The Illuminator (10 page)

“Alfred, you know these are not easy times. The king's death left a great hole, and his sons are seeking to fill that hole and gain power for themselves. Lancaster and Gloucester will probably not allow their dead brother's eleven-year-old-son to assume the throne without a struggle. And then, of course, there are the French wars and one too many popes to carry on our backs.”

“What has that to do with me?” he asked. She would hardly summon him to discuss the politics of court and Church with him.

She smiled at him and shook her head in a gesture of exasperation. He knew that look. It always made him feel like a simpleton.

“It has everything to do with you, Alfred. With Blackingham. If we appear to cast our lot with the wrong faction, and that side loses in the struggle for the throne, then we—you—could lose everything.” She touched him gently on
the chin with long, tapered fingers. Her eyes caressed him. “Including that beautiful red head of yours.”

“But Father and the duke of Lancaster were friends.”

“Exactly. Your father made a foolish alliance with John of Gaunt. What if the duke falls prey to his own machinations? It wouldn't be the first time. What if young Richard grows tired of both his uncles' conniving and comes under another's influence—say the archbishop? John of Gaunt is not popular with the bishops because he defends the cleric Wycliffe and his teachings against the power of the Church. They stir up the rabble against the pope. If the bishops turn against John of Gaunt, the lord of Blackingham could go down with the duke, charged with treason, his lands forfeit. That would be you. Do you understand that, Alfred?”

“I think so.” Maybe Colin was the lucky one after all, he thought, suddenly feeling the weight of his birthright. “What do we do?” he asked soberly.

“We feign ignorance of your father's alliances, proclaim ourselves neutral whenever possible. We make ourselves invisible.”

“Invisible?”

“We walk a narrow road. We maintain the appearance of loyalty in a very quiet way. We express no unsolicited opinions, and when asked where our allegiance lies, we weigh our words like gold.” She licked her forefinger and held it up for him to see. “And we are always alert for the winds of change.”

“You mean don't brag about our friends.”

“I mean neither ‘brag about our friends'
nor
appear to threaten our enemies.”

“And keep our mouths shut in the presence of important people,” he said, nodding. “Not like the illuminator.”

“Exactly.” Her wide mouth turned down, making her face even more haggard. “He should never have been so outspoken in front of the sheriff and Brother Joseph. It could hurt him and, by association, us.”

“Will you tell him?”

She looked thoughtful. “I think not. Somehow I don't think a man like Finn would keep silent for the sake of judiciousness.”

“You mean he's brave,” Alfred said.

“I mean, he has no lands to confiscate, no sons to place in danger. He's a gifted artisan not tied to any guild, and because of his gift, he enjoys the protection of the Church.”

“He has a daughter.”

“Yes, he has a daughter.” She looked away. “But I didn't drag you out of your bed to talk about Finn and his daughter.”

“I know. You wanted to warn me to watch my mouth.”

She nodded. “That and to ask you to begin to assume your responsibility as lord of the manor.”

Here it comes, he thought, the lecture about responsibility, too much drinking, too much carousing. He remembered how angry she'd been at him. He shouldn't have been so familiar with Glynis in front of her. She must have heard him sneaking in during the wee hours after all.

“But I'm not old enough to be lord of the manor. Remember. You told me so.”

“You're old enough to begin to learn how to protect your lands and your family.” She held up her hand to stop his interruption. “I'm not talking about bearing arms. I know your father taught you how to wield a sword and use a dagger. And where did that knowledge get him? No, I'm talking about protection of another kind.”

She got up and began to pace the floor again.

“I have reason to believe that Simpson is stealing from us, from you. And in any event, he has valuable knowledge about the tenants, the sheep, the preparing and selling of the wool: knowledge that you need.”

“If you think he's stealing, why don't you just sack him?”

“Because between the plague and the French wars, precious few men are left. Laborers are hard enough to find: common yeomen, shepherds and weavers—harder still those who can read and cipher.” She turned to look at him. Her gaze was level, direct. “So I'm asking you to go and stay with Simpson. You can keep an eye on him and learn from him at the same time.”

“You mean like an apprentice! Me? The future Lord Blackingham, heir of Sir Roderick, apprenticed to an overseer?” He heard his own voice rise in a childish whine but couldn't help it. “Why can't Colin go?”

“Because Colin's not the heir to Blackingham Manor. You are. Besides, it wouldn't be apprenticed, exactly, Alfred. Simpson will still be servant and you master. He will respect that. He's too greedy not to. He'll probably even try to ingratiate himself with you. He knows I have no love of him. And you'll learn from him—he may be a thief, but he knows wool—but more importantly, you'll watch him, protect yourself and us from his thievery.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes you to catch him.” She shrugged. “Michaelmas, maybe.”

Alfred, after his first flare of indignation, began to weigh the merit of her argument. So, he was to be a spy. The idea of such an adventure was not without its appeal. He could lead old Simpson a merry dance. And he had to admit it might be nice to be away from his mother's watchful eye. Sometimes her apron strings tugged painfully. He'd thought about asking to go as squire, maybe to the sheriff, Sir Guy de Fontaigne. His father had spoken about it before he died. But this might be better. Close and not too close.

