The Illuminator (14 page)

“A poem, you call it? Roderick—my late husband—brought it home. I think Colin has it, though I don't know why he'd want it. It's a dog's blend of sounds, difficult in meaning and in the sounding of it. Not flowing off the tongue—hardly worth the nibs it took to scratch it down.”

“West Midland English,” Finn said, “carries its own beauty, once your ear is attuned to it. In London, they call it the king's English. King Richard
has proclaimed it the official language of the law and of the court. 'Tis hardly surprising, since the king and his uncles have an intense dislike for all things French—even the old northern French brought by the Vikings.”

“I assure you that I, too, have no liking for France. I am loyal to young Richard. As I was to his father.”

Even to her own ears she sounded defensive, protesting too loudly. His statement that he had been at court put her on her guard. Could he be spying for the duke of Lancaster? Roderick had made plain his allegiance to John of Gaunt. Was the duke using Finn to sound out his widow and sons to make sure that fealty was still intact? Or worse, what if Gloucester, John of Gaunt's brother, had sent the illuminator into her household to gather evidence against the day when he would win the power struggle between the young king's uncles? A familiar pain began to tread the borders of her left temple.

A straight beam from a low-slung sun shot through the narrow window, then fanned out, marking a path to the door. Finn stood in the light between her and the chamber entrance. As she spoke, she moved away from the desk, toward the door, closer to him, close enough to smell Agnes's perry on his breath.

“I'm just a poor widow who knows little about such things. My ear prefers what it's used to, that's all. Norman French or Midland English, it matters not as long as our Lord's words are read in Latin.”

It had been a cast-off remark, said for the benefit of the abbot's ears—in case her new lodger carried tales back to his employer—meant to extricate her from the political turn of the discussion, but she detected a tightening of the muscle in the illuminator's jaw. He started to speak and then changed his mind. This confused her. But then, much about Finn confused her. He was commissioned by the abbot on a holy task, but she had noted a lack of piety in his manners and demeanor, a carelessness in his speech that treated holy matters lightly. He mentioned having been at court, yet there was a bluntness about him that belied the courtier.

“You're a simple widow and I'm just a simple artist whose pen is for hire—-be it French or Latin, or Midland doggerel.”

The curve of his mouth, the spark in his gray-green eyes mocked her. She should make some witty comeback, should challenge his tone that suggested she was something more than a “simple widow,” should question his connections with crown and abbey, make him define his own loyalties. But she
said nothing. His eyes reminded her of the sea-green pools she'd bathed in as a child, when she had spent summers in her mother's little house by the sea, before Roderick, before her sons, before the dead priest had come calling, before she knew more than she wanted of intrigue and greed. They were the exact color of the initial
I
… In the beginning … It was as though he had dipped his brush into that pool of her childhood summers. Those had been happy times. Times when her mother was still alive.

“Lady Kathryn, was there something you wanted of me?”

Startled, she felt the blood rush to her face. Finn was waiting for her to explain her intrusion into his privacy, privacy the abbot paid well to secure for him. She attempted to gather her composure, cast about for some likely explanation, and then seized upon the truth as the best defense.

“You have caught me snooping, sir, and I beg your pardon. I had no intention to pry into your private affairs or the nature of your work. The truth is simply that I came looking for Colin, and I happened to see your manuscripts. I mean, after all, a mother is allowed some interest in that which robs her of a son. Is she not?”

“I'm flattered that you want to look at my humble efforts,” he said. But his smile showed more amusement than flattery. “Colin has an eye for color and light. I think, with my tutelage—with your permission, of course—he would make a fine illuminator.”

At the mention of her son's name she regained her composure, tore her gaze away from his eyes and focused instead on his paint-spattered smock. She nodded toward the desk beneath the window and smiled apologetically.

“Please don't misunderstand a mother's whining. I've seen your work. You have a great gift. If you are willing to teach Colin, then I am, of course, grateful. And I shall just have to find another companion for my quiet hours. Prayer and contemplation are always … profitable.” Her teeth bit the inside of her upper lip.

“Yes. Good for the soul.” He nodded, not smiling.

Was there a hint of mockery in his tone? She felt awkward. She moved once again toward the door. He moved with her. She said, “I might even take up reading poetry—dip again into
Piers Plowman
to find what you so enthusiastically recommend. Then, there is, of course, my embroidery.”

She stepped a foot or two back, to give more space, so she could breathe better. This time, he did not move with her.

“I would not have thought the running of such an estate provides you many free hours. What about your other son?”

“Alfred? He was always more his father's companion. Anyway, he spends his days with the overseer. He will be of age soon. His sixteenth birthday is two days before Christmas.”

“And you'll have plenty of time for prayer and contemplation, unless, of course, a young lord, like a boy king, requires a strong regent's hand.”

Was that a veiled comment about Lancaster? The duke of Gloucester, perhaps? Or was he merely mocking her again? She couldn't see his face. He'd walked over to his desk, where he picked up a fresh sheet of vellum, a couple of quills, and a pouch of powdered charcoal. Her path to the door was unobstructed. Make your exit now, she told herself, while the hem of your dignity is still intact, and she had indeed almost gained the door when she heard his next words.

“You're welcome to join me in the garden,” he said. “There are still a few rays of light left. I just came back here to retrieve my tools.”

She turned to see that he had followed her to the door, once again closing the space between them. She looked up at him.

“I don't think … I wouldn't want to intrude on your inspiration.”

