The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Half-Tom didn’t understand the meaning of “theology.” Why would a bishop visit a prisoner—unless it was to question him? A sense of dread settled over Half-Tom’s shoulders like a monk’s hood. He’d heard stories, horrible stories, about racks and pulleys and spiked cages and brandings. He must be crazy to meddle in such. But he owed the man. At least the illuminator was being kept aboveground, way aboveground, judging by the number of steps they had climbed.

  The constable came back shortly, motioning with his head for Half-Tom to enter the room at the end of the hall. There was no iron door there, and the wooden door stood open to the hall. “Just bang on the grille here when you’re ready to leave. There’s a guard at the bottom of the stair.”

  Half-Tom almost cried with relief as he peeked over the threshold. The room was clean, warm, furnished with a bed and a worktable, and filled with afternoon light pouring through the high window onto the worktable. He recognized Finn immediately, thinner and more stooped than he remembered. But it was Finn, sitting at his worktable, brush in hand, as though he were not imprisoned at all.

  Half-Tom cleared his throat. The illuminator looked up and smiled broadly.

  “Half-Tom! Old friend, come in.” Finn got up stiffly. “Are you a sight for these sore old eyes! Have you news from Blackingham? Come in. Here, take my chair. I’ll stand.” He dragged the chair closer to the small coal fire, wincing as he did. “Lady Kathryn has sent you. I can tell by the livery.”

  Half-Tom squirmed, then laughed self-consciously. “Uniform is just a ruse. I tried to get in to see you before and couldn’t, so I borrowed the uniform. With a little help.”

  “Oh, I thought…”

  There was a haggard, gaunt look in his eyes, disappointment in his face.

  “But I’m going back to Blackingham. They’ve asked for a report.”

  Finn smiled weakly as if to say he knew Half-Tom was only being kind. “My daughter? Is she well?”

  “I have not heard otherwise. Except I’m sure she misses her father.” He sat on the floor, careful of his new livery. “You take the chair. Where does the bishop sit when he visits?”

  “The bishop brings his own chair.”

  “Are you in pain, Master Finn? You favor your side.” Half-Tom was remembering the instruments of torture his imagination had conjured earlier.

  “A little going-away present from Sykes. You remember the blackguard from the Beggar’s Daughter?”

  “I am much in your debt.”

  “You owe me only what debt one friend owes another. But I do have a scheme whereby you can come to my aid.”

  “An escape? I’m for it.”

  “No, old friend, no escape. That’s not possible. But first, let me offer you refreshment. My serving lad brought enough victuals to share, let’s see what’s here.” He removed the cloth from a basket resting on the hearth. A savory odor of beef broth and vegetables filled the room.

  “You have a servant?”

  Finn’s low laugh was filled with bitterness. “My circumstances have much improved in the last two weeks. It seems I am a valued slave.”

  Half-Tom surveyed the worktable—the paint pots and brushes, the tall wooden panel propped in a corner on which a ground of azure had already been laid. “You’re painting for the bishop?”

  “Henry Despenser wants a five-paneled reredos for the cathedral. That altarpiece is the thread that holds my life. I intend to spin it out until it is as fine as the gold wire in a lady’s snood.”

  Half-Tom shook his head, declining the plate of food the illuminator held out to him. How did he know this wasn’t the only hot meal Finn would have for a week?

  “Come on. Eat it. I can have whatever I want. The bishop feeds his pets well.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I frequently pitch the leftovers out the window to feed the fish in the river. I think they are disappointed with the scraps. They keep expecting something warm and living.”

  “River is deeper there. A man might live after such a jump, if he could swim,” Half-Tom offered.

  “I have my daughter to think about,” he said. “I cannot place her in danger. That’s where you come in.”

  “Anything.”

  “If you could just act as messenger between my daughter and me. Assure her that her father is still alive. I’ve a letter for you to take to her.” Something like the closing of a shutter passed across his face. “And one for Lady Kathryn. They’re already written. I’ve been hoping for a messenger I could trust.”

