“Only once. And I wasn’t sure. I mean, I was asleep. It was that day I was taken ill. About three weeks ago. Lady Kathryn made me some tea, remember, and I took to my bed. I awoke from a deep sleep. I thought I heard a clanging noise, and then footfalls, heavy footfalls, then a door slamming. The curtain was open.”
She paused as though she was re-creating the scene in her mind. He waited, nodding encouragement, watching her as she fiddled with the filigree cross he’d given her on her sixth birthday, telling her it had belonged to her mother, telling her to wear it always, thinking it would protect her—not from the devil but from as great an evil.
“I couldn’t see anything, but I got up and went to your worktable. Your paint pots were all over the floor. I ran to the door and looked out into the hallway. I saw Alfred, at least it looked like Alfred from the back—tall, broad-shouldered, red hair. I called out to him, but he just stalked away. I felt dizzy, so I went back to bed. When I awoke, the pots were all neatly put away, so I thought that maybe the seed tea Lady Kathryn gave me had made me dream the whole thing. But now I’m thinking it was no dream and that Glynis came in and cleaned up while I slept.”
Alfred? What possible reason could Alfred have to plant the pearls? Unless he was doing the bidding of his mother. But surely Kathryn was not angry enough or frightened enough of him that she would try to rid herself of him by accusing him of thievery. What to do next? Should he return the pearls, confront her with Alfred’s activity or her treachery? To do so would put a quietus to their already troubled relationship. And what if he was wrong? He would have created an unbreachable gulf between them.
There was a false bottom in the small traveling chest that he kept with him. That was where he kept the Wycliffe papers. He would hide the necklace there until he could think what to do. He must not act in haste. Tomorrow would be time enough.
Agnes was sorting through the last of the Norfolk biffins, the little red apples that John had loved so much, when Magda left to take the nuncheon trays. The old cook breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Holy Virgin for the girl. She was not a great talker, but she was a goodly companion, anxious to please, and one of the few folk Agnes knew that didn’t have to be told what to do. Simple she might seem. Simple she was not. The girl had a mind of her own.
The smell of the apples was musty and cidery, overripe. Agnes placed one in her pocket, for later, an offering to be placed on John’s grave, when she had time to visit. But that would not be today—nor tomorrow, from the looks of things. The apples should have been brought up from the cellar long before now. Some of them had already gone to rot. So much work to be done, especially with the approaching Yule season. It made her feet hurt and her back ache just to think about it. But ’twould not be as bad as when Sir Roderick was alive, she reckoned. Lady Kathryn would not be expected to entertain so lavishly. She was, after all, still in mourning: Sir Roderick had only been killed in the spring of this year. (Fighting for the Duke was what was said. Agnes had her doubts about that pretty story. More like, he met his death brawling over a woman.) But mourning or not, there would still have to be the usual day of open house for the servants and the crofters, and for the yeomen who served the manor on a paid basis. The board would have to be laid in the great hall with souse and smoked fish, and saffron cakes and mince pies, and of course the little dried biffins.
Such as that was nothing she couldn’t handle herself with a little extra help from the village at Aylsham. Not like last Christmas, when Sir Roderick had entertained the duke of Lancaster. Her kitchen had been invaded by hordes of men, barking orders and preening in their green-and-scarlet livery, grinding their pride against one another like knives on whetstone. There had been a prancing caterer in charge of all the brewers and bakers and yeomen of the buttery and pantry and ewer, as well as the two spit boys, who had been hired to roast an ox and a boar and five suckling pigs.
“I’ll not be humiliated before the duke with a woman ruling Blacking-ham’s kitchen,” Sir Roderick had said. “The fat old cow can confine herself to a corner and cook my lady’s dainty morsels.”
It had been a part of Lady Kathryn’s marriage contract that she would eat no food except that prepared by Agnes. A smart move that was, for many a noble bride had been poisoned for her dowry, especially after producing an heir. Surprisingly enough, most of the time Sir Roderick had been content to have Agnes cook his food, too, and brew his ale without even so much as an extra serving boy; content, too, to be served with the extra hands she could hire, usually women’s hands, in exchange for food. Why would he not fear poisoning? She herself had been tempted more than once to flavor his hunter’s sauce with nightshade. Was he so sure of his lady’s loyalty? Or was it just another token of his arrogance that he considered himself too strong to be brought down by women? Mayhap, having Agnes run Blackingham’s kitchens allowed more money for gaming and sport? Except before his noble friends. No. There, he must play the great lord, leaving Agnes responsible for everything, but in charge of nothing.
