The Illuminator (16 page)

She had been right when she said her virtue did not come cheaply, he thought. He had purchased it at a very great price. He had the sense that their
union had changed him in some profound way that he had never before experienced with a woman, and that he would never be the same again. She had taken him inside herself, and now he was no longer himself but a part of her. She had swallowed him completely, consuming his body, mind, and soul with the fire of her own. But it wasn't just her passion—though he had been surprised by that, had not guessed at its depth and breadth until he kissed her that day she first came to his room to see his sketches—not just the way her body melted into his, but the way her spirit seemed to reshape to merge with his. Sometimes, it was almost as though she could read his thoughts and he hers. And his artist's gift, which lay at his core like a seed, he could not shield even that from the heat of her. On the illuminated page his lines and forms leaped from their narrow margins, the murky hues murkier, the brights more brilliant, the knotwork more intricate, twisting, twining like her female mind. His gift no longer his, but shared. And if he could not keep this from her, what of his secret? How long before she divined that, too? But he must keep it; he must protect her from it, for she had become the source of his creative energy and the object of a love he had not felt since he laid his wife in the grave sixteen years ago.

“You'd better dress, Kathryn. Rose and Colin will be returning soon.” He was already at his worktable, the lined vellum spread out before him, its text transcribed in Rose's careful calligraphy.

“It will be a while. I saw Colin leaving with his lute. I asked him where he was going. He said he was giving lessons to Rose. As a
surprise
for you.”

“So that's where they disappear every day.” He wiped his brush on a rag and dipped it again. “Well, I'll try to remember to be surprised.” He paused, trying to think how best to say this next. “I thought I saw Alfred talking to Rose the other day. Something about his manner seemed too familiar.” He waited for her to read his thoughts, to reassure him, but she just looked at him, waiting for him to go on. “She's my daughter, you understand, Kathryn. I want to protect her from … “ The pleading tone in his voice made him vulnerable, he knew. But he trusted her; he would not hide his softness from her.

“I understand.” She bent to kiss him on the neck. “A child is a rare treasure, a gift from God, to be protected above all else.” Then she nibbled on his ear and whispered. “I'll speak to Alfred.”

Undone, he laid down his brush.

Grete houses make not men holy, and only by holynesse is God wel served.

—J
OHN
W
YCLIFFE

B
ishop Henry Despenser paid little heed to the intricate carving in the Stone above the portal of Norwich Cathedral. It depicted a number of unfortunate souls roped together, dragged by devils toward a flaming cauldron while angels led only a few redeemed innocents in the opposite direction. Though this graphic reminder of the damnation awaiting sinners was not placed there for the benefit of the gatekeepers of Paradise like himself, nevertheless, had Bishop Despenser been less young, less arrogant—and more innocent—this sermon in stone might have occasioned some introspection into the state of his own soul.

But his concern was more for this world than the next. And right now he was concerned with the unsolved murder of Father Ignatius, a circumstance that was becoming an embarrassment.

The slap of his leather soles against the flint pavement scarcely disturbed the silence hovering beneath the graceful Norman arches of the cathedral's south side ambulatory. It wasn't that Henry was unimpressed by the grandeur around him. The great timber ribs of the vaulted roof spanning out like the
skeleton of some mythical leviathan, then soaring ever upward; the paintings, the rood screens, the treasury of silver and gold plate: the sheer power and wealth of it all impressed him greatly.

Indeed, Henry's God dwelt here. But he was no humble Galilean carpenter. The bishop's God was the cathedral itself. And like all false gods, it demanded human sacrifice and ceaseless service. Not Henry's sacrifice—though, if asked, on some days, he might have said he'd rather be fighting the French, rather be wearing hauberk and helm into battle than the gold pectoral cross with its ruby-encrusted Christ—but the sacrifices of an army of stonemasons and carpenters, many of whom died before their work was done, only to be replaced by their sons and their grandsons and their apprentices. Some had labored for
five
decades to build the great cathedral and labored still to replace the timbered spire, damaged by a gale a quarter century past. The slapping of mortar, polishing of stone, the hissing of the carpenter's plane was as much a part of the cathedral sounds as the plainsong of the monks who lived in its priory.

To Bishop Despenser, the great stone edifice, gleaming golden in the sun, was a hymn of praise to human creativity, a paean to ambition, and his own soared as magnificently as the grand vault overhead. But of all the glory that surrounded him, Henry loved best the bishop's throne behind the high altar. The throne stood in unquestioned dominance over the eastern apse like a Moses Seat reincarnated from some ancient synagogue. It was this throne that sucked Henry's soul. To rule the cathedral was to rule East Anglia. The thousands of sheep that dotted the fields, the meadows golden with saffron, the fens and rivers teeming with fowl and fish and eels, even the willows and rushes along the streams: all might as well have been deeded to Henry Despenser. For the bishop of Norwich knew that he who has the power to tax has the power to destroy. And what was that if not ownership?

But it was a co-ownership with the king. That rankled. And that—along with the archbishop's reprimand—accounted for the foulness of his mood on this otherwise fine summer morning. He had just been informed about the king's new poll tax.

