The Illuminator (24 page)

First, he had the matter of the dead priest to reckon with. It had been three months. The bishop, initially, had other things on his mind; he was busy converting the old Anglo-Saxon cathedral ruins at North Elmham into a manor house and hunting lodge. But now that the archbishop was growing impatient, the bishop was demanding action. So now it was the sheriff's problem. Sir Guy downed his last drop of ale, pinched the wench who served him as payment and, without so much as a nod to the innkeeper, took himself and his horse off to investigate the scene of the crime.

The river Bure was just one of many veins that bled the peat bogs of East Anglia. A shallow, lazy stream that often overspilled its narrow verge on its meanderings to the sea, it ran north and east of Aylsham and bordered the south pasturelands of Blackingham, where black-faced sheep grazed peacefully. Here there was a fording place, where the river crossed the main road that led south to Aylsham and beyond to Norwich. Here was where the priest's body had been found, in the shallow fringes of the stream among the reeds—on Blackingham land. The priest must have been on his way to Blackingham—not returning, since Lady Kathryn said she had not seen him—or maybe farther north to Broomholm Abbey. So this was the area to which Sir Guy returned this somber day to renew his investigation, though what he expected to find there he couldn't say, since the marshy nature of the area would probably have long ago obliterated any evidence of the crime. A cold trail, but nevertheless, a trail. His men had scoured it only days after,
and reportedly found nothing. But, under this renewed pressure from the bishop, he needed to assure himself.

His horse picked its way reluctantly along the marshy edge, disturbing a sheldrake feeding as it paddled among the reeds. The sheriff's keen eyes noticed nothing unusual. Of course, any sign
of
bloody violence would long have vanished; there was only a spot of recently cleared turf where the reed cutters had been harvesting. They'd left behind an abandoned sheaf half-hidden where it had fallen among some taller grasses. No stone unturned. Sir Guy was nothing if not thorough. But not wishing to dismount, he speared the bundle of reeds with the blade of his sword. The sheldrake, interrupted once again, honked and, beating its wings in a splash of frustration, was airborne.

The sheriff, finding nothing beneath the bundle of reeds, pitched it away, and using the flat of his sword like a scythe, probed among the uncut reeds. Nothing there either, as he had suspected. He pulled his horse's rein sharply to the right. Its hoof disturbed the bundled reeds once again. This time, a squarish brown packet dislodged and fell away. Probably a bit of sacking from the reed cutter's lunch. Still, it was worth investigating.

His curiosity was sufficiently piqued to motivate him to dismount. He retrieved the fallen object, which was amazingly dry, protected from the wet by the heavy bundle of reeds. It must have caught among the grasses and been bound up into the sheaf after the reeds were scythed. Closer inspection showed it to be a small leather-bound slate with a stub of chalk tied to it by a cord. His breath quickened when he noticed the seal of the Church embossed on the outside of the leather cover. Heedless now of the moisture seeping into his fine leather boots, the sheriff examined with acute interest the scribbling on the slate. His Latin was sufficient to allow for a halting translation.

“2 gold florins,” followed by what looked like the initials “P.G.” He could just make out then: “for the soul of her mother.”

“1 goblet silver plate,” then followed by the initials “R.S., for the soul of his dead wife.”

“2 pence Jim the Candler for the sin of avarice.”

These three were linked together by parenthetical markings and the word “Aylsham.” It dawned on the sheriff what he'd found. It was the inventory of goods claimed for the Church on the priest's last run. It even had the date scratched at the top: “July 22, the Feast Day of Mary Magdalene.”

There was more. One other entry. The last, “1 length of pearls. L K for the sins of Sir Roderick.” The entry beside it said “Blackingham.”

Lady Kathryn had said the priest had not yet been to Blackingham. Yet here it was, in the dead man's own hand: proof that Lady Kathryn had lied.

The morning was well on when Alfred spurred his mother's palfrey in the direction of Saint Michael's, in search of his mother. Earlier he'd gone looking for Lady Kathryn to make amends. Glynis had told him that his lady mother and brother had joined the funeral procession. She would probably be mad that he'd taken her horse without her permission, but he should have his own mount. His father had promised his sons fine stallions when they came of age. His mother, pleading poor, had put them off. Colin had agreed. What did a girl like him care, anyway? He was with their mother now, as usual. Currying favor. Alfred should be there, too, because it would please her, and just now, he was anxious to please her.

He shivered beneath his linen tunic, wishing he'd worn a heavier one, and breathed the damp air heavy with smoke from the cookfires of Aylsham. The smell of burning fat reminded him that he'd not eaten. He could see the squat little steeple of Saint Michael's just ahead. What a terrible way to die. He wished he had been there when they brought the shepherd's body out. Were the eyeballs melted? Was the flesh peeled away? He would wager a crown he would have been man enough to look at the corpse and not retch. If Colin was there, he was probably green and puking. He was such a milksop. Probably never even had a girl.

Simpson said John was drunk and burned the wool house down with his carelessness. Alfred doubted it. He had learned enough watching the overseer to know that his mother was right: he couldn't be trusted. True enough, John had enjoyed his ale, but he was not irresponsible. He wouldn't be drunk in the middle of the day. No, for some self-serving reason, or maybe pure meanness, Simpson wanted them to think John burned the wool house down.