  He rummaged in the chest that held a variety of paints and brushes and brought out two tight rolls of parchment. Half-Tom accepted them, and as he placed them inside his fancy belted tunic, he was gratified to find a small slit in the lining for just such a purpose.

  “They will be delivered today.”

  Finn closed his eyes for just a moment. The muscles in his face relaxed. “There’s more,” he said.

  “You’ve but to say it.”

  “The Wycliffe papers. I’m convinced of the importance of an English translation. God is not something the bishop and his ilk have a right to keep for their exclusive use. See if you can get me a copy of Wycliffe’s Gospel of John and bring it to me—”

  Half-Tom grinned, reached inside his blue tunic and handed Finn a wrapped parcel. It bore an Oxford seal. “Master Wycliffe gave it to me when I delivered your last,” he said.

  “Good. Now I can fill my days with something more worth the while than the bishop’s whimsy. But I can’t afford to have the translations found. My cell is subject to search at any time. So if under the guise of carrying messages to and from Blackingham you could pick up the illuminated text, you won’t have to make the journey to Oxford but once. I’ll make plain copies that you can give to any Lollard priest for dissemination.”

  “Dis ?”

  “Spreading. The priests will give them out so that people can read the Scriptures for themselves.”

  “What if the bishop should surprise you with a visit and find you out?” Half-Tom had a sudden vision of torture racks and pulleys.

  “His servants always precede his coming. But I need to warn you, my friend. This work will be dangerous for anybody connected with it. The bishop is anxious to charge Wycliffe and all his followers with heresy. Wycliffe has the protection of the duke. You do not.”

  “I’ve enough wits to stay out of the bishop’s way,” Half-Tom assured him.

  “I know that to be true. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Aye. And I’ll be back. I promise.” He stood and patted his tunic, feeling for the letters in the lining.

  Finn stood too, and extended his hand.

  “I’ll be waiting, old friend.”

  A blackbird landed on the casement of the window, pecked at a crumb, then took wing. Half-Tom watched Finn watching the bird, and felt his longing for freedom as though it were his own.

  The play wagon was well out of Norwich and on its way to Castle Acre when Colin spotted the contortionist sprinting after them. “Slow down, driver,” someone shouted, and the muscleman held out an arm and swung his partner into the wagon. As he settled himself onto a pile of blankets, he slapped Colin on the knee and told him he’d delivered his message.

  Colin had been trying for a month to get a message to his mother. But the players had found a venue to their liking and tarried. Their schedule was nothing if not flexible.

  “Nice house, lad. Generous, too. But the place was a bit deserted. I had to go to the kitchens to raise anybody. The old cook gave me this.”

  He unfolded an oiled cloth, and Colin recognized the familiar smell of Agnes’s yeasty bread. His throat tightened with longing. He should have delivered the message himself, or better yet, he should have gone home, told his mother he’d changed his mind. But John’s ghost tapped him on the shoulder. He closed his eyes to the vision of the shepherd’s empty, blackened eye sockets, a vision that had not visited him since joining the troupe.

  “Was anyb
ody else in the kitchens?”

  “Just a dwarf on his way out and a pretty little blond maid coming in. She was friendly, too.”

  Glynis. Colin felt his face burn in the darkness of the covered wagon. He knew what “friendly” meant by the jovial, leering way it was delivered. Colin pinched his flesh, hard, to chase the devil’s temptations away, the familiar unwanted stirrings.

  “You left my letter?”

  The wagon rocked and jolted along the rutted road. Someone next to him spilled his beer and shouted, cursing, to the driver to watch out.

  “Aye, lad, I left your letter. Your poor mum is probably crying her heart out right now that her baby boy has run off with a troupe of players. But never you mind. We’ll take good care of you and deliver you to the monks come spring, hale and hearty.”

  “And a whole lot wiser,” one of the party volunteered.

  The band of mummers didn’t seem to mind the cold as they passed around a jug of beer. Colin had never had beer before, only watered wine and ale. No wonder Alfred had been so fond of it. It tasted bitter, but it warmed the belly and made his fellows jovial. From the back of the wagon, someone began to blow on a recorder. Someone else picked up the high sweet notes and started to sing. Colin liked the music. Like the beer, it softened the hard edge of his homesickness.

