop was smiling down at from twenty to thirtypigeons. They were around his feet, upon his bed where he had sat down,upon his knees and, precariously they found footholds, fluttering theirwings upon his moving arms.

  So there he sat, looking upon those fowls of the air and smiling. Andin a little time that page brought him the four eggs, the saffron andthe beverage called clary. And so the Bishop ate his meal, sprinklingthe saffron upon the eggs. He scattered fragments of the hard yolkamongst the pigeons. And when he was done and had drunk his drink heshook the crumbs off his gown and came over towards the monk Francis,all the pigeons scattering before his feet.

  The Bishop was a man much taller than the monk and much thinner in thefeatures. That is to say that, of late years, he had grown thin withhis cares, but his purple and furred gown gave him a certain bulk. Sohe looked down upon the monk and said:

  "My brother in God, you have perceived my weakness, for each day I spendcertain minutes upon these birds and gain comfort from the contemplationof their beauty and guilelessness. And I think they are the onlyfriends I have, so lonely is my state in these great and peopled halls.Time was, no doubt, when a Prince Bishop was beloved, dwelling amongstpeople of a simple piety. And in such a day I could have done well.But, as I have often told you, my brother, in this place I cannot see myway. I am troubled with many doubts. If these were again the days ofSt. Thomas of Canterbury, I could at least extend my neck to thebutcher's sword. I think I should have had that courage.... But thisthen is my road and in which God has set me. And very willingly Itotter along it. Only, from time to time, my brain reels; I seem to seenothing, amongst great defiles, with rocks that roll down upon me. Andthis my see appears like a little church set between toweringprecipices.... And so I rest my brain by playing with these
birds."

  "So," the monk Francis said, "St. Gerome had a lion, that lightened hislabours and the solitude of his cell, and so many other saints had."

  "But I am no saint," the Bishop said, "and have no licences so todisport myself as they had.... But even so it is! God give me guidance.For it is certain that the King that we have hates me a little and insome sort fears me. And he is a strong, persevering and cunning prince.And I do take him to be an evil prince that murdered a very good King,my friend and the friend of this see. And if I had courage and couldsee clearly, I should raise up the standard of this my see and call tome the barons and the knights and so, in a crusade, march to thedethroning of this King. But, as you know, I am not framed for such apart. I am no commander, neither has God given me the golden gift oforatory to inflame men's hearts to a holy war. Nor yet, in this age, isthe spirit of piety abroad among the people, and I know not who are myfriends.... So here I sit in doubt and perplexity. And now there iscome, even to this my city, a man calling himself commissioner of thisupstart King. For such a man thundered upon the city gates last night.And very willingly I could have refused him entrance, but in my troubleand perplexity I did not dare. What say you then, brother Francis, toall these things, for I will hear you very willingly?"

  The monk kept his eyes for some time longer upon the floor and at lasthe spoke:

  "My lord and prince," he said, "pardon me beforehand if in what I shalltell you now I have done aught amiss. But this I will tell you at once:this commissioner of King Henry's is a subtle spy. Therefore, takingupon my own person the shame, if shame there be, I have set myself tocounterspy him. For it fell out in this way: in certain secretmanners--not under seal of confession--I have known for some time pastthat this Sir Bertram of Lyonesse, was gathering news of the Northparts. There are certain contractors for the building of our Tower inBelford, and one of them is called Richard Chambre, a burgess ofNewcastle. And because I have lent him now and then a little money andmuch good advice, this contractor is my good friend and child. So oneday, last September, this Richard Chambre told me, whilst devising ofother things, that there was one, John of Whitley, a burgess ofNewcastle, that went gathering news for a knight of the King's courtcalled Sir Bertram, of Lyonesse. He was writing him letters and thelike, and this John of Whitley had come to Richard Chambre, and hadasked him for news of our monastery of Belford, and of how we monks wereaffected towards the new King.... And so, gathering here a piece ofnews and there another, I gathered that this Sir Bertram had agents hereand there--one a monk in Alnwick called Ludovicus and another, a bailiffof our own, called the Magister Stone at Castle Lovell. But thatMagister is much in Durham...."

  "God help me," the Bishop said, "I have seen him often upon the affairsof the Knights of Cullerford and Haltwhistle...."

  "Well, he is an agent of that Sir Bertram's," the monk said. "Now letme go on further with my story."

  "But this is very terrible hearing," the Bishop said. "All this spyingand treachery is a new thing. It is even as it is in Italy."

  "This is a new age, Father in God," the monk said, "and you will findthis King to employ as many spies as any Duke Borgia or of Ferrara. Andso it will go from bad to worse. Therefore let us be prepared.... Sothis matter is: I came this morning, riding with a certain knight andlord, to Framwell Gate Bridge, just as they opened it. And because Iwould speak certain private words with that lord I had ridden with him amile ahead of his spears. So we waited at the bridge for them to comeup. Then I fell a-talking with the captain of the bridge as to the newsand so I heard, as ye know, that this same Sir Bertram, calling himselfcommissioner of the King had come in last night with the old Princess ofCroy and her train--but his own train had been sent to lodge in OldElvet. So I learned where he was, for every woman in the street couldtell me.

