“An inn might not be the best choice for a company of women. Just five miles north on your way home is Saint Faith Priory. Their tradition of hospitality is well known.”
“Aye. I know it. In the village of Horsham. I stopped there once as a girl with my father. The sisters there are very kind.”
The women rose and prepared to leave. The little coterie of females looked suddenly vulnerable. The younger woman, who now held the baby, was really hardly more than a child, fourteen or fifteen. She had a rapt expression on her face. She stared as though she was seeing some strange apparition deep inside the cell.
“Is there something you’d like to say, child?” The anchoress asked.
The girl leaned forward, spoke, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “The light around you sh-shimmers. L-like hope. It b-beats like a heart.”
“But there is no light—”
The nurse interrupted. “She has a gift, milady.” And then added quickly, “From God.”
These women are special, the anchoress thought: not just the strong-willed noblewoman who loves so intensely; but this infant, too, with her blue eyes and Jewish blood, a symbol of God’s love, of his Oneness; even the nurse— who now that she looked more closely, resembled the girl with the spiritual gift. Some nurturing quality bound them all together.
Kathryn gathered her cloak about her. “I thank you for your counsel. You’ve given me somewhat to think on.” Then, as an afterthought: “Do you wish to keep the papers? Or shall I take them?”
“I will see that Tom gets them. I am not afraid of the bishop.”
Lady Kathryn merely shrugged and turned to leave.
“The Lord go with you,” the anchoress shouted as she waved good-bye to her visitors’ backs.
Only the young maid turned and smiled a grateful acceptance of the benediction.
After her visitors departed, Julian’s spirit was so renewed that she wondered if they had been real or some angel visitation, another of her visions. One thing was sure: real or not, they had been sent to her from He who was her source. In ministering to them, she had watered her own soul. She would write her apologia, and she would write it in English.
But whatever happens, all will be well.
“Come on, Ahab,” she said to the fat feline, who leaped onto her windowsill. She picked up the Wycliffe papers and hid them under a stack of linen. “We will look forward to Tom’s visit, you and I. He will bring us news of Finn and perhaps a gift from the marshes.”
Ahab purred his anticipation.
TWENTY-FIVE
Grant harvest lord, more, by a penny or two, to call on his fellows the better to do; Give gloves to thy reapers, a largess to cry, and daily to loiterers have a good eye.
—THOMAS TUSSER, GOOD POINTS OF HUSBANDRY
During the late spring, Kathryn did not return to Castle Prison. Half-Tom appeared at Blackingham Manor frequently, a circumstance of which Agnes did not approve. “I’ll not have him sniffin’ around my girl.” But Kathryn encouraged the dwarf’s visits, finding errands for him to do in her service, sending him as a messenger to the abbeys around Norwich with inquiries about Colin. Was her younger son a vagabond, sleeping in ditches, hungry, dirty, alone? Or was he even now, as she thought about him, threading the stone corridors of some faraway cloister, drugged by plainsong, lost to her forever? But Kathryn would have found something for Half-Tom to do even had she not been desperate for news of Colin. Half-Tom was Kathryn’s only link to Finn.
“Ask him if he wants to see the child,” she asked often.
The answer was always the same. “My lady, with regret I must say, he says he has no time. His work for the bishop keeps him busy.”
So there was no pilgrimage to Castle Prison during these warm sunlit days. Summer came. Jasmine learned to coo and laugh and play patty-cake to Kathryn’s singsong. Plans for the harvest began with its pressures to find workers to beat the blight, to beat the rains—all made more burdensome by the absence of Kathryn’s sons.
It was the second harvest since Roderick’s death. Simpson would be lord of the harvest again this year, and there would be no lord of the manor to temper the steward’s growing arrogance. And just where was she to find the extra pennies to pay the day laborers who demanded more each year, not to mention the largesse that her own villeins expected at harvest time? The blind loyalty with which the serfs and peasants had served her father had vanished, wiped out by labor shortages and notions of equality fostered by mumbling lay priests. The old order was threatened, might even disappear, and that was the order in which she knew her place. Roderick had bound the serfs to him by power and tradition. Where was her power? Where was her tradition?
