She watched with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension his obvious struggle to curb his temper. It rankled that she needed this odious man, but she had none with whom to replace him.
“I do not mean to be unreasonable in this matter,” she continued. “If you wish to choose one of the crofters’ wives, and if she is agreeable to working for you, then I will pay her a small wage as an addendum to your salary. That is the best I can do. I will expect to see the child returned within the hour.” She leveled her gaze at him and lowered her voice, enunciating each word carefully, lest he misconstrue her peace offering as weakness. “In the same condition as when she left her mother’s hearth.”
“As you wish, milady.” He lowered his head sufficiently so that she could not see his eyes and, giving a token bow, backed away.
“We aren’t finished. There’s one more thing. There is a shortfall in last quarter’s accounting of the wool receipts.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her. She watched surprise, then resentment, register in his face. He closed his eyes briefly in a pose of remembering.
“Perhaps milady has forgotten the foot rot in the spring. We lost several sheep.”
“Foot rot?” She scanned the ledger that she’d brought with her from last quarter’s accounting. “I see no expense in the accounting for tar.”
The steward shifted on his feet. “The shepherd did not report in time for us to buy the tar to treat the feet of the afflicted beasts I—”
“You are the steward. It was your responsibility, not John’s. Anyway, you should have had enough tar on hand to treat a minor infestation. How many sheep did we lose?”
Simpson shifted his hulking frame and his left hand twitched. “Eight… ten head.”
Kathryn stiffened her spine. “Which is it, Simpson? Eight or ten?”
The steward clenched and unclenched his left hand several times, then mumbled, “Ten.”
250 pounds of wool lost! 250 pounds she’d been counting on.
She looked down, pretending to be occupied with binding the fasteners on the account book, but continued to watch him from beneath lowered eyelids.
“Well, at least you harvested some of the wool from the dead sheep.”
A sly look chased surprise across his features before he answered. “Unfortunately not, milady. We weighted the carcasses and threw them in the marsh. To keep the rest of the herd from being contaminated.”
She raised her head and met his gaze levelly. “How very judicious of you. Who knows how contaminated the pelts would have been from the foot disease.”
It was fortunate for the steward that at just that moment the sound of horses’ hooves interrupted his interrogation. But the look Lady Kathryn shot in his direction, as she went into the courtyard to greet the arrivals, was clearly meant to say the matter was merely postponed.
The visitors were just coming to a stop in the courtyard. Kathryn squinted into the sunlight. She recognized only Brother Joseph from the abbey. A young girl of about sixteen rode on the back of a donkey being led by a tall man with an angular face. For a moment it was as though an apparition, a holy vision of the Virgin riding into Bethlehem, had graced her courtyard. But clearly this girl carried no child. Even the chaste cut of her dark blue kirtle revealed her slender form. Her dress was simple but of excellent cut and cloth. Kathryn’s own weavers produced none so finely woven. The girl’s only ornament was an exquisitely worked brooch of intertwining knotwork with a tiny pearl-encrusted cross at its center, which she stroked nervously with thin, pale fingers. The pendant hung from a crimson cord around her neck. A matching cord circled a gossamer veil covering hair black and shiny as a raven’s neck. She had an exotic look: large almond eyes in an oval-shaped face, features so perfect they seemed to be chiseled in marble, and skin more olive than cream. Not the plain lump of a maid Kathryn had been hoping for. And she carried herself with a dignity that, like her dress, was far above her station.
That must be the father walking beside her, leading the donkey, watching its every step with sea-green eyes. He was tall, not brawny, sinewy in build. He leaned in toward the daughter protectively. He was clean-shaven and hatless, and Kathryn noticed his gray hair was thinning slightly at the crown. His tunic was knee-length, a light pale linen of good weave and spotless, its only adornment the small dagger hanging from a leather belt that girdled his waist loosely. Father and daughter could have been a tableau from a Christmas mystery play staged by the Mercer’s Guild.
