“You’d better dress, Kathryn. Rose and Colin will be returning soon.” He was already at his worktable, the lined vellum spread out before him, its text transcribed in Rose’s careful calligraphy.
“It will be a while. I saw Colin leaving with his lute. I asked him where he was going. He said he was giving lessons to Rose. As a surprise for you.”
“So that’s where they disappear every day.” He wiped his brush on a rag and dipped it again. “Well, I’ll try to remember to be surprised.” He paused, trying to think how best to say this next. “I thought I saw Alfred talking to Rose the other day. Something about his manner seemed too familiar.” He waited for her to read his thoughts, to reassure him, but she just looked at him, waiting for him to go on. “She’s my daughter, you understand, Kathryn. I want to protect her from … “ The pleading tone in his voice made him vulnerable, he knew. But he trusted her; he would not hide his softness from her.
“I understand.” She bent to kiss him on the neck. “A child is a rare treasure, a gift from God, to be protected above all else.” Then she nibbled on his ear and whispered. “I’ll speak to Alfred.”
Undone, he laid down his brush.
SEVEN
Grete houses make not men holy, and only by holynesse is God wel served.
—JOHN WYCLIFFE
Bishop Henry Despenser paid little heed to the intricate carving in the Stone above the portal of Norwich Cathedral. It depicted a number of unfortunate souls roped together, dragged by devils toward a flaming cauldron while angels led only a few redeemed innocents in the opposite direction. Though this graphic reminder of the damnation awaiting sinners was not placed there for the benefit of the gatekeepers of Paradise like himself, nevertheless, had Bishop Despenser been less young, less arrogant—and more innocent—this sermon in stone might have occasioned some introspection into the state of his own soul.
But his concern was more for this world than the next. And right now he was concerned with the unsolved murder of Father Ignatius, a circumstance that was becoming an embarrassment.
The slap of his leather soles against the flint pavement scarcely disturbed the silence hovering beneath the graceful Norman arches of the cathedral’s south side ambulatory. It wasn’t that Henry was unimpressed by the grandeur around him. The great timber ribs of the vaulted roof spanning out like the skeleton of some mythical leviathan, then soaring ever upward; the paintings, the rood screens, the treasury of silver and gold plate: the sheer power and wealth of it all impressed him greatly.
Indeed, Henry’s God dwelt here. But he was no humble Galilean carpenter. The bishop’s God was the cathedral itself. And like all false gods, it demanded human sacrifice and ceaseless service. Not Henry’s sacrifice—though, if asked, on some days, he might have said he’d rather be fighting the French, rather be wearing hauberk and helm into battle than the gold pectoral cross with its ruby-encrusted Christ—but the sacrifices of an army of stonemasons and carpenters, many of whom died before their work was done, only to be replaced by their sons and their grandsons and their apprentices. Some had labored for five decades to build the great cathedral and labored still to replace the timbered spire, damaged by a gale a quarter century past. The slapping of mortar, polishing of stone, the hissing of the carpenter’s plane was as much a part of the cathedral sounds as the plainsong of the monks who lived in its priory.
To Bishop Despenser, the great stone edifice, gleaming golden in the sun, was a hymn of praise to human creativity, a paean to ambition, and his own soared as magnificently as the grand vault overhead. But of all the glory that surrounded him, Henry loved best the bishop’s throne behind the high altar. The throne stood in unquestioned dominance over the eastern apse like a Moses Seat reincarnated from some ancient synagogue. It was this throne that sucked Henry’s soul. To rule the cathedral was to rule East Anglia. The thousands of sheep that dotted the fields, the meadows golden with saffron, the fens and rivers teeming with fowl and fish and eels, even the willows and rushes along the streams: all might as well have been deeded to Henry Despenser. For the bishop of Norwich knew that he who has the power to tax has the power to destroy. And what was that if not ownership?
But it was a co-ownership with the king. That rankled. And that—along with the archbishop’s reprimand—accounted for the foulness of his mood on this otherwise fine summer morning. He had just been informed about the king’s new poll tax.
