The Illuminator (39 page)

He'd been lucky last night. At twilight, he'd stumbled upon a rough plank
shelter hunched beneath a big oak tree like a giant mushroom. An abandoned hermit's hut? An outlaw shelter whose inhabitant might return at any moment, accusing him of trespass? But John had talked about the brotherhood of the forest. Maybe the rightful owner of the shelter would take pity on him and offer him hospitality, maybe even share a crust with him. Finally, Colin had fallen asleep on the rush-strewn floor, grateful to be out of the wind.

He dreamed of Blackingham.

He dreamed of Rose.

He woke at daybreak to the sound of a lone calling bird, brushed bits of rush straw from his clothes, then, when all the straw was gone, kept right on brushing for the warmth, stamping numb feet to start his curdled blood flowing. A hen, sitting a nest in the gable of the rafter, set up a loud ruckus, clucking and fluttering down from the low crossbeam. Colin reached up over his head and swept the nest. One egg. While the hen clucked her outrage, he cracked the egg and sucked its contents, careful not to spill a drop. It gave a pleasant, albeit too brief, respite from the gnawing in his stomach. He eyed the hen with purpose, but she flew up to the top of the rafter just out of reach. Just as well. To steal an egg was one thing, the producer of the egg quite another. Though he hoped the hen would stay out of reach to remove temptation. He'd not eaten since yesterday, when he'd gleaned a withered apple from beneath a pile of leaves. And he'd encountered no members of John's brotherhood. Indeed, although he often felt as though he was being watched, he'd met no other soul on this road.

It had snowed during the night, two inches, judging from the size of the white stripes that drifted between the thatch and the rough boards. He emerged from the hut and surveyed his surroundings. The world looked new. He stretched and breathed deeply; it smelled new, too—and so silent he fancied he could hear the breathing of the foxes sleeping in their dens. Time to go. But which way? No footsteps in the virgin snow, and now the half-trail had disappeared. Sun on the right at daybreak. But there was only a pearly, silent mist. The boy shrugged and headed south—in the opposite direction of Blinham Priory.

When he came to a main road several hours later, it was well past midday and he'd seen no other soul. His footfalls made no sound in the snow, except for the occasional crunch of a brown twig or cone that echoed alarmingly in the quiet. The whole forest slept beneath a down blanket. The numbness in
his feet had spread into his calves. He inhaled the sharp smell of bruised pine and wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. It had begun to snow again, and he longed to sit, but feared if he lay down in the snow he might not get up. So when he came to the wide road, although he knew it meant that he was off course, he almost cried with relief. To his dismay, he soon found this road to be as empty as the forest—no pilgrims or peddlers abroad on this wintry day—but at least, if he kept trudging, he might come to a barn where he could rest. And, if he was lucky, there might be another nesting hen.

At mid-afternoon, although he saw no signs of civilization, he smelled the smoke from a peat fire. The snow was falling harder now, and he didn't know how much longer he could go on. He was almost past it—the landscape was erased by the swirling snow—when he saw a long pole extending from the header of a cottage door. The sign of an alehouse. He'd once been to such a place with his brother. There would be food and drink for sale, he thought excitedly, before he remembered he'd not a farthing to his name. At least, he could warm himself by the fire.

As he crossed the innyard, he heard boisterous laughter. A gaudy wagon loomed, larger than life, in the small yard. He'd seen that kind of wagon before, a flatbed cart tented with colorful awnings that could be removed to form a stage. It probably belonged to a troupe of players who had gone inside. All the better. He could slip into a crowd, unnoticed, maybe glean a scrap of bread. The discarded trenchers the dogs ate would stop the gnawing in his belly.

Colin opened the door tentatively to shouts of “Shut the door. Y'er lettin' in the bleedin' cold.”

He fastened it quickly. “Sorry.” He ducked his head, so the publican would not see how young he was. Alfred would have bluffed his way. Colin was too self-conscious of his boyish, and unkempt, appearance.

“Over here, landlord,” a voice shouted from the dim interior.

Grateful for the diversion, Colin leaned against the door, took a minute to get his bearings. The air was thick with peat smoke and the smell of birds roasting on the spit. His stomach clutched with hunger pangs. He squeezed behind two jugglers, one slight and wiry, one more muscular, who were arguing good-naturedly among a knot of brightly clad performers. As he warmed himself by the fire, trying to ignore the sensation the smell of the roasting meat created in his belly, he listened with half an ear.

“The dowager made me a gift of this velvet tunic. 'Twas to show 'er appreciation for my
silken voice.”
This from a preening dandy who sported a plumed hat to match the crimson tunic.

“Well, I'll match that and see you better: his lordship gave me a gold purse,” the muscular juggler said, flexing his forearms.

“I can best both of you. Her ladyship gave me more than a gold purse.” The wiry fellow wiggled his eyebrows and gave a lewd grin. “She expressed a particular partiality for my
contortions.”

Guffaws all around.

“Better'n gold, I'd say.”

“Nay. Not really. Not nearly good as Maud there.” The contortionist raised his voice and his goblet as he winked at a serving wench across the room, who was pretending to ignore him. “Just one more thing us common folk do better, right, Maud?”

Maud didn't answer, but the muscleman did. “I'll raise a glass to that. Never did see a nobleman could scratch his arse and pick his nose at the same time.” He took a swig of beer and frowned. “All them lords and ladies, puttin' on airs, gorging themselves on swans and hummingbird tongues while poor men starve and their wives go mad from eating moldy rye. They strut around like fat pigeons in their fine clothes, ignoring the ragged beggars at their door. It's like that preacher John Ball says. I heard him preachin' after mass at Thetford. Remember that name. John Ball. Ye'll likely be hearin' it again. Ball says God created all of us outa the same clay dirt.”

