The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Closing her eyes, she lay in the dark until Glynis knocked on the door— minutes? hours?—later, bringing her supper.

  The maid replaced the rushlight in the burnt-out torch and relit it from the sputtering coals in the grate. “I’ve a message fer ye, too,” she said, taking a piece of folded paper from her pocket.

  Kathryn sat up, pushed back her hair, its greasy strands feeling unfamiliar beneath her fingers. “Give me the message. Not the food.”

  “ ’Twas brought by a right comely lad. Said he was from a band of players from Colchester.”

  “Agnes sent them away, I hope. We’ve no need for mummers or merrymakers.”

  She unfolded the paper—it was stained and frayed and smelled of sweat.

  “Will there be anything else, milady?”

  “Tell Cook to send the dwarf messenger away in the morning. I’ve no message to send with him.”

  What was there to say? She knew he had not killed the priest, but she knew, too, that even if she thought he had, she would not have given him over except for her fear for Alfred. Nothing had changed. She would not see her son’s red curls on the headsman’s block. Not even in the name of justice. Besides, there was not enough evidence to convict Finn. “Above the common prisoner,” that’s what the dwarf had said. Already Finn had friends. He was smart. He would survive. Alfred might not. He was the heir apparent to a property coveted by both crown and Church.

  If only Alfred would come and declare his innocence—but Sir Guy had sent him off with a contingent of his yeomen to train for the bishop’s dream of holy war against the French pope. “If the fighting really starts, I can recall him.” Guy de Fontaigne had dangled this promise like a plum to ingratiate himself—or to show his power over her. Nothing came free with the sheriff. She would not beg favors of him. Not yet.

  Glynis picked up the tray, asking as she backed out the door, “Shall I come back to tend ye before bed?”

  “Not tonight.”

  The girl could not suppress a smile, Kathryn noticed, envying her the energy with which she flounced out of the room, already making plans, no doubt, to spend her free evening in the arms of some snot-nosed groom. Kathryn envied her that anticipation, too.

  When Glynis had gone, Kathryn turned her attention to the letter. Colin’s handwriting! She read its contents hungrily, then, letting it fall from her hand, rested her head in her hands. Here was something else to worry about.

  She had assumed Colin was safe in the bosom of the Benedictines. But it seemed she was to be denied even this small comfort. Her youngest son was cavorting around the winter landscape with a band of profligate mummers— a sheep frolicking among wolves—while the seed that he had planted in Rose’s womb grew into his child. But at least he was safe from bodily harm, though heaven only knew what harm might come to his immortal soul in such company.

  A coal shifted among the sluggish embers, emitting a sigh into the chilly air. She turned her face to the wall and gave in to the pain in her head. It was no more than she deserved.

  TWENTY

  The mother may suffer her child to fall sometimes, and to be distressed in different ways, for its own profit … And though, possibly, an earthly mother may suffer her child to perish, our heavenly Mother Jesus can never suffer us who are His children to perish.

  —JULIAN OF NORWICH, DIVINE REVELATIONS

  Weeks passed before Kathryn gathered enough courage to make the twelve-mile journey to Castle Prison. She had lain awake each night, rifling the drawers of her mind, searching for words to explain. She’d come up empty. But she owed Finn at least the assurance that she would take care of Rose and an explanation of why his daughter could not come to him. What that explanation was going to be she was not sure. But if she could just see him, if he could look in her eyes, mayhap he would read there the love that she still had for him. Mayhap not. But having tried, mayhap she could sleep again.

  Twice, she had bound her hair in its golden snood, put on her fur-trimmed cloak and mounted her palfrey. Twice, she had ridden the three miles into Aylsham. Twice, she had turned back, her groomsman following at a respectful distance.

  But today dawned clear and brittle as the ice that would stay on the mill pond until March. No wintry clouds threatened on the horizon. Her mare could easily pick its away among the frozen ridges in the road. Her attention was not required in the brewery, the kitchens, the pantry, or the cellars, and she had settled the crofters’ accounts with Simpson yesterday. Her bag of excuses was empty.

