The Illuminator (19 page)

Kathryn allowed the weight of Agnes's body to sink gently to the ground beside her husband. As she began to sob, Kathryn didn't try to cajole her into silence, but let her spend her grief. Finally, when Kathryn thought she could endure no more, and Agnes was too weak to resist, she half-lifted, half-pulled the new-made widow away.

“Take John's body to the chapel,” she said. “We'll follow.” Then, turning to Sir Guy: “I would be much in your debt, sir, if you would go to Saint Michael's and fetch the priest. John's soul must be shriven. Tonight. For Agnes's peace of mind. I'll send someone of my household with you.”

She scanned the clot of onlookers for her sons and saw Colin, pale and stricken, standing at the edge of the crowd. This is too much for him, she thought. He looks ill. But she did not have time to tend him now.

“I would be pleased if you would allow Colin to accompany you, Sir
Guy. My younger son has a gentle spirit. And occupation is balm for a troubled mind. I would send him alone but with night coming on—even Father Benedict will feel safer traveling in your company.”

“Father Benedict? You have no confessor of your own?”

She read disapproval in his expression. Why was everybody so concerned about the state of her soul?

“He died of a bloody flux last spring.” She tried to keep irritation out of her voice. “I have yet found no replacement, but I maintain a schedule of private devotions.”

Not exactly a lie. Although she didn't keep to the canonical hours, she counted the beads on her rosary daily and sometimes visited the small brick chapel attached to the back of the main house. She and Finn had even gone there twice together, sat on the first of the four benches provided and prayed before the small gilded statue of the Virgin, which sat on the altar. His devotions were less traditional, but somehow more personal than hers. He had said no prayers, counted no rosary, merely sat in contemplation while she mouthed the Ave Marias.

Sir Guy said nothing, as if waiting for more explanation.

“We rely on the priest at Saint Michael's. Father Benedict serves Blackingham well. We have contributed generously, from the wool profits, to the building of Saint Michael's.”

If he had any further thoughts on the subject of Blackingham's religious conformity, he kept them to himself. The look of disapproval vanished, swept away like words written in sand, and was replaced by that secretive, closed-off look that was his more habitual countenance. Kathryn did not particularly like Guy de Fontaigne. She thought him pretentious and cunning— maybe even dangerous, but for all that she was glad he was here.

And when he clicked his heels together and said, “As you wish, my lady. I will not come back without the priest, and I will attempt to divert your son's mind from the horror it has just witnessed,” she felt almost warmed by his smile.

With the matter of the priest and Colin seen to, now she could turn to the task she dreaded. She thought fleetingly of calling Glynis to assist Agnes with the body, but the vacant look on the old cook's face told Kathryn that she herself would have to direct the washing—if indeed a charred corpse
could be washed—and laying out. Agnes's grief had rendered her incapable of action. Thank God I have a strong stomach, Kathryn thought. If only the pain in her head would be so agreeable.

She took Agnes to the kitchen, sat her before the fire, and held a cup of ale to her lips. “Drink this,” she directed. Agnes opened her lips and swallowed, her movements jerky and wooden, like a mummer acting in a Christmas play.

“Agnes, if you feel you cannot prepare John's body, I will call Glynis to help me.”

The old woman shook her head, a short, jerky movement. “No. It's my duty. It's the last thing.”

Kathryn patted her shoulder to reassure her. “We will do it together, then.”

She had a sudden image of what Roderick would have said about her touching the body of a servant, and this was followed by a flood of longing for Finn. For his strength and confidence and compassion.

Simpson shuffled through the kitchen door. “The body is in the chapel, milady. If you have no other need for me, I will return to my supper. My servant had just served it when Sir Guy requested my assistance.”

“By all means, Simpson. Go. It would be a sin for your supper to get cold.”

His face reddened to the color of a boiled ham. He turned to go but flung a parting shot over his shoulder.

“By the by, milady. If you wish to investigate the burning of the wool shed, you might start by questioning that son of yours.”

Scurrilous dog. To fling such an insinuation and then retreat before she could respond. Could Alfred have burned down the shed, started the fire in carelessness? Or worse, in an angry rage? They'd had words only that morning. But that was lunacy. It was his loss too. Still, who could fathom the temperament and illogic of youth? She would confront him when next she saw him, provided he was sober enough to give her a straight answer. As for now, she had work to do.

While Agnes sat like a wooden image beside the kitchen fire, watched over by the wide-eyed scullery maid, Kathryn went in search of a clean linen sheet. She selected one of coarse weave, then, sighing, dug deeper into the chest and brought out a finer one. She ferreted through the silk flotsam of her
sewing basket for thread of sufficient weight and strength and collected her needle case.

On her way back down the stairs to the kitchen she found Glynis and instructed her to lay a table in the solar. She would have to pull together proper victuals later. Sir Guy and the priest and her sons would all have to be fed. But she couldn't think about that now.

She returned to the twilight gloom of the smoky kitchen and approached the cook as gently as she could. “Come, Agnes. Let's do this one last thing for John.”

Together, they walked to the chapel to sew the dead man into his shroud.

The night-raven under the eaves symbolizes recluses who live under the eaves of the church because they know that they ought to be so holy in their lives that all Holy Church, that is Christian people, may lean upon them.… It is for this reason that an anchoress is called an anchoress and anchored under a church like an anchor under the side of a ship to hold it so that the waves and the storm do not pitch it over.

