The Illuminator (65 page)

He shouted for his horse and battle gear whilst he penned a hasty but polite note in which he claimed he'd prayed day and night for her recovery. Being overjoyed that his prayers had been answered, he was now prepared to publish the banns for their marriage. Upon his return, he would wait upon her for the purpose of settling upon a nuptial contract.

On his way south to Essex, the sheriff detoured into Norwich and stopped in Colgate Street to order a gown for Kathryn and a wedding surcoat for himself. “Don't forget to embroider upon mine the Order of the Garter,” he told the fawning clothier. For Kathryn he chose a plum-colored brocade shot with silver. The little Flemish merchant bobbed his approval. It was an expensive gown, but it would help him to press his suit. And if she did not recover, she'd wear it in her crypt. In any case he'd get the land he wanted. He already owned her oldest son.

Colin was on his way back home. He needed to get back to his mother. She had recovered, but she still was not strong. He had kept his promise to her; he had made the rounds of the crofters to see that all had sufficient means to pay the poll tax. She was determined to pay the taxes herself, she said, rather than have them deprived of their last farthing. “I'll consider it my tithe,” she said. “It is as well to give it to them to buy off a warring king than to let a warring bishop get his jeweled fingers on it.”

It was not a sentiment with which he could argue, but it made him
uncomfortable. It was one thing for him to harangue against the corruption of the Church from the relative safety of his poor friar's garb, quite another for a noble widow to withhold her tithe in protest. But he'd agreed to survey the crofters for her and assured her he would see that none of their children went hungry to pay the king's tax. He was approaching the Aylsham cross when he heard the loud angry voices.

His first inclination was to make a wide path around the bunch of ruffians and whatever poor soul they were tormenting, but he remembered the good Samaritan. What kind of Christian would he be not to intervene? So he approached the knot of men, burly laborers, by the look of them, seven or eight in number, and, from the sound of them, fortified with much ale. They held one of the cathedral brothers, arms pinned behind his back, in the middle of a tight circle. One of them, the tanner, Colin recognized. He'd bought parchment hides off him once for the illuminator. But even if Colin hadn't recognized him, the reek of him announced his trade. He smelled of the excrement used in the curing process, which apparently he'd been collecting in the large sack at his feet. The tanner had hold of the monk's cowl with one hand and was rubbing a dark, redolent substance on the poor monk's tonsure with his other hand. Colin wrinkled his nose in disgust. The monk squirmed in outraged protest. The other men laughed. A look of disbelief crossed the monk's face and then veered into pain as the men tightened their grip.

Colin stepped into the circle. “Let him go.”

The tanner looked up in surprise. “You want some of the same, lad? Just a little unholy anointing for the
brother
here. If you're thinkin' that priest's garb is going to protect you, well … ”

A stocky fellow grabbed Colin and pulled his hood back. The tanner stopped short, waved his hand. “Wait. I know who you are. You're one of the sons from Blackingham.”

“From Blackingham! Nobility. You hear that, lads?”

“No. Wait,” the tanner said. “He's one of them Lollards. He's a poor priest.”

“No such thing as a poor priest. You said he was nobility.” But he let go of Colin, though he was still so close, Colin could feel his scruffy beard on his neck and smell his rotting teeth.

“He preaches against the Church. Like John Ball and Wycliffe. He's one of us.”

“If he ate today, he ain't one of us.” The man growled, but he backed off sufficiently for Colin to see the hard ridges of the squint lines around his eyes.

Colin squared his shoulders, tried to marshal his dignity. “What is the monk's offense, Master Tanner, that he should be so ill-treated? Our Lord said—”

“Our Lord said something about stealing. If he didn't, the Commandments did. This
brother
is a thief. He took hides for the scriptorium to use for parchment and now he says the bishop will not pay. Says it can be my tithe. Well, I'm going to tithe this, too.” And he indicated the sack of animal dung at his feet.

“It's not his fault.” What was the tanner's name—Tim, Tom? “It's his bishop's.”

“Well, the bishop ain't here, is he?” the stocky one said.

Colin had him marked for the ringleader. But he spoke to the wronged tanner. “Exactly. So let the monk go, Tom, before this all goes too far. As good as your revenge feels, it'll not get you payment for your hides. It might get you a whipping, though.” He gestured toward a band of armed riders bearing down on the crossroad. On the front rider's shield Colin could make out the crest of Henry Despenser. “It might even get you worse than whipping.”

The stout one with the scruffy beard saw the approaching riders at about the same time. “It's the bishop's men. Run.”

The men scattered, like rats in a grain bin, toward a nearby hedgerow.

The monk ran, too, but in the other direction, toward the horsemen. He gained their attention. They reined in their horses. From where he stood, Colin could not hear his words, but the monk began gesticulating wildly.

Three of the riders dismounted and headed into the thicket. Two got off and strode toward him. He started toward them, closing the gap between in a gesture of friendliness.