As he helped his daughter to dismount, Kathryn stepped forward to greet them. He smelled of Saracen’s soap and some unfamiliar, subtle scent, linseed oil, perhaps. The hand that reached for his daughter’s was narrow in the palm, with long, graceful fingers, and though the nails were carefully manicured, a hint of ocher-colored pigment clung to the cuticle of his right forefinger. He looked fastidious. She hoped he was not going to be a demanding guest.
Brother Joseph spoke first. “I’ve brought your guests,” he said, taking her hand. “But I fear that we—”
A cadre of mounted men clattered into the courtyard in a cloud of summer dust, drowning out his words. Surely it did not take so many men—one of whom she recognized as the sheriff—to escort one man and his daughter to their lodgings.
“Sir Guy,” she said, acknowledging the newcomer, “it has been too long.”
He had been a frequent visitor when Roderick was alive. With their falcons, they’d hunted together for sport in the meadows around Aylsham, and sometimes, with their bows, for wild game in Bacton Wood. He had not darkened her door since her husband’s death. She was not happy to see him now.
He leaned down from his horse and raised her hand to his lips. “Indeed, it has, Lady Kathryn. I offer apologies for my neglect, and now I fear I must confess that this visit is an official one.”
She quickly surveyed the three mounted men behind him, looking for a familiar face as she scanned the courtyard in search of her sons. Had Alfred’s temper involved him in some escapade that would embarrass her, or worse yet, prove costly?
“Official?” She forced a smile.
The sheriff pointed to a horse being led into the courtyard. At first glance it appeared to be riderless, but closer scrutiny showed what looked like a human form wrapped in a blanket and slung across the horse’s back. A summer breeze lifted the edge of the blanket, and Kathryn wrinkled her nose in distaste. Whatever, or whoever, was wrapped inside was very ripe. The horse stamped its feet and whinnied as if wanting to be rid of its noisome burden.
The sheriff motioned to the man who held the horse. “Back him away. That’s not a fit smell for a lady. She doesn’t have to stand that close to identify the body.”
Identify the body! Lady Kathryn felt the ground swirl beneath her. Again, she scanned the courtyard, urgently this time. Alfred! Where was Alfred? And she hadn’t seen Colin since that morning. What if it were Colin! She moved toward the body on the horse, holding one hand against her chest to calm her heart.
Sir Guy must have seen the fear in her eyes; he put out a restraining hand. “I’ve frighted you for naught, Lady Kathryn. ’Tis not young Colin or Alfred. ’Tis only a priest.”
She thought she would faint with relief. The tall stranger standing beside Brother Joseph stepped forward and placed his arm around her to keep her from falling. She leaned for the briefest moment against the illuminator, grateful for the strength of his arm. The feeling passed, and she disengaged, stepping away. He also backed away, a mere half-step, but enough to place an appropriate distance between them.
“Thank you,” she said. “A mother’s foolishness makes me weak.”
The illuminator nodded and gave her a half-smile. “A mother’s love is never foolish, my lady.” His voice sounded like the sifting of river gravel worn smooth by the current. “And my experience has not found it to be weak.”
Sir Guy’s horse stamped and snorted. The sheriff jerked the reins sharply. Having regained strength enough to speak, she addressed hi
m. “A priest, you say, Sir Guy? What has your priest to do with Blackingham?”
He dismounted before answering, and Lady Kathryn motioned for a groomsman. A small knot of servants had gathered around the stable to see what was happening. One of them scuttled forward to hold the sheriff’s horse.
Sir Guy nodded toward the body. “I think he’s the bishop’s legate. And if he is, there’ll be hell to pay. Henry Despenser has set up a great hue and cry looking for him. Says he dispatched him to Blackingham to attend your ladyship several days ago. He was expected back at Norwich by compline on Monday.” He strode back to the horse that carried the body. “We found him in the marsh that borders your lands, his head bashed in.”
