The Illuminator (30 page)

When Magda could no longer see the bees clustered on the brown velvet of the tree wall, she took two honey-soaked sticks from a waxed linen pouch tied to her belt and placed them on the spot where she'd been sitting, a sweet tribute for the bees. Then she hushed her singing and crawled backward from the tree.

She stood up just in time to see a white light, flying low and fast, skimming the ground, headed in the direction of the kitchen. From her position on the hill, Magda could see the kitchen door open, see Cook standing, outlined by the kitchen firelight, gesturing to someone in the purple twilight shadows. As she started down the hill, Magda smiled to hear Cook's shrill voice, her bark always so much worse than her bite.

“I don't care who be chasin' ye. Ye'll not be coming in my kitchen with muddy boots.”

Magda's curiosity outweighed her natural shyness, and her feet fairly flew across ground that night cold was already hardening into spiky clumps. She almost burst out with glee when she entered the kitchen. There was a delightful little man, a perfect little man, gulping for air, gesticulating wildly, right there in Cook's kitchen. And he had the most beautiful aura she'd ever seen.

But if this illness [failure to menstruate] is a result of anger or sorrow, cause her to be cheerful, give her refreshing food and drink, and get her used to bathing sometimes. And if it is the result of too much fasting or overwakefulness, see that she eats good food and drink which will give her good blood and get her to enjoy herself and be happy and give up gloomy thought.

—
T
HE
S
ICKNESS OF
W
OMEN
,
   
COMPILED BY
G
ILBERT THE
E
NGLISHMAN
   (13
TH CENTURY
)

F
inn stood as he worked, easier to catch the ephemeral December light through the slit of casement. From his position, leaning over his desk, he spared a glance, now and then, for the curtain that served as door to Rose's antechamber. He'd ordered his daughter to bed shortly after nuncheon. The kitchen maid had brought a bowl of pottage and a cup of hot spiced cider, but Rose had refused to eat, pleading interest in her work. When the girl had placed it in front of her, like a sacred offering before a goddess, Rose had pushed the bowl away as though the aroma of sage and rosemary offended her.

“My daughter's appetite is fickle,” Finn said to appease the serving maid. The girl withdrew tentatively. She seemed about to reply. Her lips parted and she gathered her breath for speaking, but exhaled silently without utterance.
Finn picked up the bowl, warming his fingers against it, wishing his daughter had taken a few bites of the rich, sustaining broth.

“You may take it back to the kitchen,” he said, “but tell Agnes it's not the fault of her cooking.” He moved his own to the other side of the great desk, out of offending range. “I will enjoy mine later.”

The girl took the bowl in one hand, curtsied and dropped her head, then moved to the door with soundless dignity. Hard to believe this was the same dirty urchin he'd seen hiding in the shadows beside the hearth. Finn would have liked to coax her out of her shyness, explore the flash of animation he'd seen in her eyes, but not now. Now, he was more concerned with his daughter. He'd noticed a greenish tinge slide over Rose's face. And he didn't like her pallor, or the smudges darkening the skin beneath her eyes. Maybe it was some mysterious female thing. He wished that he could discuss it with Kathryn.

“Maybe a nap would do you in better stead than victuals, Rosebud.” He'd not called her that in a while. He hoped to get a protest of the childish nickname, but she said nothing. “Go on,” he said. “I heard you up late last night. I know you didn't sleep. Besides, I've work to do you cannot help me with.”

“Yes, Father,” she said without protest.

That was unlike her, unlike her, too, to be so quiet or so pale. A malady of the body or of the spirit? He watched her draw the heavy tapestry that separated their chambers—a woman's modesty, too—just one more sign that she was approaching marriageable age. How much longer could he protect her from the implications of her parentage?

From behind the embroidered curtain, he'd heard muted noises, movement, coughing, then silence. Judging by the slant of light, that had been an hour ago. He resisted the urge to peek behind the curtain.

He would use this time to work on Wycliffe's Bible. He had been careful not to involve Rose in this work in any way. He would not add to the burden of his daughter's heritage with his own indiscretions. Even though he could have used her help, for in this instance, he had to be calligrapher, illuminator, and miniaturist all. The former was an art that he'd neglected. Most of the manuscripts he illuminated were scripted by monks in scriptoriums or by copyists in the great Paris guilds. At least, by doing his own calligraphy, the text would be free of the sloppy work done by the Paris artisans. Moreover, the completed work would have an artistic integrity, a balance that was harder to achieve by work done piecemeal.

He tidied up the manuscript Rose had been working on—a Psalter, a New Year's Day gift for Lady Kathryn. It had been his daughter's idea. She much admired the mistress of Blackingham. Finn had noted the wistfulness in her eyes at even the slightest praise from Lady Kathryn and had hoped for a friendship there, at the very least, for his motherless child. How could he have been so besotted?

He forced his thoughts back to the chore at hand. It would be better if he made his own ink for the calligraphy. He'd already bought as much as he dared without calling attention to his illicit project. Though it was not Wycliffe who cautioned secrecy. Wycliffe was, if anything, too bold in his confrontations with the Church. Sometimes caution was the better part of valor.

From beneath the table, Finn pulled out a leathern bucket filled with blackthorn bark that he'd been soaking. This knowledge of inkmaking, like his other artist's skill, was a gift passed on to him by his Flemish grandmother. What a chuckle it would give her, who hated Wales and all things Welsh, to know the arts she taught him as a child would someday constitute his living. She'd been a strong woman, proud and not sparing with her tongue, not afraid to speak her mind, not unlike Lady Kathryn.