Sighing for the waste, she pitched two apples into the slop bucket for the pigs. Another she put aside in a growing mound. With the rotten patches cut away, half could be saved and mashed for pies. The firm unmarked ones she cored and placed on a heavy oaken plank, to be pressed with a weight and dried whole in a cooling oven. She looked over her shoulder when she heard Magda returning with the nuncheon tray. The cook pursed her mouth into a frown at the sight of the still-full bowl of pottage.
“Wholesome victuals wasted when the road to Aylsham is full of beggar-women who’d trade a day’s labor for something to warm their children’s bellies.”
“The girl dinna eat,” Magda said.
Agnes harrumphed. “Well, I’d be surprised if ’twas the Welshman’s empty bowl. Nothing wrong with his appetite. Come to think of it, that Rose has been looking peaky lately.” She crossed herself. “God help us she’s not carryin’ the plague. Ye canna be too careful with foreigners.”
Agnes had lost a father, mother, and three older brothers to the plague thirty years ago, but it seemed like only yesterday that the corpse carts came calling, “Bring out your dead.” She’d been spared, the only one left alive in her family, because she was in service at Blackingham. That devastation had been brought by foreigners, too. Some said ’twere a group of traveling players; others said ’twere an old Jew what brought the scourge in his carpetbags. For a long time after, there’d been a ban on troubadours, and the old Jew and his family had been burned out, fleeing only with their lives and the clothes on their backs.
“No p-plague,” Magda said, stingy as always with her words. “She is with child.”
“The illuminator’s daughter? Don’t be foolish. The girl is a virgin, sure. It’s the way of gentlefolk, child. Their women don’t go around beddin’ the first barnyard lout that comes at ’em with a stiff—”
The girl was staring at her with large round eyes, gray, serene, like a deep cistern of clear water.
Agnes continued, “What I mean to say is she’s had no opportunity.” She flung another apple into the slop bucket. “That father of hers watches her like a broody hen.” She gathered the pile of salvageable biffins into her apron and transferred them to a chopping block, then began to whack away the rotten parts. “Why ever would ye say such a thing?”
“But ’tis true. Her soul has split.”
“What nonsense you talk, child.”
“Her soul is two colors. Like Mum’s, before she births.”
What a thing to say! To claim that a soul could be seen, like a hat or a cloak. Two colors, indeed!
“Rose’s soul is p-pink.” A wistfulness softened the girl’s face, making it almost pretty, Agnes thought. “The wee one’s soul is like b-butter, all warm and melting around the edges.”
Melting around the edges! Still and true, there were more things under heaven than could ever be explained. Mayhap, Magda had a gift. Or a curse.
“Don’t ever say that to anybody else, ye hear me, child?” Agne
s said in her sternest voice. “Women have been burnt for such careless talk. Whatever it is ye think ye’ve seen, keep it to yerself. ’Tis probably nothin’ save yer own silly imagination.”
That was all. The product of a child’s imagination. Girls on the cusp of womanhood were known to harbor all sorts of fanciful notions.
Magda picked up the knife laid down by Agnes and began chopping the half-rotten apples. Sighing, Agnes reached for the knife.
“Here, I’ll finish the apples. You go fetch the laundress. Tell her I need to see her right away.”
Kathryn awoke and threw back her bedcovers. She took no notice of the cold stone flags against her bare feet as she pulled her shift over her head, stepped into her skirts, and scavenged in her clothing chest for stockings. Glynis scarcely had time to pour water into her basin before Kathryn splashed her face.
“Just run a comb through it, Glynis, and leave it loose. I’ll wear a cap. I’ve no time for elaborate braids.” She snatched the comb out of the girl’s hand. “You’re too slow. Here, I’ll do it. You run to the kitchen and tell Agnes to prepare a basket of victuals for the tanner’s wife. Tell her I’ll need it right away.”