—A
NCRENE
R
IWLE
   (
13TH-CENTURY RULE BOOK FOR ANCHORESSES
)

F
inn enjoyed his trip to Broomholm Abbey. It was a fine day, warm for October, at least for the dreary Octobers that he was used to in the mountains that formed the spiny border between England and Wales. Even in London the winter rains would have set in. But here, it was sunny, summer at dalliance, and there had been no rain for days. He passed the night as a guest of the abbey, not like the pilgrims and travelers who sheltered in the hospitality wing, but as a special guest of the abbot. He dined well and slept soundly. Surrounded by centuries of silence absorbed into the stone walls, he dreamed of Kathryn and awoke with a smile on his face and dampened sheets—a circumstance he had not experienced since his youth.

He broke his fast that morning with the abbot, who squinted at the intricate knotwork and the interlacing gold crosses of the mulberry carpet pages. “These endpapers are exquisite. Very complex. The real test of an illuminator's skill. Perfect symmetry! You know how to use a compass as well as a brush. We'll be hard-pressed to make a cover to equal them.”

Finn took an artist's satisfaction in such praise, making his breakfast of the abbot's excellent ham and bread and cheese taste all the better. The abbot shuffled the pages of the first five chapters, carefully examining each, tracing the tempera drawings with a beringed forefinger. “Excellent work. Couldn't be more pleased.”

He handed the pages to Brother Joseph, who hovered at his shoulder, eyeing Finn suspiciously. On his initial journey from Broomholm to Blackingham, the monk had been an amiable escort, and Finn had greeted him warmly yesterday, only to be rebuffed. Ever since, he'd been trying to figure out in what manner he had given offense.

“Your art is worthy of its text,” the abbot said. “And I have commissioned a goldsmith of some renown. The cover of the book will be beaten gold encrusted with gems.”

“Your Excellency is also to be commended on the work of your scriptorium. They provided me with well-spaced text.” The monks had done the tedious work of copying, leaving only the large square capitals, and of course the borders, for him. “My Latin is not as fluent as it should be, but I know a good transcription when I see it.”

Finn was uncomfortably aware of Brother Joseph's look of disdain. What was it? Something about Scripture and text. That was it. Translation. Wycliffe and his English translation of the Bible. Finn suddenly had a vision of Brother Joseph leaning across the table in Buckingham's great hall, his little mouth screwed into a tight little line at something Finn had said. The talk had been of Wycliffe and his Lollards, and Finn vaguely remembered that he had made a half-hearted defense of the beleaguered cleric. Unwise of him, considering the circumstances.

“Careful, Brother Joseph, don't smudge them,” the abbot said sternly over his shoulder. Then, turning back to Finn, who sat across from him at table, he pushed back his chair and rested his interlocked fingers across his chest, covering the ornate cross that hung around his neck. He looked like a man well satisfied with himself.

“Finn, your reputation is well deserved.”

“I am glad that you are pleased.”

“Pleased. I'm beyond pleased. Such work deserves a bonus. Rich pigments … and so much gold in the carpet pages … I know that doesn't come cheaply, my friend.” He motioned for Brother Joseph, who seemed to understand his wordless commands. The monk returned quickly with a carved casket, placed it carefully in front of the abbot and then stepped back. The rigidity of his posture showed his disapproval, which the abbot ignored, as he fumbled among the keys on his belt, opened the lid, and counted out six gold coins. He handed them to Finn.

“I thank you for your generosity.”

“You've earned every farthing.”

“I'm pleased to be a humble servant to the abbey.”

The abbot then took several silver coins and, placing them in a small bag, pulled the drawstring to secure it, then handed it to Finn also.

“And this is for the lady of Blackingham. Would you be so kind as to see she receives it? ”

“I shall place it in her hand myself.” Finn smiled and tucked the little purse inside his own larger one, which hung around his neck and just inside his shirt.

“I trust you and your daughter are comfortable at Blackingham.”

“I assure you we are.”

“And your spiritual needs are being seen to as well as your physical?”

Had the dampness of the abbey walls suddenly created a tempest in Brother Joseph's nose, or was that a sniff of disdain?

“Brother Joseph, please go to the scriptorium and collect the pages of text which have been prepared for the illuminator to take with him.”

Brother Joseph bustled from the room, his head held at an indignant angle, obviously aware that he was being dismissed.

“Now we may continue,” the abbot said.

“Lady Kathryn and her household are devout. My daughter and I have often shared her devotions.”

The abbot hesitated ever so slightly.

“We are glad to hear this. There has been some concern, since she has no confessor. Father Ignatius, before his unfortunate death, expressed strong concern that the souls of Blackingham might be imperiled.”

Finn imagined that Brother Joseph had also contributed to the abbot's concern.

“I assure Your Excellency, that is not the case. Lady Kathryn's coffers have been sufficiently impoverished to insure her soul.”

Almost immediately Finn regretted the remark. The abbot was his patron. He started to apologize.

“Your Excellency, please forgive—”

“No need. Perhaps, if the king's taxes were less onerous … ”

“Perhaps,” Finn agreed.

“Deliver our high regard to her ladyship and convey our gratitude and friendship.”

The gravity of his tone belied mere ceremonial chatter. The abbot, Finn suspected, was a man who knew which way the felled tree would fall.

When Brother Joseph returned, Finn's host stood, indicating that their meeting was at an end. Finn stood also. Brother Joseph handed him the newly transcribed copy and a sealed packet.

Of the latter, he declared, “A messenger brought this for you last week with instructions to hold it for your coming.”

“Thank you,” Finn said, taking both packages from him.

“It has an Oxford seal.” Brother Joseph's gaze challenged him.

“Yes, so it does,” Finn said and tucked both packages under his arm, showing the inquisitive monk that he did not intend to satisfy his curiosity. “Your Excellency. Brother Joseph.” He nodded to each in turn. “I've taken enough of your time. Thank you for your hospitality and your patronage. I serve at your pleasure. I'll return with the next illuminated installment as soon as I can.”