Some days she felt she simply could not go on. Except for Jasmine.
It was Magda’s fourth trip of the day in the noon heat, carrying the leather bottles of ale, the baskets of bread and cheese, oatcake and onions to the reapers in the fields. Her load was heavy but well-balanced on a long pole across her shoulders. She didn’t mind, because though she was small-boned, she was strong and sturdy, and she welcomed the chance to escape the stifling kitchen. Cook had lately been in very bad temper. And Magda enjoyed watching the long scythes swishing through the rye like Morris dancers. Her father was the best of the lot. She watched proudly as he brought his body low, right leg bent under his body, left arm stretched out for balance, right arm swinging through the grain, the scythe cutting parallel to the ground, his body shifting rhythmically with each swipe.
Small wonder the reapers ate so much at their midday meal. Small wonder, too, that Agnes was so ill-tempered withal. Last week she’d chased Half-Tom away with a broom, accusing him of stealing an egg! Agnes! Who always kept her stockpot on the boil for hungry beggars. She was cross, always finding fault when she had heretofore been so easily pleased.
Out here was sunshine and fresh air, and mare’s-tail clouds floating free in blue sky (not to mention a fair amount of goodwill for the kitchen maid who brought the meal). The fellowship among the yeomen and the serfs reached out and gathered her in. She felt herself a member of some happy family, happy because, though the work was hard and the hours long, for this one month out of the year, they would be well-fed. If the harvest lord was tight-fisted, he would find himself short-handed. The villeins had no choice, but the yeomen were free to move on to more generous fields. All expected largesse. Though, this year, Magda wasn’t so sure. She had measured the steward’s soul-light—if light it could be called. It was more an absence of light, and she’d never seen that before. Could it be that he had no light because he had no soul? A devil in the guise of a man? She shivered as she saw him coming toward the hedge in whose shade she’d laid the board cloth. She looked away to avoid his gaze lest it put an evil spell on her.
She watched the soft lights of the children, blending and merging like a rainbow as they played tag beneath a large oak tree at the edge of the grain-fields. She’d played under this same tree at harvest time—and not so long ago—while her father danced with his scythe and her mother bound the sheaves. She would ask Lady Kathryn if her mother could bring Jasmine to the field tomorrow. Her mother would like it, too. She only ever smiled at harvest time. Even if her belly was too swollen to work, she’d watch the other women’s children. Happy memories. Except for the bad times: when the harvest had rotted in the fields, when the devil brought the blight or the plague or the rain. Many died of hunger in the bad times. Her little brothers had been two such.
But she would not remember that today. Today, the sun was shining and the grain was ripe, and Blackingham kitchens had provided a groaning board for the harvest workers. And in the distance she saw a familiar light. She waved and shouted welcome to the squat little man who lurched toward the kitchen. She was glad that Half-Tom had not been scared away by Cook’s broom and scowls. He was her friend, and he’d come back, bringing his beautiful soul-light with him.
But it was the man with no light who approached her.
The steward c
ame up beside her and grabbed the leather bottle of ale. The pole balanced on her shoulders tipped. To keep from dropping it, she set it down clumsily on the ground. He swigged at the bottle, letting the ale dribble down his chin, as he watched her. She pointed to the water bucket on the ground. The water was cool; she’d fetched it from the stream herself. When Simpson ignored her, she made an effort to loose her tongue, even though he frightened her with his leering eyes.
“S-sir—”
He laughed, moved closer to her. His breath stank of onion and rotting teeth. He took another swig from the bottle. What was she to do? He was the harvest lord, but there would not be enough ale for the workers. Already there was a slackness in the neck of the bottle. Maybe if she brought the water to him … She backed away, crossed the few paces to the bucket and brought him a gourdful.
He took the gourd from her, staring at her all the while, and poured the water over his head. Then he shook his greasy hair like a shaggy dog.
