YOUR GRACE! Stephen knelt to kiss the ruby ring of Barthelme, bishop of Bord, even though he thought him the most air-filled, well-fed functionary in France. So good of you to join me on such short notice. Please, sit here by me.

Bishop Barthelme was a corpulent, owl-eyed man with a sagging jowl that seemed to sink almost undetectably into his massive purple robe. Stephen wondered how such a man could take a step, or climb a stair, or even perform his sacraments. He knew the bishop did not like being summoned. He thought he was too good for this diocese and longed for a larger position. In Paris, or even Rome.

You have taken me from my sext for this? the bishop wheezed.

At Stephen's nod, a young page filled two silver cups with ale.

It's called alembic. Stephen raised his goblet. It is brewed by monks near Flanders.

The bishop managed a smile. If it's God's work, then I feel I have not strayed too far.

They both took a deep draft. Aaah. The cleric licked his lips. It is most sweet. Tastes of apples and mead. Yet I feel you did not call me to hear my opinion of your ale.

I have asked you here today, Stephen said, because there is a hole torn in my soul which you can help mend.

Barthelme nodded and listened.

Stephen leaned close. You have heard of this uprising in the south, where a jester has led a rabble of peasants.

Barthelme smirked. I know a stupider man does not exist than Baldwin, so it is not so far-fetched that he was outfoxed by a fool. Yet reports say this man wasyour fool once, your lordship?

Stephen put down his cup and glared through the bishop's haughty smile. Let me get to the point, Your Gr............