The Illuminator (45 page)

Eleven holy men converted all the world into the right religion; The more readily, 1 think, should all manner of man be converted, We have so many masters, priests and preachers, and a pope on top.

—W
ILLIAM
L
ANGLAND
,
   
P
IERS
P
LOWMAN
(14
TH CENTURY
)

H
alf-Tom had tried twice in the last two weeks to get to Finn. Each Thursday, he'd made the difficult trip to market, not because he had much to sell—buyers and sellers alike were rarer in winter—but he persisted in the hope that he could see his friend. Each Thursday, he'd been turned away, once by the surly guard who had tormented him in the Beggar's Daughter (the time that Finn had come to his rescue), and once by an impatient bailiff who said he knew nothing of the prisoner. Neither had any patience with a dwarf from the fens.

This time he was determined, and he had a plan. On Wednesday, he made the long trek to Blackingham, and for more reasons than to eat the old cook's pottage—lately she'd taken a dislike to him—or to catch a glimpse of the pretty kitchen wench who'd frighted him so with her singing in the bee-tree. He could not add inches to his stature, but he could add inches to his status by
wearing the livery of a noble house. A ducal house would have made him a giant. But since he knew no dukes, he'd have to settle for a knight's household.

“A
short
groomsman,” he'd said to Magda as they conspired together to steal the uniform from the laundry at Blackingham.

Now she'd returned with her stolen trophy, and they were alone in the cavernous kitchen, cozy with the great fire and the smell of simmering stew on the hearth. She laughed at him when he draped the blue tunic over his head. But he didn't mind her laughter. He waved his arms in the air, flapping the excess fabric about like a jester, to inspire more of it. To him, her laughter was as heady as mead—and just as rare, for she seldom bestowed it on anyone.

“Ye'll snare no respect looking like a scarecrow,” she said, tears of mirth spilling down her cheeks. “They're like to toss ye in the dungeon with Master Finn.”

That was more words than he'd ever heard the girl string together. He hopped about on one foot, tripping over the too-long leggings, hoping for more. Instead she screwed her mouth into a pout of concentration and, reaching for a kitchen knife, commanded him to climb upon a stool.

She slashed at the excess fabric: first the sleeves, then the legs. “Stand still. Ye don't want to be gettin' blood on Lady Kathryn's livery.”

He stood motionless, as if he were watching deer feed in the forest, afraid to breathe lest he startle her and break the spell of her closeness. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, but he dared not. He'd already heard the sound of the heavy oak door groaning on its hinges—Agnes returning. She would not welcome any sign of affection from a half-man for the girl she treated like a daughter.

“What foolishness are the two of ye up two?” Agnes asked as she set down a basket of turnips.

Magda paused in her tearing and slashing. “ 'Tis cold. Ye should've sent me to cellar to fetch those.”

“What's he gussied up for? Yule's well past. Season for tomfoolery's over.” She picked up the torn rags of cloth from the floor, peered closer. “Lands, that's Blackingham livery you're destroyin', girl! What are ye thinking? That fine blue cloth don't come cheap. Lady Kathryn will have all our hides— though at least one amongst us wouldn't be worth much.” She glared at him.

Half-Tom explained his plan.

Arms akimbo, her brow puckered with frowning, she considered for a long
moment. Half-Tom grinned at her. He didn't doubt, despite her gruffness— and who could fault her on that score for wanting to guard her treasure—the goodness of her heart. “ 'Tis the only way,” he said.

“I'll fetch my needle to hem the edges,” the cook said. “Save them pieces, Magda. Cloth's too fine to waste.”

The next day Half-Tom presented himself before the head constable at the castle keep.

“I've a message from the lady of Blackingham for the prisoner Finn.”

The constable looked him up and down without getting out of his chair. Half-Tom waved a rolled-up parchment in front of the officer's nose—not a letter at all, but an old purchase order for goods for the Blackingham kitchen. Magda had helped him reheat the seal so that it appeared not to have been broken. The constable reached for it. Half-Tom pulled it behind his back.

“Lady Kathryn says the seal is to be broken only by Finn. Private matters between a man and his daughter. Lady Kathryn asks that I be allowed to visit the prisoner so his daughter will know that he is not being ill-used.”

The constable appeared to be considering, but did not move.

“Lady Kathryn is a friend of Sir Guy de Fontaigne,” Half-Tom said.

“The sheriff has given his approval?”

“If she has to ask, she would have to explain that you refused her request, wouldn't she?” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “And that might make the sheriff angry.”

The constable grinned good-naturedly. “You negotiate like a full-grown man.” He stood up. “Follow me.”

Half-Tom followed the constable up two flights of curving steps, where he opened an iron-grated door with the large keys on his belt and ordered Half-Tom to wait in the hallway. “He's a particular favorite of the bishop. If they're playing at chess, His Eminence would not like to be disturbed.”

“The bishop?”

“Aye. He visits at least once a week. They have animated discussions about theology.”

Half-Tom didn't understand the meaning of “theology.” Why would a bishop visit a prisoner—unless it was to question him? A sense of dread settled over Half-Tom's shoulders like a monk's hood. He'd heard stories, horrible
stories, about racks and pulleys and spiked cages and brandings. He must be crazy to meddle in such. But he owed the man. At least the illuminator was being kept aboveground, way aboveground, judging by the number of steps they had climbed.