“Sir … “ hard to wrap her tongue around the sounds. “S-sir, the wa-ter is for drink-ing, and C-cook says—”
“ ‘Cook says,’” he mocked in a slow, dragging whine. “I don’t care what Cook says. I am harvest lord, not Cook. Do you know what that makes me? That makes me your lord, and I can have the ale or the water”—he flung the gourd and a string of spittle at her feet—“or anything else having to do with the harvest. And that includes the simple-minded kitchen maid who lays the board.”
He grabbed at her bodice. “Let’s see if you’ve got any tight little buds in there ready to bloom.”
She recoiled, wrenching free, and the oft-washed linen tore away. Her face grew hot with shame as she frantically tried to cover her breasts with the torn fabric.
“You might be ripe for plucking after all.”
His laughter was lewd and harsh. It made her feel dirty.
Quick as lightning, he moved around behind her, trapping her in his dust-coated arms. His breath was hot on her neck. His hands fumbled at her breasts. Something hard poked her from behind. She could feel it through her petticoat. She knew what it was, and she knew what he wanted, but her lips were too rigid to form the protest, and her tongue tripped on the words.
“P-please—”
The pressure behind her increased.
“Get on your hands and knees and lift your skirts.” His words were hardly more than grunts.
Not here, her mind cried, not in the fields like an animal. Not with one who has no soul-light. But, Holy Mother, what was she to do? He was the harvest lord. And she was a vassal.
“P-please, sir, please.” Hardly more than a whimper.
“Now you find your tongue.”
“My f-father is—”
“I’ll pay him an extra penny. If you please me. Now, hold up your skirt and get down.”
Whimpers and tiny dry sobs escaped, but she tried to hold them back. The more fuss she made, the more the others would see, and they could do nothing. He was harvest lord. She clutched at her skirt, holding it just above her ankles. Her trembling hands would not raise it higher. He jerked at her skirt and gave her a push from behind. She landed on all fours like a dog. He wrapped one arm beneath her waist, pinning her in that position. The rough field stubble scraped her bare knees and hands. She dug her fingernails into the dirt, clutching at the earth. His rough hands lifted her skirts over her head. She cringed beneath the touch of his hands on her skin, the pinch of his fingernails. He grunted like an animal as he bumped against her. It hurt. But it hurt more to think the others witnessed her shame. Vomit welled up inside her mouth. She could not cry. She could not even breathe.
“Get back to the field, Simpson.”
At the sound of Lady Kathryn’s voice, the steward let go of the girl and straggled to his feet, pulling on his braies. Kathryn could have laughed at the startled expression on his face had she been less angry. Not for the first time in her life she wished that, just for a few minutes, she could be a man. Simpson would be feeling the sting of a whip across his backside instead of struggling to cover his bare arse with his breeches.
Magda scrambled from beneath him, smoothing her skirt with one hand, holding on to her torn bodice with the other. The girl’s face was as white as marble. Kathryn resisted an urge to take her in her arms and comfort her. She knew such a display might be the girl’s undoing. Kathryn could see that she was struggling to hold herself together, to preserve some vestige of dignity, even though tears were running in tracks down her dusty cheeks.
“Magda, go back to the house.”
By this time, Simpson had gained his feet but had turned his back to her and was fumbling with his breeches.
“Tell Cook you’ve fallen in a pile of horse dung.” These last words Kathryn spat in the direction of the overseer.
He turned, shrugged, brushing straw from his tunic. “The girl was willing enough. No harm done. I’m always careful of your property, milady.”
“We are all somebody’s property, Simpson. You’d do well to remember that. You touch the girl again, and I’ll deny your wages and ban you from my land.”
His smirk widened. She knew what he was thinking, even wondering if he dared say it. Where would she get another harvest lord? How it galled, that she must suffer this evil presence among her servants because she had no other to depend on.
“Call the workers for their meal break. I will serve the food myself,” Kathryn said as she watched the girl to see that she was able to walk unaided.