“Run” was not a word the girl understood, Kathryn thought as the maid ambled to the door with a sullen expression on her face. No good to chasten her; it would just slow her further. And today Kathryn was in a hurry. There were the household matters to see to, a charitable visit to be paid to a sick tenant—she must not neglect good works, especially now, with so much to atone for—and then she would seek out Finn in his chamber.
Kathryn called to the maid’s back, “Come right back. My boots need tending to. They’re caked with mud up to the ankles.”
Yesterday, she had made her confession. Alone, she’d trekked the two miles to Saint Michael’s in the mud and the wind—more penance that way than riding her palfrey—sought out the curate, and told him in the fewest words possible of the sin of carnality (that had been the priest’s term, not hers) between Finn and herself. She’d chosen her confessor carefully, confident of his discretion. After all, it had been the tithe from the sale of Blackingham wool that built Saint Michael’s. The priest would be reluctant to betray so generous a benefactress over a venial sin.
Her penance had been light enough: twenty Aves and ten Paternosters, followed by an act of contrition—hence the basket of food for the tanner’s wife. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been told to crawl to Walshingham Shrine on her knees in the dead of winter to kiss the relic of the holy cross. She knew that nothing short of the flames of hell licking at her hem would kill her desire. She feared that even in purgatory she might seek her lover’s company and follow him, if such should be his punishment, to the very gates of hell. Would she follow him inside those gates? That was a question she hoped to avoid, though if ever there was a passion worthy of a soul’s peril, this was one.
It had been three weeks since she’d sent Finn from her bed, and each time that she’d passed him on the stairs or in the courtyard, she’d seen the question in his eyes; and when she could give no answer, she’d felt the chill growing deeper between them. It wasn’t just lust—though she could not quench that fire with prayers no matter how hard she tried. It was his whole self: his easy laugh, his wit, his understanding, the way he seemed to read her thoughts. Each time she saw him now, the cloak of intimacy they’d shared seemed to stretch more threadbare, and the mantle of aching loneliness settled more solidly on her shoulders. When she could bear the loss no longer, she had gone to the priest seeking absolution—and not just for past sins but for those she was bound to commit in the future.
She had confessed to the sin of fornication and nothing else. Not to consorting with one who’d consorted with a Jew. But was not the Saviour Himself a Jew? And would He not take offense that she should spurn one so like Himself? And if our Lord extended His perfect grace even to the Jews, would it not be a sin for her to do less?
And she was entitled to some happiness.
Upon entering the kitchen, Kathryn went straight to the breadboard, cut herself a slice and, placing it on a toasting fork, approached the cook fire.
“Let Magda do that, milady,” Agnes said, looking up from the basket she was filling. “Ye should not have to break yer fast by gettin’ yer own victuals. I was about to fix a tray, but I stopped to do your bidding. Glynis said you—”
“I’ll toast it myself. Like old times, Agnes. Remember when I was but a chit of a girl? You were quick enough then, to hand me a crust and a fork.”
“But ye be mistress now. And it’s not fittin’ for ye to toast yer own bread.”
Agnes nodded at the kitchen girl, who tentatively reached for the fork and turned it carefully, browning the bread evenly. When it was golden and crusty, Magda smeared it with currant jam and presented it to Kathryn on a clean napkin. Kathryn noticed that her hands were clean, too.
“This girl turned out very well, didn’t she, Agnes?”
“Well enough.”
Kathryn chewed the toast in silence and considered the particularly taciturn response from a woman whom she’d never known to be parsimonious with words.
“Are you out of sorts today, Agnes? If you’re not well, maybe we can hire the smithy’s wife to come in, and you can take a rest.”
But not too long a rest, Kathryn was thinking. Not too long, at a penny a day.
Agnes glanced over her shoulder, jerking her head sideways, indicating the door. “Go out to the smokehouse, Magda, cut a rasher of bacon,” she said as she placed a crusty loaf of black bread in the alms basket.
“Two rashers,” Kathryn said. Good works. Atonement for sins past. Sins yet to come. “And cut them thick.”
A blast of cold air stirred the ashes on the hearth as the girl shut the heavy oaken door behind her. Agnes chewed on her upper lip. Kathryn chewed on her toast. Finally, Agnes spoke.