The ermine fringe of his heavy robe slithered behind him, gliding swiftly along the curving walk as he passed a scattering of monks who toiled, copying manuscripts, in the ambulatory that served as scriptorium. He did not pause to peer at their progress or even acknowledge their nervous shuffling
of pens and papers. Books held little interest for the bishop even under ordinary circumstances, and today was no ordinary day. It was Friday. Today, the bishop had a special appointment.

He was grateful for the coolness of the cathedral, but even its skin sweated in the summer heat. Moisture stained the joints of the stone walls. It stained also the armpits of the bishop's fine white linen shirt.

He didn't enter the nave today, did not approach the chancel, did not genuflect before the golden chalice on the altar. Today, he hurried to the privacy of the rectory, where he could change his shirt and exchange the heavy robe for a shorter surcoat, which he would have worn anyway had he not been meeting with the king's exchequer and the archbishop. That aging worthy had loudly decried the current laxity of protocol in religious dress. The Council of London had even issued a decree reproaching clerics who wore clothing “fit rather for knights than for clerics.” He'd complained that they frequented the rich clothiers of Colgate Street—where Henry bought his own fine lawn shirts—and strutted about “like peacocks.” But the bishop was not about to give up his lawful right to ostentation. He was, after all, noble born and rather vain of his shapely calves. Still, in deference to his superior, he had donned the heavy robe of which he divested himself with relief as soon as he gained the privacy of his chamber.

Stripping away his stained shirt, he shouted for his ancient chamberlain. Old Seth, who was dozing in the corner, woke with a start, blinking open rheumy eyes with a questioning gaze, and then scurried forward, “beggin' his lordship's pardon” and presenting his master with a fresh shirt and doublet. Henry handed him the robe, and the old man began to brush it vigorously. Too vigorously. Henry knew the old dresser worried about being replaced with a younger man. But he need not have. Seth might be old and slow, but the bishop knew that he was loyal. And loyalty counted for everything in these perfidious times.

“Has Your Eminence had any dinner?”

“The archbishop fed us on oysters and fish stew with fritters and cherry conserve.” He frowned and let out a loud belch. “My stomach rolls in protest. I fear the oysters may have been overripe. But you may bring me a beaker of wine. And then you may retire for the afternoon. I'm expecting a visitor.”

Henry never even noticed as the old man bowed out of his presence. Nor
did he hear him when he returned a few minutes later. The bishop poured his wine and sat down to think in the hour or so he had before the girl was to appear. Constance always came on Fridays for her confession. He had readily agreed to become her spiritual adviser. She was the daughter of an old friend, and he couldn't help noticing the firmness of her thighs and the way her young breasts thrust forward, begging to be squeezed.

But today, he almost wished she weren't coming. The heat and the archbishop's lecture about the laxity of morals among the clergy had dampened his ardor. The pompous old fool had gone to great pains to remind Henry of the scandal just four years ago, when ten priests in Norwich had been accused of unchaste behavior, one of them with two women. It had been all Henry could do to keep his tongue quiet. He suspected the archbishop kept his own mistress and knew he suffered the bishop of London to maintain a profitable and convenient brothel. Still, he wondered, had word of his Friday-afternoon adventures leaked beyond these walls? Not likely. But there had been no mistaking the warning in his voice.

About the murder of Father Ignatius, the archbishop had been more direct. “What news have you concerning the priest's murder?” had been the greeting as he extended his ring for Henry to kiss.

“We have not yet found the culprit.”

“Try harder. This crime cannot be allowed to go unpunished. See to it.” See to it. Just like that. See to it. Didn't Henry have enough worries with raising money for his campaign to unseat the Avignon antipope? And now this new tax. Only so much juice in a turnip. The murdered priest was a loss to him, too; he had been the best at separating women from their treasures. He had been going to or coming from such a mission in Aylsham when he met his demise at Blackingham. That was it. The sheriff had said he questioned the lady of the manor there. Mayhap he should question her more closely. He would send for Sir Guy in the morning. Pass that hot coal on down the line.

Bishop Despenser sipped his wine. The cathedral bell tolled nones: three o'clock, three hours before vespers. His stomach was more settled now. The wine and the thought of Constance's cool white hands stroking him comforted him. Just once he'd like to spend himself inside her. Not have to withdraw. But that way lay risk and ruin. That had been what occasioned the scandal with the priests. Two of the women had turned up pregnant. Stupid.
Irresponsible. A grievous sin. He would exercise his usual control, and still he'd have full measure of his pleasure.

“The Virgin approves,” he had assured Constance, the first time she reluctantly came to him. He had held her chin with his right hand, forcing her to look in his eyes. “In offering yourself to God's servant, you offer yourself to God.” After that, she had been compliant, if not enthusiastic. But her lack of enthusiasm didn't really bother him. If truth be told, it rather added to his pleasure, affirming his power over her.

The girl should be here any minute. He could already feel her warm, firm flesh pressed against him, the touch of her skin, smooth and alive beneath his exploring hands, like the carvings in the chancel. Nothing like a little harmless romp, a little amour, on a summer afternoon to make a man forget his troubles. He sipped his wine, rolled it around on his tongue. The French should stick to what they did best and leave the pope to Rome.