A Vision of Light (5 page)

Margaret nodded as she heard him read back what she’d said, and found herself wondering how old he really was. Very old, maybe thirty. No, perhaps not that old. Maybe really not that much older than she was. It was the serious look he had when he was concentrating on his writing that made him look old. Margaret had formed the habit of observing Brother Gregory very closely as he worked. At first there was the matter of the spoons. And then there was the problem of the writing, which went on for pages and pages. It seemed to look real: that is, it was all different, as well as being neat and small. Margaret watched the curiously delicate movements of Brother Gregory’s big hands as they traced the looping line of ink across the paper. She knew from her own sewing that fine movements like that can only be the product of long training. Still, she would test the process after each few pages by having him read back a bit aloud. It was always a relief to hear him say it back exactly as she’d said it.

The late afternoon light sifted through the thick lenses of leaded glass that made up the small windowpane, and left a narrow, luminous track across the oaken writing table. The clatter and bang from the kitchen suggested supper soon ready. A clamor of shrill voices was followed by the crash of a door and scurrying footsteps.

“Mistress Margaret, Mistress Margaret, the girls are fighting again! It is only a trinket, a trifle over a doll’s dress. I would have shaken them both for disturbing you so, but you said no hand should touch them but yours, and so I have come!” The old nurse shook her head and muttered to herself, “Vixens, vixens both! They’ll never mind without the rod! How often must I say it?”

“Bring them here, and I will speak to them.”

“Speak? Speak? As you wish it, mistress.” And the old woman waddled out, still shaking her head and certain that she served a madwoman who must be humored at all costs.

“I was thinking not of cost, Mistress Margaret, for I see you live in comfort,” resumed Brother Gregory, somewhat irritated by the interruption. His eye swept around the luxurious little room, an innovation even by London standards. On the ground floor with Roger Kendall’s hall, kitchen, and business offices, it was devoted entirely to his comfort and pleasure. Here the family could gather to hear readings, or simply talk and admire the roses in the back garden, which could be seen in somewhat distorted fashion through windows covered with real glass. Instead of the usual flooring of rushes, a brightly colored Oriental carpet spread beneath Brother Gregory’s feet. A rare, carved chest stood in one corner, and in the wide, ironbound locked chest that stood next to the writing table, could Brother Gregory have seen through its heavy lid, Roger Kendall’s greatest treasures were arrayed. There were, in addition to knickknacks that he had brought home from his travels abroad, nineteen beautifully copied volumes, handsomely bound in calfskin. When Brother Gregory had first been shown into this room, he had inspected it carefully and sniffed to himself, “A rich man, but of too luxurious a taste for decency in one not gently born.” Now, with careful gravity, he addressed the spoiled girl-wife of this luxury-loving worthy in what was probably going to be a fruitless attempt to instill some sense of literary taste into her writing.

“It is not the cost of paper which is the issue here,” he went on. “Rather, I was thinking of the example of the Saints, the Sages, and the Ancients. They tell things to the point, with not so much digression.” He gestured to the sheets of writing. “Then can one gain benefits from their holy thoughts, and observations of God’s wonders.”

“Are you saying that because I am a woman, I talk too much?”

“Not that so much, but—well, yes. You digress too much and have no point. Each section, for example, might be based on some important moral lesson or reflection, and all worthless trivia pruned away from the important idea. But then,” he said, cocking his head sardonically, “on the other side, it might be said that elevating the trivial is a fault not exclusively confined to women.”

“Still, I must go on as I began, for it is the only way I know.”

Any further thoughts were cut off by the banging of the door flung open, as the nurse dragged in two furious, noisy little redheaded girls, only a year and a half apart in age. The elder, barely four years old, clutched the object of the quarrel, a bedraggled, half-dressed doll. Her great blue eyes sparked with righteous indignation. Her mop of auburn curls, never fully tamed by her hair ribbon, had shaken loose, giving the impression that a great struggle had just taken place. Her little gown was disordered, and even the freckles spotted across her nose seemed to blaze with wrath. The younger girl was a study in contrasts: her normally placid little face, which still retained the plump contours of babyhood, was swollen and tracked with tears, consciously shaped by its owner into a portrait of wronged grief.

“She p-pulled my
hair
!” wailed the little one, pointing a pudgy finger at the silky, strawberry-blond waves above her ears.

“Did
not
!” snapped the elder.

“Girls, girls!” their mother addressed them in the calm voice of adult admonition. “Quarreling and lying, and in front of visitors, as well! Aren’t you ashamed?” They turned and stared at Brother Gregory, clearly not only unashamed, but sizing him up as a potential ally.

“Sisters must love each other! They should help and share, not fight!” The older girl clutched the doll tighter and gave a righteous smirk to the younger. The nurse, plainly disgusted by this performance, let them go and begged to be excused.

“Yes, but stay near, for you must take them back when this is settled.” The nurse unobtrusively rolled her eyes heavenward, as if she considered it might never be settled.

“Now, whose doll is it?” asked Margaret, in an even voice.

“Mine!” snapped the older girl.

“B-but the dwess is
mine
!” sobbed the younger. “Sh-she said I could
play
if I lent it!”

“Cecily, did you say that Alison could play with your doll if she lent you her dress?”

“Yes, and I did let her play,” the righteous one pronounced.

“For one little tiny bit, and then she
grabbed
it!”

“And then what did you do, Alison?” the mother questioned gently.

“I kicked her.”

“And so, Cecily, you pulled her hair?”

“Well, it doesn’t count, because she kicked me first!”

