silence. "You were disappointed with our Francis?"
"No," I said, "oh, no!" I restrained myself and added in a churchlike voice, "He was quite sympathetic, though he spoke but little."
"No wonder. He preaches so hard he hasn't many words left over when he stops. Did you see as he held the bird in his hands that a light shone around him, a wonderful shining halo?"
Nicola was like my motherâshe saw halos everywhere. I believe that they both really saw halos. Yet did it make any difference whether the halos were there or not, so long as they saw them? For myself, I had come to believe that the power Francis had with birds was the same power he had over me.
Nicola was riding astride, showing her trim ankles and pretty shoes. A man called down from a window, remarking on their beauty, and she called back in the rough language of her mountain home, complimenting him on his vision.
"What was the letter about?" she asked.
"Love poems."
"Love? Poems? From where? I would like to hear them."
"They're in the Bible."
"I can't read."
"I forgot. I'll read them to you."
"Tonight?"
"Soon."
"After supper?"
"The bishop is coming for supper, remember? You were planning to make tarts for him. The pink ones shaped like a bishop's hat."
"When he leaves?"
"He never leaves before midnight."
"After midnight, then?"
"Perhaps. If I'm awake. Sometimes he puts me to sleep with his talk."
The bishop left early, however, soon after he had eaten sparingly, which was unusual, prayed hastily, and heard my brief confession, which I mostly made up since I had nothing interesting to confess. Father and I saw him to the door and we both kissed the handsome amethyst ring on his finger. I went back to the scriptorium while the men stayed talking at the door.
They were there only a short time when I heard Francis Bernardone's name mentioned and the bishop raise his voice. I left my bench and ran through a back passageway and into a room near the door where the men were standing.
They had lowered their voices, but I clearly heard the bishop say, "A list of his heresies has been assembled. It's a matter now of putting them in a letter. They will surprise the pope. He doesn't realize how cunning these heretics are. How they flourish in our midst, right here under our noses."
"When does the letter go?"
"As soon as it is written. At the moment my scrivener is ill and I write a wretched hand."
"Ricca will be pleased to write it for you," my father said. "Thus we'll catch two birds in a single trap. She writes an elegant hand, which should please the pope. And while writing the letter she may ponder the sins she herself has committed."
"And is committing," the bishop added.
"How close she's been to the sin of heresy."
"And how close she is. For I see no sign that she has changed toward him," the bishop said.
There was a short silence. I heard nothing but the sound of the wind gusting through the open door. If I were given the letter, I would carefully write down the list, all the facts the bishop had gathered, one after the other, but at the end I would say, "All these charges, your honor, I am pleased to report, are only rumors hatched by troublemakers."
I was shaking my head, doubting that such a wild scheme would ever work, when the bishop said, "With respect to your daughter, I am reluctant to burden her with the letter."
"It is not a burden," Father said. "She will be glad to write it."
They were parting as I left the room and hurried back to the scriptorium. I was busy with my brushes when Father walked down the hall and bade me goodnight.
On Friday the bishop came at midday and during dinner informed my father that the scrivener, having regained his health, would have the letter ready by Sunday morning.
"I'll read it carefully and be ready to send it to Rome on Monday," he said. "When I was here on Monday last you promised me horses."
"As many as you wish," Father said.
"A dozen," the bishop suggested. "And I'll see that they're
"No," I said, "oh, no!" I restrained myself and added in a churchlike voice, "He was quite sympathetic, though he spoke but little."
"No wonder. He preaches so hard he hasn't many words left over when he stops. Did you see as he held the bird in his hands that a light shone around him, a wonderful shining halo?"
Nicola was like my motherâshe saw halos everywhere. I believe that they both really saw halos. Yet did it make any difference whether the halos were there or not, so long as they saw them? For myself, I had come to believe that the power Francis had with birds was the same power he had over me.
Nicola was riding astride, showing her trim ankles and pretty shoes. A man called down from a window, remarking on their beauty, and she called back in the rough language of her mountain home, complimenting him on his vision.
"What was the letter about?" she asked.
"Love poems."
"Love? Poems? From where? I would like to hear them."
"They're in the Bible."
"I can't read."
"I forgot. I'll read them to you."
"Tonight?"
"Soon."
"After supper?"
"The bishop is coming for supper, remember? You were planning to make tarts for him. The pink ones shaped like a bishop's hat."
"When he leaves?"
"He never leaves before midnight."
"After midnight, then?"
"Perhaps. If I'm awake. Sometimes he puts me to sleep with his talk."
The bishop left early, however, soon after he had eaten sparingly, which was unusual, prayed hastily, and heard my brief confession, which I mostly made up since I had nothing interesting to confess. Father and I saw him to the door and we both kissed the handsome amethyst ring on his finger. I went back to the scriptorium while the men stayed talking at the door.
They were there only a short time when I heard Francis Bernardone's name mentioned and the bishop raise his voice. I left my bench and ran through a back passageway and into a room near the door where the men were standing.
They had lowered their voices, but I clearly heard the bishop say, "A list of his heresies has been assembled. It's a matter now of putting them in a letter. They will surprise the pope. He doesn't realize how cunning these heretics are. How they flourish in our midst, right here under our noses."
"When does the letter go?"
"As soon as it is written. At the moment my scrivener is ill and I write a wretched hand."
"Ricca will be pleased to write it for you," my father said. "Thus we'll catch two birds in a single trap. She writes an elegant hand, which should please the pope. And while writing the letter she may ponder the sins she herself has committed."
"And is committing," the bishop added.
"How close she's been to the sin of heresy."
"And how close she is. For I see no sign that she has changed toward him," the bishop said.
There was a short silence. I heard nothing but the sound of the wind gusting through the open door. If I were given the letter, I would carefully write down the list, all the facts the bishop had gathered, one after the other, but at the end I would say, "All these charges, your honor, I am pleased to report, are only rumors hatched by troublemakers."
I was shaking my head, doubting that such a wild scheme would ever work, when the bishop said, "With respect to your daughter, I am reluctant to burden her with the letter."
"It is not a burden," Father said. "She will be glad to write it."
They were parting as I left the room and hurried back to the scriptorium. I was busy with my brushes when Father walked down the hall and bade me goodnight.
On Friday the bishop came at midday and during dinner informed my father that the scrivener, having regained his health, would have the letter ready by Sunday morning.
"I'll read it carefully and be ready to send it to Rome on Monday," he said. "When I was here on Monday last you promised me horses."
"As many as you wish," Father said.
"A dozen," the bishop suggested. "And I'll see that they're
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