The Illuminator (4 page)

“Alice, quickly. Bring me water and clean rags. And pound some Saracen's root into a mash.”

Finn watched through the window. The anchoress laid the pale, unmoving child on a cot, which, along with a slant-topped wooden writing table and stool, constituted the room's only furnishings. Mother Julian, as the dwarf had called her, appeared a slight woman of about thirty or so years, but it was hard to tell as she was swathed in unbleached linen from head to toe, her veil and wimple revealing only her face. She had two bright, deeply set eyes in a face that might have been called gaunt except for its peaceful countenance. Her voice was low and musical, like wind playing through pipes. Softly chanting a lullaby cadence, she soothed the child, who stirred, whimpering from time to time, as in a dream.

Finn had not had time to question the dwarf's suggestion, although he had little faith in holy hermits or their prayers, no more than he had in holy
relics or the pardoners and priests who pandered for the Church. But he had even less faith in the pretentious doctors of medicine from the university, few of whom would soil an academic gown for the sake of a bleeding peasant child. As Julian's fingers worked over the wound swiftly and efficiently, gently washing it with the juice and then making a plaster of the mashed comfrey to set the bone, he blessed his choice.

The dwarf, unable to watch because the window was set too high, paced back and forth, his short legs churning in silent rhythm, his eyes darting nervously through the outside portal.

“Will the babe live, Mother Julian?” Half-Tom shouted so that his voice could carry through the window.

Julian left the sleeping child and came over to the window, looked down. “I cannot say, Half-Tom. She is in God's hands. Only God knows what is best for this little one. The bone will set, but if the animal that attacked her was diseased … we must trust His will in this. As in all matters.”

Finn was enchanted by her smile. It was wide, all-encompassing, like sunlight breaking through a cloud. “The two of you come around to my supplicant's window. You are making my maid extremely anxious lest my reputation be compromised. We will be better able to talk, and Half-Tom, you will be better able to see the child.”

Finn went back out into the churchyard and re-entered the little anteroom built at the other end of Mother Julian's anchorhold, which allowed her visitors to be out of the elements as they conversed through her window. This window was narrower than the maid's window, but wide enough so they could talk, though it afforded a much lesser view of the anchorite's “tomb.” The curtain had been pulled back as wide as it would go. Half-Tom sat on the visitor's stool; Finn stood beside him, bending slightly so that the anchoress could see both of them as she tended the child.

“It was the bishop's swine,” the dwarf said.

“A crime for which the animal has paid, thanks to the bravery of my companion,” Finn said. “If the child lives, it is Half-Tom we must thank. And you, sister. But it seems that the two of you are well acquainted.”

The child stirred. The anchoress brushed her forehead with a kiss, stroked her hair and again chanted softly the half-lullaby, half-prayer. When her patient was once again quiet, she answered softly, “I am no
sister.
Just Julian, a humble hermit seeking God. Half-Tom visits me on market days
and brings me a gift from the waters. On such occasions Alice and I eat well.”

The dwarf flushed crimson. “I have no gift today, mistress,” he muttered. “The bishop's cursed pig—”

“Dear friend, you brought me a wonderful gift. You brought me this child to tend, another with which I can share His love. I am grateful to you, to both of you, Master—”

“No
master.
Just Finn.”

“Finn,” she repeated. “You have a gentle heart but the manner of a soldier. You have fought in the French wars?”

He was taken aback by her perception and her frank manner. “Not since 1360. Not since the Treaty of Bretigny. I have been a man of peace these nineteen years.”

He did not add: Since the birth of my daughter, since the death of her mother.

“You will not join the bishop's cause then, you will not take up arms for the Holy Father in Rome against the usurper at Avignon?”

“I will not fight for the bishop or either of his popes.”

“Not even for a holy cause, in a holy war?”

“There is no such thing as a holy war.”

He thought he read approval in the bright flash of her eyes, the lift of her brow.

“Except in the minds of men,” she said.

She covered the sleeping child with a blanket, then wiped her hands clean of the ointment she had spread on the wound.

“Can you fetch the mother of this child, Finn? There is no substitute for a mother's healing touch. It most closely resembles, of all earthly feelings, the love our Lord has for us.”

“Of course, anchoress. I promised the mother I would be back for her. I'll fetch her straightaway.”

“Half-Tom will stay with me until Alice fetches him clean clothes. We will pray for the child, and its mother. And for you.”

“Aye, mistress.” Half-Tom looked at the dried blood on his palms. “And I'll be praying, too, that the bishop doesn't find out who killed his pig.”

Finn would have laughed at the dwarf's wry tone if he had not known the seriousness of Half-Tom's situation. He would be completely at the bishop's
mercy—a quality for which Henry Despenser was not widely praised. A dwarf from the fens, who grubbed his living from earth and water, against one of the most powerful men in England. Despenser would swat him like a fly, perhaps even take his life as payment for the pig's.

The anchoress looked up at the window. “Do not be afraid, Tom. Our Lord is a much greater judge than the bishop and He sees into the heart.”

“I just hope He's paying attention is all,” Half-Tom muttered under his breath.