  "I went swiftly afoot to the house of the Princess of Croy, and the doorstood open with the old steward before it, chaffering with a fisherman.So, frowning fiercely upon that steward, I crept up that stairway, mysandals making no sound, and going higher than the door, I stood uponthe stairs and had a fair view of this Sir Bertram and heard much ofwhat he said.... I would have come to you the sooner, Father in God,but this was a very pertinent matter and I heard you were saying ofmass."

  Then the monk Francis reported to the Prince Bishop much of what thatSir Bertram had said, but keeping back some of it for the time. TheBishop stood before him, clasping and unclasping his hands; the pigeons,having dispersed about the tiles in the search of pease that had rolledaway, flew now, by ones and twos, out of the little window again.

  In the view of the monk Francis the coming of this Sir Bertram meant, ashe under-read that knight's words, an immediate calm in those parts, butafterwards, in three years or four, a much greater danger. For, as themonk saw it, it was the design of that King Henry Seventh to showhimself to the great lords of the North, a very kind, indulgent andlenient ruler. So he should gather them under his wing to be a potentengine against that see of Durham, that powerful kingdom within hiskingdom. Thus, for the time being, the monk perceived no danger forthat see. He thought--and time would very likely prove him right--thatthat Sir Bertram would begin, to the Bishop as to the great lords, withkind and soothing words, or even with presents. So, peace being thereestablished and the memory of King Richard forgotten, the King wouldbegin to move the lords of the North against that bishopric. And,doubtless, the further extent of his design--the bishopric beingweakened by the meeting of the lords--would be to lop off the greatlords, one by one, advisedly and with caution until the King had theupper hand of all in those parts....

  "This is a very fell scheme, my brother," the Bishop said. "I hadrather the King would march upon me with his flags on high."

  "So would all the King's enemies," the monk Francis said, "for thatwould bring him down. He is not strong enough for that." He paused fora moment: "If my lord and prince will let me speak my mind..." he beganagain.

  "You are here for that," the Bishop said. "What I need is counsel."

  "Then I will say this," the monk Francis began again: "To a mine you seta countermine and so may we. This subtle King will by acts ofgraciousness win the North parts to him. My lord and prince under God,you may do this very much more easily than he. For, by the grace ofGod, in these days you are a very wealthy Prince but he for a King isvery poor, he having great expenses for wars in France and elsewherewhere rebellions break out. And acts of graciousness, in this world,end either in gifts of money or the remission of fines, rents andamercements. These this King cannot come to do, or he will starve. Butall these things you can do very easily. If he can spare the nobles alittle he will do it, but he must then press the more heavily upon thecommons and so great cries against him will rise up in these parts....But you, lord and prince, can be gracious to all. And so I would haveyou show yourself. Thus, at the end of three or four years this Kingmay find himself only the poorer for his efforts."

  "I hope you may be right," the Bishop said.

  "Time will show it," the monk answered, "and the grace of God. Now Iwill talk to you of the Young Lovell.... He is come here again."

  "God help me," the Bishop said, "I have been talking of him all thismorning."

  The monk Francis said:

  "Ah, that is what I had thought. And it was with that bailiff--thelawyer, Master Stone."

  "It was even with him," the Bishop said. "He seemed a worthy and apious man and full of zeal for this see of Durham."

  "Well, you shall hear," the monk said. "I will wager he came with thisadvice--that you should lay hands upon the estates of the Young Lovellunder a writ of sorcery, and so divide them between yourself and theKnights of Haltwhistle and Cullerford. Thus you should be beforehandwith the Earl of Northumberland who would do as much for the King'sdisgrace in these parts."

  "It was even that that he reded me do," the Bishop said. "He urged thesee should gain much good land thereby."

  "And lose much worship," the mo
nk said. "It is that that Sir Bertramwishes."

  "I can see as much as that," the Bishop answered. "And this MasterStone--who is an ill-looking man--never told me that the Young Lovell,as you say, was come again, but said that he was dead and thatCullerford and Haltwhistle, being by marriage his heirs, would verywillingly divide with me. He was insistent with me to issue that writthis afternoon."

  "Well, it was a clever, foul scheme," the monk Francis said. "For wellthat bailiff knew the Young Lovell had been seen riding into CastleLovell! Hard he has ridden here--if a lawyer can ride hard--to get thatwrit against the Young Lovell or ever we could come to you. So withthat he would have earned great disgrace for you and this see. But whatI would have you do is to confirm, as far as the see goes, that YoungLovell in his inheritance. So it will rest with the King, the Earl ofNorthumberland, and this Sir Bertram to dispossess him. And thus shalltheir names stink in the nostrils of all this country-side. For thatyoung man is very beloved, by gentle and simple, having fought wellagainst the false Scots at Kenchie's Burn, as these eyes did see."

