The Illuminator (13 page)

“Let go now, Master Alfred, milady will be furious with me. With you too, most like, if she finds out what we've been doing.” A squeal and a giggle and then: “I should have known ye weren't helping Cook and me roll the fleeces just to be nice.”

Rose felt her face flame. Sheltered though her young life had been, she had an inkling of the occupation wherein they were engaged. She recognized Glynis's high, strident voice at the same time she saw four feet sticking out behind the wool sack. There was a scuffle among the tangled limbs and some muffled words, but Rose didn't wait to listen to more. She bolted for the door and scurried behind the back of the shed. She was leaning against the rough boards, trying to collect her thoughts, wondering if she had been seen, when Colin found her.

“Rose, what are you doing out here?”

“I … there was somebody inside. I didn't want them to see me.”

She looked over his shoulder, not seeing the black-nosed sheep grazing in the meadow beyond, not hearing the drone of bees in the border hedge hard by, seeing only Colin's hands plucking the strands of his lute, hearing only the sound of her heart beating in her ears.

“It was probably just John laying out the wool. But he won't tell. Come on, it doesn't matter. We can find a corner for our lesson.”

“All right,” Rose said, but she lingered behind, following Colin, wanting to be sure the room was clear, and all the while thinking about what use the
other couple had put the same space to. She felt the warmth creeping up her neck. What if Colin could read her mind?

The room seemed different with the fleeces in it, alive somehow. Even the sound of the music was different. The notes didn't echo in the emptiness but had a softer, more muted sound. It was calming. Colin strummed and sang a few lines.

I live in love-longing
For the seemliest of all things
Who may me blisse bring,
And I to her am bound.

The words were hauntingly, wistfully played, evoking in Rose a longing of her own, though a longing for what, she wasn't sure. It was a strange, new sensation.

“Oh, Colin, that is so beautiful. Can you teach it to me?”

Without saying anything, Colin handed her the lute, then bent over her to show her how to place her fingers to make the notes.

“You smell good, Rose, like summer,” he said over her shoulder.

She was glad she had washed her hair in lavender water. She could feel his closeness in a way she'd not ever felt close to another human being—not even her father, who stood so stiff when she hugged him he might have been made of wood, not flesh. He used to cuddle her when she was little. She remembered the roughness of his beard on her child's cheek. But he'd not done that in a very long time. She wondered if Colin would shrink away if she touched him. She sat as still as a fawn, lest she break the spell.

“I live in love-longing.
Sing it with me and I'll move your fingers,” he said.

Her fingers were trembling so, she could hardly press the strings.

“And I to her am bound.”
He sang it softly into her hair, like a lullaby.

She could feel his breath. She thought of the tangle of legs she'd seen behind the wool sack. She knew what they were doing. She'd seen animals coupling once and asked her father in disgust if that's what people did. He'd answered curtly, “Pretty much,” and she'd resigned herself to a perpetual state of virginal ignorance.

But with Colin it might be different. Glynis certainly hadn't seemed to mind.

Colin put down the lute and touched her face. If she sat very still, he might kiss her. What would his lips taste like? They looked like ripe cherries. She had an almost irresistible urge to nip his full lower lip with her teeth.

She closed her eyes and Colin kissed her. A shy, gentle brushing of lips at first and then more urgent, a gentle probing with his tongue, and Rose's childish resolution melted like snow in spring rain. After the kiss he continued to hold her, burying his face in her hair, singing to her, “Rose, my Rose, to which I am bound,” and the love song sounded like a promise.

They lay in each other's arms until the daylight faded into gloom, tentative, exploring, both embarrassed by this newness, when she heard a soft rustling, almost a whisper. She sat bolt upright.

“What's that?”

“I didn't hear anything.” He nuzzled her neck with his lips.

“Listen, there it is again.”

A gentle heaving, like the stirring of leaves in a light breeze, disturbed the quiet of the wool room.

“Don't be afraid. It's nothing. Just the cooling of the wool. See how a mist is forming over the fleeces. They're warm and alive. The wool is only breathing in the cooling night air.”

And true enough, as Rose looked more closely, she could see a white mist hovering over the fleeces, could hear the fibers expanding, whispering to each other. It was a nice sound, but there was sadness in it, too, like the ghosts of old lovers sighing for remembered embraces.

“It's late, Colin. My father may be worried. We should go.” But her hair had come unbound and was trapped underneath his shoulder. She made no move to disentangle herself.

“Just one more kiss. Please, Rose. You are so beautiful. I love you. I've wanted to tell you. But I was afraid you'd laugh at me. You're the first, you know. I'm not like my brother.”

“I would never laugh at you, Colin.” And then some new disturbing thought poked its head like a serpent into her paradise. “Colin, do you think what we've done is wrong? Do you think we will be punished?”

“I love you better than anybody, Rose. Better than anything.” He traced the outline of her lips with his finger, reverently, just as he'd earlier traced the
cross on her father's manuscript. Then he sat up, and propping himself on one elbow, looked down at her. He looked serious, even a little alarmed. “How can it be a sin, Rose? You will be my lady. I will pledge my heart to you like in the song of Tristan and Isolde. I will love you forever. I even love you better than the music.”