He drew back the blanket to reveal the muddied cloth of a Benedictine habit. As he dragged the lifeless monk upright in the saddle for her to see, she recognized, through the bloated features and the dried blood, the black-furred eyebrows. Father Ignatius. She turned her face away in revulsion, a natural-enough response that bought her time. Her mind was spinning now, whirling, leaving her light-headed, forcing her to lean once again on the stranger’s strong arm. What should she say? Admit the priest had been there? Expose her sons to questioning? Bring her fragile status under scrutiny? Had she mentioned to anyone in her household how threatened she felt, how angry she was at the priest’s extortions? Had they guessed? Where was Alfred on that night? Alfred with his father’s fiery temper, his reckless impulses. Had the priest provoked him beyond reason? She breathed deeply, then stood upright once again under her own power.
“I knew him to be the bishop’s legate, but I’ve not seen him in many weeks,” she said. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, but her gaze never wavered. “He must have met with his untimely death on his way to Blackingham.”
FOUR
The world is full of governors of lord’s land and jurisdictions who are intentionally dishonest. Aware of this, the lady (of the manor) must be knowledgeable enough to protect her interest so she cannot be deceived.
—CHRISTINE DE PISAN,
THE BOOK OF THE THREE VIRTUES (1406)
There had simply been no other course but to invite Sir Guy to stay for dinner. She had hoped he would plead the necessity to return the priest’s body to Norwich, but he had merely dispatched his men, telling them he would follow.
Now, as Lady Kathryn sat at table, she listened with half her mind to the small talk going on around her. The other half skittered between the lie she had told and her duties as a hostess. She used those duties to push the implications of that lie aside. Best to deal with them in the calmer light of solitude. And truly, entertaining Sir Guy at the last moment had been challenge enough to keep her preoccupied.
Fortunately, she had instructed her cook, Agnes, to prepare a more elaborate meal than usual for her new lodgers and Brother Joseph. She had not planned to dine in the great hall, thinking that her lodgers could be led to settle for a tray in their new quarters—best to set that precedent—while she ate alone with her two sons and Brother Joseph in the solar. But Sir Guy’s presence demanded more, so she had hastily summoned the groomsmen and had the trestles brought in and the board dressed with a silk cloth. Agnes had complained—it was a month until harvest and the larder was depleted—but with characteristic loyalty and cleverness had stretched the simpler fare into something more in line with Kathryn’s unexpected guest’s expectations of hospitality. All this had left her little time to reflect upon the circumstance that had brought him to her door. Now, however, the subject she’d been avoiding surfaced again.
“Whoever the culprit is, the killing of a priest will weigh leaden against his soul,” Sir Guy said as he cut a piece of the larded boar’s head the carver offered. “No respect for holy men. You can blame that on the heretical teaching of the Lollards.”
“Lollards?” Lady Kathryn asked, to keep the conversation going. Not that she cared. She was only half listening, her mind preoccupied with the bloated corpse of Father Ignatius. There was an image she’d like to forget. Fearsome enough in life. More terrible in death.
“A bunch of ragtag self-styled priests, followers of Wycliffe, who go around mumbling heresy. He’s playing a dangerous game. Oxford has already forced him out.”
Suddenly alert and thinking of the damning text she’d found in Roderick’s trunk, Kathryn said, “Thanks to the Virgin, no such poison has found its way to Blackingham,” but she wondered how much Sir Guy knew of her late husband’s alliances.
She motioned to the carver, who placed a double serving of sturgeon on the trencher that Sir Guy, as guest of honor, shared with his hostess. She had scavenged from her impoverished cellar a small leathern bottle of wine, which the butler poured into the silver cup they also shared and from which she took only tiny, pretend sips lest the bottle be emptied before Sir Guy drank his fill. The butler poured ale in pewter mugs for the others who sat at table with them. Colin and Brother Joseph sat next to Sir Guy on Kathryn’s right. The illuminator, Alfred, and the illuminator’s daughter sat to her left.
Brother Joseph, obviously inflamed by the very name of Wycliffe, leaned his tonsured head in front of Colin so that he could address Sir Guy. “They say the heretic Wycliffe even dares question the Miracle of the Mass. Calls the transubstantiation of the Host a superstition!” His voice cracked with outrage on the last word. “The University will force him out, and what’s more, it’s rumored among the brotherhood that since the king is dead and unable to come to his support, the archbishop is about to bring him up again on charges of heresy.” He stabbed at the air with his knife as though it were Wycliffe’s heart. “He’ll hang, if he’s not careful. Though I’d rather see him burn.”
