The Illuminator (52 page)

She rocked the baby for hours, crooning bits of song. Jasmine wrapped her tiny fist around Kathryn's finger.

“You're a pretty babe, just like your mother. She was pretty, too; yes, she was. Pretty babe. Pretty babe,” she singsonged. Foolish behavior in a woman her age.

But Jasmine would open her sleepy eyes—blue eyes, Colin's eyes—and fix Kathryn with a wise gaze. Even when Kathryn handed her off to the nurse to feed—though never moving far away, always hovering—the child watched Kathryn's face, twisting away from the nurse's nipple if Kathryn wandered out of her sight. But she seldom did. Those knowing eyes were a lodestone from which Kathryn could not pull away.

It was the middle of May before the road to Norwich dried up enough to make the journey to Castle Prison.

Jasmine was six weeks old.

From his tower window, Finn looked out at the flooded flatlands. The waters were creeping back to their source. For the first time in weeks, he could see the base of the hawthorne hedge lining the river's far bank and the full arch of the stone bridge. In the distance a lone cart lumbered down the mud-tracked road. The light was better today, too—a thin haze veiled a butter sun—and he'd been awakened by a meadow lark. There was a bird's nest on his windowsill. Signs of spring.

But it was winter still for Finn. There had been no word from Blacking-ham. Rose must be close to term by now. His hands shook when he tried to work.

The bishop had been his only visitor in many weeks. Last week, they had played at chess on Despenser's elaborately carved board and debated the same old argument, but less hotly than was their custom. Finn's mind was at Blackingham.

Frowning, Despenser captured Finn's pawn en passant. “John Wycliffe and renegade clerics like John Ball rant across the country, turning the peas
antry against God and king, and would have every dolt, churl, and villein in Christendom acting as his own priest. A damning freedom. Their ignorance would send them all to hell.”

Finn countered, “While the bishops keep them slave to the twin devils of ritual and superstition. How can that profit men's souls?”

“They are sheep and must be herded, did not our Lord say as much?” Despenser smiled.

Finn considered a cryptic answer about separating the sheep from the goats but he didn't answer. His heart was not in it. His heart was not in the game either. Despenser held Finn's king in check already. They usually played to a stalemate, or sometimes Finn allowed a checkmate after a struggle. Finn interposed a knight to protect his king. Despenser's pale fingers— as pale as the ivory they fondled—dallied over his bishop, then moved his pawn to take Finn's ebony knight.

“You are not yourself today,” Despenser said into the silence. Leaving Finn to consider his next move, he got up from his chair and walked over to Finn's worktable, studied the first panel of the retable. “And your work progresses at a paltry pace.” He traced a jeweled forefinger over the uncolored sketch of the Virgin's face.

Rose's eyes, Rose's lips. Finn wanted to slap his hand away. Instead, he pretended to study the chessboard in front of him. “I've been working on the background for this second panel. I lack the proper pigments for the Virgin's robe.”

“How can you lack the proper pigments?” Umbrage in his voice. “Did I not provide you with the ultramarine and the Arabic gum you asked for last week? At great expense, I might add, and I had to send all the way to Flanders for it. What's it made from anyway? The Virgin's tears wouldn't fetch a more exorbitant price.”

“Lapis lazuli,” Finn answered, sacrificing his bishop to screen his king. “It's ground stone. It comes from somewhere in the East. The shades vary from azure to sea-green. It's in the mixing. I need just the right light to mix the pure blue of the Virgin's robe. I've not found the right combination. When the light is better … ”

The bishop stroked the pectoral cross hanging around his neck, his fingers caressing the pearl-encrusted filigree. “I would remind you, Master
Finn, of our agreement. You enjoy these luxurious accommodations at my pleasure. I hope that you are not putting some profane, lesser task, above your bishop's commission.”

Finn watched him from beneath lowered eyes, anxiety growing. He was looking at the chest in the corner, the chest that stored the pigments, the chessboard and its pieces, the chest that stored also the parchment and the quills, and a leather scrip filled with damning papers. “I assure you, Eminence, I have not forgotten the terms. I was led to believe that my stay here would be an extended one, affording me ample time to fulfill—unless of course, some new evidence has come to light which would shorten my stay.”

The chest in the corner still held Despenser's attention. “No new evidence. The sheriff remains confident that we have the priest's murderer. Indeed, it is only because you are valuable to me that you have not already been sentenced to hang. But don't toy with me, Illuminator. Nor misjudge my patience.”

“I am not a man who plays games, Eminence. I'm well aware of the power you hold. But you must understand it is difficult for an artist to work in this light. That is why I've done only background work.” He indicated the gessoed panel the bishop held. “I will return to the Annunciation panel as soon as the light is stronger. I believe it's your move.”

“The sketch of the Virgin's face promises to be beautiful. Your daughter is the model, I presume, Master Finn.”

Despenser had made his move, and Finn did not mistake the subtle threat in the bishop's thin-lipped scythe of a smile. But at least he appeared to have lost interest in the chest filled with Wycliffe's texts, damning evidence that Half-Tom had not been able to retrieve because of the floods.