“Sounds like one of those Lollard preachers to me.”

“It may be Lollardy, but there's a lot of truth to it. Who needs a priest anyway? Let every man be his own priest, I say.”

“Aye and spend his own tithe.” The plume on the feathered hat bobbed in enthusiasm.

“What do you know of tithes?” The muscular one grinned, his good humor apparently returned. “Whenever the summoner comes around to collect the tithe, you're always pleading poverty.”

“I guess he could give the summoner that fancy velvet sleeve for a tenth,” the contortionist said.

“Yeah, and you could give him one tenth of what her ladyship gave you.” The feather shivered with mirth. “If he's willing to search between the sheets.”

Everybody laughed.

Colin, who was not used to such ribald humor, hoped his red face would be attributed to his proximity to the fire.

As Maud made her wide-hipped stroll among her customers, Colin watched her. Her womanliness—the way her bosom strained at the lacings on her peasant bodice—ignited his now-informed boy's imagination as much as the crude humor. He wondered what her soft thighs would feel like wrapped around him. This thought disturbed him. It reminded him of that part of himself that had led to what he now thought of as the great sin. And it reminded him, too, of all that he was giving up.

Maud approached the jugglers with a tray of full mugs. The muscular one retrieved one from her tray. The contortionist reached out and pinched her breast. She slapped his hand and twisted skillfully away.

“If it's fool's gold ye're looking for, ye can go back to her ladyship. I've no
gold to
squander on fools. I've naught but beer to give ye,” she said as she emptied a full glass over his head.

The others applauded and hooted in derision. Colin, too, had to suppress a smile at the expression on the miscreant's face.

“I guess ye've been baptized right enough.” The plumed hat shivered again.

“Aye, and by a fairer hand than any cleric.” The victim stuck out his tongue and licked his lips. “Tastes better than holy water, too.”

Their merriment made Colin feel even lonelier. He was finally warm, so he moved away from the gathering in front of the fire, away from the smell of the roasting meat. One of the players had left a lute lying on a bench in a corner. Colin picked it up and began to strum it softly, singing under his breath.

“You've a pleasing voice, lad.” It was the wiry contortionist. Colin had not been aware that he'd followed him. He laid down the lute, felt himself flushing. “I'm sorry. Is this your lute? I was just looking at it. I meant no harm.”

“No harm done.”

Colin didn't know what to say. He hoped the fellow would go back to his companions. But instead, he motioned for Colin to move over and sat down beside him.

“Are you from here?”

Colin didn't know how to answer that. He didn't know where “here” was.

“I'm from Aylsham,” he said, before he had time to think that his mother might have someone out looking for him.

“Aylsham. That's about twenty miles north of here. What are you doing way down here? You're south of Norwich.”

South! Sun on the right at daybreak, but there'd been no sun. Colin felt his heart sink into his toes. His feeling must have shown on his face.

“Where're you headed?”

“I was headed to Cromer, to Blinham Abbey. I'm going to join the brothers there. I got a little turned around.”

“You don't look good, lad. When did you last eat?”

Colin studied the rushes on the floor. “Not in a while.”

“Landlord, half a pint and a joint of meat here for my young friend.”

“I don't have any money.”

“You can sing for your supper. Anybody want to hear a song?”

“Aye.” A voice from the back of the room. “A love song. No hymns or dirges. We'll have enough of those soon enough.”

Maud brought him a trencher of victuals and while he wolfed down the food, the wiry contortionist explained. “We're cycle players on our way to Fakenham for the Easter Cycle. We'll probably wind up in Cromer come early summer. We can always use a singer and a lute player. If you don't mind a little face paint, you're welcome to tag along. No pay, but all you can eat.” He motioned for Maud to refill Colin's mug. “And you'll pick up a little pay on the side. A pretty blond boy with a sweet voice—the ladies will ply you with gifts. We'll play at a few feast days and banquets along the way. Makes for a nice change from the Bible stories. After Ash Wednesday, we'll start the miracle plays. We should make Blinham easy by Pentecost.”

Colin didn't have to think about it very long. What choice did he have? After a week on the road, he'd wound up hungry and cold and farther away from his destination than when he started. He could either go with the mummers or go home. And if he went home … His mind conjured a vision of Rose, quickly replaced by the dead shepherd's burnt face. If he went back to the warmth and safety of Blackingham, he would gain no atonement. Not for himself. Not for Rose.

“Do you go through Aylsham?” he asked.

“Aye, but we've no plans to linger there,”

That was good. He could get a message to his mother to let her know that he was safe. He knew she would be worried. He could still make it to Cromer. It would just take a little longer.

Colin stripped the last bit of flesh from the chicken bone and wiped his hands on his breeches.

“Well, what say you, boy? Are you going to join our little band?”

“I have to eat,” Colin said. “And it's a long way to Cromer.”

The contortionist laughed. “Well said. It's settled then.” He picked up the lute and handed it to Colin. “Now, it's time to pay for your supper.”

Colin strummed the strings of the lute. “I know a love song,” he said, and he began to sing, his throat tight and nervous

 

I live in love-longing
For the seemliest oj all things
Who may me blisse bring.
And I to her am bound.

Just another love song, he told himself, hardening his heart against the memory of the scent of her hair, the softness of her lips. But a hush fell over the players, and they nodded their approval as they listened to the plaintive sound of his voice.

Finn remembered the dagger in his boot. They did not search him but merely pushed him down the stairs, still shackled, into the black pit beneath the ancient castle. He thought he recognized the blackguard who handed down his pail of slop on a pole. No recourse there.