She glanced up at Corliss. “I’ll give you a hundred shillings for it.”
“What?”
“A hundred twenty, then.” Closing the volume and running her fingers over the embroidered cover, she said, “I don’t usually trade in used books, mind you, but I’ll make an exception for this one.” Her soft smile rendered her much less intimidating in Corliss’s eyes.
“Mistress, I really couldn’t—”
“She couldn’t take less than eight pounds sterling for it,” Rainulf interjected.
Corliss gasped; he closed a hand over her shoulder and squeezed sharply, but she refused to be silenced—or to have him negotiate for her, as if she couldn’t manage her own affairs. “Thank you, Mistress Clark, but I have no intention of—”
“Seven and a half,” the lady scribe countered.
Rainulf shook his head. “Seven and—”
“Stop!” The two hagglers fell silent. “Thank you, but I can’t sell it. I can’t. It’s...” She shook her head; words were inadequate. When she reached for the book, Enid Clark met her gaze with a look of understanding and placed it carefully in her hands. Corliss returned it to her satchel.
“It’s special,” the woman said quietly. “Yes. It is, indeed. I envy you your ownership of it. Where did you acquire it?”
The question made Corliss laugh. “I made it!”
The scribe stared at her. “You mean you copied the text yourself? What exemplar did you use?”
“I wrote it myself, and illuminated it, too.”
“Who bound it?”
“I did.”
Mistress Clark grinned and shook her head. “Did you slaughter the sheep and make the parchment, too?”
“Nay, but I know how.”
“I have no doubt that you do. It seems you’re a young man of many and diverse talents. What brings you to my shop today?”
Rainulf stepped forward. “My friend is looking for work as an illuminator.”
Corliss grabbed his arm and drew him back. “Your friend has a tongue,” she whispered—too loudly, for Mistress Clark heard and chuckled. “They tell me you need illuminators,” Corliss said.
Mistress Clark nodded. “A very important client has commissioned a rather ambitious project—all the books of the Bible in one volume. Everything... Psalms” —she indicated the exemplar on her desk, a monastic psalter— “gospels, minor prophets... What normally fills twenty or more volumes will all be bound into one huge book.”
Rainulf let out a low whistle. “Is that possible?”
Mistress Clark shrugged. “We’ll find out. We’re using the finest uterine parchment, so thin you can see through it.” She held out the sheet she was working on for Corliss to touch; it was soft as Sicilian wool, and nearly transparent. “If it can be done, we’ll do it. But I’ll have to hire on extra copyists, and I can use all the illuminators I can get”—she fixed her gaze on Corliss—”but they have to be good.”
“I’m good,” Corliss stated flatly.
Mistress Clark smiled, clearly pleased at the lack of false modesty. “You’re more than good. But I need someone who can apply gold. I noticed there’s none in that Biblia Pauperum of yours.”
“Only because it’s so dear. I know how to use it.”
“Leaf or dust?”
“Both.”
The older woman nodded slowly. “Do you have someplace to work? I’ll provide you with your supplies, but I’ll have no room here after I hire the new copyists.”
“I...”
“Aye,” Rainulf inserted. “Sh— He has everything he needs at home.”
At home. Corliss liked the sound of that, as if his home—his wonderful home with its grand, soft bed—were really hers.
“All right, then,” said Mistress Clark. “I pay four-pence each for a large gold initial. The small ones are three for a penny. Paragraph marks are ten for a penny. You’ll get a shilling for every full-page illumination, sixpence for half a page. I’ll expect you to work quickly.”
Rising, she gestured for Corliss to follow her to a large table in a back room, on which were stacked dozens of signatures ready for illuminating. The gatherings of double pages were fully lettered but unsewn, and numbered so that they could eventually be bound in the proper order. “The scribes have left spaces for the illustrations, and they’ve written margin notes as to what should go into them.” She slipped a signature into a leather sheath and gave it to Corliss, who stowed it in her satchel. Mistress Clark then handed her a slim book from a stack of identical volumes. “Copy the artwork from this pattern book.”