  Kathryn was alone in the kitchen, where she’d gone to request a physick of Agnes for Rose’s swollen ankles. Finding both the cook and the scullery maid absent, she was preparing it herself when she heard the door open behind her. She whirled around, expecting Agnes. A dwarf, resplendent in Blackingham’s bright, ill-adapted livery, bowed low. The tassel on his peaked cap brushed the floor. “I have a missive for her ladyship.” The dwarf reached in his tunic and held out a rolled fragment of parchment.

  She’d seen the dwarf before. At least once or twice, he’d brought messages to Finn. And she wasn’t really surprised to see him in Blackingham livery. Agnes had explained to her about the missing uniform. Kathryn had not voiced approval, though she was glad enough to hear it. She had made discreet inquiries of the sheriff, who had informed her brusquely that the prisoner was still alive and waiting judgment in Castle Prison. But that had been two weeks ago, an eternity.

  The dwarf coughed as if to remind her he was still there. She took the parchment from him, but did not open it. It bore no official seal. A notice of execution would have a seal, surely. Her whole body trembled. She braced her hips against the table behind her for support. The little man’s peaked cap danced as he fidgeted before the fire—a blue flame jumping among the yellow. Why couldn’t he stand still? Her fingers clutched the parchment in a tight coil. Such a simple task to open it. To read its content. And yet she could not.

  “This is … this is for me?”

  Who else? Unless it was for Rose.

  “Aye, milady. And there’s one for the lady Rose as well.” He reached into his pocket and drew out another roll.

  So. This was it. The word she’d longed for, the word she’d dreaded.

  “From Castle Prison?” The words clotted in the back of her throat.

  “Aye, milady. From Master Finn, hisself.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “That I have. With mine own eyes.”

  “Is he … is he well?”

  “He has endured much these weeks. But he is alive, and his lot is above the common prisoner’s.”

  She realized that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled heavily, then asked, “How does he look?”

  The dwarf paused in his fidgeting, blinked owl eyes at her. “He looks like a man who has endured much.”

  “Are there … are there marks upon his body?”

  “Marks?”

  “Scars, burns?” she asked in a raspy whisper.

  “Nay, milady. He is stiff in the ribs and winces when he walks, but the ribs will mend. Though I’ll be saying he is very thin.”

  “Did he ask … ? Did he ask for his daughter?”

  “Aye, milady. His worry for her causes him much pain. He requests that—”

  The door opened, pushed by a blast of cold air, and Agnes bustled in carrying two headless pigeons in her right hand. Blood dripped from their wrung necks into a bowl that she carried in her left. The scullery maid closed the door behind her, smiled when she saw the dwarf standing in front of the fire. A look passed between them. Kathryn remembered the maid’s role in the purloined uniform. Magda, that was her name. The girl curtsied to her prettily. Kathryn acknowledged her with a nod.

  “Agnes, it seems Blackingham has another groom in its employ. Provide him with refreshment and send word to Simpson to billet him for the night.” Then, to the dwarf: “If you are to wear my livery, I should at least know your name.”

  “I am called Half-Tom.”

  “Well, Half-Tom, it would please me if you would quarter here for the night.” She weighed the parchment in her hands. Its lightness belied the heft of the words within. “The message you have brought may require an answer. I shall consider it in the privacy of my chamber.” She reached for the other parchment “And I shall deliver this to the illuminator’s daughter.”

  She suddenly remembered her errand. “Agnes, the girl is poorly again. Send Magda up with the seed tea as soon as it has steeped.” Then, to Half-Tom: “You will be able to gain access to the illuminator again, is that so? To carry an answer on the morrow?”

  “Aye, milady. Thanks to the badge of your household.”

