divan, Sir Francis said genially, “Sit down, dear boy.” He strolled to a long side board on which were several crystal decanters of wine along with delicate crystal goblets.
Richard, meanwhile, found his couch almost indecently soft, filled, he guessed, with the finest swan’s-down. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of sybaritic luxury; tables, bearing baskets of beautiful fruit, were inlaid with semiprecious stones. Huge malachite pillars flanked a fireplace in which a roaring fire had been built. There were Roman marbles upon the mantel, and in one corner of the room stood a statue of a well-endowed Apollo carrying a lyre. The other corner was occupied by a companion piece—a young, naked and voluptuous nymph with a roguish smile on her face and a finger against her lips, as if requesting silence. The other hand was upheld in a beckoning gesture.
“Charming, is she not?” Sir Francis remarked. “I call her Phyrne.” He proffered Richard a goblet filled with dark red wine. “I hope you’ll find this to your taste. ’Tis well aged and comes from one of Italy’s finest vineyards.”
“I am sure I will,” Richard murmured, strenuously trying to appear as casual as his host. He feared that he had not quite succeeded in hiding his surprise at finding such voluptuous surroundings beneath an abbey roof. As he accepted the glass, Sir Francis held up another goblet of wine.
“A toast, my dear Reverend Veringer!” he said lightly.
“I am not a reverend,” Richard replied coldly. “As I have explained, all that is behind me now.”
“I remember, dear boy,” Sir Francis nodded, “but I cannot help wondering... does one ever doff the principles learned in childhood and early youth? If I were to direct this toast toward the health of say... Satan, what would your response be?”
Richard regarded him with more than a little disappointment. He had misjudged his host. All of Sir Francis’ aftermentioned reasons for bringing him to Medmenham could be discounted. Despite this man’s avowal of an enlightened atheism that marched with his own, Sir Francis was proving to be an impious fraud. He must be engaged in some manner of devil worship! And undoubtedly the abbey was the headquarters of a Satanic circle. The studied irreverence he had marked in the Trinity pointed to that. There had been similar groups among the undergraduates at the seminary, an adolescent response to a repressive rule. Generally, these did not survive graduation, but some young men, he knew, did continue their adherence to these societies. He knew of several “hell-fire” clubs and thought them both puerile and pathetic. He had deemed Sir Francis too intelligent to concern himself with such arrant nonsense. How could any reasoning individual lend credence to the notion of a personified evil? It was almost as ridiculous as believing that a supreme being guided the destinies of mankind. However, much as he would have enjoyed debating with his host and battering down his beliefs with opinions he had held ever since he had been old enough to reason, he did not want to involve himself in anything that must keep him from Catlin. If paying lip service to a “painted devil” would please the man, he had no objections. Catlin was all that mattered.
He said, “I would be delighted to toast Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or the whole hierarchy of demons, if you prefer.”
“Ah.” Sir Francis had seemed tense but now he visibly relaxed. “As I think I told you before, my dear young sir, you are a man after my own heart. To Satan, then!” He clicked glasses with Richard and drank deeply.
“To Satan.” Richard drained his glass.
“And I bid you welcome to Medmenham,” Sir Francis said approvingly. “I am pleased we understand each other. I presume you’ll want to take your bath now?”
“Immediately!” Richard responded enthusiastically.
❖
The bathtub was set in the middle of a large chamber furnished with a huge fourposter bed
Richard, meanwhile, found his couch almost indecently soft, filled, he guessed, with the finest swan’s-down. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of sybaritic luxury; tables, bearing baskets of beautiful fruit, were inlaid with semiprecious stones. Huge malachite pillars flanked a fireplace in which a roaring fire had been built. There were Roman marbles upon the mantel, and in one corner of the room stood a statue of a well-endowed Apollo carrying a lyre. The other corner was occupied by a companion piece—a young, naked and voluptuous nymph with a roguish smile on her face and a finger against her lips, as if requesting silence. The other hand was upheld in a beckoning gesture.
“Charming, is she not?” Sir Francis remarked. “I call her Phyrne.” He proffered Richard a goblet filled with dark red wine. “I hope you’ll find this to your taste. ’Tis well aged and comes from one of Italy’s finest vineyards.”
“I am sure I will,” Richard murmured, strenuously trying to appear as casual as his host. He feared that he had not quite succeeded in hiding his surprise at finding such voluptuous surroundings beneath an abbey roof. As he accepted the glass, Sir Francis held up another goblet of wine.
“A toast, my dear Reverend Veringer!” he said lightly.
“I am not a reverend,” Richard replied coldly. “As I have explained, all that is behind me now.”
“I remember, dear boy,” Sir Francis nodded, “but I cannot help wondering... does one ever doff the principles learned in childhood and early youth? If I were to direct this toast toward the health of say... Satan, what would your response be?”
Richard regarded him with more than a little disappointment. He had misjudged his host. All of Sir Francis’ aftermentioned reasons for bringing him to Medmenham could be discounted. Despite this man’s avowal of an enlightened atheism that marched with his own, Sir Francis was proving to be an impious fraud. He must be engaged in some manner of devil worship! And undoubtedly the abbey was the headquarters of a Satanic circle. The studied irreverence he had marked in the Trinity pointed to that. There had been similar groups among the undergraduates at the seminary, an adolescent response to a repressive rule. Generally, these did not survive graduation, but some young men, he knew, did continue their adherence to these societies. He knew of several “hell-fire” clubs and thought them both puerile and pathetic. He had deemed Sir Francis too intelligent to concern himself with such arrant nonsense. How could any reasoning individual lend credence to the notion of a personified evil? It was almost as ridiculous as believing that a supreme being guided the destinies of mankind. However, much as he would have enjoyed debating with his host and battering down his beliefs with opinions he had held ever since he had been old enough to reason, he did not want to involve himself in anything that must keep him from Catlin. If paying lip service to a “painted devil” would please the man, he had no objections. Catlin was all that mattered.
He said, “I would be delighted to toast Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or the whole hierarchy of demons, if you prefer.”
“Ah.” Sir Francis had seemed tense but now he visibly relaxed. “As I think I told you before, my dear young sir, you are a man after my own heart. To Satan, then!” He clicked glasses with Richard and drank deeply.
“To Satan.” Richard drained his glass.
“And I bid you welcome to Medmenham,” Sir Francis said approvingly. “I am pleased we understand each other. I presume you’ll want to take your bath now?”
“Immediately!” Richard responded enthusiastically.
❖
The bathtub was set in the middle of a large chamber furnished with a huge fourposter bed
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