Free The Bishop’s Tale by Margaret Frazer

after Love that settles for the lesser thing, fixing the heart on something of the World because to fix the heart on the Thing Invisible that was the core and creation of Love in its full reality took more courage than many wanted to give to their lives.
     
    Frevisse’s own choice had been made before she was Robert’s age, and she still barely had an answer for herself, let be anyone else.
     
    She became aware of a disturbance down the hall, heads turning toward rising voices and servers drawing back from one part of the tables.
     
    “Now, pray, what is this bother?” the abbot said in distaste.
     
    “Sir Clement Sharpe,” Frevisse said, seeing the center of the trouble.
     
    “Ah, yes. Of course,” the abbot agreed, unsurprised, and reached for the new plate just set down before them laden with minced meat shaped like pears and gilded with egg yolk touched in one place with cherry juice to heighten the illusion, with a fragment of almond for a stem. Frevisse ignored the plate to watch Sir Clement, on his feet shouting at the man on the far side of Lady Anne, who was also on his feet and shouting back at him. The general noise of the hall was too great for Frevisse to understand what they were saying, but Lady Anne was cowered down between them, while their near neighbors were crowding away along the benches from whatever was going to happen. Except Guy, who, behind Sir Clement, was rising to his own feet and reaching out to his uncle’s shoulder.
     
    Realization of what was happening had spread through the entire great hall now. Conversations died into a hush just as Guy gripped Sir Clement’s shoulder from behind and Sir Clement turned on him, knocking his hand away and shouting, “Keep your hand off me, you murderous young whelp!”
     
    Then Sir Philip was there, gesturing Guy back while interposing himself between Sir Clement and the other guest. Aware of how many were straining to hear him, he spoke low, first to Sir Clement and then to the other man. Guy had subsided onto the bench again; Frevisse saw him and Lady Anne exchange looks and Guy shake his head, all unseen by Sir Clement who was now arguing with Sir Philip.
     
    Or beginning to, because as Sir Clement leaned his face into the priest’s, his voice rising again, Sir Philip made a small but definite gesture past him toward the high table in forcible reminder of where they were and who was watching.
     
    Frevisse doubted Sir Clement needed reminding; again he gave her the impression of a man exactly aware of what he was doing, and enjoying it. But Sir Philip’s gesture gave him excuse to straighten, swing around, and make a flourishing, apologetic bow to everyone at the high table, and another to the widow and Bishop Beaufort in particular. Then he caught up the goblet from between himself and Lady Anne, held it high, and declared in a voice that carried end to end of the great hall, “But if I’m wrong in this matter, may God strike me down within the hour!”
     
    As dramatically as he had bowed to the high table, he downed what was in the goblet in a single toss, set it down with a defining clunk on the tablecloth, looked all around at everyone, and sat down abruptly, straight-backed with pride and enjoyment of every eye on him.
     
    “He’s always doing that,” me abbot observed for Frevisse’s ear alone. Through the hall a broken murmur was passing, people bending to explain something briefly to one or another, and then voices rose again in ordinary talk.
     
    But Frevisse, still shocked to the heart by Sir Clement’s words, turned to the abbot. “What did you say?”
     
    Cutting into his illusion pear, the abbot said, “He’s always doing that. Swearing he’s right and may God strike him down within the hour if he’s not. Someday God may oblige him, and he’ll be quite surprised.”
     
    A server set a dish of minted peas in front of them. The abbot lost interest in her again.
     
    Robert returned to pour more wine.