  When Kathryn reached her chamber, she sat on the bed, clinging to the hangings to quiet her trembling. The two rolled parchments lay beside her on the counterpane. The scroll bound with a blue cord, that was the one the dwarf had said was hers. Rose’s was tied with scarlet. She picked up neither of them. Her hands smoothed, instead, the heavy brocade of one of the bed curtains tied at the four posts with silken ribands. In another time, a happier time, the curtains had been untied to give privacy to its occupants. A great sadness welled up inside her at the memory. “I never thought to find such happiness again,” he’d said, breathing into her hair, his body spooning hers. That had been the first time. She could not bear to remember more.

  With trembling hands she picked up the parchment tied in blue, unrolled it, held it beneath the wall sconce that had been lit against the late-afternoon gloom. The pen stroke, though not so bold as she remembered, was unmistakably his hand: the downward thrust on the vertical lines, the graceful flounce of the capitals. She traced the heading with her fingers, held it briefly against her lips, then, feeling foolish—did she hope to divine its meaning with her lips?—read the words.

  Castle Prison

  2nd Month, Year of Our Lord 1380

  My lady,

  (Was her name so hateful to him that he could not bring himself to write it?)

  I’m writing you in direst straits, wounded by the betrayal of one who was formerly the object of my heart’s most ardent desire.

  (Formerly. He said formerly. She did not want to read more, yet she could not tear her eyes away.)

  Mortally wounded by the dagger of treacherous words, I’m yet forced to endure an existence made hateful by the abandonment of all hope. I shall not offend my lady’s ears with the tedious details of my suffering at the hands of my jailers. Since there has been no inquiry or intervention, no timely protestations of my innocence from the lady of Blackingham, I can only construe her negligence as indifference to my fate, or worse, belief that I am guilty of the crimes of which she bears witness against me. Either is a greater source of pain than any my tormentor could inflict. I have left to me only one reason to cling to this miserable existence. I would not have my child be an orphan. Therefore, I beseech you, Kathryn, in the name of that love which we once shared (here the letters wavered, was it because of her tears or his hand?) that you grant shelter and support to my child until such a time as I may make other arrangements on her behalf. I am not without resources even in these circumstances and will recompense you for her keep.

  I
would ask one other thing of you, yes, even beg it of you in my desperation. I ask that you provide Rose with an escort and a horse so that she may visit me. I must see her with my own eyes and assure her that her father has not abandoned her.

  And then there was only his name like a slash across the paper. No benediction, no term of endearment. Just Finn the Illuminator, scrawled so hard he surely broke the nib of his quill.

  Kathryn rolled the scroll back up, retied the blue riband, laid it down beside its twin. Neither bore a seal. She reread the letter. How it hurt to think that he thought he must pay for Rose’s upkeep. “Is profit all you think about?” he’d asked the last time they were together, the time he’d left silver coins beside her bed, the time she’d sent him away because he’d loved a woman who was a Jew, She smoothed the coverlet with shaking hands. She would not send him from her bed now, not if he’d slept with a thousand Jews.

  She picked up the other scroll, fingered the scarlet cord that bound it. Rose would be sleeping now. Kathryn’s trembling fingers untied the cord, and her eyes devoured the loving endearments with which Finn addressed his daughter. No trace of despair—here were only brave, sweet words of assurance, telling her everything would be all right, asking her to come and see him until he could come for her. He spoke of Spain. Would you like to see Andalusia? Wistful words to pump up his hope and comfort his daughter, or was he planning to go far away, away from Blackingham, away from Kathryn?

  The torchlight above the bed guttered out. Dying light from a late sun barely penetrated the shadowy room. She rolled the letter to Rose inside her own and placed it in her garderobe chest. It would only distress the girl more to know her father was asking for her. She was a strong, willful girl. She might even try to make the twelve-mile journey into Norwich on her own. It would surely cause her to miscarry, and while that might be a blessing, Kathryn could not let anything happen to Finn’s daughter, not while she was in her care. She had enough on her conscience already.

  Kathryn lay down on her bed in the dusk-filled room, pushed back the throbbing pain in her head. On the morrow, she would tell Rose a messenger had come from her father to say that he was well and sent his love and hoped to see her in the spring. She would not mention a letter.