“The company of a beautiful woman never intrudes, only spurs inspiration.”

The angels must have lent him the color for those eyes. Or maybe the devil. And the smile, crooked and a little disdainful, still it warmed her.

“The roses are very fragrant. Come,” he coaxed. “Bring your embroidery. We'll sit in companionable silence while you stitch and I sketch. We'll take advantage of the waning light together.”

Like an old married couple, she thought and realized, with a sudden chill, how lonely she was. How lonely she had been for a very long time.

“Well, maybe just this once. I'll get my needle from the solar and join you in the rose garden.”

Just this once, she promised herself.

The jays grew accustomed to the sight of Lady Kathryn sitting with Finn in the garden and no longer protested their presence. She looked forward to the afternoons they spent together. How at ease she felt with him. Each day, she
loosened the strings bundling caution until it crept away, and she talked freely in spite of the fact that she had learned surprisingly little about her companion. But she had seen a glimpse of his soul in his art, and she found it trustworthy.

Today it was quiet in the garden, sultry with the heat of late August. A welcome breath from the sea disturbed the air and sighed against her moist skin, cooling it. Inspired by the red-breasted thrush perched on the sundial, she chose a scarlet thread from the basket at her feet and threaded the eye of her needle. Beside her, Finn's long fingers darted, sketching with swift, sure strokes the scrolling leaves and twining knots that he would paint on the morrow. She noticed that his gaze, too, flicked between the sundial and the paper. In three bold strokes the redbreast was captured forever on the page, a charcoal promise of future glory. His beak peeked between the leaves of what looked suspiciously like those of the hawthorne tree that shaded them from the dying sun.

“The days are growing shorter. These long twilights will soon be over,” Finn said.

Was there a note of regret in his voice? She, too, hated the thought that these pleasant evenings would end, but she could not say so.

“Already, the harvest has begun,” she said, stabbing at the cloth with her needle. “It's difficult to find laborers. Shameful. They go about from harvest lord to harvest lord seeking the best wage and have no shame to leave the rye and barley rotting in the field for the sake of a shilling.”

“For the sake of a shilling? I'd say more for the sake of their families. For the sake of food and clothes and shelter.”

“If they'd remained tied to the land where they belonged, they'd have no want of food and clothing and shelter. Ask Agnes. Ask John and Glynis and Simpson and my dairymaids and crofters if they want for the necessities.”

“Aye, my lady, but a man must have more than necessities. He must have a dream. Besides, not all the rich are as beneficent to their tenants and servants as you.”

“Rich. You think I'm rich. If you only knew how I'm squeezed between king and Church.

He waved his quill to indicate the environs of the manor. “You have land. You have fine clothes. You have servants. And all the food you can eat. The mother who doesn't have a crust for her hungry child can't understand such poverty.”

She was not offended. She had learned it was his way to speak his mind bluntly.

“Sir Guy says there is to be a new tax levied by the crown,” she said. She raised the scarlet thread to her lips and snipped it with her teeth, then tied a French knot in the end. “But at least this time it's a poll tax: a shilling per head. Mayhap, I can scrape up three shillings for Colin and Alfred and me.”

“And Agnes and John?”

“They're to pay their own out of the wages I give them.”

“You give them wages?”

She read approval in his smile.

“I had to start paying them after the plague took most of the able-bodied men. It seemed the prudent thing to do. I couldn't afford to lose them. I can't think Agnes would ever leave Blackingham, though John might. Anyway, the sheriff says they should pay the tax out of their own wage. Sir Guy said it's much fairer this way. A flat tax. Everybody pays the same. Rich and poor.”

“And you call that fair! What about the crofters who get no wage? Only what they can scrounge out of the dirt they rent from you and the other landholders. A man with six children and a wife will have to pay eight shillings. He couldn't earn that much in a season.”

Sir Guy had said nothing about that. She'd been so relieved that she had not thought to question him further. She felt a heaviness descend on her. She knew where her laborers and crofters would come when they could not pay. They'd come to her, and she'd have to find the money somewhere. But what about the others? she wondered. What about the ones who hired themselves out daily, who would pay for them? And the ones whose landlords could not be moved to pay, what would they do?

“Well, maybe it's not such a fair tax, after all,” she conceded.

“Not fair, and it will not work. Even poor people have their limits. If you push them to the wall, where they have nothing left to lose, then they will become fearless. Already there is a rumbling against the archbishop of Canterbury.”

“What has he to do with the king's tax?”

“He's been appointed chancellor by John of Gaunt. Be sure, it's the two of them who've cooked up this scheme to replenish a treasury plundered by the French wars. Otherwise some of the wealth of the abbeys might be siphoned off. But it's a devil's bargain. Too much greed there by half.”

Was he talking about king or Church? To whom did his loyalty belong? But she did not ask.

“I know something of the greed of both,” she said, thinking of her lost pearls—the ones that had disappeared into the priest's pocket—and wondering if they adorned the dainty neck of some French courtesan or that of the bishop's mistress. A little sigh escaped. Whichever, they were lost to her. And they had been her mother's.

They sat in silence for a while—the only movement in the garden the quick scratching of the quill against the paper. The breeze no longer fluttered the leaves on the roses. The light had shifted, casting long shadows. The hawthorne and the sundial painted dark stripes across the garden. She put away her needle. She did not want to squint at her work like an old woman.

“Will Alfred be harvest lord?” Finn asked.