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.