The Illuminator (23 page)

Colin spent the night prostrate on the cold floor of the chapel where morning found him, agonizingly conscious, as he'd been all night, of the shrouded body laid out before the altar. Its charred smell made the vomit rise in his throat. Its pale linen shroud reflected a ghostly light from the lone torch left burning in its sconce, keeping watch over the dead man until morning came and the shepherd could make his last journey. Colin kept watch, too.
Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum …
How many times had he said the Our Father? His throat was parched, his tongue thick with saying it.
Libera nos a malo, libera nos a malo, libera nos a malo.
Deliver us from evil. But in his heart he feared it was too late. It was all his fault. Why had he not seen it sooner? The devil had used Rose's beauty to tempt him into mortal sin. He had seduced a virgin, and now the shepherd's blood stained his soul and hers.

Had they put out the lamp? He couldn't remember. But it didn't matter. God spoke through the fire. The wool shed was God's judgment against them.
Et dimitte nobis debita nostra,
he mumbled between sobs into the cold silence of the chapel. No white dove perched on the narrow slit of window; no angelic vision of light promised redemption. Only a rat rustled across the floor. He'd really not expected any supernatural manifestation. His sin could not be so easily expunged. It would take a lifetime of Paternosters to save his soul, and Rose's, too—Rose, who'd been the first to call what they did a sin.

Hadn't he always known he belonged to God? He'd denied his calling, and the devil, not content with such small booty, had snared him. And now there was blood on his hands. And Rose's, too—beautiful, innocent Rose, tarnished by his lust. He'd spend his life in prayer for her salvation. But it would not be as he had imagined it. There would be no music. There would be no chorus of harmonious voices. No glorious hymns of plainsong praise offered to heaven. He would choose a tuneless abbey, maybe Franciscan. He would take a vow of silence, spend what was left of his youth and all the days of his life in unbroken stillness, praying for the Rose he'd soiled, growing old without the solace of his music. He would atone.

His skin felt hot despite the chill of the chapel. Maybe he would catch an ague and die. Escape. But he could not wish for death outside a state of grace. Besides, there was Rose. Her soul needed him.

The bell in the courtyard tolled prime, calling the faithful to morning prayers. Calling him. This sniveling in front of an altar that had seen too few prayers bought no grace. With dawn's gray light, the room appeared even more ghostly, but it no longer frightened him. He rose stiffly, like an old man. He would dress himself in sackcloth and ashes and follow behind the cart as it transported John's body to Saint Michael's. He would himself lift it from the cart, carry it through the lych-gate into the holy ground where it would be received. And then? He felt a weight shift within him, not removed, just shifted, to be better borne.

Then, he would confess his sin to the father at Saint Michael's, and his life as Colin, youngest son of Blackingham, would be over.

Sir Guy de Fontaigne also rose with first light. He'd no wish to tarry at Blackingham. He'd slept badly after eating a scant portion of cold pigeon stew provided by his apologetic hostess. So the cook's husband was the lout who'd died in the fire. So what? She was a servant. Her first duty was to the household she served. If he were master of Blackingham—an idea of which the sheriff was becoming more and more enamored, especially since he had lately learned that Blackingham had been Lady Kathryn's dower lands and by rights reverted to her at her husband's death—such laxness would never be condoned. Not that he would deny the woman her grief. Even peasants and villeins were entitled to that, he supposed. She could use her tears to flavor the victuals. But victuals there would be. And served in a timely fashion. Duty, like one's station in life, was ordained by God, else Sir Guy's ambition would have seen him king. That might be out of his grasp, but Blackingham Manor was not.

But first, he must woo Lady Kathryn, and just now, with a gnawing in his belly and no fire laid in his chamber, he was not in a wooing mood. He'd fetched the priest last night, as she'd requested, and tried to
divert
her petulant son—also as she'd requested. Roderick had often brought the other twin hunting. Alfred was more to the sheriff's liking, a merry lad, full of fun and occasional mischief. This pale one of the silken hair and pretty features had come hunting with them only once and cried at the sight of a wounded stag. Roderick had mocked him and sent him home. “He's sucked too long at his dam's pap. He'll never make a man.”

Well, by God's Body, he'd made a poor companion. He may as well have been a deaf mute for all the response he gave to the sheriff's determined attempts at diversion. They'd returned within an hour, priest in tow, to this inadequate hospitality. All this over the death of a shepherd. Blackingham truly needed to be taken in hand, and he itched to do it. The proud widow was a bonus. If he should marry Roderick's widow, her dower lands would come under his control.

He dressed quickly in the first chilly dawn of winter, cursing briefly that there was no water in his ewer, then quickly tied on his sword and dagger. As he strode across the deserted courtyard to the great kitchen, nothing stirred in the sepulchral house. He entered the smoky cavern hopefully: mayhap there was a fat sausage sizzling somewhere after all. But no sign of life was here, either, just a scullery maid sleeping before a half-hearted fire.

He clanged the flat of his dagger among some overhead pots. The sleeping girl jumped like a kicked dog, her body involuntarily scrunching, as though trying to make itself invisible.

“Look to, wench. Where's your mistress?”

The girl only blinked large sleep-encrusted eyes.

“God's Body, girl. Are you daft? What must a man do to get a crust of bread here?”