The ermine fringe of his heavy robe slithered behind him, gliding swiftly along the curving walk as he passed a scattering of monks who toiled, copying manuscripts, in the ambulatory that served as scriptorium. He did not pause to peer at their progress or even acknowledge their nervous shuffling of pens and papers. Books held little interest for the bishop even under ordinary circumstances, and today was no ordinary day. It was Friday. Today, the bishop had a special appointment.
He was grateful for the coolness of the cathedral, but even its skin sweated in the summer heat. Moisture stained the joints of the stone walls. It stained also the armpits of the bishop’s fine white linen shirt.
He didn’t enter the nave today, did not approach the chancel, did not genuflect before the golden chalice on the altar. Today, he hurried to the privacy of the rectory, where he could change his shirt and exchange the heavy robe for a shorter surcoat, which he would have worn anyway had he not been meeting with the king’s exchequer and the archbishop. That aging worthy had loudly decried the current laxity of protocol in religious dress. The Council of London had even issued a decree reproaching clerics who wore clothing “fit rather for knights than for clerics.” He’d complained that they frequented the rich clothiers of Colgate Street—where Henry bought his own fine lawn shirts—and strutted about “like peacocks.” But the bishop was not about to give up his lawful right to ostentation. He was, after all, noble born and rather vain of his shapely calves. Still, in deference to his superior, he had donned the heavy robe of which he divested himself with relief as soon as he gained the privacy of his chamber.
Stripping away his stained shirt, he shouted for his ancient chamberlain. Old Seth, who was dozing in the corner, woke with a start, blinking open rheumy eyes with a questioning gaze, and then scurried forward, “beggin’ his lordship’s pardon” and presenting his master with a fresh shirt and doublet. Henry handed him the robe, and the old man began to brush it vigorously. Too vigorously. Henry knew the old dresser worried about being replaced with a younger man. But he need not have. Seth might be old and slow, but the bishop knew that he was loyal. And loyalty counted for everything in these perfidious times.
“Has Your Eminence had any dinner?”
“The archbishop fed us on oysters and fish stew with fritters and cherry conserve.” He frowned and let out a loud belch. “My stomach rolls in protest. I fear the oysters may have been overripe. But you may bring me a beaker of wine. And then you may retire for the afternoon. I’m expecting a visitor.”
Henry never even noticed as the old man bowed out of his presence. Nor did he hear him when he returned a few minutes later. The bishop poured his wine and sat down to think in the hour or so he had before the girl was to appear. Constance always came on Fridays for her confession. He had readily agreed to become her spiritual adviser. She was the daughter of an old friend, and he couldn’t help noticing the firmness of her thighs and the way her young breasts thrust forward, begging to be squeezed.
But today, he almost wished she weren’t coming. The heat and the archbishop’s lecture about the laxity of morals among the clergy had dampened his ardor. The pompous old fool had gone to great pains to remind Henry of the scandal just four years ago, when ten priests in Norwich had been accused of unchaste behavior, one of them with two women. It had been all Henry could do to keep his tongue quiet. He suspected the archbishop kept his own mistress and knew he suffered the bishop of London to maintain a profitable and convenient brothel. Still, he wondered, had word of his Friday-afternoon adventures leaked beyond these walls? Not likely. Bu
t there had been no mistaking the warning in his voice.
About the murder of Father Ignatius, the archbishop had been more direct. “What news have you concerning the priest’s murder?” had been the greeting as he extended his ring for Henry to kiss.
“We have not yet found the culprit.”
“Try harder. This crime cannot be allowed to go unpunished. See to it.” See to it. Just like that. See to it. Didn’t Henry have enough worries with raising money for his campaign to unseat the Avignon antipope? And now this new tax. Only so much juice in a turnip. The murdered priest was a loss to him, too; he had been the best at separating women from their treasures. He had been going to or coming from such a mission in Aylsham when he met his demise at Blackingham. That was it. The sheriff had said he questioned the lady of the manor there. Mayhap he should question her more closely. He would send for Sir Guy in the morning. Pass that hot coal on down the line.
