ABSTRACT
fifteenth century He’s a mean one, our Bishop, though it’s not My place to be saying so, God help me. Two I’ve seen throned before, and they feasted us like Princes— Nothing too good for us, and more than we could hold: Calves, cranes and capons, pigeons and plovers, Quail, roebuck, partridges—everything you could wish— Till we felt like so many Jonahs who had swallowed their whales! After three days, more dead than alive—but Jesu, What a death, what a glorious death! Who wouldn’t die in defence of a venison pasty, Or be martyred on a peacock’s wishbone? But this man (God preserve him) why, the victuals he didn’t Order would fill our kitchens for a month. Think of it: Only a hundred barrels of ale between us, Where the last man ordered (God rest his soul) A full three hundred. Five hundred geese To his two thousand. Ducks, nine hundred Against three thousand—and so on, all down the list. Yes, and to make it worse, he’s ordered everything Through the Almoner’s office, never a word to me. Our late Bishop (may he be numbered among the saints) Talked to me himself. ‘Brother John,’ he says, Coming close and shouting. ’This enthronement Is likely to be my last’—‘Oh, no, your Grace,’ says I, Bawling for company, ‘Heaven preserve you for Durham.’ ’Too late,’ he says, giving his head a shake, ‘Too old now-too deaf! Well, this last must be a good one, understand?’ —‘Ay, your Grace’—‘Plenty to eat and drink, No stinting, no cheese-paring.’ —‘I know, your Grace,’ giving him a respectful nudge, ‘We’ll just make do with the best of everything.’ —‘Eh? What’s that?’—I hollered into his hairy ear: ‘Just make do with the best of everything!’ He laughed fit to kill himself, and finished coughing, Till I thought he might be taken with a stroke or something Before he gave his orders.—‘Sit down, your Grace. This chair will hold you…. Ah, that’s better. Now get your wind back and tell us what you’d like.’