“I’m not ailin’, milady. But I do ’ave somewhat on my mind.”
Kathryn drummed her fingers impatiently on the handle of the alms basket. “If you have a problem, Agnes, tell me about it. If it’s about the poll tax, you need not worry. I’ve already decided I’ll pay your tax. It’s only fair. You are a good and loyal servant.”
“Ye’re kind, too good to me, milady, and grateful I am fer it. But it not be about the taxes.” She pushed the basket aside to wait for the last offering, the bacon from the smokehouse. “Ye know I’m not one to carry tales … gossip being the devil’s tongue and all, but… “ Agnes wiped her hands on her apron, fluttered her hands nervously.
“If it’s something I need to know, then it’s not gossip, Agnes. Tell me.”
Kathryn swallowed the last bit of toast, licked the sweet crumbs from her fingertips. Probably some squabble between the yeomen and the serfs. Rancor was always breaking out over wages paid the former. But maybe whatever it was this time, Simpson could handle it.
“It’s about the illuminator’s daughter,” Agnes said. “She’s been finicky lately, and yesterday she sent back her victuals.”
Kathryn felt herself relax.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Agnes. She was ill, but I think she’s better now.” Poor Agnes, every snotty nose was a herald of the plague. She had an unreasoning fear of the black death. “You know young girls. Probably the vapors. Or maybe Eve’s curse.”
Agnes pursed her lips, shook her head. “Nay, milady. ’Tis not Eve’s curse. The laundress says she’s had no bloody linen from the girl in three months.”
Kathryn poured herself a beaker of ewe’s milk. “The girl may not be regular in her courses. Some are not in the beginning. You know how gossip spreads among the—”
“Aye, I do. That’s why I questioned the laundress meself. Regular as the sun sets for three months and then nothing.”
“Are you suggesting … ?”
“I’m only saying what the laundress says. I thought you should know.” There was the sound of the door scraping open, and Agnes took the smoked bacon from the g
irl, wrapped it in a clean linen rag, and placed it in the basket. Kathryn picked up the basket and nodded to Agnes.
“This is information best kept between us for now.”
“Aye, milady. Ye have no reason to doubt my loyalty.” And then, to Kathryn’s retreating back: “Give my good wishes to the tanner’s wife. Tell her to try the marrowbone broth in the bottle. It’ll strengthen her.”
Once outside Agnes’s discerning eye, Kathryn paused on the other side of the door, leaning for support, hugging the alms basket to her, conjuring an image of Rose, teasing with her father or with Colin, the enchanting smile that reached to her eyes. Was there a woman’s knowledge in those flashing eyes? No. Rose was an innocent. She’d bet a bale of wool on it. There had to be some other explanation. After all, hadn’t that been why she’d sent Alfred away? At least she thought he’d stayed away. But what if he’d been meeting the girl all along? Meeting her in secret places? “Ask that son of yours,” Simpson had said when the wool house burned.
Holy Mother of God.
Kathryn found Rose alone in Finn’s chamber, so engrossed in her work that she didn’t even look up. The door was half open to let in extra light from the passageway that joined the master’s bedchamber with the garderobe and smaller rooms. Kathryn stepped across the threshold with only the slightest rustle of her slippers against the stone.
Rose sat on a high stool at one end of the desk. She leaned slightly forward, her mouth pressed in a pout of concentration, her hand moving swiftly across pages spread in front of her. Kathryn recognized Finn’s sure, light strokes, but executed by his daughter’s dainty hand, made to appear even daintier by puffed sleeves and beribboned cuffs. The girl looked as cosseted as any Norman lady. She wore a gold brocade skirt and matching bodice that flattened her bosom until it rose in two gentle swells above the square neckline, a virginal promise of a woman’s fuller cleavage. A shirt of fine French lawn matched white horizontal inserts banding the skirt. A flowing scarf of the same finely woven linen covered her head and played peekaboo with her dark hair. Elegant dress for an artisan’s daughter. Elegant dress for a Jewess. And there was the cross she always wore. She said her father gave it to her, a gift from her mother. A cross from a Jewess? Or a clever ruse by Finn, a Christian talisman to protect his daughter?
The Illuminator Page 21