One of the soldiers drew his long-sword as he strode forward, his boots stirring up little swirls of dust. Colin recognized the menace in his face, recognized it but didn't understand it. He was on the monk's side. He opened his mouth to explain. “No harm has come to the—”

The cold blade entered his belly before he could finish his sentence. It went in clean. With one hard upward thrust, it cleaved his heart. The words forming on his lips died in a hiss and froth of blood.

Colin's last thought was that he could not keep his promise to his mother.

“But he wasn't one of them,” the brother protested. “You killed an innocent man.”

“No matter. Just one more rabble-rousing priest for His Eminence,” the swordsman said.

He kicked the body into the ditch at the side of the road.

The bishop had just come from celebrating the mass. It was June
II
, the Feast of Saint Barnabas, and there had been precious few in attendance. He thought he knew why. Attendance at the obligatory feast days was slipping. No respect for the holiest days. That's what all this talk of equality and English Scriptures was leading to. Some even talked openly—not to him; they'd not dare, but he'd heard reports—that there'd be no need to come to mass if they could go directly to God. Every man his own priest! Every cowherd, dung collector, scullery maid, general dogsbody handling the Holy Word. The very idea of it made the bile back up in his throat.

As he strode into his chamber, he flung the sacred vestments and robe at the chamberlain, Old Seth, who stood dozing in the corner, hitting him in the face and almost toppling his frail frame. Fresh from his Latin homily, Despenser swore at the old man in the same language,
“Fimus, fimus, fimus,”
and then, realizing that his servant understood his condemning tone but not the words—though he wouldn't stoop to
shite
in the peasant Saxon tongue— continued his harangue in Norman French so that Old Seth might receive the full benefit. “You piece of dog dung, I don't know why I put up with your slovenly ways. Sloth's a sin, you know.” He stabbed his finger at the air beneath his servant's nose. “That kind of sin can send you straight to hell.” The old man's French was good enough for him to understand. Despenser noted with satisfaction how he cringed as he shuffled off in agitation. “Fetch my riding tunic and side arm.”

The idea had come to him as he stalked across the cathedral close from the ill-attended mass. There were other tasks he could perform for his Church that required more than holy words and pectoral crosses. But he removed the cross reluctantly, his fingers lingering on its gem-encrusted crossarm. It was too heavy for a mission such as this. Better suited for a cleric's silk robe than the chain mail he slipped over his lawn shirt.

“Now my rapier. And hurry, if you don't want the back of my hand.” His hand flexed with wanting to act out what his words threatened. Save it for the rebels, his reason cautioned. This was the life he was suited for, and this rebellion against Holy Church was all the reason he needed. The word had come that a rebel army led by a miscreant named Wat Tyler had actually entered London and set fire to John of Gaunt's palace. Like a dog biting its own tail. He'd have to say the duke got what he deserved, no love lost there. Lancaster should've known better than to encourage Wycliffe. Lie down with pigs, you'll get up smelling like one. The Church would be next. They'd go after the bishop's palace and the abbeys. No good to rely on that incompetent sheriff and his green squires. Despenser had already sent out a cadre of soldiers, but he'd get more and this time he'd ride with them.

He clamped his rapier on with its new buckle, tested the fastener, satisfying himself that it would hold in a fight. Interesting invention. Wonder why somebody hadn't thought of it sooner. He'd purchased it months ago, but now was his first chance to use it. He could feel his blood coursing. He hadn't felt this alive in weeks. He'd show the king's soldiers how to put down this rabble skirmish. Good practice for taking on the French pope.

He knelt briefly, genuflecting perfunctorily before the cross. Then, for good luck, he kissed the crucifix hanging above his chamber altar. His sword clanged against the stone floor. He liked the sound of it. They called him the warring bishop, complained that his men had already killed a handful of rebels and a Lollard priest. Well, he'd show them a warring bishop.

When he was done, there'd be no rebel man, woman, or child left standing in East Anglia.
Expugno, exsequor, eradico:
capture, execute, destroy.

When Magda returned to the Blackingham kitchen from her weekly visit to her family, she was troubled. Her mum had whispered to her as she kissed her good-bye, “Tell milady to look to the safety of her house.” Magda hadn't really needed the warning. She felt danger all around her, tasted it on her tongue, and if she needed real evidence, she had heard it with her own ears. People were careless around her because she was simple.

Once, when she was serving ale to her father's visitors, she'd overheard him talking with some rough men she'd never seen before. In a fit of rare hospitality her father had offered them drink. A man named Geoffrey Litster was
telling them to arm themselves, telling them they should burn the monks' houses, and the royal palaces, even the manor houses. Magda had never seen a royal palace or a monk's house. Maybe they were homes for evildoers like the Litster man said. But manor houses? Wasn't Lady Kathryn's house called Blackingham Manor? Maybe they only meant the manor houses of evil people. But still she shivered when she thought of burning. She remembered the wool house, and the shepherd with his flesh melted into black soot.