“Then you love me truly,” she said, laughing.

And as she lay in his arms there amid the hovering mists on the wool room floor, she thought her love for him was as joyful and pure as the white wool fleeces that sighed their approval.

As far as possible, manuscripts should be decorated so that their appearance alone will induce perusal. We know that the ancients took great care to match contents and exterior beauty. Holy Scripture is deserving of all possible adornment.

—A
BBOT
J
OHANNES
T
RITHEMIUS
,
   
D
E
L
AUDE
S
CRIPTORUM
(14
TH CENTURY
)

L
ady Kathryn surveyed her new lodger's quarters with approval. An ordered work space bespoke an ordered mind, and there was certainly order here: small pots of color, lined up like sentinels across the back of the desk; brushes and pens, clean and neatly organized by size; stacks of vellum, carefully and lightly lined to guide the artist's hand—these, she knew, her youngest son had helped to prepare. She approved of this too. She liked to see her sons happy.

It was Colin she'd come looking for, and she was surprised to find the chamber empty. She'd supposed the illuminator might be drawing in the garden's fading light but thought to find Colin, for no particular reason, except that she missed the company of her children. She saw little of Alfred since he spent his days with Simpson, and lately even Colin had been stingy with his
company. He'd always come to her chamber in the late afternoon. He would sing to her or tell her about some new adventure—a swan's nest he'd found hidden in the reeds or some new poem he'd discovered among the few volumes Roderick had acquired more for prestige than love of verse. Sometimes, they would say vespers together in the chapel—he would murmur the prayers and she would kneel silently beside him, in communion more with her son than with God.

Colin must be with the illuminator in the garden, she thought, No matter. She would not begrudge him this relationship, would endure the loss of his companionship willingly if learning a vocation would save him from a monk's cowl. Too many mothers sacrificed sons to king or Church. She would not be counted in that number. It was good that he could learn from the master artisan. But she must warn him to be careful in his conversation. Not to give away too much. What did they really know about this illuminator? On the surface, he appeared to be who he said he was. Agnes certainly liked him. She even provided him with special little treats, which Lady Kathryn did not begrudge because, after all, the abbot was paying her well for his keep. But then, the cook was a simple soul, easily pleased by a charming manner. Charming manners could cloak a dead heart and a cunning mind. Her husband had been charming. In the beginning. Before he gained control of her lands.

The chamber was cool after the heat
of
the day. A last ray of northern light lay on the desk, picking out the brilliant colors on the half-finished page of illuminated text.
In Principio erat verbum.
“In the beginning was the Word.” The vertical shaft of the initial letter was colored a deep sea-green and exquisitely lined with filigreed knotwork in red and gold. The dropped
I
sheltered the rest of the text, forming a delicate shrine to Saint John and sprouting green leaves and vines that twined and trailed in an elaborate border so finely drawn, it seemed to be alive. Miniature birds and beasts of exotic shapes frolicked among its various twigs and branches. Their colors leaped off the page. No wonder the Broomholm Abbot was anxious to please Finn.

She shuffled the page slightly to see what exquisite embroidery might lie beneath it. What she found on this page surprised her even more. Here, the border was barely sketched and not yet colored—hardly more than a design. But it was the text that shocked her. Not Norman French at all, but Saxon English! At least it was a kind of English: part old Saxon, part Norman French, stirred together with a few Latinate words for seasoning. Why would Finn,
or any craftsman, waste talent and labor on an English text? French was the language of the noble and the rich—only they could afford the luxury of owning books.

“I trust you find my work worthy.”

Lady Kathryn whirled around at the sound of Finn's voice, but feeling her face flame at being caught snooping, bent immediately over the desk once again, hoping that the trailing gauze of her headdress would hide her embarrassment. She determined to brazen it out.

“Your work, yes. Your subject, sir, less so.”

Finn cocked an eyebrow. “You do not think Saint John worthy of illumination.”

“Saint John requires no ‘illumination.' It's what lies beneath Saint John I have reference to.”

“Indeed? What lies beneath Saint John! I would have thought Saint John celibate.”

In other circumstances she might have found his wit amusing. As it was, his bawdy misinterpretation merely annoyed her. Best to ignore his impudence. She picked up the English text and waved it in front of him.

“Oh, that,” he said. “It's a poem by a fellow I met at court. A customs official, a bureaucrat for the king. His name is Chaucer. Mark it well. You may one day hear it again. He has some peculiar notions about language, but he's a fine poet.” He retrieved the text from her and returned it to the desk, straightened the stack of papers she had disturbed. “He says
this
is the real language of England.”

“This?” She pointed to the manuscript on the desk. “The real language of England?” She was sufficiently outraged at such a notion to forget her embarrassment. “There is no
language
of England. There's Norman French for the lords and Saxon and Old Norse for the common sort. Latin for the clerics.”

Finn grinned, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Have you heard of a poem called
The Vision of Piers Plowman}”