The Illuminator (60 page)

A log split apart with a crack, sending sparks up the chimney.

“Alfred, what did you do with the pearls?”

A hesitation, and then he said, “I'm surprised you haven't already found them. You've only to look in the illuminator's quarters.” His full mouth contorted his face. He had his father's full mouth. His father's sarcasm.

“Why would my pearls be among the illuminator's possessions?” she asked evenly.

“I went to your room after the shepherd's burial.” He turned away, stared into the fire intently as though he were divining pictures in the dancing flames. “I saw you with him. I planted the pearls in his room. It was a foolish, childish thing to do, of course, the girl was in her room. She could have told you I did it. It was stupid.”

“Then why did you do it?” she said to the back of his head.

“I guess I was hoping you'd think he stole them. Maybe even be angry enough to send him away, instead of me.”

So he had planted the pearls, just as Rose had said, just as she had feared. But not because he'd killed the priest. She wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. So much pain for all of them. And all for a child's prank. But it could be fixed, Holy Mother of God. It could all be fixed! It was not too late.

But first, she had to fix this.

She wanted to shake him in her frustration. She wanted to hug him to
remove the pain she'd caused him. Her voice trembled slightly when she said, “Alfred, what were you thinking to commit such folly?”

“I'll tell you what I was thinking, Mother. I was thinking that you betrayed my father.”

He worried the crimson cloth of his tunic, winding it with his fingers, still not looking at her. She disentangled his hand, clasped it between her own.

“Your father is dead, Alfred. Did you think harming an innocent man would ease your hurt?”

His lips were pressed into a hard line that quivered slightly. He didn't look like a man now. He looked like her little boy trying to put on the face of a man, a boy mimicking a father's rough ways.

“Did you think I was betraying Roderick?” Her voice was low, her tones somber but gentle. She stroked the back of his head. “Or did you think I was betraying you?”

She might as well have shouted at him. He jerked his head away as though her touch burned, and turned to face her, waving his hand in the air like an actor in a mad mystery play.

“You despised my father! Don't deny it.”

She kept her voice low, her movements slow, so as not to startle him.

“I don't deny that there was no love between us, had never been. But how could I say I despised the man who gave me the two things I treasure most? You and your brother.”

“You hated him. And you said I was his image.”

“But I never—”

“You said it many, many times.” His voice had grown deeper as he'd grown taller. He even sounded like his father. “I reminded you of Father too much. Is that why you sent me away? So you could be alone with your paramour?” His voice cracked and the last word came out shrill and brittle.

How to answer him best? Which charge did she take on first? But he didn't wait for her to decide.

“Nothing to say, Mother?”

“Alfred, Alfred, you must know how much I—”

“Now they say you're here as the sheriff's lady. I've watched you on the dais, flirting, smiling up at him, night after night. It makes me sick. My lady mother twice a whore.”

The slap echoed in the air. The imprint of her hand glowed white against
his cheek. Tears pooled in his eyes, she could feel them welling in her own. Her palm still stinging from the slap, she reached up to touch his face, longing to kiss the hurt away, but he flinched and she withdrew her hand.

“The sheriff hasn't told you, then?”

His rage had chased away all courtly courtesy; resentment contorted his features. He mumbled, “The sheriff tells me nothing except how to walk, how to stand, how to ride, how to fight, how to talk—and how to polish his armor.”

“The illuminator is in Castle Prison for the priest's murder. I refused to give my
paramour,
as you called him, an alibi in order to protect you. I loved you enough to sacrifice my own happiness for you. And the happiness of a good man. If you can't feel that love, Alfred, I know not how else to prove it.”

The tears that had pooled in his eyes now poured down his cheeks. She touched his face, the fading imprint of her hand.

“I'm sorry if I've hurt you,” she said, sighing deeply. “The devil makes pawns of us all.”

“Was your reunion with your son satisfactory?” the sheriff asked from the hall outside her chamber. Kathryn was in her shift and had hastily thrown her cloak around her to answer his knock.

“Quite, my lord,” she said through a crack in the door. His breath was sour, but his speech was not slurred and he'd been sober enough to climb the stairs. “Thank you for arranging it.”

His shadow lengthened and flickered against the wall in the guttering rushlight. “I would train my own son no differently,” he said. “Which brings me to another subject.”

Kathryn pulled her cloak tighter. “By your leave, my lord, may we speak of it another time? The hour is late to be visiting a lady in her boudoir. As you can see, I was preparing for bed and tomorrow's journey home—”

But he leaned his weight against the heavy oak door and pushed past her. “God's Blood, Kathryn, it's a long climb up these tower steps, and I didn't undertake it for my health.”

He was still wearing the costume to which his new honor entitled him. It was a woolen mantle lined with scarlet. Blue garter symbols, each one embroidered with the motto
Honi soit qui maly pense
—“Shame on him who
thinks ill of it”—stitched in gold thread, decorated a lighter background. Over this he wore a surcoat of crimson wool.

“We will speak of it now,” he said. “Tomorrow, we leave at dawn and there will be no time. I have to go on ahead. My men will accompany you, of course.”

She turned her back on him and bent to stoke the paltry fire with the last piece of wood. She'd hoped to save it for the morning to warm her departure preparations.

When she turned around, he was sitting on the bed, leaning back against his arms for support, one blue-stockinged leg crossed over the other, watching her.

“Do not look at me with that calculating eye, sir. I am not a mare that you are appraising in the horse market.”

