The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

Colin’s last thought was that he could not keep his promise to his mother.

  “But he wasn’t one of them,” the brother protested. “You killed an innocent man.”

  “No matter. Just one more rabble-rousing priest for His Eminence,” the swordsman said.

  He kicked the body into the ditch at the side of the road.

  The bishop had just come from celebrating the mass. It was June II, the Feast of Saint Barnabas, and there had been precious few in attendance. He thought he knew why. Attendance at the obligatory feast days was slipping. No respect for the holiest days. That’s what all this talk of equality and English Scriptures was leading to. Some even talked openly—not to him; they’d not dare, but he’d heard reports—that there’d be no need to come to mass if they could go directly to God. Every man his own priest! Every cowherd, dung collector, scullery maid, general dogsbody handling the Holy Word. The very idea of it made the bile back up in his throat.

  As he strode into his chamber, he flung the sacred vestments and robe at the chamberlain, Old Seth, who stood dozing in the corner, hitting him in the face and almost toppling his frail frame. Fresh from his Latin homily, Despenser swore at the old man in the same language, “Fimus, fimus, fimus,” and then, realizing that his servant understood his condemning tone but not the words—though he wouldn’t stoop to shite in the peasant Saxon tongue— continued his harangue in Norman French so that Old Seth might receive the full benefit. “You piece of dog dung, I don’t know why I put up with your slovenly ways. Sloth’s a sin, you know.” He stabbed his finger at the air beneath his servant’s nose. “That kind of sin can send you straight to hell.” The old man’s French was good enough for him to understand. Despenser noted with satisfaction how he cringed as he shuffled off in agitation. “Fetch my riding tunic and side arm.”

  The idea had come to him as he stalked across the cathedral close from the ill-attended mass. There were other tasks he could perform for his Church that required more than holy words and pectoral crosses. But he removed the cross reluctantly, his fingers lingering on its gem-encrusted crossarm. It was too heavy for a mission such as this. Better suited for a cleric’s silk robe than the chain mail he slipped over his lawn shirt.

  “Now my rapier. And hurry, if you don’t want the back of my hand.” His hand flexed with wanting to act out what his words threatened. Save it for the rebels, his reason cautioned. This was the life he was suited for, and this rebellion against Holy Church was all the reason he needed. The word had come that a rebel army led by a miscreant named Wat Tyler had actually entered London and set fire to John of Gaunt’s palace. Like a dog biting its own tail. He’d have to say the duke got what he deserved, no love lost there. Lancaster should’ve known better than to encourage Wycliffe. Lie down with pigs, you’ll get up smelling like one. The Church would be next. They’d go after the bishop’s palace and the abbeys. No good to rely on that incompetent sheriff and his green squires. Despenser had already sent out a cadre of soldiers, but he’d get more and this time he’d ride with them.

  He clamped his rapier on with its new buckle, tested the fastener, satisfying himself that it would hold in a fight. Interesting invention. Wonder why somebody hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d purchased it months ago, but now was his first chance to use it. He could feel his blood coursing. He hadn’t felt this alive in weeks. He’d show the king’s soldiers how to put down this rabble skirmish. Good practice for taking on the French pope.

  He knelt briefly, genuflecting perfunctorily before the cross. Then, for good luck, he kissed the crucifix hanging above his chamber altar. His sword clanged against the stone floor. He liked the sound of it. They called him the warring bishop, complained that his men had already killed a handful of rebels and a Lollard priest. Well, he’d show them a warring bishop.

  When he was done, there’d be no rebel man, woman, or child left standing in East Anglia. Expugno, exsequor, eradico: capture, execute, destroy.

  When Magda returned to the Blackingham kitchen from her weekly visit to her family, she was troubled. Her mum had whispered to her as she kissed her good-bye, “Tell milady to look to the safety of her house.” Magda hadn’t really needed the warning. She felt danger all around her, tasted it on her tongue, and if she needed real evidence, she had heard it with her own ears. People were careless around her because she was simple.

