The Illuminator (70 page)

Littera scripta manet
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THE WRITTEN WORD ABIDES
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M
aster Finn. We did all that we could do.”

The prioress at Saint Faith's looked at him with sympathetic eyes. They sat in the small solar where the prioress received visitors. She sat beside him on a plain wooden bench across from a small altar. Finn didn't trust himself to speak. He kept his gaze averted.

“Lady Kathryn did not suffer more than she could bear.” The prioress placed her hand on Finn's shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort. “Thanks to you, she was not burned as badly as we had feared. It was the smoke. Her breath was very labored.”

She paused as if studying her words carefully, as if the saying of them pained her. “She lived through the night.”

When he still said nothing, she added, “You must not blame yourself. You did right to bring her here. It was the will of our Lord.” She opened her mouth as if to say more but did not.

Finally, he was able to look up, his voice gruff with misery. “I want to see her.”

The prioress shook her head. Her wimple settled against her face so that he couldn't see her eyes. “She is being prepared … for her journey. It is best that you remember her as … as you knew her. Before … before the fire. You can do nothing for her now. She belongs to God.”

He tried to conjure such a memory: Kathryn bent over her needlework in the garden, her face half-hidden in the shade of a hawthorne bush; Kathryn rising from his bed, trailing the bed linen behind her like a regal train; Kathryn holding his grandchild, her face glowing with love. He had tried to cling to these pictures, painted them painstakingly on his closed eyelids all through the night as he tossed, wide-eyed and horror-filled, on the straw mat in the priory guest house. He'd rifled the rooms of memory for her image: her face, her smile, the way her eyes softened when she spoke of her sons, the way her hair flowed round her slender neck when he kissed her, the taste of her mouth, the smell of her skin. But demons got inside his head and painted over the tender colors, the beloved forms, swiping furiously with the colors of smoke and fire, replacing all with that last hellish image no mortal's brush stroke could blot out.

She'd seemed so light when he carried her from the burning house that he feared her bones had turned to charcoal. Her hair was gone, even her eyebrows, and her face was dark and sooty. He dared not touch it, lest her skin fall away beneath his fingers. Her eyes were open, the pupils bright and dark like glittering onyx. Her mouth moved and he leaned forward to hear her. “Finn. You've come,” she said as though she'd expected him all along. Then she whispered, “Take me to Saint Faith Priory.”

There had been no one to help him with her. Everything was burning: house, stables, brewery. In the end, he'd ridden with her to the priory, cradling her in his arms like a child. She'd lain so still, he feared she was already dead. He begged her not to die, tried to ask her about the child. But she seemed not to hear. Once, she opened her eyes and spoke.

“I've seen him,” she said. But the words were so soft, he wasn't sure he'd heard aright. And they made no sense.

Now, the prioress tried to spare his feelings, spoke tactfully of “her journey,” but he knew what she meant. The sisters were sewing Kathryn into her shroud. And the prioress was right; it was an image he should forgo. His heart could not bear the weight of one more picture.

“You need not worry,” the prioress assured him. “We will see that she sleeps in a holy place. It was her request that she rest here.”

“Mother, I have no purse to pay for masses. But I will—”

She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “None is necessary. Last night, before—before she went to sleep, she signed her deeds to us. She paid a corrody. She signed Blackingham over to us in return for sanctuary. And though the buildings are gone, the land is ample to see to her needs and fulfill the terms.”

“The terms?”

“She asked that revenues from the land be used for translating the Holy Scripture into English.” She averted her gaze, fingered nervously the beads of her rosary. “And I admit to secretly having some sympathy with this cause. I have read some of Master Wycliffe's writings on the subject. We will do it discreetly, of course. There will be enough left from the rents to care for her body and her soul.”

“You've had no troubles from the rebels?”

She sighed. “We are a poor house, Master Finn. We've nothing to plunder. There's some security in poverty. And news came while you were gone back to Blackingham that Bishop Despenser has already hanged some of the rebels who attacked Saint Mary's College in Cambridge. They'll be afraid to bother us this close to Norwich.”

The mention of the bishop's name penetrated the fog of grief that surrounded him. Should he go back? Turn himself in and offer to fight, gain some revenge by helping put down the rebels? But he'd no fight with them. He'd seen Simpson's body. A fool could figure out that he'd been the one responsible for the destruction at Blackingham. Other torches might have lit the fire, but his was the flint that set the spark. The whole world had gone mad. Where did a sane man's allegiance lie in such a time?

The prioress was talking again. He tried to concentrate on her words. She was his last connection to Kathryn.

“When you went back, did you find anyone else alive?” she asked.

“Nothing could be alive inside that hell. The roof had already collapsed. The house was a smoldering ember.”

The prioress crossed herself. “You did not find your granddaughter, then. I'm sorry. But all may not be lost. Lady Kathryn said before … last night, she said to tell you to seek the child among Buckingham's crofters.”

A tiny sliver of hope pricked his heart.

“She said she thought the child was alive. She gave her to a scullery maid
to hide. Lady Kathryn said to tell you that Jasmine would be waiting for her grandfather to come for her.”

“Is that all? Did she say anything else?”

“I'm afraid not. She was very weak.”

Which maid? He was trying hard to remember the kitchen girl. Was she the quiet one who came to the prison with Kathryn and the babe?

“There was one other thing, now that I remember. When she signed for her corrody, I asked if she had any heirs.”

“She does. She has two sons. Though I saw neither of them. Blacking-ham was apparently defenseless when it was attacked.”