  The monk spoke long and earnestly in that sense; and indeed he had theright of it. There would have been none in that country that would nothave cried shame on the Church for her greed, if the Bishop had dividedthese lands with foul knights like Sir Walter Limousin and Symonde Veseyand Vesey the outlaw and the Decies. But if the Bishop would confirmSir Paris Lovell in the lands over which the see had rights andoverlordships, great discredit would fall upon the Percy for having, ina Warden's Court, essayed to ruin the Young Lovell on a false charge.

  And after the monk Francis had talked in that way for some time, theBishop was convinced of--nay he shuddered at--the trap into which he hadnearly fallen. But, he said, the lawyer Stone had so bewildered himwith one legal point and another--such as how the Decies, being knightedand plighted by the Prince Bishop himself in the name of the YoungLovell, had all the rights forfeited by that lording. He would verywillingly resign a portion of his rights by way of fine; it was,moreover, in the protocol of the Bishops of Durham that no Bishop couldrefuse such a gift freely made, to the disadvantage of the see. And thelawyer said, from his knowledge of canon law, that, the Bishop havingmade the Decies into Young Lovell and a knight of the Church and thebetrothed of the Lady Margaret of Glororem, nothing could undo all thosethings but a bull or dispensation of the Pope.

  "Well," the monk Francis said, "I have considered that point and haveread in such books as our poor monastery hath, both upon the canon andthe civil law--such as the book of decrees of which the first leafbegins '_Jejunandi_' and the penultimate leaf ends '_digestus erif_,' orthe book of decretals which begins '_Nullain res est_' and ends: '_incausa negligenciae_.' Also I have spoken with the most learned of ourbrethren upon this case and with your sergeants of law and your justicesand all with one accord agree that a long law case might be made out ofit. That Decies hath his grounds of appeal, at least upon the matter ofknighthood and betrothal. For it is very uncertain if you could unknighthim or break his betrothal with the Lady Margaret of Glororem without anappeal to our Father in Rome.

  "As to the matter of the other rights conveyed by that name, that ismuch simpler. For the Young Lovell has only to make appeal to youthrough a person of the Church as his best friend. Then you shall givehim licence, under the decretal '_in causa negligenciae_' and he may atonce enter upon his lands by force or how he may...."

  "What then should the man called Decies do?" the Bishop asked. "I amnot very learned in these laws; but that lawyer Stone said he may dogreat things."

  "For that," the monk Francis said, "he might. But, if I can have a saywith that Decies, he shall hang from a very high tree. Or, if the YoungLovell is too tender of his half-brother, for that the Decies is, theDecies shall at my complaint to your officers and, after a fair trial,be broken upon the wheel. For before a court non-ecclesiastical he hathbrought false witness against a vassal of your see upon anecclesiastical charge, to wit sorcery. There is no escape for him."

  The Bishop was, by that, hot to do grace to the Young Lovell. And,after he had made the monk Francis recite over again all that he hadsaid, he agreed very heartily to do all that that monk asked of him.For that was a position that jumped very well with Bishop Sherwood'scharacter, and one that made all things the plainer to him. Being achurchman, subtle rather than vigorous, he desired above all things thegood and glory of his see. He desired that, so much above his own gloryand good, that in later years he left his see and went into exile ratherthan that the bishopric should suffer from the King's hatred of hisperson. But he could see very well that the bishopric of Durham wouldlose rather than gain by taking the lands of a young lord, well lovedand deserving well of those parts. The Church, as he was aware, wascalled, in those days, avaricious, gluttonous and avid of lands andrent. But here, by a shining instance, he might show that thesee-palatine of Durham held its hand and so that see should gain incredit and renown at the expense even of all other bishoprics in therealm and of the realm itself. And here was a course of action thatthis Bishop could very well understand and set going. Besides, of hisown predilection, he had a hearty inclination towards such high andchivalric natures as was the Young Lovell's. He saw in him a shiningand armoured protector against the foes of his see. Seeing things verymuch in symbols and pictures, this Bishop seemed to see that young lord,in silver harness, shining in the sun and raising his sword against themists, fumes and flames that beset this fair city of Durham.

  Therefore he said hastily to the monk Francis that if that monk wouldtake a sheet of parchment and write the various matters of canon law andthe rest, he, the Bishop, would commit them to memory, and, that eveninghe would call before him the lawyer Stone, the Young Lovell and, if itseemed advisable, the King's commissioner and announce to them what hisrede was in all these matters.

  So he gave the monk a great sheet of parchment from a chest and the monkturned round to the pulpit and began to write. The Bishop walked up anddown behind his back, rubbing his hands delicately together withpleasure at that their scheme and at the discomfiture of the King'scommissioner that must ensue therefrom.

  Now let us turn for a moment to what passed in the house of the PrincessRohtraut of Croy, Lady mother of Dacre, during this time, whilst themonk wrote.