  When she reached the Aylsham cross, she spurred her heels into the horse’s side and headed its nose toward Norwich. Her cloak spread out in a train covering the horse’s flank. The furred edge of her hood rippled in the wind, but she welcomed the biting cold of the wind that stung her eyes to tears.

  The groomsman reined in his horse at the Aylsham cross in expectation. When his mistress did not turn back, he sighed and tugging his jerkin tighter, spurred his mount to a gallop.

  Finn stood at the high window and gazed out, resting his eyes from the close work. He should be working on the bishop’s panel, instead of Wycliffe’s text, because tomorrow was Friday. The bishop always came on Fridays. Finn actually looked forward to these inspections. To a lonely man, even the devil was welcome company. The only other soul he’d seen, except for his jailers and the half-wit who served him, was Half-Tom. He’d seen the dwarf twice since his first visit. Once when he’d returned from Blackingham bringing no message and once when he’d come to pick up the finished Wycliffe text.

  The shallow winding river below curved flat and frozen, like a blue-white highway, on the winter-blasted landscape, a highway he could not ride any more than a bird could ride upon a cloud. He could barely see the outside end of the bridge that led across the river and into the prison. The bridge was empty except for a lone rider, a woman, followed close behind by a groomsman. Fresh tracks in the snow marked their progress to the bridge. His painter’s eye noted how brightly the blue and silver of the groom’s uniform contrasted with the white background. Blue and silver. Blackingham livery! Rose! At last! He moved to the far right edge of the window, trying to see more of the bridge, but the woman had already passed out of sight.

  He hurried across the threshold of his chamber, down the crooked stair to the grille at the bottom. Calm down, he told himself. There are many houses with blue livery, and the slash of silver could have been a trick of the light.

  He scraped the bars with his pewter tankard. “Send my lackey,” he yelled in the direction of the guardroom. “My chamber is cold. My daughter is coming. I need hot coals and some warm cider. Two cups.”

  The day serjeant came out, buttoning his breeches and mumbling. “Keep yer shirt on. A man can’t even take a piss without being harassed. What do you think this is? A bleedin’ inn?”

  Finn didn’t stay to listen to his grumbles but called over his shoulder, “Her name is Rose. Tell the constable I have permission from the bishop to see her.”

  She would be here any minute, and she would be hungry. It was a long ride. The serving boy would not bring his dinner for at least three more hours, and she would have to leave before then.

  He poked at the barely glowing embers in the grate, then scrounged some biscuits from last night’s supper and some dried fruit. He sprinkled the stale biscuits with a bit of water and a few precious grains of cane sugar, wrapped them in parchment, then placed them on the hearth to warm. The dried fruit he arranged on a plate and placed on the small table in front of the fire. He sat down to wait, jumped up to find his comb, ran it hurriedly through his hair and beard. Did he have a clean shirt?

  “I have come to see the prisoner Finn,” Kathryn said with as much authority as she could muster. “I am Lady Blackingham.”

  Handing the reins to her groom, she dismounted in front of the castle keep. The guard stuck his head inside the door, mumbled some words she could not hear. A man wearing a short-sword strapped at his waist appeared. He looked surprised, even a little flu
stered; he bowed slightly. “My lady, we were not expecting you.”

  “Well, of course you were not expecting me. Finn the illuminator is here, is he not? ”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “You do allow visitors?”

  “We sometimes allow visitors, even female visitors.” He shot the guard a warning look at the sound of a snicker. “But it’s a little unusual for a lady—”

  “The sheriff was a friend of my husband, the late Lord Blackingham. I was assured I would be able to see the prisoner.” Not exactly a lie.

  “I will need to check. Perhaps, if you could come back—”

  “Can you not see that I am near to frozen? This is no afternoon ride to the hunt. Sir Guy will not be pleased that you have inconvenienced the widow of his friend.”

