nowhere the bishop reached out, took my hand in his, and gave it a lingering squeeze.
"We have missed you," he said. "I saw you leave. You looked pale. You look pale now. I hope nothing is amiss."
"Nothing," I said, "except a small pain, which I have attended to."
The bishop hesitated a moment before saying, "What a handsome girl you are!"
"Woman," I corrected him.
"I envision glorious days for you, now that again you have your pretty head on straight."
Then Nicola appeared and saved me from what could have been a lecture. She stood on tiptoe in her pink boots and stuffed a tart into the bishop's mouth. While this took place, I wandered away and up the stairs. As I reached the second floor I tucked up my skirts and ran.
The passage on the next landing was deserted, but as I approached the door to the bishop's stud}' I heard voices at the end of the passage, men quietly discussing church affairs. I turned about and went down to the second landing and seated myself on a bench, placed there no doubt for those who grew faint on the endless stairs.
I sat for a short time, then climbed the stairs once more. The door to the bishop's study was closed. I put an ear against the door and listened but heard no sound. I took hold of the brass knob, which felt stiff and cold in my hand and would not move. I used both my hands and wrenched at it. With a startling noise it flew open.
I was about to put the letter on the table in the same place I had found the bishop's letter when I heard steps in the passageway. There was no reason for me to be in the bishop's study. The only place to hide was behind a tapestry that covered all of one wall. I slipped behind it as someone, a light-footed girl, came in sneezing and, between sneezes, humming to herself.
The girl swept the fringes of the tapestry, went out, and brought back something that made a noise as she placed it on the table; then she left.
I put the letter on the desk, beside the bowl of fruit the girl had placed there, closed the door quietly, and fled down the stairs. As I reached the second landing, my sleeve swept a bust of Pope Innocent from its niche. It did not break but it tumbled along the marble floor, making a loud racket, which fortunately the din from below drowned out.
My father and Bishop Pelagius stood at the bottom of the stairs, Father's hand placed deferentially upon the bishops arm. They were deciding on the number of horses required to carry the bishop's letter to Rome, what color the beasts should be, what the riders should wear, and whether or not drums and a flute were adequate for the occasion.
While I listened and said nothing, a robed man came down the stairs, holding the letter I had just left on the bishop's desk. The blob of wax that sealed it sparkled in the candlelight. Since it was well known in Assisi that the bishop had made a list of heretics and was sending it to Rome, the eyes of everyone present were fixed upon it.
I turned away, expecting that the letter would be given to Pelagius. I tried to think of something to say if I were accused, but the man went on, sauntering through the room, stopping here and there to talk, and finally disappeared.
I lived in dread for two days, until the third day in midmorning, at the hour when the streets were crowded, the caravan left the palace, resplendent with the bishop's flags, led by twelve men in scarlet dress on proud white horses, to the sound of lutes and drums.
Somewhere in their midst was the letter I had written to Pope Innocent III.
15
The letter I had given to Francis, so carefully written on
fine vellum, illuminated by small birds and beasts (I knew that he loved them all dearly), had caught his eye. The poem itself had aroused his interest and brought a flush to his cheeks, and words, though they were not what I wished, to his lips.
On the whole, deeming the letter a success, and more than a success, somewhat of a triumph, I sought another subject for a letter, one not based on the
"We have missed you," he said. "I saw you leave. You looked pale. You look pale now. I hope nothing is amiss."
"Nothing," I said, "except a small pain, which I have attended to."
The bishop hesitated a moment before saying, "What a handsome girl you are!"
"Woman," I corrected him.
"I envision glorious days for you, now that again you have your pretty head on straight."
Then Nicola appeared and saved me from what could have been a lecture. She stood on tiptoe in her pink boots and stuffed a tart into the bishop's mouth. While this took place, I wandered away and up the stairs. As I reached the second floor I tucked up my skirts and ran.
The passage on the next landing was deserted, but as I approached the door to the bishop's stud}' I heard voices at the end of the passage, men quietly discussing church affairs. I turned about and went down to the second landing and seated myself on a bench, placed there no doubt for those who grew faint on the endless stairs.
I sat for a short time, then climbed the stairs once more. The door to the bishop's study was closed. I put an ear against the door and listened but heard no sound. I took hold of the brass knob, which felt stiff and cold in my hand and would not move. I used both my hands and wrenched at it. With a startling noise it flew open.
I was about to put the letter on the table in the same place I had found the bishop's letter when I heard steps in the passageway. There was no reason for me to be in the bishop's study. The only place to hide was behind a tapestry that covered all of one wall. I slipped behind it as someone, a light-footed girl, came in sneezing and, between sneezes, humming to herself.
The girl swept the fringes of the tapestry, went out, and brought back something that made a noise as she placed it on the table; then she left.
I put the letter on the desk, beside the bowl of fruit the girl had placed there, closed the door quietly, and fled down the stairs. As I reached the second landing, my sleeve swept a bust of Pope Innocent from its niche. It did not break but it tumbled along the marble floor, making a loud racket, which fortunately the din from below drowned out.
My father and Bishop Pelagius stood at the bottom of the stairs, Father's hand placed deferentially upon the bishops arm. They were deciding on the number of horses required to carry the bishop's letter to Rome, what color the beasts should be, what the riders should wear, and whether or not drums and a flute were adequate for the occasion.
While I listened and said nothing, a robed man came down the stairs, holding the letter I had just left on the bishop's desk. The blob of wax that sealed it sparkled in the candlelight. Since it was well known in Assisi that the bishop had made a list of heretics and was sending it to Rome, the eyes of everyone present were fixed upon it.
I turned away, expecting that the letter would be given to Pelagius. I tried to think of something to say if I were accused, but the man went on, sauntering through the room, stopping here and there to talk, and finally disappeared.
I lived in dread for two days, until the third day in midmorning, at the hour when the streets were crowded, the caravan left the palace, resplendent with the bishop's flags, led by twelve men in scarlet dress on proud white horses, to the sound of lutes and drums.
Somewhere in their midst was the letter I had written to Pope Innocent III.
15
The letter I had given to Francis, so carefully written on
fine vellum, illuminated by small birds and beasts (I knew that he loved them all dearly), had caught his eye. The poem itself had aroused his interest and brought a flush to his cheeks, and words, though they were not what I wished, to his lips.
On the whole, deeming the letter a success, and more than a success, somewhat of a triumph, I sought another subject for a letter, one not based on the
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