“Oh.” Corliss leafed dejectedly through the book, which contained decorative capitals in ascending sizes, as well as sample illustrations: angels, stars, birds, rabbits, stags, herons. In the back were pictures of various mythical beings: unicorns, lions, monkeys, and assorted grotesques. “I thought...” Corliss began.
“Yes?”
“I thought I could make up the pictures myself.” That sounded like whining, she realized, so she opted for a different approach: “Such an important book ought to have original pictures, don’t you think? I’m an excellent draftsman.”
“You are that.” Mistress Clark looked thoughtful for a moment. “Very well. You may do as you wish with that signature. But if I’m not pleased when you bring it back, you’ll have to recopy the whole thing for free, and reimburse me eightpence for the parchment.”
Corliss grinned and handed back the pattern book. “Thank you, mistress. And you will be pleased—I guarantee it!”
Rainulf said, “How long do you think it will take to complete this Bible?”
“Probably around four months,” the scribe answered as she gathered together the various pigments Corliss would need for her work: black and red inks, vermilion, lead white, yellow volcanic earth, green malachite, even a tiny pot of precious lapis lazuli, known as ultramarine, and gold leaf. “It could take as long as half a year, perhaps longer. And it’s all we’ll be working on. Of course, Master Becket’s making it worth our while. We’re getting forty pounds for it.”
“Master Becket?” Rainulf said. “Thomas Becket—the king’s chancellor? That’s who commissioned this Bible?”
“Aye. And the job couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m tired of this business, tired of living in two rooms over this shop. I want to move out of Oxford and raise goats and chickens. I’ve been wanting out ever since my husband died two years ago, but I couldn’t afford to leave. Now I’ll be able to.”
“I’m very proud to be working on Thomas Becket’s Bible,” Corliss said as she latched her heavily laden satchel. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”
Rainulf thanked her, too, and they took their leave. Corliss noticed young Felice gazing at her rather wistfully as she crossed to the door. One of the young men—a large fellow with dark, curly hair—scowled at Corliss and gripped his penknife in a white-knuckled fist.
“Bertram,” Mistress Clark admonished, “get back to work. You, too, Felice.”
They left the shop and began walking down Catte Street, but Rainulf stopped in his tracks, his expression alert and wary. “Did you see that?” he asked, pointing across the street. “Someone ducked into that alley as soon as we came out.”
“Who? Do you know him?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him, but he backed up quickly, as if he didn’t want us to see him.”
“You’re making much out of nothing,” she said.
“I think not. You stay here.”
“Rainulf—”
“Stay here, he repeated. “I’ll be right back.” He crossed the street and disappeared into the alley.
Corliss sighed impatiently and waited in the street. After a minute she felt a hand grip her shoulder hard and wheel her around. It was the dark-haired scribe, the one called Bertram.
“Stay away from Felice,” he demanded.
“What?”
“You heard me. I saw how you were looking at her.”
�
��Wait, you’ve got it all—”
“Just stay away from her. Her and me are going to be married next year. I already arranged it with Mistress Clark.”
“Does Felice know that?”
“That’s none of your affair. She’s none of your affair. I love her and I’m going to marry her, and you’re going to keep your distance from her. Understand?”
The panic in his eyes startled Corliss. Good God, he really is in love with her!
“I’ve no interest in her,” Corliss assured him.
Bertram backed up slowly toward the shop. “Just you see it stays that way,” he warned as he went inside.
“My, my.”
Corliss turned to find Rainulf standing behind her, arms crossed, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It would seem you pass rather well for a man, after all.”
“I told you!” she snapped as they began walking south on Catte Street. “Did you find your mysterious man?”
“Nay. He eluded me. But I know he was there. Watching us.”
“Mm-hm.”
Rainulf speared her with a sideways glance. They walked in silence until after they came to High Street. “Why didn’t you sell her the book? She’d have given you almost eight pounds! You could have lived off that for a long time.”