Finn placed his hand on Half-Tom's shoulder. “Friend, would you be offended if I called upon the bishop and claimed for myself the honor of saving the child? I have some connections with the abbot at Broomholm. That would surely add weight to a reasoned argument.”

Finn didn't know whether to read discomfort or relief in the dwarf's face. A mixture of both, probably. But after a brief hesitation, his fear won out over his pride.

“I'll be in your debt,” he said. He didn't look as if the prospect made him altogether happy. “For the rest of my life or yours, whichever ends first.”

The anchoress thanked Finn with her eyes.

With Alice's help, Finn discarded his bloody tunic and sponged the stains from his shirt. He did not want to distress the mother with the sight of the bloodstains.

She was still standing by the roadside waiting. She looked as though she had not moved.

“Your child lives. I'll take you to her.” He held out his hand.

She did not answer but climbed dumbly onto the horse, behind him. “Put your arms around my waist,” he said.

As they rode, he could smell the fear on her, pungent and biting, mingling with the smell of rancid fat and smoke from her cottage cook fire. He thought about what the anchoress had said, about the power of a mother's love. His own daughter had never known that. But he loved her. Hadn't he provided for her every need? Sometimes, they had to hire an extra cart just to carry her satins and laces. But the anchoress had implied that a mother's love was greater in some mysterious way than a father's. Under other circumstances he might have hotly disputed that with her. Rose's protection and comfort
guided his every decision. No father could be more devoted. It was a vow he'd made on Rebekka's deathbed. And he'd kept it.

He urged his horse faster. The day was fleeting, and he'd not yet found suitable lodgings. Rose, housed at Thetford with the nuns, was unhappy about the separation. He'd promised to find a place for them today, but now there would be no time.

Had he been too rash in offering to take the blame for the dwarf? True, he was well connected and his reputation commanded respect, but he had secrets of his own, secrets that would not endear him in certain society. And then there was the matter of the papers. He should, at least, dispatch those before he called on Henry Despenser. It would delay his meeting with the abbot at Broomholm and mean another night in an inn, but it couldn't be helped. If the illuminated texts were found in his possession, it would prejudice the bishop against him, make him ill-disposed to consider the slaughter of the pig as the only reasonable action. It might even cost Finn the abbot's patronage.

The hedge lining the field to his right painted a short shadow. After he delivered the mother to her child, there would be time to find a messenger to carry the papers to Oxford. He wouldn't send for his daughter until he had settled this affair with the bishop. It could be a tricky business.

Behind him, he thought he heard the child's mother start to cry.

Will then a man shrink from acts of licentiousness and fraud, if he believes that soon after, but with the aid of a little money bestowed on friars, an active absolution from the crime he has committed may be obtained?

—J
OHN
W
YCLIFFE
, 1380

L
ady Kathryn of Blackingham Manor pressed the heel of her palm hard against the bridge of her nose as she paced the flagstones of the great hall. Damn that sniveling priest! And damn the bishop he pandered for! How dare he come here again, for the fourth time in as many months, peddling his indulgences.

The pressure under her left cheekbone was excruciating, but it was no use sending to Norwich for a doctor. He would hardly stir his learned bones in this heat to tend the monthly migraine of a woman no longer in the bloom of youth. He would send the barber surgeon to bleed her. Bleed her! As if she had not bled enough this week. Already she had stained two of her best linen smocks and her green silk kirtle.

And now there was
this.

The hawthorne hedge had barely sprouted its tight white buds when the bishop's legate came the first time, demanding money to buy masses for the
soul of Sir Roderick, who had “given his life so valiantly in the service of his king.” Surely the widow would want to ensure an easy passage for her husband's soul. The
widow
had given him three gold florins, not because she gave a farthing for the state of Roderick's soul—he could roast on the devil's spit for all she cared—but there were appearances to maintain. For the sake of her sons.

When this priest—he'd introduced himself as Father Ignatius—learned that her own father confessor had died at Christmastide, he'd chided her for neglecting her soul and the souls of those entrusted to Blackingham. He'd offered to send a replacement. She thanked him warily. His manner did not foster trust, and since she could ill afford the upkeep of another gluttonous priest, she'd put him off with vague assurances that the void would soon be filled.

A few weeks later, on May Day, Father Ignatius came skulking back. “To bless the festivities,” he said. Again he inquired about the status of her priest-less household, and again she put him off, this time by claiming a close relationship with the abbot at Broomholm.

“It's a short ride to Broomholm, and the abbot is glad to hear my confession. There's also the new Saint Michael's Church in Aylsham. And we are frequently visited by friars—black friars, gray friars, brown friars—who, in exchange for a joint of meat and a quart of ale, will see to the souls of the vilest sinners among my crofters and weavers.”

If he heard the sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it—only wrinkled his heavy furred eyebrows into a single black line—but he warned again of the perils to the unshriven soul. Then, to her relief, he appeared to let the matter drop. But the day of his departure, as he feasted at her board, the priest commented that he had lately become much distressed upon hearing that her dear departed husband might have forged, before his death, an alliance with John of Gaunt, who was a patron of the heretic John Wycliffe. Although any such alliance was probably innocent, unscrupulous persons could make even the innocent appear guilty. Would the widow like to buy another round of prayers? For appearance's sake?