The constable came back shortly, motioning with his head for Half-Tom to enter the room at the end of the hall. There was no iron door there, and the wooden door stood open to the hall. “Just bang on the grille here when you're ready to leave. There's a guard at the bottom of the stair.”

Half-Tom almost cried with relief as he peeked over the threshold. The room was clean, warm, furnished with a bed and a worktable, and filled with afternoon light pouring through the high window onto the worktable. He recognized Finn immediately, thinner and more stooped than he remembered. But it was Finn, sitting at his worktable, brush in hand, as though he were not imprisoned at all.

Half-Tom cleared his throat. The illuminator looked up and smiled broadly.

“Half-Tom! Old friend, come in.” Finn got up stiffly. “Are you a sight for these sore old eyes! Have you news from Blackingham? Come in. Here, take my chair. I'll stand.” He dragged the chair closer to the small coal fire, wincing as he did. “Lady Kathryn has sent you. I can tell by the livery.”

Half-Tom squirmed, then laughed self-consciously. “Uniform is just a ruse. I tried to get in to see you before and couldn't, so I
borrowed
the uniform. With a little help.”

“Oh, I thought…”

There was a haggard, gaunt look in his eyes, disappointment in his face.

“But I'm going back to Blackingham. They've asked for a report.”

Finn smiled weakly as if to say he knew Half-Tom was only being kind. “My daughter? Is she well?”

“I have not heard otherwise. Except I'm sure she misses her father.” He sat on the floor, careful of his new livery. “You take the chair. Where does the bishop sit when he visits?”

“The bishop brings his own chair.”

“Are you in pain, Master Finn? You favor your side.” Half-Tom was remembering the instruments of torture his imagination had conjured earlier.

“A little going-away present from Sykes. You remember the blackguard from the Beggar's Daughter?”

“I am much in your debt.”

“You owe me only what debt one friend owes another. But I do have a scheme whereby you can come to my aid.”

“An escape? I'm for it.”

“No, old friend, no escape. That's not possible. But first, let me offer you refreshment. My serving lad brought enough victuals to share, let's see what's here.” He removed the cloth from a basket resting on the hearth. A savory odor of beef broth and vegetables filled the room.

“You have a servant?”

Finn's low laugh was filled with bitterness. “My circumstances have much improved in the last two weeks. It seems I am a valued slave.”

Half-Tom surveyed the worktable—the paint pots and brushes, the tall wooden panel propped in a corner on which a ground of azure had already been laid. “You're painting for the bishop?”

“Henry Despenser wants a five-paneled reredos for the cathedral. That altarpiece is the thread that holds my life. I intend to spin it out until it is as fine as the gold wire in a lady's snood.”

Half-Tom shook his head, declining the plate of food the illuminator held out to him. How did he know this wasn't the only hot meal Finn would have for a week?

“Come on. Eat it. I can have whatever I want. The bishop feeds his pets well.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. I frequently pitch the leftovers out the window to feed the fish in the river. I think they are disappointed with the scraps. They keep expecting something warm and living.”

“River is deeper there. A man might live after such a jump, if he could swim,” Half-Tom offered.

“I have my daughter to think about,” he said. “I cannot place her in danger. That's where you come in.”

“Anything.”

“If you could just act as messenger between my daughter and me. Assure her that her father is still alive. I've a letter for you to take to her.” Something like the closing of a shutter passed across his face. “And one for Lady Kathryn. They're already written. I've been hoping for a messenger I could trust.”

He rummaged in the chest that held a variety of paints and brushes and
brought out two tight rolls of parchment. Half-Tom accepted them, and as he placed them inside his fancy belted tunic, he was gratified to find a small slit in the lining for just such a purpose.

“They will be delivered today.”

Finn closed his eyes for just a moment. The muscles in his face relaxed. “There's more,” he said.

“You've but to say it.”

“The Wycliffe papers. I'm convinced of the importance of an English translation. God is not something the bishop and his ilk have a right to keep for their exclusive use. See if you can get me a copy of Wycliffe's Gospel of John and bring it to me—”

Half-Tom grinned, reached inside his blue tunic and handed Finn a wrapped parcel. It bore an Oxford seal. “Master Wycliffe gave it to me when I delivered your last,” he said.

“Good. Now I can fill my days with something more worth the while than the bishop's whimsy. But I can't afford to have the translations found. My cell is subject to search at any time. So if under the guise of carrying messages to and from Blackingham you could pick up the illuminated text, you won't have to make the journey to Oxford but once. I'll make plain copies that you can give to any Lollard priest for dissemination.”

“Dis ?”

“Spreading. The priests will give them out so that people can read the Scriptures for themselves.”

“What if the bishop should surprise you with a visit and find you out?” Half-Tom had a sudden vision of torture racks and pulleys.

“His servants always precede his coming. But I need to warn you, my friend. This work will be dangerous for anybody connected with it. The bishop is anxious to charge Wycliffe and all his followers with heresy. Wycliffe has the protection of the duke. You do not.”

“I've enough wits to stay out of the bishop's way,” Half-Tom assured him.

“I know that to be true. You're here, aren't you?”

“Aye. And I'll be back. I promise.” He stood and patted his tunic, feeling for the letters in the lining.

Finn stood too, and extended his hand.

“I'll be waiting, old friend.”

A blackbird landed on the casement of the window, pecked at a crumb,
then took wing. Half-Tom watched Finn watching the bird, and felt his longing for freedom as though it were his own.