“‘Twas tempting,” Corliss admitted. “But I couldn’t bear to take money for something I’d put so much love and effort into. And I’m not looking to live a life of idleness. I want to work! I want to illuminate books.” She shrugged. “At least now I know that I can sell it if I ever find myself without resources.”
He made a sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “I can’t imagine you ever being without resources, Corliss. You’re the most resourceful person I’ve ever known. The most remarkable, the most...” He paused on the busy street and looked down at her for a moment, then looked away, seeming strangely ill at ease.
“Rainulf?”
Presently his gaze refocused on her and he smiled, but it looked forced. “Have you ever been to an alehouse?”
“An alehouse? Of course not!”
He grinned and steered her by her arm diagonally across the wide avenue. “There’s a fairly unobjectionable one on Blue Boar Lane. Let me buy you a pint. Then we can go hunt you up a desk for your work.”
Chapter 6
“Exquisite.” Corliss whispered the word out loud as she walked in a daze from the shop on Catte Street to the house on St. John. That was the word Enid Clark had used to describe the completed signature, fully illuminated, that Corliss had given her. This is exquisite work. And it took you less than a week! I’m so pleased to have found you. Then she’d filled Corliss’s hands with money and given her another signature to work on.
Corliss fingered the pouch on her belt, heavy with silver coins and the little reliquary, whose good fortune had not failed her yet. She sprinted up to the big stone house, threw open the door, and bounded up the stairs, filled with a heady excitement. So this is what freedom feels like!
Thomas sat with a tankard of ale at the table in the main hall, looking a good deal more disheveled than usual. His sandy hair was unkempt, and his shirt hung loose over his chausses.
“Corliss!” He stood abruptly and nervously finger-combed his hair. “Back already? It’s not even noon.”
Cappas, tunics, belts, and boots lay strewn about the floor. “This place is a mess,” Corliss said, setting her satchel down on the chair attached to her big desk. “Where’s Luella?”
“Out marketing. Uh, Corliss—”
“I’ve got good news, Thomas!” She crossed to the leather curtain and swept it aside. “Mistress Clark liked my—”
“Corliss, wait!”
Someone moaned. Corliss froze on the threshold of her bedchamber, listening. Low, masculine murmurs...
A woman’s voice, from behind the drawn curtains of the big bed: “Do you like it like this?”
The man gasped. “Oh, yes! That’s it. Yes!” Corliss recognized Brad’s English-accented voice.
There began a muffled rhythmic squeaking of the ropes that supported the huge mattress. The yellow damask curtains shifted in time to the sound.
Corliss turned to find Thomas behind her, grinning sheepishly. “Don’t be mad. We’ll share her with you.”
“What?”
The squeaking stopped. A plump female hand reached out and parted the damask, revealing the couple within. The woman—a frowsy blonde—was on top, her front-lacing kirtle undone and gaping open. Brad lay beneath her, cradling one enormous breast in each hand; he muttered a low Anglo-Saxon curse upon seeing Corliss.
The woman’s gaze swept Corliss from head to foot, sizing her up. “You’ll have to wait your turn, love. And it’ll cost you tuppence. Ahead of time.” With that she yanked the curtain closed, and the bed promptly recommenced its steady rocking.
“I don’t believe this,” Corliss told Thomas as he led her into the main hall, reclosing the leather curtain. “That’s my bed. Mine!”
Thomas shrugged as he tucked his shirt into his chausses. “We can’t bring wenches back to our rooms. The landlady won’t permit it.”
“Does Rainulf know you bring them here?”
Thomas blanched. “Nay. He’d never allow it.”
Even through the leather curtain, Corliss could hear the increasingly hectic creaking of the bed.
“Of course he wouldn’t!” Corliss said. “He’d be outraged if he knew. He’s got a reputation to maintain, Thomas. He could be ruined if people found out that kind of woman has been here. Did anyone see her come in?”
“I don’t think so.”
Brad released a satisfied groan, and then the creaking ceased.
“You don’t think so?” Corliss spat out.
“Don’t be angry,” Thomas pleaded. “And please don’t tell him. Come on—be a sport. You can have her for free. I’ll pay the tuppence myself.”