  Once, when she was serving ale to her father’s visitors, she’d overheard him talking with some rough men she’d never seen before. In a fit of rare hospitality her father had offered them drink. A man named Geoffrey Litster was telling them to arm themselves, telling them they should burn the monks’ houses, and the royal palaces, even the manor houses. Magda had never seen a royal palace or a monk’s house. Maybe they were homes for evildoers like the Litster man said. But manor houses? Wasn’t Lady Kathryn’s house called Blackingham Manor? Maybe they only meant the manor houses of evil people. But still she shivered when she thought of burning. She remembered the wool house, and the shepherd with his flesh melted into black soot.

  She told Agnes what her mother had said as she washed her hands the way Agnes had taught her in preparation for kneading dough for the bread oven.

  “Aye, child, I know. I’ve heard some talk myself. But Blackingham is not a great house. And milady has been good to her tenants. It’s just rebel talk. They’re mad about the tax. They’ll not like to bother with small-fry like us. Never you mind. And tell your mum not to worry.”

  “Should we warn the mistress?”

  Agnes pounded the dough she was kneading in silence, then frowned and shook her head. “Nay, child, it would only add to her burden. Young Master Colin has not been home for three nights and milady is that distraught with worry. She can speak of nothing else but how he may be hurt or sick, lying somewhere in a ditch. ‘He’s just run away again,’ I told her. ‘Just weary of women’s company. Maybe he met up with some of his road companions. Not to worry. He’ll be back,’ I said, but she just shook her head and said, ‘Not this time, Agnes, I can feel it. Something’s happened. A mother knows these things.’ Like how could I know, since I’ve never been a mother, I wanted to say. But she’d worry enough, so I let the gibe pass. We’ll be safe enough. Nobody will bother us. My lady has powerful friends.”

  Agnes passed the dough off to Magda, whose small palm pummeled it with lighter hands. She took some comfort in Cook’s words, because she trusted her. But she noticed how Agnes rubbed her shoulder. She always had shoulder pain when she was worried.

  Another warning came two days later. It was the middle of June. Magda knew the date because that was the month the sheep washing and shearing began and the kitchens were busier than usual with food for the extra laborers. Her little brother brought the second warning. “Tell Lady Kathryn to be wary. Trouble coming closer.”

  Magda went straight to Agnes. Together, they went to Lady Kathryn. They found her in the solar with her accounts book and baby Jasmine playing at her feet. Magda told her of the message, but not of the overheard conversation between her father and the men. How could she, without making her father look like a bad man? Lady Kathryn might have him locked up in Castle Prison, like the illuminator, and then there would be no one to help her mum and the little ones. Milady looked so frail that at first Magda feared such a worry on top of all she’d had might be too much for her. But when Magda looked closer, she saw that Lady Kathryn’s soul-light was stronger than ever, like a clear stream reflecting a blue sky.

  When Lady Kathryn spoke, her voice was weary. “I have sent every reliable male servant I can find to search for Colin,” she said. “We are a household of women, undefended. We must pray that our Lord will come to our defense,” she said. Then she looked up and Magda saw the determination in her eyes. “And then we must make a plan.”

  “What about the sheriff?” Agnes asked.

  “The sheriff has gone south to put down rebellion in Essex.”

  Sunlight from a high window painted stripes on the floor where Ja
smine played. Magda watched with fascination as the little girl’s light merged with the stripes whenever she toddled across them. It was hard to tell if she was drawing the light or if it was coming from her. She too seemed fascinated with it as she grabbed for the dust motes that floated in its beam.

  We are all like that, Magda thought. Dust motes floating in the light.

  “We must have a plan so we will not panic if the rebels attack us,” her mistress was saying. “I have sent a message to the sheriff’s house, asking that my son be sent back with whatever men he can spare to protect a company of innocent women. If an attack comes, we will gather in the kitchen. There is safety in numbers and the kitchen will be the safest place.”

  At the word “kitchen,” Jasmine gave up chasing sunbeams and went to Agnes, holding out her arms, making grabbing motions with her chubby hands. “Cake,” she demanded.

