The next day Thomas brought her to the Bishop’s palace. Philip was still in bed. In his hall men stood in clothes fashionably slashed and cut into points. They were dandies; they wore jeweled circlets on their heads and fluffed their hair out around their ears; their gowns ended above the crotch and they wore particolored hose with long pointed toes. Their gestures expressed cordiality, delight, disarming confusion, throwing caution to the wind. Margery’s attention was specific and random as a flashlight beam loosely dragged across her century.

Finally the Bishop entered, wearing a jerkin of otter skin and a plain green cloak. He circulated among his guests, isolated in his mannerisms, existing entirely at the level of delighted greetings and a rush of compliments. He squirmed with pleasure to see Margery and asked after John. Her old affection for John surfaced as remorse—his tremulous sweetness and the purity of his open face.

Philip insisted that she was doing him a favor by accepting his letter. He invited her to dine with him.

•

It was disconcerting to be with someone so happy. Philip sat with his back to a huge fireplace; sparks flew upwards above a round plaited fire screen. Mint and fennel were strewn on the floor to sweeten the air. His pander and carver stood by and his cup bearer poured French wines. His cup bearer was so young that when he came his body arched like the swag of fruit that dangled above Philip’s head. Margery joyfully ate cherries, then white bread, fresh beans boiled in milk, roach and crab, eel pasties, rice cooked with milk of almonds and cinnamon, lampreys baked with a sauce, tarts, new cheese, and fruit.

Margery asked Philip, as though in confession, “Which way should I go from here?”

Philip shook his face as though clearing away cobwebs of sleep. Her question was entirely novel. He furrowed his brow and pressed one finger against his forehead in exaggerated thought while Margery waited in silence. Finally he said, “That depends on where you want to get to.” The Bishop vanished quite slowly: the darkness of time was the darkness of unconscious life. Margery talked more urgently as his face faded and white stars began to shine through it. The air became white; the sky was yanked up at the corners. Heavy storms flattened the crops and blew petrels inland, where they fluttered on gray wings like bats above the ponds. His grin grew wider after the rest had gone, expression without context.

Horses waded belly deep into the water to crop the grass floating on the surface. In Leicester, thunder soured the beer. The Mayor grew lean with fright: the storm tore branches off old trees and the devil ripped the Mayor’s soul out and flew away holding its corner at arm’s length like a dirty napkin flapping in the wind.

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