Bishop Despenser sipped his wine. The cathedral bell tolled nones: three o’clock, three hours before vespers. His stomach was more settled now. The wine and the thought of Constance’s cool white hands stroking him comforted him. Just once he’d like to spend himself inside her. Not have to withdraw. But that way lay risk and ruin. That had been what occasioned the scandal with the priests. Two of the women had turned up pregnant. Stupid. Irresponsible. A grievous sin. He would exercise his usual control, and still he’d have full measure of his pleasure.
“The Virgin approves,” he had assured Constance, the first time she reluctantly came to him. He had held her chin with his right hand, forcing her to look in his eyes. “In offering yourself to God’s servant, you offer yourself to God.” After that, she had been compliant, if not enthusiastic. But her lack of enthusiasm didn’t really bother him. If truth be told, it rather added to his pleasure, affirming his power over her.
The girl should be here any minute. He could already feel her warm, firm flesh pressed against him, the touch of her skin, smooth and alive beneath his exploring hands, like the carvings in the chancel. Nothing like a little harmless romp, a little amour, on a summer afternoon to make a man forget his troubles. He sipped his wine, rolled it around on his tongue. The French should stick to what they did best and leave the pope to Rome.
Sir Guy noticed gray smoke in the distance as he rode the twelve miles north from Norwich to Aylsham. A grass fire, he thought, started by some careless crofter burning off his field in the too-dry October air. Sir Guy had a sister at court, who complained of London’s gray skies and dreary rain, but in East Anglia summer refused to give way. Each day had been hotter and brighter than the one before, and what few clouds appeared overhead scattered like washed fleeces of white wool. He was grateful for the breeze, never mind that it fanned the fire on the distant horizon. It cooled his skin beneath his leather doublet as well as his horse, which he rode hard.
Officially, he was on business for the crown, unofficially for the bishop. Jurisdiction was unclear in the case of the dead priest. Since the victim was the bishop’s legate and ordained by the Church, the investigation could be carried out by the Church, but since the crime was committed on crown lands, it was decided that the investigation should fall to the sheriff. A sorry business. The world would hardly miss another greedy churchman, so why all the fuss? But the bishop had let him know that the murderer had to be brought to justice and it was the sheriff’s job to do it, and sooner rather than later.
“The Church has been insulted and the king’s law officer can’t find time to catch the murderer? How hard can it be to ask a few questions, seek out a motive?” Henry Despenser had sneered when he delivered the slur. “You have the nose for it. Use that beak of yours to snoop out some answers.”
Impertinent upstart. Ordering Sir Guy de Fontaigne about like a Saxon clod. Demanding he question Lady Kathryn of Blackingham. Still, maybe he could turn the bishop’s suspicions to his advantage. He doubted Lady Kathryn was capable of murder, but there was something amiss there—the way her back had stiffened and her lips tightened when she denied having seen the priest the day they discovered the body. If she felt sufficiently threatened, she might reconsider her cold behavior toward him. If he handled the questioning just right, she might even welcome him as her protector.
His horse jerked to the right and stamped, threatening to rear its forelegs. The air carried a definite acrid odor. The dull smear on the northern edge of the sky had darkened and the color of the clouds on the horizon had changed from white to gray, more tethered to earth than sky. This was no grass fire. It lay off to his right, in the direction of Bacton Wood, northeast of Aylsham. If the wood caught fire, it might imperil Broomholm Abbey and burn miles of virgin forest, even threaten his favorite preserve for hunting stag and wild boar. He jerked the horse’s reins, digging his heels into its side. The thickening air argued that the fire was closer than Bacton Wood, closer even than Aylsham. It could be a crofter’s cottage or one of the several hovels scattered across the fields used for storing grain and carts or even a shepherd’s hut. But that billowing smoke was more than just a shed. Indeed, as he neared his destination, he concluded that the source of the conflagration might well be Blackingham itself. Sir Guy spurred his recalcitrant horse hard in the direction of the smoke. He had an interest there, too.
