The bishop left with a swirl of his robes, but it would not be long before he would do disservice to his parting words . . .
It was later, during supper, as the weather grew more and more turbulent outside the refectory, that a discussion broke out which ignored the observance of silence, and resulted in a debate among the legation which, because of the anxiety felt by all, assumed a confused and distressed character. I would lie if I did not say, dear reader, that I was a sad witness to a tempest of tongues inappropriate to grave and responsible persons whose composure should mirror the qualities of still waters. My master sat back strangely amused, having started the entire incident with a careless remark that I shall now recount to you, by way of illustrating further the enmity that existed in those dark days among men of God. It seemed to speak to me, that moment almost comical if not also at the same time terrible, of the vanity and pride of men. That even the noble and the holy are apt to debase themselves to the level of peasants at the slightest provocation.
It began when my master observed that the exquisite cross hanging from the bishop’s neck was dangling a little in his soup. The bishop answered by removing it and cleaning it with a moistened napkin. Andre then remarked that it was a beautiful work of art, marked by intricate gold filigree and studded with the most precious stones surrounding one great ruby whose dimensions were that of a small walnut.
The bishop smiled, holding it timorously in his hands and as he brought it to his moist lips he said, ‘What better way to express one’s veneration, preceptor, than by using nature’s gifts. The ruby, as we know, suggests the countenance of the archangels, the gold is the sublime reflection of Christ whose radiance is only implied by its splendour. See the amethysts? See the diamonds? It is true . . .’ he said, lost in reverie. ‘They echo the marvels of the universe! Indeed, all the powers of the heavens are vested in the miracle of the stone in whose depths hide many levels of knowledge. In truth I feel a holy communion every time I hold it to my lips, subjugated by its secrets.’ He seemed to be speaking a little like the abbot when he had told me about the tiger’s eye, and yet differently.
At this point, the Friar de Narbonne rolled his eyes in irritation and mumbled loudly, ‘How can one stand to hear our Lord’s cross depicted in this vulgar manner! Next you will say that his manger was stuffed with gold thread and not straw!’
The bishop turned his vastness then, in the friar’s direction. ‘I do not expect a mendicant friar to understand these things, for they require a little erudition and subtlety of education. However your founder was not so simple-minded, for he knew how to seduce the pope to his bidding.’
‘Your grace!’ broke in the Cistercian by way of defusing the problem. ‘Surely you do not suggest . . .? Francis was a holy man! On this all agree.’
‘No doubt his nuns attested to his manhood!’
‘You irreverent snake!’ cried the friar, aghast, lifting himself a little out of his chair and banging both fists on the table. ‘How can you say such a thing against a most venerated saint of your own country? And his nuns! Those sainted women are as virginal as the holy mother!’
The bishop smiled, ‘They are all virgins, you fool, until they become nuns.’
‘Brothers, please!’ The abbot moved in, but it was too late, each man was now at the other with escalating hatred.
Below the dais all stopped eating, their mouths gaped open at the spectacle before their eyes, for now the friar, his face a deep crimson, shook his hand menacingly in the bishop’s face.
‘You vessel of greed! You filthy swine! You simonious thief! Whose wealth is gained by imposing penances that you overlook for a small fee!’
‘Shut up! Innocent should have listened more attentively to Cardinal Albano,’ the bishop spat, at the apex of anger, ‘who advised him to keep the mendicants down below the feet of the lowest priest!’
‘Yes, and the same day he died of a broken neck!’ the Franciscan cried.
‘Therein lies your guilt!’ the bishop shouted. ‘You murderers . . . you steal the food from the mouths of the poor because you are not only as dumb as asses, but as lazy! Because for all your talk of poverty and austerity you smell of money, along with your wealthy Cistercian brothers whose preference for sheep is well known and has made them rich!’
‘And your order, Otto,’ the Cistercian stood, his face purple and his body shaking with rage, ‘recalls a fat pig lolling about in its own excreta, opening its mouth to whatever is thrown to it!’
‘Is that so? You patron of depravity!’ the Bishop of Toulouse shouted. ‘Defender of Fransciscan dung! Have you forgotten that William St Amour said they are beggars, flatterers, liars, and detractors, thieves, and avoiders of justice! How should I allow myself to be insulted by a smelly old goat who knows nothing of the greatness of the Benedictines! If you could read you would know that our divine order was established when your founder’s grandfather was not even a seed in his mother’s belly. We were here before you and we will exceed you in wisdom, years, and numbers.’