  He sighed wearily. “I shall take you to him.”

  He picked up a large ring of keys and led her across the courtyard, paused at the foot of a sharply curving stairway where another guard lounged in a small anteroom. The door at the foot of the stairs was a network of iron bars. It scraped against the stone floor as the constable unlocked it. Kathryn flinched.

  “Is the door at the top unlocked?” the constable asked the guard.

  “Aye. His highness was just down here banging on the grille.”

  The constable motioned for Kathryn to go before him.

  “Please,” she said, “I prefer to see Master Finn alone.”

  She smiled, touching him on the sleeve, but she was never any good at playing the coquette. He hesitated. She reached into the velvet reticule hanging at her waist, fished out a silver coin and discreetly pressed it into his hand. Her throat was dry as she said, “I assure you I will be safe enough. I wish to speak to Master Finn about private matters.”

  The constable shrugged and motioned for her to go up. “It’s quite a climb. Just come back down and bang on the grate when you’re finished.” He started to leave, then turned back, causing her to fear he might have changed his mind. “If you will stop by the castle keep when you leave, I have something that I think might be of interest to you.”

  He gave her a cursory bow, then she heard the key turning in the lock behind her. Her mind was so distracted at the thought of her encounter that she didn’t even pause to wonder what it was the constable might want.

  Finn was poking at the fire, trying to stir it with a quill—they would not allow him anything sharper or heavier—when he heard light footsteps behind him. He dropped the quill into the fire. It burst into a bright line of flame. Turning, he saw the cloaked and hooded figure standing in the door, silhouetted against the light. He rushed forward and folded her in his arms.

  “My sweet darling,” he said. “At last. If you could but know how much your father—“ He felt her stiffen. He withdrew, held her out at arm’s length, laughing. “I’m sorry if I squeezed the breath from you, it’s just—”

  She pushed back the furred hood, framing her face.

  “Kathryn!”

  Not Rose after all. Disappointment first, then elation, but he would not acknowledge any joy the sight of her brought. He pushed it down into the black pit of his heart where it drowned in her treachery. How beautiful she was to him, still, standing there haughty as ever, her back ramrod-straight, her skin rosy and her eyes bright from the cold. He hated himself for noticing.

  “I thought you were Rose,” he said. It sounded flat, like words spoken into dead air.

  “So I concluded from the warmth of your embrace.”

  “Where is Rose? Why did she not come with you?” Fear ambushed him. He reminded himself to breathe. “Is she ill?”

  “Don’t worry, Finn. Rose is well. I am taking care of her. May I come in?” “The highborn lady of Blackingham is not afraid to enter the cell of a thief and a murderer? Left your jewelry at home, I hope. Aren’t you afraid I might bash in your skull just as I crushed the skull of that dead priest?”

  She stood rigid as a statue, looking at him with unbearable sadness in her face, her upper lip caught in her teeth so tightly he expected drops of blood to ooze from the lips that he, even now, wanted to kiss. How perverse must be his nature that he would find her still alluring.

  “I know you to be neither thief nor murderer,” she said. “I know you to be a good man.” Her face was gaunt and there were shadows beneath her eyes.

  “Tell that to your friend the sheriff,” he said, turning away, feeling empty. Without her in his direct gaze, the hate—and the desire—drained away.

  “May I have permission to enter?” Her words were softly spoken, laden with breath.

  “What permission a condemned man can give.” He stepped back and she crossed the threshold but stopped abruptly, the color fleeing from her face.

  “What do you mean, ‘condemned’?”

  “Condemned to this.” He waved his arms to indicate his surroundings. She looked around, her eyes lingering on his cot, his worktable. “I imagined worse,” she said.

  “It was worse,” he said. “But I’ve struck a coward’s bargain. I have become the bishop’s slave.” His hand brushed the air above his worktable with a contemptuous sweep, hovered over the partially painted panel of the Assumption propped beneath the window. “In return for this bauble to decorate his altar, I’m allowed a pale imitation of life.”