  Lady Kathryn smiled. “In a minute, poppet, Magda will get you cake.” She looked hard at Magda. “Magda, listen carefully. This is very important.”

  “Aye, milady.”

  “This is the most important part of the plan. If trouble comes, you will take Jasmine to your mother’s hut. She will be safe there.”

  But Magda knew that was not true. Should she tell? Her mind searched desperately for a solution. She could not go to her mother’s, but she could not tell Lady Kathryn.

  Lady Kathryn was waiting for an answer. “Do you understand what I have said, Magda?”

  “Aye, milady. I understand.”

  Then she gathered up the child and took her to get some cake, leaving Agnes and her mistress to their plans. But for two days, she worried and wondered what she should do. And then she hit upon a solution. She had a place where she could hide the child in safety. A place where nobody would ever think to look.

  Alfred was back in Norfolk, in the sheriff’s stable yard, when Lady Kathryn’s message came. The sheriff was still in Essex. Sir Guy’s mount had been killed just outside of Ipswich, and though he quickly conscripted another, it was not to his liking. So he’d dispatched his armor bearer to retrieve more arms and his second-favorite charger. Alfred was glad enough to go. It wasn’t that he minded a good fight. But he’d seen enough of dead men. Enough hacked limbs, and frozen death masks, and bloated, flyblown bodies.

  For the past two weeks, they had encountered fierce fighting with rogue bands of rebels, remnants of a mob from Kent and Essex who’d been betrayed by the king’s men in London. Alfred didn’t know all the details of the London rebellion, but he’d heard enough to piece together what happened. On the thirteenth of May the rebels had entered London and razed the palace of the duke of Lancaster. They also killed some Flemish merchants as they burned and pillaged and created general mayhem in the streets of the city. The next day the young King Richard met the rebels at Mile End outside London to negotiate a peace.

  Alfred wished he’d been in London to see the boy king face down that angry mob. The king was not even as old as Alfred, yet he’d made an impression on the peasants. Maybe they identified with his youth; maybe they admired his courage—anyway, they’d listened as he’d promised redress of grievance: cheap land, free trade, and the abolition of serfdom. But apparently, at the same time the king was negotiating peace, some of the rebels were still in London. They captured and beheaded the king’s treasurer and the archbishop of Sudbury.

  On the third day of the uprising, when the king again met the rebels— this time at a place called Smithfield—the enraged mayor of London murdered the peasant leader Wat Tyler in the presence of the king and the peasant mob. The rebels didn’t stay to see their leader’s head on a pole— Alfred could understand the logic of that; his father had taught him the concept of strategic retreat—but instead dispersed at the king’s urging. He promised them amnesty if they’d go home. But they’d already been betrayed once. They did not return to their homes, where they feared the king’s soldiers would hunt them down. Instead, they fled to the northern shires, more enraged than ever, desperate men with nothing to lose.

  Sir Guy and his men had encountered them in Ipswich.

  Now, fresh from the fighting, Alfred was exhausted by his hard ride north. And hungry. He’d ridden for three days, hardly stopping to eat or sleep. Sweat ran down his face and he swore loudly as he tried to put a bridle and a lead on the roan stallion—he would never attempt to ride the ill-tempered beast—when the horse reared up, threatening Alfred with a pounding from his forelegs. One of the grooms, hearing the ruckus, rushed to his aid.

  When they got the horse harnessed and somewhat settled, though still snorting his considerable displeasure, the groom reached inside his shirt and handed Alfred two sealed parchments. “Steward said to give you these to take back to Sir Guy. He said they looked important.”

  One of the letters, Alfred noticed, bore the seal of the Church. Probably the bishop’s crest. The other impression he also recognized, a twelve-point stag with raised foreleg against a background of three bars. That was the Blackingham crest. A flash of resentment stirred in him.

  A billet-doux from his mother to her lover?

  The letter had obviously been sealed in haste, the wax scarcely melted on one side. He fingered it lightly, teasing the edge. It would be easy enough to reseal, and besides, it was his family crest. He had a right. He slid his thumb under it carefully. The seal slipped and the parchment unfurled with a whisper. He recognized his mother’s spiky, graceful hand.