The heretofore gentle-mannered monk smiled smugly, as though he would take delight in torching the fire himself. Lady Kathryn could almost see the flames reflected in the little black pupils of his eyes. She felt her throat close as she chewed unsuccessfully on a bit of pheasant pie. Her father had taken her to a burning once, as a girl, and she’d never forgotten the terror in the eyes of the woman who’d been charged with witchcraft. As the bailiff lit the faggots and the smoke billowed up, Kathryn had cried and hid her face in her father’s sleeve. But that had not shut out the stench of the charring flesh.
Tiny beads of perspiration popped out around her hairline. She dabbed at them with her silk handkerchief. The long twilight had not dispelled the July heat. Moisture formed in between her breasts, and the linen of her shift clung to her skin, sticky and damp. Odors from the kitchen fires, smoke from dripping fat and roasting meat drifted in through the open windows of the great hall, mingling with the sweat of Sir Guy, whose day in the saddle lingered in his clothing. Was it her imagination, or did his scent also carry a hint of the dead priest’s putrefaction?
She should have offered her guest at least a change of linen, but she had been too absorbed with stretching the small repast. If the sheriff stayed the night, and he probably would—even a man of Sir Guy’s prowess with arms would be hesitant to ride the twelve miles back to Norwich through wood and marshland during the black of night—she would have to drag out Roderick’s smallclothes.
Suddenly, she became aware of silence around her, an awkward, intrusive silence.
“What did you say, sir?” The sheriff, his posture taut, leaned across her, gazing intently at the illuminator.
“Not sir. Just Finn. My name is Finn. I am an artisan, not a member of your noble estate.”
There was an archness in his tone just short of sarcasm. His voice had the same smooth-gravel quality that she remembered from earlier in the day, when he had kept her from falling, only now the edge was honed.
“I said, ‘He’ll never burn.’ Wycliffe will never burn. And he’ll not hang. He has too many friends in high places.”
“He’d better beware lest he be perceived as having too many friends in low places.” The sheriff laughed as he split the back of a partridge with his knife before spearing it and raising it to his mouth.
&nbs
p; “Ah, I take your meaning,” Finn said slowly and without raising his voice. “But high and low may not necessarily make strange bedfellows. I suspect, if you listen closely, you may hear the devil laugh at many a papal edict.”
Brother Joseph gasped.
Kathryn had to stop this line of talk before it got out of hand. As she clapped her hands for the carver to reappear, she looked askance at this newcomer. She hoped he was not going to bring more controversy at a time when she was trying so desperately to cleanse her household from any stain of un-orthodoxy.
“Please, kind sirs, no more talk of burnings. It is not comely conversation at table. You should not misconstrue the words of my guest, Sir Guy. He’s not the humble artisan he proclaims himself to be. He, too, has friends in high places. He’s an illuminator of great renown, here on business for the abbot. Perhaps he only seeks to draw you out for the sake of conversation. Here, try some of the smoked herring with murrey sauce.”
She motioned for the butler to squeeze a few more drops from the leathern bottle as the carver ladled a generous portion of the fish swimming in its red mulberry sauce onto Sir Guy’s side of the trencher. She placed her hand over her own side to decline, shaking her head. “Give my portion to Brother Joseph, I find the heat has destroyed my appetite.”
Smiling, Brother Joseph eyed the generous portion before him, his shock at the illuminator’s heretical words forgotten in anticipation. “My lady’s loss is my gain,” he said. “I’ll see it does not go to waste.”
As if anything were ever wasted at Blackingham, she thought. The servers with hungry mouths at home would see to that, as he well knew. Still, it was amusing to watch the monk’s exceeding pleasure. His little round belly testified that he did not consider gluttony the deadliest sin.
“By the by, milady, I’ve brought you something from our apothecary for your headaches,” he said between mouthfuls, “ground peony root with oil of roses.” He reached inside the deep pockets of his habit and produced a small blue phial.
The Illuminator Page 5
