equipped in the brightest of bishopric colors. I have found that guards and clerks and the pope himself are impressed by numbers and pennons. And he must be impressed, because the matter is urgent. Even urgent matters lie around in Rome, sometimes for a year."
Bishop Pelagius lived in a grand palace attached to the far end
of the south transept in the old cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore. After vespers every Sunday and sometimes on feast days, he gave a reception for prominent citizens of Assisi. I had been there and liked them because of the multitude of pretty confections served on gold salvers by an army of handsome knights. There was always music, too, by the communes orchestra of seven piecesâthree viols, three lutes, and a drum.
Sunday came slowly. Long before vespers, Nicola and I were in the cathedral, down in front on the left side, where we would be seen by the bishop as he stood at the lectern. And we were the first at his door afterward.
While Nicola admired the confections, I joined those who were wandering through the palace, gazing at the bishop's fine tapestries, and sitting in the priceless chairs that had come from Egypt and Constantinople. When I had been there before, I hadn't strayed farther than the salon where food was being served.
There were six rooms downstairs. I went through each of them and saw nothing that looked like a desk. A winding stair led to a landing, then to a second floor of two big rooms that contained nothing of interest. On the third floor I went through two smaller rooms, and off a third one I found what looked as if it was the bishop's study. In the middle of the room sat a writing desk, an immense one with brass scrolls around the edges and, for feet, colored glass balls shaped like lion's claws.
The desk was cluttered with quills, sharpened and unsharpened, inkwells, stacks of vellum, and a half-eaten pear turning brown, which showed marks like those the bishop might make with his big, broad teeth. There was no sign of a letter anywhere in the rubble.
I sat down at the desk and went through the drawers, four of them on each side of me, but found nothing. Then as I stood up I noticed a small desk in a far corner of the room. On it, in clear sight, was a scroll addressed to Pope Innocent III, sealed with a blob of purple wax which was stamped with the bishop's ring. I put the letter inside my dress and strolled down the stairs. The salon teemed with guests, including my family. I slipped away, not speaking to anyone, took a short cut through the cathedral, and ran down the winding street to our house. There was time to rewrite the letterânot a lot, but enough if I hurried.
Standing at my bench in the scriptorium, I carefully lifted the bishop's seal with a sharp knife used in the making of vellum. The letter, longer than I expected it to be and written in the diminutive Gothic so popular in the province of Granada, was in reply to a letter from the pope in which His Eminence had asked Bishop Pelagius to examine rumors that had reached him, rumors that pictured Assisi as a hatchery for heretics and Francis Bernardone as its leader.
Hurriedly I wrote a new letter, shorter than the bishop's, copying the Granadian Gothic as best I Could. I said that the rumors had been duly investigated and found to be false, especially the rumor that Bernardone was posing as a priest, hearing confessions and conducting rites over the dead. While he was a little off in the head, I wrote, he was not a heretic.
I placed the bishops seal on the new letter, attaching it with hot wax so that no one could tell it had been tampered with. The only suspicious thing was the paper, which was not of as good a quality as the bishop's and lacked its faint purplish tinge.
When I got back to the palace, the salon was so crowded that it was impossible to tell one person from another. I glided through the room quietly, an eel through the grass, and had one slippered foot on the stairs when from
Bishop Pelagius lived in a grand palace attached to the far end
of the south transept in the old cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore. After vespers every Sunday and sometimes on feast days, he gave a reception for prominent citizens of Assisi. I had been there and liked them because of the multitude of pretty confections served on gold salvers by an army of handsome knights. There was always music, too, by the communes orchestra of seven piecesâthree viols, three lutes, and a drum.
Sunday came slowly. Long before vespers, Nicola and I were in the cathedral, down in front on the left side, where we would be seen by the bishop as he stood at the lectern. And we were the first at his door afterward.
While Nicola admired the confections, I joined those who were wandering through the palace, gazing at the bishop's fine tapestries, and sitting in the priceless chairs that had come from Egypt and Constantinople. When I had been there before, I hadn't strayed farther than the salon where food was being served.
There were six rooms downstairs. I went through each of them and saw nothing that looked like a desk. A winding stair led to a landing, then to a second floor of two big rooms that contained nothing of interest. On the third floor I went through two smaller rooms, and off a third one I found what looked as if it was the bishop's study. In the middle of the room sat a writing desk, an immense one with brass scrolls around the edges and, for feet, colored glass balls shaped like lion's claws.
The desk was cluttered with quills, sharpened and unsharpened, inkwells, stacks of vellum, and a half-eaten pear turning brown, which showed marks like those the bishop might make with his big, broad teeth. There was no sign of a letter anywhere in the rubble.
I sat down at the desk and went through the drawers, four of them on each side of me, but found nothing. Then as I stood up I noticed a small desk in a far corner of the room. On it, in clear sight, was a scroll addressed to Pope Innocent III, sealed with a blob of purple wax which was stamped with the bishop's ring. I put the letter inside my dress and strolled down the stairs. The salon teemed with guests, including my family. I slipped away, not speaking to anyone, took a short cut through the cathedral, and ran down the winding street to our house. There was time to rewrite the letterânot a lot, but enough if I hurried.
Standing at my bench in the scriptorium, I carefully lifted the bishop's seal with a sharp knife used in the making of vellum. The letter, longer than I expected it to be and written in the diminutive Gothic so popular in the province of Granada, was in reply to a letter from the pope in which His Eminence had asked Bishop Pelagius to examine rumors that had reached him, rumors that pictured Assisi as a hatchery for heretics and Francis Bernardone as its leader.
Hurriedly I wrote a new letter, shorter than the bishop's, copying the Granadian Gothic as best I Could. I said that the rumors had been duly investigated and found to be false, especially the rumor that Bernardone was posing as a priest, hearing confessions and conducting rites over the dead. While he was a little off in the head, I wrote, he was not a heretic.
I placed the bishops seal on the new letter, attaching it with hot wax so that no one could tell it had been tampered with. The only suspicious thing was the paper, which was not of as good a quality as the bishop's and lacked its faint purplish tinge.
When I got back to the palace, the salon was so crowded that it was impossible to tell one person from another. I glided through the room quietly, an eel through the grass, and had one slippered foot on the stairs when from
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