“Girls who fight disappoint their mama.” The girls looked unrepentant. “Girls who fight make their papa sad.” The girls looked at each other with alarm. This might be serious. “So to keep sisters from fighting, I shall take the doll, and put her in the chest, here, until the sisters kiss each other and apologize, and promise to play together nicely.” With a swift gesture Margaret detached the doll and placed it in the chest in the corner. “And if you fight again today, she’ll stay there a whole week,” said Margaret firmly.

With a horrified gesture the sisters clutched each other.

“But, mama, we
need
her!” they protested.

“If you need her, you’ll kiss and make up.” With grumpy distaste the sisters embraced each other and exchanged pecks. The doll was removed from the chest and the nurse called. The last words that Brother Gregory, somewhat appalled, heard floating back through the half-opened door were “Well, if you
must
play with her more, then you will be the nurse, and
I
will be the mama….”

“Well,” said Margaret, “you were telling me about the Ancients.”

“If you will permit me to offer a suggestion, whether you write in the worthy style of the Ancients or not, you will never finish any book if you permit such trivia and everyday matters to interfere.”

“That is what you have said already.”

“About your writing, madame, but not about your life,” responded Brother Gregory, somewhat tartly.

“It is good you are honest,” said Margaret, trying to mollify her crusty amanuensis. “But I have never been able to avoid doing what was necessary at the moment, and so I will have to keep on doing my best in that way, since I know no other.” Brother Gregory shook his head. Length, he supposed, would increase his fee, but this was all going to be a more complex project than he had imagined.

CHAPTER TWO

I
HOPE YOU HAVE KEPT IN MIND MY WORDS
about the Ancients,” said Brother Gregory as he looked reprovingly at Margaret. A worldly man might have found little to reproach in the simple dress and mannerisms of the woman who stood before him, but Brother Gregory had stricter standards than most in these matters.

Before Brother Gregory’s unusual height Margaret seemed short, rather than of medium height. She was clad in a dress of plain gray wool, without adornment or tight lacing; over this was a surcoat in deep sky blue, lined with gray squirrel fur and decorated with a single band of embroidery around the central panel and the hem. A pale, slender leather belt held the ring of keys and purse at her waist; her hair was neatly braided and coiled into two brightly colored silk hairnets beside her ears. Over her braids she wore a fresh white linen veil and wimple, as is proper for married women.

Margaret had an erect posture and moved with natural grace. But what one noticed in particular were her hands, which were unadorned by the many rings usually worn by women in her position. Slender and tapered, they moved in simple, graceful gestures that seemed to convey an air of repose. Yet they were rarely unoccupied: Margaret seemed always to have a distaff, a needle, or some other bit of work in them. And if one looked closely, one saw that they were not frail, in spite of their grace, but well muscled and capable of any exertion. Margaret’s sole concession to her husband’s fortune was the gold cross and chain at her neck. It, too, was plain and unjeweled, but of an antique design of great rarity and taste.

Most odd about Margaret was something that cannot be clearly described: people around her felt a sense of calm but were not sure why. She had a way of moving into a room that imparted serenity to the most frantic situations, but no one ever quite knew how it had come about—least of all Margaret herself. Since she usually did this without words, it often took several repetitions of events for people to associate the change with Margaret’s presence. But nervous, sensitive people often understood right away that they felt “better” near Margaret, and as a result she was never without friends.

It took a harsh soul, indeed, to be impervious to Margaret’s charm, but Brother Gregory prided himself on withstanding the blandishments of vain, worldly people. And despite Margaret’s external lack of display, Brother Gregory knew that the inside of her mind was gilded and ornamented with an extraordinary set of vanities. Why, the woman was impossible, and only a fool would have taken her commission. But now only pride in his honor kept him at work—and who knew how long that could last? If, perhaps, he could guide her into a more edifying style—possibly a more elevated subject matter—then this would not be time wasted.

“Brother Gregory, I have not forgotten the Ancients, and I have given it thought.” A wiser man might have been warned by the excessive sweetness of Margaret’s voice. Brother Gregory looked down at her with an austere and disapproving gaze.

“Did the Ancients write much about women? I want to write about the things that I know, and I am a woman. So tell me how the women of the Ancients wrote, and I shall model myself on that.”

“The women of the Ancients did not write, and in that they were wiser and more discreet than certain women now.” Brother Gregory looked warningly at Margaret.

“But the Ancients were not Christian and were therefore less enlightened than we are. And in our enlightened times women are much improved, and write most feelingly of profound matters. Bridgit of Sweden, for example—”

“That lady is, first of all, a blessed and holy abbess and, secondly, writes of profound matters dealing with the soul, not with worldly frivolities. You should take that to heart for your own improvement.”

There was something—something odd about Margaret that he had seen somewhere before, but couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was that something, so tiny as to be almost invisible, that had overbalanced his calculation in favor of taking up this writing project. It was on the first day he’d seen her, when the light had caught her eyes for a moment. Even in the dim shadows of the cathedral, as she stared at him, her eyes had shone for a moment all golden, like a falcon’s. It was a very strange look indeed. Where had he seen that glance before? Not on a woman, surely. But where? The thing puzzled him. But now that he had ceased having unpleasant night visions of mutton chops, he blamed himself for having an insufficiency of pride. There should be standards in the world of writing, and he’d failed to uphold them. There was no excuse. He sighed. It was all the fault of Curiosity.

And that, too, is a vanity, observed Brother Gregory to himself morosely. He carefully sharpened a row of quills in advance, for his experience of the first week had made it clear that Margaret talked far too much for his taste, and seemed to pause very rarely, once she had started.

T
HE WINTER OF MY
thirteenth year was very hard. First the damp rotted the rye, and then the ground froze. A coughing sickness swept through the village and took away the babies and the weak ones, including Granny Agnes. By Shrovetide there was not a soul in the village whose gums did not bleed, and my teeth felt loose in my head.