EIGHT
Lully, lulley, hilly, lulley
The jawcon [falcon, i.e., death] hath born my mak [mate] away.
—FROM AN EARLY 15TH-CENTURY LYRIC
On the day the wool shed burned, Lady Kathryn was busy putting out other fires. She had just come from a confrontation with Alfred, who was complaining bitterly about being ostracized to “the shearing pens.” She put him off for two more weeks, urging him to stay until the harvest accounting and the rent receipts were collected, “to keep Simpson honest.” Also, there was still a pack of wool left to be sold to the Flanders merchant— 240 pounds, not sheared but pulled to make the finest thread—that she was holding to exact a better price when the market was no longer glutted.
“In just two months your father’s title will pass to you,” she’d said and promised a birthday feast worthy of a young lord.
She missed him, missed his easy laughter, his wit, his restless energy; but she dreaded having him move back in. Finn would not be happy about it either. She’d promised him she would keep Alfred away from Rose. But Alfred was her son. Finn would just have to keep a closer eye on his daughter, prohibit the closeness he’d allowed between Colin and Rose. She’d seen them working together to prepare Finn’s manuscripts and playing tag in the garden, their laughter floating up to the window where she watched. Colin was always too serious and contemplative, so Kathryn had been pleased at his friendship with the girl. But once or twice she thought she’d seen a look pass between them that suggested something else, some more private, less innocent, knowledge. She’d even mentioned it to Finn. He’d told her to put it out of her mind. They were just friends, just children who knew nothing of the ways of the world. But Alfred? Finn was not so trusting of Alfred.
Merely thinking about Finn made Kathryn long for him. He had left for Broomholm Abbey three days ago with his completed pages wrapped securely in his saddlebags. She did not expect him back until tomorrow. She’d slept alone for two nights, and she missed his body wrapping her like a shawl, his breath warming her neck. Simply having him near gave her an odd sense of comfort. The heat inside her that had sometimes boiled over had settled into a pool of temperate calm. The headaches were better, too. She hadn’t had a recurrence in weeks. Until today.
She had become a wanton woman, though, strictly speaking, they’d not committed adultery—Finn had pointed that out after that first time they’d lain together, the first time he’d unbound her hair and kissed her neck, the first time he’d caressed her breasts with the same graceful hands that brushed color into the sacred texts. His Rebekka was long since dead, he’d argued, as was Roderick. Even the Church acknowledged the needs of the body—it’s not a mortal sin; it’s easily ex
punged by a few Paternosters. Then he’d kissed her forehead and cupped his hand under her chin, tipping her face upward to look at his own. Their union was more, he’d said, than the appeasement of animal appetites; it was a spiritual union. It must be, had to be, sanctioned by God. And he’d called upon their shared joy as witness.
She’d pushed her guilt aside and taken his assurance as a sop for her conscience. He had become her confessor. Only he could take away her guilt. But now, in his absence, guilt revisited. The Virgin frowned on fornication, Kathryn was sure. Not that she’d communicated with her lately—without a priest to watch, she no longer even prayed at vespers, and too often, at matins she was otherwise engaged.
And she’d been careless in other ways. Although her woman’s curse was irregular—heavy bleeding and then nothing for months—she suspected she was still fertile. And she had not cared. She’d even daydreamed about having his baby, had looked at his beautiful Rose and coveted a daughter of her own. A love child, born outside of marriage, shunned, a subject of pity and scorn. Holy Mother, she had been very, very foolish. Yet, knowing this, still she missed Finn, longed for his return.
After her confrontation with her oldest son, she had felt the old familiar tightening in her face, the sharp picklike pain piercing beneath her cheekbone. She’d lost her temper with him, shouted at him, called him irresponsible like his father. She would have to seek him out again, tell him she was sorry. She would make it up to him at his birthday. But now, she wanted a cool drink. She went to the kitchen in search of Agnes.
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