“Needless to say,” she added, “you'll be excused from prayers. I don't know how much show of piety will be required of us with our new abbey connection. I expect we'll see more of Brother Joseph. And there may be couriers between Blackingham and the abbey's scriptorium. We must keep up appearances. But Simpson's presence is only required at chapel on Holy Days. Of course, if you stay here, as future lord of the manor, you would be expected to be more in attendance than you have been in the past.”

Well, that settled it!

“When would I have to leave?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. Simpson always brings the accounts on Fridays. Yesterday we were interrupted. I will send for him tomorrow. You will, of course, be present, and he will be made to understand your new status. Now that I think of it, he should give this accounting to you. I will stand in the background to answer any questions you might have later. But Simpson will see you're in charge. You can even tell him that it's your decision to observe his goings-on for a while—so that you can learn the wool trade—you don't want to put him on his guard.”

This new adult status was scary but had a certain excitement too. Stay here and take orders from his mother or go with Simpson and be able to give the orders? What's more, he could do with a little male companionship. He missed his father.

“I'll do it, Mother,” he said, nodding soberly—as if the decision had been his to make. “Don't you worry, I'll catch the bugger for you.”

“Good.” Lady Kathryn smiled. “I knew I could count on you.” She exhaled deeply and the lines in her face relaxed. “Now, go along and tell Agnes that you want your breakfast.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt soft, and her hair smelled of lavender. At least this time he had made her happy. And it hadn't been all that hard to do. Playing lord of the manor to surly Simpson might even be fun. And then he thought of Rose and sighed with regret. He'd completely forgotten about the illuminator's pretty daughter. What a time to have to leave. Maybe he could get away from Simpson once in a while to check on progress in the improvised scriptorium.

Lady Kathryn sank with relief onto the bed. From outside, she could hear the first clanging from the courtyard. Smoke from the struggling kitchen fires scented the early-morning air. Blackingham was shrugging off its slumber: the grooms, the maids, even the hounds sleeping in the stable, all were stirring to life with the first graying light. And she had not slept at all. She had passed the night considering the best way to get Alfred's cooperation, but her careful planning had paid off. She could have ordered him to obey, but he was happy this way. It was all a game to him.

Alfred and his games. How she'd loved watching him as a boy, a stick strapped to his side for a sword, dragging his makeshift shield behind him, devising battle strategy—he himself always the hero among his imaginary battle mates—punctuating gallant speeches about honor and courage with violent shakes of his red curls. She could still hear his shouts of “Forward, lads. Cut the blackguards down.” And in frustration he would shake his sword-stick at Colin, who had wandered off to examine the colors of a butterfly. She allowed herself the briefest fancy that she was back there with her young sons—watching them play, loving them, stroking their heads, singing them to sleep, binding their scrapes and bruises, doing the things that mothers do. How much she'd taken those simple pleasures for granted.

Playing spy to Simpson would be just another game to Alfred, but it would keep him away from Rose. And he could profit from Simpson's learning, and the overseer did, indeed, need to be overseen. Alfred was bright. If Simpson was stealing, Alfred would discern it, and together they could put a stop to it. Still, she would miss having her merry-hearted son underfoot. He could always make her laugh. And if Simpson was not the best influence, what harm could he do to Alfred's character that Roderick had not already done by example?

The lark outside her window started to sing—impudent fellow, to herald a dawn come too early. She would have hurled her shoe at him were it not ill luck to harm a lark. And Kathryn needed no more ill luck.

So much to remember, so much vigilance required. Sometimes, she felt like a dried leaf buffeted about by the wind in winter. No direction. No control. If she could only rest a little while, then she would have the strength to see that Finn and Rose were settled in their new quarters.

Just before she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, she remembered there was one thing she had forgotten. She had not questioned Alfred about his whereabouts on the night of the priest's murder.

On your altar let it be enough for you to have a representation of our Saviour hanging on the Cross: that will bring before your mind his Passion for you to imitate, his outspread arms will invite you to embrace him, his naked breast will feed you with the milk of sweetness to console you.

—A
ILRED OF
R
IEVAULX
,
   
R
ULE FOR THE
L
IFE OF A
R
ECLUSE
(1160)

T
he anchoress lay prostrate before her altar, before the image of her suffering Christ, and offered up her own anguish. Her contemplation was broken, her prayers intruded upon by the terror her mind could not quench. She remembered (as though it had been days and not years) the bishop's face as he chanted the mass of the dead, the sound as he shot the bolt on the massive door, sealing her in the symbolic tomb. The sound of the clanging of the lock and the scraping of the great oak door along the floor still rang in her ears even as she lay before her altar in a well of silence. She lay in darkness, too. And she lay in the cold sweat of her fear.

It was the highest calling of all that had summoned her, the call to live in solitude, to close herself off from the world, from family, from friends—not even allowed the comfort
of
monastic community—so that she might become
an empty vessel to receive Him. The woman she had been was dead as far as the world was concerned, giving up even her name for the name of the church, the Church of Saint Julian, in whose eaves her hut sheltered. A mere appurtenance, it was built outside the church walls as a symbol of the hermit's solitary status. She had willingly answered the call to this life, denying herself both ecclesiastical and worldly community, agreeing to live fully dependent on the charity of others for her sustenance, to abide in communion with her Lord, her solitude interrupted only by the occasional visitor who came seeking solace or prayer. And that had been enough.