“She says her sons are dead. I asked her how she could be sure and she said a mother knows. We will say masses for their souls.”

“There was another, a faithful servant who may have died in the fire. She was a good woman. I think Kathryn would want a mass said for her soul as well.”

“We will abide by Lady Kathryn's wishes,” the prioress said, getting up. “You may stay in the guest house as long as you like, Master Finn,” she said. “I will pray for you that you will find your granddaughter. And that you will find our Lord's peace.”

It was kindly put, but it was a dismissal. Finn stood up too. He thanked her for her concern and started to leave, then turned back. He reached inside his shirt and removed a pendant on a leather string from around his neck. “Mother, would you place this in her hand, bury it with her? It was given me once by a holy woman. As a kind of promise, a token of faith. I have no other remembrance to leave with her.”

“I can think of no greater talisman to leave with a loved one than one worn close to the heart. It is better than gold.”

The heavy oak door to the priory scraped closed behind him with all the finality of stone rolling across the opening of a tomb. The sun was struggling to break through the morning mist, the air already laden with June heat. In the distance, the booming call of a bittern nesting among the reeds sounded like a muffled foghorn.

Finn searched for hours. He called on every crofter, peered into every weaver's hut between Blackingham and Aylsham. No mother had seen a
child other than her own, each assured him with frightened eyes, hugging her little ones to her skirts when she heard his tale. If any had, would she have given his granddaughter up? Or would she hide the child from him out of fear of retribution? He could read anxiety in their eyes. Some of them must have guessed their menfolk had gone too far this time. Hungry for news, one or two made inquiry. Had he heard the bishop's soldiers were cutting down rebels? Had he heard the king had granted amnesty?

Finn answered them all curtly. He was too numb to care. His horse was almost as weary as he was, but he could not bring himself to go back to the priory guest house. Kathryn was too near there, sleeping in her linen shroud. He could ride toward Yarmouth Harbor, take ship to Flanders. Even a penniless artist could make ends meet there. Or he could return to his cell, to his paint pots, and throw himself on the bishop's mercy.

Maybe he would be lucky and Despenser would never even know he'd left. The prioress had said the bishop was in Cambridge putting down the rebellion. Unprecedented, in his memory, for a man of the Church to strap on a sword. But somehow it did not surprise him. He shuddered at the thought of the endless games of chess, the future commissions for paintings for which he had no heart. He would grow old and feeble in his cell like a hermit. His eyes would dim with the years, and when he became useless to the bishop, then what? Would they turn him out to beg in the streets or execute him for a crime long forgotten? Either way, he didn't much care.

In the end, he turned his horse back toward Norwich, to the only home he'd known these last two years.

It was almost dusk. There was an alehouse that he remembered just outside the town walls. He had a powerful thirst and not a penny to his name, but what alewife would not trade a pint for a flattering sketch? He hardly noticed the small party coming toward him—a woman and two small children. One of the children pointed at him excitedly. Or at his horse? He remembered he was riding the dead constable's mare. Better to give them a wide berth. He dug his heels into the mare's side and averted his gaze.

And then he heard his name.

“Master Finn, please, Master Finn.”

Finn reined in his horse and looked down. He had mistaken the dwarf for a child. It was his old friend and a young woman. And one child.

“Thank God it's you, Master Finn. I could hardly believe it. I feared you
were dead. I was that scared when they said the rebels had attacked the prison, killed the constable. On our way to the fens, we were, Magda and me. And the babe. We lost hope of finding you. Thank God you stopped, Master Finn, thank God.”

But Finn wasn't listening. He was looking at the blond child squirming in the girl's arms. It was Jasmine. It was his granddaughter. His arms twitched with wanting to grab her, yet he could not make the motion. He could do nothing but stare at her from the back of his horse. And she stared back at him out of cornflower-blue eyes, Colin's eyes. Her mouth was pretty, wide and bow-shaped. Kathryn's mouth. Her soft baby's skin was more cream than pink. Like Rose. Like Rebekka. It hurt to look and yet he could not turn away.

“My Magda saved the child from the fire. She hid her in the bee tree.”

“Your Magda?”

“Aye. Mine. She says she'll marry with me.” Then the swagger died from Tom's voice, as though he knew it was not right that he should display his happiness in so near sight of Finn's grief. “Now that milady is … now that milady doesn't need her.”

“And the child?”

“We thought that you should know.” The dwarf blushed crimson.

Finn did not respond.

“I mean to say, there's some talk that you … well, that you might want, that because of… ”

“You've heard correctly, Tom. She is my grandchild. And you could have done me no greater service than to bring her to me.” He turned to Magda. “And you, Mistress Magda, to keep her safe.”

The girl curtsied shyly but said nothing. She cut her gaze at Half-Tom.

Finn continued, “I am a poor prisoner. I have nothing but the clothes on my back, but if there is anything I can do to repay—”

“ 'Tis but an old debt discharged. And happy 1 am to have it off my shoulders.”

The dwarf nodded in the direction of the stone cottage not far from where they were standing. For the first time, Finn recognized where they were. The first time he'd seen Half-Tom, the wounded child, the dead pig had been just a few yards beyond where they now stood. How sure of himself he'd been then, knowing what to do, shouting directions, riding fiercely into town on his borrowed horse with the bleeding child in his arms like
some chivalrous knight out of an overwrought tale. But the child had died. And Rose. And Kathryn. That had been another man. That was an eternity ago. He looked down now at another blond child.

She reached out her arms to him. He could not take her. He had searched frantically to find her. But he had not thought beyond finding her.