Except in this one instance, Kathryn had held back, had not spoken to him of her hatred for his Jewish alliance. Some better angel restrained her tongue. Or perhaps she was too horrified to find voice for her prejudice. But he'd not needed words. He'd read it in the way she averted her eyes, the way she could not bear to look at him.

He carefully strained off the water from the bark, carried it into the garderobe and poured it down the privy, where it combined with the castle wastes that migrated to the Bure River and out to sea. He took the black residue and carefully mixed it with gum from the cherry tree in the garden. He'd tapped the tree in autumn, when the light was warm and golden. Afterward, he and Kathryn had gone to her chamber and made love during the long afternoon. In the garden, the sap dripped from the wounded cherry tree. This image he later juxtaposed in miniature with the crucified Christ onto the pages of Saint John. Cherry-red droplets, flowing from His pierced side. Blood drip, drip, dripping from the wounded tree.

He warmed the glob of cherry gum over a candle flame until it was of a consistency to grind with the blackthorn residue. He tried not to think about Kathryn, tried not to remember that afternoon. Or the afternoon three
weeks ago when she'd sent him from her bed. She'd tried to pretend, said she'd send for him after her sons had come and gone. But she had not. He'd seen little of her since. He'd not wanted to see her at first. His sore pride needed a chance to heal, his anger time to cool.

Upon their brief and accidental encounters, she would mumble a formal greeting, avert her eyes and plead busyness: the coming Yule, the feast day celebration for her sons. They would have time together, soon, she'd promised when last they'd met, a chance encounter outside the chapel.
When boars suckle,
he thought. He'd not go to her like a starveling, begging on his knees. To resolve else would be less than manly.

He stirred the ink, then put the mixture aside. His hand was not steady enough today to draw the fine letters. It could wait for a better day, a day when his patience was not stretched threadbare. He would work on something that took less finesse—the gilded background for the border of the text he'd already transcribed.

Somebody had moved his paint pots again. A quick shifting among the colors. Where were the gold leaves? He'd brought the gold back from the market the day he'd bought the pretty shoes with the silver buckles. Had Kathryn liked them? She'd sent him a polite note of thanks. Formal in its wording; “Master Finn, your generosity is gratefully … “ It was a note such as a great lady might send one of lesser birth. Hardly a billet-doux to be carried near the heart. Hardly the language of love. Had she worn the slippers? With this new coldness between them, he had not the temerity to playfully lift her skirts to see.

His frustration increased as he picked up and rearranged, picked up and rearranged the same color pots, over and again. Still, no gold leaf. Maybe Rose had put it away in the book bag hanging on the peg.

He removed the carefully placed pages of the Gospel of John that he'd already finished. Burrowed deeper past the fragment of English Scripture last worked on, carefully hidden from prying eyes, until his fingers encountered … not the leaves of gold, something, several somethings, smooth and round as stones. He pulled his find from beneath the rustling papers. A waist-length string of perfect pearls gathered the meager light in the room and glowed up at him.

From behind, he heard the swishing of the tapestry. He turned to see Rose, her cheeks pinker, smiling.

“I'm sorry to be such a slattern, Father. You must think me a lazy daughter, truly.” Her teeth flashed white, the color of the pearls he held in his hand.

“Feeling better now, I hope?”

“Fit as a summer day. I don't know what came over me. Some silliness, I suppose. Don't furrow your brow so. I'm fine. Now, what is this mysterious project from which you banished me?”

She had moved closer now, and was standing on her tiptoes, peering over his shoulder into the book bag. When she saw the pearls in his hand, she gasped. “Father, they are beautiful. Are they for me?” She was already reaching for them. “First, the shoes with the little silver fasteners and now this wonderful necklace. Was ever a girl so blessed to have such a father! Here.” She lifted the heavy braid that swung just above her waist, “Fasten them around my neck.”

He was so tempted. The excitement brought a bloom to her cheek. She almost glowed.

“I hate to disappoint my beautiful daughter, but I'm afraid—”

“Oh.” She let her hair drop. “They're not for me, then.”

Her full lips twitched with trying to hide her disappointment. She has her mother's mouth, he thought. He'd never noticed that before. The more woman she became, the more she reminded him of Rebekka.

“Are they for Lady Kathryn?”

“Lady Kathryn? And why would I buy such an extravagant gift for our landlady?” Did she mark the bitter edge to his voice?

The pink in Rose's face deepened. She dropped her eyes. “Well, then, if not for me or Lady Kathryn, why did you buy them?”

“That's just it. I didn't. I was looking for my gold leaf, which seems to have gone missing, when I found this necklace among my manuscripts. I don't know how it got here or who put it here.”

His mind groped for possibilities. Some servant had stolen the pearls, maybe, and about to be apprehended, hidden them among his things, hoping to retrieve them later. Or another possibility. He looked at Rose hard.

“Could it be, Daughter, that you have some lovesick swain on the string, some suitor that you haven't told me about, who has made you this extravagant gift?”

“No, Father. Of course not.”

So far-fetched was the idea of a lover that she could not even look at him, he thought.

“I … I know nothing about the pearls. But I might know something about the gold leaf. Though I'm not sure.”

“What do you mean, you're not sure? You either know something about the gold leaf or you don't.”

“I think there might have been an intruder.”

“You think there might have been an intruder.” He tried to rein in his frustration; he did not want to upset Rose. “Well, of course there has been an intruder, if neither you nor I know anything about how the necklace came to be in my possession.”

“No, I mean I think I
saw
an intruder.”

“You think? Did you
see
an intruder, Rose?”

“Yes. But I thought it was a dream. I saw Alfred going through your things.”

“Alfred?” She had his full attention now. “Alfred has been here and you never told me?”