“I don’t want her.”
“Don’t be too hasty.” Thomas grinned. “Alfreda is very... talented.”
“I’m not interested. Just get her out of here.”
He adopted a conspiratorial air and lowered his voice. “She’s got a very clever mouth, if you know what I mean.”
Corliss had no idea what he meant.
Her ignorance must have shown on her face, for Thomas said, “Have you ever even bedded a woman?”
Corliss felt heat sweep up her throat and suffuse her face. “Of course.”
Thomas eyed her knowingly. “No, you haven’t. A sad state of affairs, I’d say.” He located his purse among the discarded clothing and shook two pennies into his palm. “But one easily remedied.”
The leather curtain opened and Brad stepped through, tying his chausses. He nodded to Corliss. “She’s waiting for you.”
“She’ll have a long wait,” Corliss said, backing up.
“Come on,” Thomas urged, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward the bedchamber. “It’s my tuppence! Give her a go!” As an aside to Brad he added, “He’s nervous. It’s his first time.”
“Truly?” Brad laughed and took her other arm. “You could do worse than lose your virginity to Alfreda. She knows every trick there is.”
“No!” Corliss howled as they drew her into the chamber and toward the bed. The curtains were open. Alfreda reclined against the mountain of pillows, yawning, her breasts still exposed, the skirt of her kirtle raised up above her stout white thighs. She held her hand out and Thomas put the two pennies in it.
“Come to Alfreda, love,” the whore coaxed tiredly, her arms extended.
Thomas and Brad pushed her onto the bed and closed the curtains around her. A ripe scent comprised of cloying perfume and unwashed flesh filled Corliss’s nostrils. Alfreda reached for her. She scrambled backward, turned, and tore the curtains open. “Get her out of here now, or I’m telling Rainulf!”
The two young men gaped at her. “He’s serious,” Brad concluded.
“Leave now,” Corliss said, jum
ping down, “and never bring another woman here, and I’ll keep quiet. Otherwise, Rainulf finds out everything!”
Thomas and Brad exchanged a look, and then Thomas said, “We’d better get going, Alfreda. It seems young Corliss is determined to remain pure and unsullied despite our best efforts to corrupt him.”
“I’m keeping the tuppence,” Alfreda announced as she retied her kirtle.
Thomas sighed. “And welcome to it, my dear.”
When they were finally gone, Corliss whipped the quilts off the bed and stripped the sheets for Luella to wash when she returned. As she struggled to tie them into a bundle, a knock came at the front door. Muttering an oath—something she’d never once done while she still wore kirtles—she kicked the wad of sheets across the bedchamber, then pounded down the stairs and opened the door.
A man stood there—a large man, hunched beneath the satchel on his back, in coarse braies and a short hooded cloak with a pointed cowl pulled down low. With his head partly bowed, and that cowl, his face was lost in shadow, despite the glaring noon sun.
“Yes?” Corliss said testily.
The man nodded slightly without raising his head. “Good-good...” He hesitated, as if struggling with the words. “Good day, m-mistress.”
“Mistress?” Her scalp tightened. “Why do you call me mistress?”
The man stood unmoving for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Y-you seemed like... th-that is...”
He hadn’t once looked at her. “Raise your head,” she said. “Look how I’m dressed. Do I look like a woman to you?”
The man hesitated, then slowly raised his head—very slowly, as if lifting a heavy burden. As the sunlight played over his features, Corliss stilled a gasp. His broad, fleshy face was deeply pitted, all over, with hundreds of pockmarks—the worst Corliss had ever seen. He looked like one of the grotesques in Mistress Clark’s pattern book—an imaginary creature surely inspired by the ravages of leprosy. In fact, she might have thought this man a victim of that disease rather than the pox had his scars been deeper and more irregular.
She bit her lip, contrition gnawing at her. Had the hair of St. Nicaise not protected her during her own bout with the yellow plague, she could have ended up looking like this man. Beneath his disfigurement, she reminded herself, he was just a man like any other—a peddler, judging from the satchel on his back.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 185