  She touched the painting reverently. “It is no bauble. It’s beautiful,” she said. “As beautiful as all your work.”

  Odd how gratifying these words were, how important her good opinion was to him. He shrugged. “It keeps the noose from my neck.”

  She shivered at the word “noose,” and that was gratifying too.

  “I’m sorry if you find my chamber cold. It often is.” Bastard, he thought. Trying to make her pity you more. “My manners appear as lacking as my circumstances. Please, my lady, sit.” He indicated the lone chair. “Churlish of me to stand in your elevated presence, but there is only the one chair.”

  “Finn, don’t, please.”

  He looked away from her, out the window to a patch of brittle sky with its winter-pale sun.

  When he looked back at her, she might have been a figure in a painting. He could paint her thus, seated half in shadow, the light from the fire glazing the blue of her robe, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap, eyes averted, as still and wan as alabaster. Waiting. A woman whose heart was a mystery. Place a baby in her lap and she becomes a Madonna, he thought. Better yet, paint her holding the bloody head of a wounded Christ.

  “Why, Kathryn? I just want to know why?”

  She raised her head but didn’t answer.

  “Was it because you hated what we were together, hated that you had bedded with a man who once loved a Jewess?”

  “You know why, Finn. I had to choose.”

  “And you chose to lie.”

  She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, then opened her eyes, but did not look at him. “Whoever possessed the pearls killed the priest.”

  “So, when my daughter said Alfred planted the pearls in my room, you assumed his guilt and sacrificed me.”

  “I would have given my own life, would give my life to save you, don’t you know that? But… “ She appeared to study the fire as if she could find some answer written in the glowing coals. “If you had to choose between me or Rose, Finn, which would you have chosen? ”

  He’d asked himself that many times over the past weeks. “I could not have let them take you away so easily, Kathryn. I would have tried to find a way to save both you and Rose. I could not have let you go so easily.”

  “Easily. You think what I did was easy? I am trying. You don’t understand. The sheriff—”

  He grunted his disgust. “Your friend, the sheriff.”

  “Friend, enemy, his relationship to me is not what’s important. He carries the key. I must need be gracious to him. It’s not just you he holds over me. He holds Alfred, too. I have not seen my son since he went to be the sheriff’s squire. If I could but talk to him, be sure that he was
safe, then maybe I could petition the bishop for a—”

  “A pardon? Don’t delude yourself. Despenser means to keep me here until he tires of whatever this game is, and Sir Guy Fontaigne will never lift a finger to secure my freedom. Be wary of his promises, Kathryn. Don’t give him more power over you. Don’t make a devil’s bargain on my behalf.”

  She indicated the table with its plate of biscuits, its two cups of steaming cider. She warmed her hands on one but did not pick it up. “You were expecting Rose.”

  Her smile, tight-lipped and sad, tugged at his heart. He steeled himself against her pleading face. He did not say he was glad to see her. Did not even invite her to drink.

  “I’ve been expecting her every day since I wrote to her. Did you give her my letter?”

  “I—I gave her your message.”

  Either she was lying or there was something very wrong. Rose would have insisted on coming. He knew it.

  “You said she was not ill. Is she still with you? You haven’t sent her away.” He could feel the panic rising. “I told you, Kathryn, I will pay—”

  “I don’t want your money, Finn. Is that what you think of me? That I would turn a helpless girl away?”

  He laughed at the wounded tone in her voice. “You were quick enough to dispose of your discarded lover. And in such an ingenious way. It could hardly be expected that you would support his Jewish daughter who was left without a farthing to her name.”

  “Rose will stay with me even if you are hanged, or freed, or die of old age in your bed. Whichever comes first.”

  Good. She was angry. He would not be moved by her anger, as he was by her sadness. The vehemence in her response reassured him.

  “You’ve no right to think that I would turn your daughter out. Do you know how that wounds me?”