Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained
his tone of scornful disapproval.
He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver
Shield. The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the
Knight's shining armour. How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could
not tell. But, as he watched the swiftly moving river, he found
himself wishing that his task had been to strengthen, rather than to
weaken; to gird up and brace, rather than subtly to unbuckle and
disarm. Yet by so doing, would he not have been ensuring his own
happiness, bringing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the
expense of the two whom he had given to be each other's in the Name of
the Divine Trinity?
If Hugh persisted in his folly, he would lose his bride, yet would the
Bishop meet and reinstate the Prioress with a clear conscience, having
striven to the very last to dissuade the Knight.
If, on the other hand, Hugh, growing wiser as he rode northward,
decided to keep silence, why then the sunny land he loved, and the
Cardinal's office, for Symon, Bishop of Worcester.
But meanwhile, two weeks of uncertainty; and the Bishop could not abide
uncertainty.
He turned from the river and began to pace the lawn slowly from end to
end, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him.
Each time he reached the wall between the garden and the courtyard, he
found himself confronted by two rose trees, a red and a white, climbing
so near together that their branches intertwined, crimson blooms
resting their rich petals against the fragrant fairness of their white
neighbours.
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