But it was not just about Simpson's accusations that Alfred wished to talk to his mother. He had something that belonged to her, something he'd found at the overseer's house. Yesterday, he'd stormed out, sulking because she wouldn't let him return to the main house. He'd wearied of playing spy. Simpson had seen through his lord of the manor act and found several ways
to trick him into doing menial chores. It was hard to play the knight when you were up to your rump in sheep dung. So yesterday, after his mother lashed out at him, he'd ridden first to Aylsham, to the White Hart to douse his own temper and bruised ego in a couple of pints. Then he'd gone to Simpson's house to settle a few things with him. If he had to stay two more weeks until his birthday, he wanted some things made clear.

Finding the house deserted, he'd seized the opportunity to make a thorough search of the overseer's cottage—heretofore he'd always found the door to Simpson's chamber locked. He'd found no evidence of embezzlement, but he'd found something else, something she could hold over the overseer's head. The threat of a charge of theft would keep Simpson in line. And Alfred would offer this evidence to his mother—a kind of peace offering, and a kind of bribe. He'd made up his mind. He was born the eldest son of Sir Roderick of Blackingham, and he was not going to spend another day as a lackey.

But if his mother wouldn't let him come home, he had another plan. His Viking blood on his father's side craved action, and he had an idea where he could get it. There'd been talk, complaints, among the lads at the White Hart about the bishop's ambition to raise an army to restore the Italian pope. If that was true, the bishop would need more than gold to raid Avignon. He'd need brave English soldiers. Noble English soldiers. Thing was, Alfred would need his own horse. Another reason to get on his mother's good side. When he'd last tried on his father's armor in the spring, he'd been tall enough. The helmet and leggings had fit, but the mail was loose in the chest, the hauberk clumsy. Still, withal, he was sure he'd bulked up during the summer. He would try again.

He spurred the reluctant palfrey harder, forgetting about the cold and the damp. In his mind the sun was shining in a cloudless sky and he could feel the wind teasing his hair. Dreams of battlefield glory courted his fancy. Flying silk banners. Heralds' trumpets. And he himself riding triumphantly into the French court whilst all the ladies chirped behind their fans about the brave English youth whose armor glinted in the sunshine. (Unmarred by any blemish of mud or taint of blood.) He might even make Knight of the Garter, an honor that had escaped his poor father.

He pulled up short some distance from the churchyard lych-gate. The
burial must be finished. Only the old cook was left weeping over the new grave. There was no sign of his mother or Colin.

For one brief minute Alfred considered dismounting, going over to offer his condolences. But he wouldn't know what to say to a serf.

Dirige, Domine, Deus meus, in conspectus tuo viam meam.
Direct, O Lord, my God, my steps in your sight.

—T
HE DIRIGE (DIRGE) FROM
   T
HE OFFICE OF THE
D
EAD

L
ady Kathryn stood alone in the churchyard at Saint Michael's. The handful of crofters and their families who had attended the funeral mass nodded at her timidly as they left.

“Good day to ye, milady.”

“It be a good and gracious thing for you to come to the shepherd's burying, milady.”

Good and gracious? Or just plain foolish? She had watched with half an eye to—yes, admit it—envy, as they crowded around Agnes offering their condolences, their heartfelt sympathy. A strong sense of community existed among Blackingham's serfs and leaseholders that she'd never really noticed. But what occasion had she to notice? They had first dealt with her father, then her husband, neither of whom had been known for their largesse. Now, it was Simpson who hounded them for tardy rents, confiscated their livestock,
and took their strongest sons as indentured laborers when they could not pay. And as Roderick, and now Simpson, had represented her to them, she could only wonder in what ill light they must hold her. They cast furtive, self-conscious glances in her direction.

“ 'Tis unseemly to take the Holy Eucharist with nobility,” one of them whispered.

He looked familiar, but she couldn't call his name, couldn't call any of their names. She looked around for Simpson, conspicuous in his absence. This irritated her. He should have been here to pay his respects, and he could have acted as liaison between her and her crofters. She pretended not to hear their whisperings or notice how uncomfortable her presence made them, but she felt as obtrusive as a gargoyle trooping with seraphim.

She paid the monks who chanted the Office of the Dead, but lingered long after the final psalm, after the last
misere nobis
had been said, after the shrouded body had been removed from its processional coffin and deposited in the grave and mounded with its peaty covering. Even after the others had drifted away, she lingered, reluctant to leave Agnes alone in the churchyard. Agnes knelt beside the grave, raw and ugly, like a new scar stretched over proud flesh. Kathryn waited beneath the mossy roof of the lych-gate, watching for her sons. She'd sent for Alfred, and he had not come. Even Colin had left. He'd insisted on walking in mourner's procession behind the two-wheeled cart that carried the body, but he must have slipped away before or during the mass. That surprised her. Colin loved the liturgy.

Kathryn sat on the bench where, less than an hour gone past, the little procession had rested as they waited for the coming of the priest. A mourning dove called plaintively to its mate. She shivered. She should have worn her cloak. Agnes didn't seem to feel the cold, slumped there on the ground next to the mound of dirt. But everybody knew that peasants were hardier than gentlefolk. What was it like to lose a beloved husband? She'd not lingered over Roderick's grave lest relief, not grief, should show itself in her face.