“You are a poor opponent today. You may put the game back in its box. You need to get back to work. We will hope the light is stronger tomorrow.” The bishop strode over to the window ledge, where a curlew had made its nest. There were three tiny pearl-shaped eggs in the twig basket, eggs that Finn had been watching, just as he'd watched the little curlew building the nest, carrying one twig at a time in her beak. During the cold nights he'd left the shutters open so that she could come and go. One by one, the bishop picked up the bird's eggs and examined them. One by one, he pitched each from the high window. Then he dropped the nest. “So much coming and going might have interfered with your concentration,” he said.

After the bishop left, Finn considered burning the papers, even opened the
chest and took them out.
For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son
… why did churchmen never talk of God's love while waxing eloquent enough on the torments of the damned? The anchoress wrote of God's love. She had felt that love in her own healing. She had seen His passion in her visions. Maybe the others, like the bishop, were closer to an understanding of the devil and his ways. But here in the Gospel of John, flowing from the tip of Finn's own pen, were words of love, words that all men should hear.

But how could those who had never known love understand its meaning? He understood it. He'd felt it. For Rebekka. And for Kathryn. Not just the way of men and women, but deeper, wanting to protect her, wanting his soul to join with hers. But that love had failed him. Rebekka had left him. Kathryn had betrayed him. God's love had to be more than that, as the anchoress said—some greater love, some incorruptible force. And Finn had felt that, too. He could forgive his Rose anything. His love for Rose was like the expensive pigments he used—distilled essence, pure and undiluted.

Yet here was a conundrum. If God's love was like that of a parent for a child—only greater, deeper, wider, more perfect—then how could God have sacrificed His only Child? What loving parent could sacrifice a son to such unimaginable suffering? Certainly not Kathryn. She'd proved that. And neither could he. Did God have second thoughts when he watched His Son hanging there with blood and tears streaming down his face, the crowd taunting him, the dogs circling beneath, the buzzards above? But He hadn't watched, had He? He'd turned his face away, unable to bear it. Finn understood that much at least.

The leather packet hidden beneath the pigments and gums, parchments and quills was full to bursting. Wycliffe would be pleased with the extra copies. And working on them had given Finn a strange comfort these last weeks. It was a way of fighting back. What had begun as a subversive feeding of his rebellious spirit had brought a peace when he could find none elsewhere. If his hands shook too much to work on the bishop's icons, his fingers were calm and sure as he copied the Wycliffe texts. If this Gospel was truth, then shouldn't truth have many copies?

Half-Tom will make it into Norwich soon, he thought. The waters will recede. I'll work on the Virgin's robe tomorrow.

But he had not. He had returned to copying the English translations. And another week had passed. The papers would no longer fit in the chest and
now, from his high window—with its empty ledge—though the waters had receded, the only thing he saw crossing the bridge was a horse-drawn cart carrying two women and a girl of about fourteen. One of the women held an infant to her breast. A woman bringing her children to see their father in prison? He hoped, for the sake of the children, the father's offense was a small one.

No sign of Half-Tom. But then, the fens would still be flooded. It might be weeks before he saw his friend again. He would have to find some other way of smuggling out the papers. Tomorrow was Friday.

The bishop was sure to pay his weekly visit.

“Wait here,” Kathryn said to Magda and her mother, who, in spite of being on public view in the prison courtyard, was doing that for which she had been hired—nursing the hungry infant. Kathryn found great satisfaction in watching the baby suck, which Jasmine did often and noisily.

“You'll be safe enough here,” she promised. “The constable has said he'll keep an eye out for you. I think he can be trusted.”

“Never to worry, milady. We'll be fine,” Magda said.

But Kathryn noticed a tremble in the girl's voice as she surveyed the castle's forbidding Norman keep. Kathryn had noted, too, her little cry, half-fear, half-awe, when the town walls had first come into view. But the girl was not without fortitude. When they'd gotten stuck in the mud (Kathryn had had the foresight to bring the wagon instead of Roderick's heavy carriage), the girl had been more help than the sniveling groom she'd dispatched to fetch Simpson.

Help had finally come, but not from Blackingham. A couple of passing yeomen had put their backs to the mired wheels. Armed only with her sense of purpose—and Finn's dagger hanging beside her rosary beads—Kathryn had decided to carry on, hoping that Simpson would catch up to them.

He had not. When, once again, they'd mired up to one axle, the two women and the girl freed the wheel. But Kathryn regarded the difficult journey as a dance around the Maypole compared to the task that lay ahead. She touched the babe's cheek, wiping away a drool of breast milk, straightened her spine, and approached the iron grille at the bottom of the prison stairs.

“Door's open at the top,” the guard said as the key grated in the lock.

Kathryn set the small hourglass she'd brought with her on the wagon seat. “Give me half an hour, then send the others up.” She gave the guard a penny. “The constable says you're to look after them.” She indicated the wagon with a tilt of the head. “See that no one approaches.”

“Aye, milady,” the guard said, pocketing his coin. The iron grille clanged behind her.