The girl leaped up, like a cat on all fours, her eyes suddenly alert. She grunted something unintelligible, but she scampered to a cupboard. She brought him a half-round loaf, covered in a moldy cloth, and stuck it out to him.

“Bread,” she said. Then she laid the loaf on the table between them and cringed back into the shadow.

“She's offering you the food from her own hoard. It would be churlish not to accept.”

Sir Guy spun around at the sound of a man's voice behind him. He held his dagger at the ready, lowering it only slightly as he half recognized the grinning man behind him.

“More churlish to eat rotten food, I would say.” He returned his dagger to his belt but kept his hand upon the hilt. Recognition nagged. “You were here the night the bishop's legate was killed. You're from the abbey, an artist of some kind.”

“An illuminator. My name is Finn. And you're the sheriff. I remember the occasion well. You frightened Lady Kathryn with your untimely display of the priest's corpse.”

Sir Guy's spine stiffened. His thumb traced the carving on his dagger hilt. An arrogant tone for an artisan. The fellow's demeanor didn't fit. And anything that didn't fit irked him. He remembered some exchange between then, some disagreement at table, but he could not quite summon the nature of it. The only thing he could remember for certain was that he had disliked the fellow then. And he disliked him now. “And I remember that you are a lodger here, not a member of the household, so it's hardly your business to notice if Lady Kathryn is frightened or not.”

The interloper appeared to ignore the remark but looked around the kitchen, now empty except for the two of them. The scullery maid had fled, leaving her insulting offering behind.

“Where's Agnes?” Finn sniffed the air. “By this hour she's usually baking bread.”

The illuminator's familiarity with Blackingham, the fact that he not only remembered the cook's name but used it as though they were old friends, further irritated Sir Guy.

“Agnes
is at the funeral of her husband. And for that we are all made to fast.” He was rewarded with a look of genuine shock on the illuminator's face. Here at least they could be in sympathy. But the shock was not for an ill-run household, as Finn's next words revealed.

“John? Dead? But how—”

A noise behind, a cold gust of wind, a rustle of skirts and a raven-haired girl rushed toward Finn, throwing her arms around him. Sir Guy, at first taken aback by the affectionate display, searched his memory. Ah yes, the daughter. But so familiar. None of the formality, the respect that he would demand from a daughter. This silly girl needed to be taught her place.

“Father, it's too horrible. You should have been here. I could not bear it.”

The sheriff watched as Finn gently disengaged his daughter's arms from around his neck and brushed a tear from her cheek with a paint-stained forefinger.

Odd, he hadn't noticed before how exotic the girl looked. Coloring much unlike her father. Probably the by-blow of some dark-skinned slut.

“Shh, Rose. Calm yourself. Now tell me.”

The girl glanced around, apparently noticing for the first time that they were not alone.

“It was the wool house, Father. It burned. And John was within.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper.

The illuminator looked shocked, even distressed. What was the shepherd to him? Sir Guy wondered.

“Poor John.” Finn shook his head in what looked like a genuine expression of grief, muttering, “Poor Agnes.” Then: “A great pity.”

The sheriff was becoming more confused by the minute.

“It was a great loss to Lady Kathryn as well, Father. She was counting on the wool.”

Well, here, at last, was an emotion that made sense.

The girl continued. “She didn't say much, but she was distraught. I think she wished you were here.”

She wished you were here! She!' Lady Kathryn?
Tiny grains of uncertainty and irritation gritted against the smooth surface of the sheriff's plans.

“I'll go to her right away. Now dry your tears. What are you doing here so early in the morn?”

“I've come to help. When they return from the burial, they will need food. Lady Kathryn, and Colin, and Agnes.”

Agnes? This girl, a guest of a noble house, was going to act as servant to the cook}
Was the divine order of things suddenly reversed?

“I can help,” she said proudly. “I helped Lady Kathryn last night. We cooked a pigeon stew.”

The sheriff's stomach growled at the memory.

“Then I shall help, too,” the father said. “It will be like old times. And Lady Kathryn and Colin and Agnes will return to the comfort of a warm kitchen and hot food.”

The sheriff turned on his heels and departed, cursing under his breath, fully aware that Finn and Rose, busy with stoking the fire, took no notice of his leaving.

Alone with a bit of bread and cheese at the Beggar's Daughter, an alehouse in Aylsham where the proprietor regularly fed the sheriff gratis (and also whatever minions might accompany him), the sheriff chewed on something else.

“I'll go to her right away,” the illuminator had said. And he'd said it in a proprietary way. As though something lay between Lady Kathryn and this Finn, something like friendship. Sir Guy chewed and swallowed. Such a friendship would possibly be an obstacle in the way of his goal. If she already had a protector, then she was not as vulnerable as he needed her to be. Or maybe it was not something that lay between them but that they lay together. Maybe they were lovers. No. The idea was preposterous. A woman of nobility and an artisan. Besides, it would be fornication and, though Lady Kathryn, as Roderick had talked about her, was not an overly pious woman, yet, she was a prudent one. And if Roderick were to be believed, a cold one as well. No. He rather suspected that the illuminator's role was one of friend and adviser. Still, he'd wormed his way into her best graces, and who knew what might come of that. One thing was sure: friend or lover, the illuminator was an obstacle that needed to be eliminated. But first things first.