She hugged herself, rubbing her arms for warmth. He shifted his weight, crossed his legs at the ankles. The toes of his leather slippers pointed at her like poised darts.

“Say what you have to say, please,” she said. “I am bone-weary.”

He nodded. “As you know, Kathryn, I have no heirs, and—”

“I thought you had a son in France.” She knew he'd lost his firstborn to the plague, and that his second wife, Mathilde, had died in childbirth three years ago. The child had been stillborn.

“Gilbert died in the same battle as your husband.”

“I'm sorry. I did not know. You never spoke—”

“Are you still fertile?” He drummed his ringed signet finger against the counterpane.

“I beg your pardon.” She felt her skin flush. “Did you say—”

“A simple question. Is your womb still viable?”

“If you mean—well, yes, but that circumstance is more burden to me than boon. My sons are sufficient, and I have a ward.”

“You have a ward!” His eyebrow arched.

“I'm godmother to—to the granddaughter of Finn the illuminator. His daughter was defiled and found herself with child. She died giving birth to it.”

“Was the miscreant who took her hymen brought to justice?”

Her face felt like a burning brand. “The perpetrator was a wandering minstrel.” She turned her gaze to the fire. “We never knew his name.”

“And you care for the child out of fondness for the illuminator.” The steel of his sidearm glinted cold, like his eyes.

“I care for the child out of Christian charity until such a time as her mother's father will be set free and can come for her.”

He grunted and grinned the lopsided, crooked smile that she detested. “You will likely see the child's troth plighted and stand godmother to her children ere that happens.”

The room was warmer now. She would like to have removed her cloak, but as she wore only her shift beneath it, she merely moved away from the fire and sat in the chamber's lone chair.

“How so, my lord sheriff? When the illuminator is innocent?”

He appeared to be examining his cuticles. “You were not so sure on the occasion of his arrest.”

“Alfred has told me the truth. He planted the pearls in Finn's—in the illuminator's—chamber because he was angry over some perceived slight. It was a childish thing to do. He had no knowledge of the consequences. When I told him, he repented that childish action. He will testify before the bishop that it was all a mistake.”

“Ah. But how came Alfred to be in possession of the pearls? That's the question, isn't it? Is he prepared to explain that to the bishop as well?”

“I like not that insinuation, sir. He found the necklace among the overseer's belongings. My steward was a thief. If he stole from the living, he would suffer fewer pangs to steal from the dead. He has since been turned off Blackingham land. I'm sure when the bishop hears the truth, he will release the illuminator.”

“I wouldn't set my heart on it, Kathryn. The bishop likes having an artisan of the man's particular talent under his thumb. He will be loath to let him go without explicit proof of innocence—or strong influence. And then there's the matter of the heretical papers found in his possession. Anyway, if the illuminator is exonerated, the matter of the priest's murder goes unresolved. The archbishop pressures the bishop, and the bishop pressures me, and we have to begin the search all over again. You see how complicated it all is?” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Of course, if as my wife you found the circumstances revolving around the illuminator distressing, I would feel obliged to speak to the king's regent. The king has already given permission for an alliance between our houses. As wife of a knight of the Garter, your testimony would carry considerable weight.”

Kathryn reminded herself to breathe slowly. “You overstep your bounds, sir, to speak to the king without my permission. And even if I agreed to such a scheme, would you not still have the problem of solving the priest's murder?”

“Kathryn, Kathryn.” He shook his head and made sucking sounds with his tongue. “You surely know that as a widow, the king can place you under his protection and seize your lands at any time; then your sons would be disinherited. An alliance with me will prevent that. Your sons retain their heritage; you gain a greater status and can use that influence on behalf of your
friend.
As for the murder? Easy enough. Blame it on some Jew.” His mouth curved at her quick intake of breath. “Yes, I quite like that. The archbishop will like it, too. It is quite a politic solution.”

“You would blame an innocent man!?”

“Why such surprise and indignation?” He examined his fingernails, his ringed fingers, slender and effeminate. “If the particularity of it bothers your sensibilities, I can uncover a general plot.” He brushed a sooty flake from his new mantle. “One emanating from the Jews in Spain, exact perpetrator unknown.”

“No less scurrilous, sir, to charge a whole people wrongfully.”

“Wrongfully? Jews? Not possible, I should think. Surely, Kathryn, you are not a Jew lover! That would be a dangerous affinity indeed.” He scowled a warning against further protests. “What does it matter if they're blamed for one more crime? They are known to spread plague; they poison our wells; they steal the king's wealth; they even sacrifice our youth at Eastertide in mock Crucifixion.”

He was referring to the nefarious charge of blood libel, never proved, often cited. And now there would be added to their burden of allegations the brutal murder of priests.

“The addition of the priest's murder would be a mere fly riding on a cart of dung. Think about it, Kathryn.” He smoothed a gold thread on his surcoat. “What choice do you have?”

What choice, indeed? She had known it would come to this, but had not thought that he would mount such a frontal assault or that he would catch her when her defenses were so down. She was too tired to think. Her meeting with Alfred had offered such hope, and now that was dashed, too.

He stood up, and reaching for her hand, brought it to his mouth. His lips scarcely touched her, but her skin crawled.

She stood up too, and drew herself up to her full height. She was almost at eye level with him. “And you, sir, what do you gain from such an alliance?” she asked.

“You named it already. I admire your lands. There is only one fiefdom between your holding and mine.”

She was surprised. She had not known his lands were as vast as that, though Roderick had spoken more than once and warily of the sheriff's ambition.