Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a
moment, surveying the scene before her.
The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had
just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing
open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking
the southward road.
The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered
him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and
fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail,
as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at
Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns.
At sight of his flowing mane, powerful forequarters, and high stepping
action, Mora was irresistibly reminded of the scene in the courtyard at
the Nunnery, when the Bishop rode in on his favourite white palfrey,
she standing at the top of the steps to receive him. Never again would
she stand so, to receive the Bishop; never again would Icon proudly
carry him. The Bishop had given her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint
sense of compunction stirred within her. Perhaps at that moment she
came near to realising something of what both gifts had cost the Bishop.
Bending her head, she looked across the courtyard and under the
gateway. The messengers were riding fast. Even as she looked, they
disappeared into the pine wood.
Her letter to Symon was well on its way.
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