When Magda gained the edge of the field, she broke into a run, half-stumbling in the direction of the main house. Kathryn was relieved to see that there was no blood on her skirts. As soon as the meal was served, Kathryn would see that Agnes treated the maid with extra care. Some special kindness.
“With milady’s indulgence, I would point out that Sir Roderick—”
“What Sir Roderick would have said is that the maidenhead of a servant has no value. But it is valuable to the maid who owns it. And it should be hers to give away. Or not. You work for Blackingham, Simpson. You work for me.”
“Certainly, milady.” But beneath the lowered lids, she saw a flash of hatred as strong as lightning and just as dangerous. She would be rid of him. As soon as the harvest was done.
“And Simpson, one more thing. The girl will be paid a shilling out of your wage to compensate her.”
“For what? She’s still intact.”
“A shilling, then, for her humiliation. And to remind you of who is master here.”
“As you wish, milady.” His eyes were like bright little pieces of burning coal. “But I’d have got my money’s worth if your ladyship had arrived a minute later.”
Then he turned his back to her and stalked off across the fields, with only an abrupt wave at the staring laborers to indicate it was time for dinner.
The harvest finished late, but by September the last haywain had been stacked and the rye and the barley stored safely in the barns for winter threshing. The Michaelmas geese, grown fat from gleaning the fallen grains among the stubble, were roasting on the kitchen spits for the harvest-home feast. Kathryn anxiously counted her casks of mead and cider and ale, all home-brewed, along with the twenty gallons of beer she’d purchased for fifty shillings to supplement her store. She dreaded the evening’s feast. It would be a night of drunken revelry, and though Kathryn did not begrudge the laborers—she knew they deserved the feast—her purse was as thin as a hermit’s. Twice during the two weeks of harvest, Simpson had come back to her demanding largesse for the yeomen. Thank God the quarter-day rents were due. He was collecting them today and would give his accounting at the feast.
Kathryn lifted her veil to wipe the sweat and called for Glynis to lay the board in the great hall. Where was the lazy girl, anyway? Agnes and the little kitchen maid were working themselves into the ground. Magda’s hands were as busy as her tongue was still. She had retreated back into her silence since the episode with Simpson. Unfortunate happenstance, but fortunate that the dw
arf had come to Kathryn for help. She supposed there were others, both willing and unwilling, upon whom Simpson had heaped such abuse, but there was little she could do about it. She shouldn’t worry about them. Hadn’t God ordained their lot in life?
She surveyed the long boards laid out on trestles in the great hall. There would have to be a dais. Not fitting that she should sit below. But who would sit there with her, a widow, mistress of the manor, with no sons to attend her? Simpson? She shuddered. Anyway, he was not noble born. He would sit at the long table. The priest at Saint Michael’s would sit on the dais with her to bless the feast, but below the salt.
She had sent Half-Tom to Norwich to find some entertainment. The harvest workers were entitled to a little mirth. It was her duty to provide it. “Not too many,” she’d instructed. “A juggler or two, a pretty sound upon the lute is all Blackingham can afford.”
Garbed in her second-best brocade gown and braided coronet, Lady Kathryn sat alone. The hall was aromatic with newly strewn herbs among the rushes, and the smoky smell of roast geese found its way from the kitchen into the hall. The board appeared abundantly laid under the weight of harvest fruits. Agnes was an alchemist. She might not be able to turn base metals into gold, but she could always turn yesterday’s broken meats into wonderful suet puddings flavored with spices and colored with saffron (at least the color of alchemist’s gold) to disguise their age.
Kathryn watched from her elevated carved chair as the entertainers slipped in at the other end of the great hall. One wore the skeletal costume of the grim reaper to parody the harvest of souls; another wore a hooded cape—in this hot weather—and carried a lute slung over his shoulder; a third one wore only breeches knotted around his loins. The muscles of this one’s body rippled beneath well-oiled skin. He entered first, turning cartwheels down the long hall, coming to rest finally in front of my lady’s chair, where he did a handstand and juggled three colored balls with his feet. Lady Kathryn applauded and the crowd echoed her approval.
The Illuminator Page 37