  Sir, since I am an unprotected widow in your shire, I must apply to you for protection during the current crisis. If it pleases you, send my son to me, along with any other archers that you might spare. I received the gift you sent as a token of your protection and goodwill, but I cannot take delight in its elegance when I fear my very household may at any moment come under siege.

  The letter was signed by his mother but in a shakier hand than he remembered, for all its bold words. It was dated June II. Two days ago. He’d never thought—but he should have—hadn’t he seen for himself the rage vented by the peasants against some of the nobility? Still, to think of his strong, competent mother in need of protection was a strange concept. And she had Colin.

  The horse stomped and pulled against the lead the groom held, pawing against the ground. A cloud of dust whirled up, then settled on the tortured verge of grass bordering the stable yard. Alfred could taste the grit of it between his teeth, feel it seeping into his pores with his sweat.

  What was he to do? He had a direct command from Sir Guy, yet his mother needed him. She’d asked for him. Him. When she had Colin. It would take three, maybe four days, leading the horse, to get back to the fighting. Then he would have to gain permission, and it would be two days back even if he rode all night.

  “Leave the horse. Bring me pen and paper,” he said to the groom in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. After all, he was squire to Sir Guy. The groom would have to obey him in the absence of a higher authority.

  When the groom returned, Alfred hastily wrote a note explaining that his lady mother was in distress and had sent for him. Because Sir Guy had taught him the true meaning of chivalry and because of the friendship between the two houses, he was sure Sir Guy would want him to go to her. He was sending the horse and arms, and would join the battle as soon as he’d seen to his mother’s safety.

  “Deliver this missive, and the other one, along with the horse, to Sir Guy,” he said, flinging a few grains of sand across the page to soak up the excess ink.

  The groom’s eyes widened in alarm. He’d probably never been off the feudal holding, let alone out of the shire. “But Master Alfred, I don’t know—”

  “I’ll draw you a map,” he said. “You’ll have no trouble finding it.” He was already hastily sketching a circle beside which he wrote “Norwich,” then a strong black line ending in another, smaller, circle, marked “Colchester,” and then another horizontal line leading off, ending in a still smaller circle, which he labeled “Ipswich.” Beside the smaller circle he dre
w a rough sketch of a door with a header pole and a swinging sign.

  “This is Colchester,” he said, pointing to the second circle. “You take the old Roman Road south out of Norwich through Bury Saint Edmunds and then on to Colchester. Turn east toward Ipswich. Tell the keeper at the tavern at the crossroads that you are a serf with a message for the sheriff of Norfolk.” He considered the groom’s youth and his inexperience. He was only a year or so younger than Alfred. He had proved his competence with the horse, but he’d be ripe for harassment because of his age. “You can handle the horse well enough. Ride him instead of leading him.”

  “Aye, I’d have no problem with the horse.”

  Alfred thought he said this with a little too much smugness. “But don’t wear the livery of the house. Dress like a peasant, and if you encounter any rogues, say you’re a runaway serf and you’re carrying a message for John Ball or Wat Tyler. Say the horse is stolen. They won’t bother you then.”

  Alfred was rewarded as the look of smugness evaporated. The groom looked at the paper, puzzlement and chagrin playing across his face. “But Master Alfred, I can’t read.”

  “You’ve been to Norwich?”

  The boy nodded, said with some pride in his voice, “Twice.”

  “That line is the main road south out of Norwich. If you get lost, just ask for the road to Colchester, then to Ipswich.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re a brave lad.” And Alfred climbed onto his own mount, whose muscles still trembled with fatigue, and spurred it toward Blackingham, leaving the groom scratching his head as he stared at the undecipherable lines and squiggles.

  Alfred noticed the stench as he approached the Aylsham cross. His own sweat-stained body? Disgusting. Or maybe that of his horse ridden so hard, his neck and shoulders were flecked with white foam? No. It was growing stronger and all too familiar by now. It was a smell he thought he’d left behind him in an Ipswich field. It was the smell of dead men, rotting in the sun.