The Pilgram of Hate Read Online Free Page A

dead, and half the length
of England away, what meaning could Rainald Bossard have for this indifferent
town of Shrewsbury, or the members of this far-distant Benedictine house?
    Not
until the next morning’s chapter would the household hear its abbot’s account
of that momentous council held in the south to determine the future of England;
but when Hugh Beringar waited upon Radulfus about mid-afternoon, and asked for
audience, he was not kept waiting. Affairs demanded the close co-operation of
the secular and the clerical powers, in defence of such order and law as
survived in England.
    The
abbot’s private parlour in his lodging was as austere as its presiding father,
plainly furnished, but with sunlight spilled across its flagged floor from two
open lattices at this hour of the sun’s zenith, and a view of gracious greenery
and glowing flowers in the small walled garden without. Quiverings of radiance
flashed and vanished and recoiled and collided over the dark panelling within,
from the new-budded life and fresh breeze and exuberant light outside. Hugh sat
in shadow, and watched the abbot’s trenchant profile, clear, craggy and dark
against a ground of shifting brightness.
    “My
allegiance is well known to you, Father,” said Hugh, admiring the stillness of
the noble mask thus framed, “as yours is to me. But there is much that we
share. Whatever you can tell me of what passed in Winchester, I do greatly need
to know.”
    “And
I to understand,” said Radulfus, with a tight and rueful smile. “I went as
summoned, by him who has a right to summon me, and I went knowing how matters
then stood, the king a prisoner, the empress mistress of much of the south, and
in due position to claim sovereignty by right of conquest. We knew, you and I
both, what would be in debate down there. I can only give you my own account as
I saw it. The first day that we gathered there, a Monday it was, the seventh of
April, there was nothing done by way of business but the ceremonial of welcoming
us all, and reading out—there were many of these!—the letters sent by way of
excuse from those who remained absent. The empress had a lodging in the town
then, though she made several moves about the region, to Reading and other
places, while we debated. She did not attend. She has a measure of discretion.”
His tone was dry. It was not clear whether he considered her measure of that
commodity to be adequate or somewhat lacking. “The second day…” He fell silent,
remembering what he had witnessed. Hugh waited attentively, not stirring.
    “The
second day, the eighth of April, the legate made his great speech…”
    It
was no effort to imagine him. Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester, papal
legate, younger brother and hitherto partisan of King Stephen, impregnably ensconced
in the chapter house of his own cathedral, secure master of the political pulse
of England, the cleverest manipulator in the kingdom, and on his own chosen
ground—and yet hounded on to the defensive, in so far as that could ever happen
to so expert a practitioner. Hugh had never seen the man, never been near the
region where he ruled, had only heard him described, and yet could see him now,
presiding with imperious composure over his half-unwilling assembly. A
difficult part he had to play, to extricate himself from his known allegiance
to his brother, and yet preserve his face and his status and influence with
those who had shared it. And with a tough, experienced woman narrowly observing
his every word, and holding in reserve her own new powers to destroy or
preserve, according to how he managed his ill-disciplined team in this heavy
furrow.
    “He
spoke a tedious while,” said the abbot candidly, “but he is a very able
speaker. He put us in mind that we were met together to try to salvage England
from chaos and ruin. He spoke of the late King Henry’s time, when order and
peace was kept throughout the