The Illuminator (41 page)

The constable grinned. “You can ask.”

“I think Sykes has cracked my ribs. If you could bring me a length of strong cloth to bind up my rib cage, I will remember your kindness.”

“I think that can be arranged for a special prisoner of the bishop.”

“A clean one. If it's not too much trouble?”

The constable laughed and Finn realized he might have given the man more insight into himself than might be prudent under these circumstances. He was so overcome with the thought of being clean again that he'd only half heard the constable's response. Had he said the “bishop's special prisoner”? That had an ominous ring to it.

“A clean one it shall be. And I'll send a boy to help you bind it and some poppy juice for the pain. Then the constable will take you to the bishop.” Then, all laughter gone, he added, “If you've any notion of trying to break away from one of my lads, I wouldn't. The castle is secure and this meeting you have with Henry Despenser may be the only chance you have. Do the best you can to please. I've known men of high birth to disappear from within these castle walls.”

Henry Despenser sat tall in his high-backed chair, his ears alert, like those of the greyhound tethered at his feet. It was a considered pose, calculated to intimidate by forcing his supplicants to kneel fully. (Bishop Henry Despenser scorned the perfunctory bow.) The beringed forefinger of his beefy, square-palmed left hand fondled the dog's ear. His right hand rested on the arm of his chair. The signet ring on his middle finger tapped, tapped, tapped against the carved oak. Such pleasure in the exercise of power. To bend a man to his will, especially a man like the one he had summoned, could deliver a shock of ecstasy almost equal to that of carnal release.

He surveyed the room. All was in readiness. Those who served him knew well his attention to detail. The dog's ears pricked. Then he heard it, too— the dragging of a long sword on the lip of each stair, followed by a pair of footsteps.

He spread the edge of his robe to broaden the circle of its furred border. So much energy expended to trap a dabbler in paints, a dabbler in heresy too, mayhap. Worth the trouble, anyway—the man's insolence should not go unmarked; besides, there was the matter of the reredos, the five-paneled retable, he wanted painted for the cathedral altar. Why pay for that which he could get for nothing? He'd seen the illuminator's work, the bold strokes, the opulent colors, and envied him that talent. But if he did not own the talent, he would own the man who owned the talent.

He dug his fingernail into the bitch's fur, deep into the soft juncture where ear meets skull. The dog quivered but remained still. Not even a low growl. A well-bred beast and well-mastered. That was the kind of obedience he inspired.

There was a tentative tap on the door. Henry stroked the hound's head. She whimpered low in her throat and gave the tiniest shiver before settling her head on her front paws.

“Benedicite.”

“Your Eminence.” The constable strode across the threshold and dropped to one knee, his long-sword clanging on the stone flags. The illuminator, standing behind him, inclined his head in a token bow, but he held his torso erect.

“Your prisoner does not kneel in the presence of Holy Church?”

The constable tugged on Finn's arm, forcing him to his knees with a clunk. But it was not a voluntary action and there was insufficient humility in his posture to suggest that his weeks in the dungeon had improved his attitude. All right. Sweeter still the triumph that was hard fought.

“The prisoner has been injured, Eminence. His ribs are tightly bound. It is difficult for him to pay due homage.”

“This injury occurred while he was in our custody?”

“An accident, Eminence. He tripped on the stairway.”

“I see.” Henry smiled. “You should be more careful … Master Finn, is it? You may rise.”

Pain flickered across the prisoner's face as he struggled awkwardly to his feet. Henry continued to stroke the dog's head.

“You may leave us, Constable.”

“But Eminence, the man
is
charged with murder.”

“I'm aware of the charge. I repeat, you may leave us.”

As the constable backed awkwardly out the door, the bishop turned his gaze on Finn. Lesser men in his position fidgeted beneath such scrutiny. Despenser admired, albeit grudgingly, the man's discipline.

“Are you a priest-killer, Master Finn?”

“I am no killer, Your Eminence. I am greatly wronged, as you will see once you hear the evidence. If you will interview my daughter, you will—”

Henry waved the words away.

“A daughter who would not speak for her father is poor issue. Besides, such testimony would be premature. The shire reeve is still gathering evidence. Gathering evidence takes a long time. Sir Guy has matters other than this one to resolve. Or so he keeps reminding me. In the meantime, I'm sure you can understand that Holy Church cannot allow one who may be a priest-killer to go free.”

Especially one with your heretical connections, he thought but did not say aloud.

He watched as anger worked the muscles of the prisoner's emaciated face. Amazing how quickly the face takes on a starved, hunted look. He'd seen the man twice before: the first time when he'd boldly confessed to killing the sow and a second time when he'd refused the bishop's patronage. Both were memorable occasions. Yet Henry would not have recognized him, except for his cocky posture. Five weeks in Castle Prison dungeon had scarcely dented that—a not unworthy adversary.

“We can't grant you freedom, but we can provide more comfortable quarters while you're waiting trial. The dungeon is hardly a place for a man of your talents. Of course, such an arrangement would require your cooperation. But I forget my manners. You look quite unwell. Have you been ill?”

No doubt, the succulent aroma coming from the draped table in front of the fire was having its desired effect. Henry clapped his hands and his aged servant appeared from outside the door.

“Seth, prepare the table and assist Master Finn to a chair before he faints. Pour him a glass of wine.”

Henry rose from his own chair and walked across to the table. He picked up a breast of roast quail, dipped it in a black ginger sauce, and nibbled at it daintily.

He watched as Finn averted his eyes. He recognized the mix of desire and nausea that the man was fighting. He knew how, after an extended fast—and this man's fast was significantly longer than those rare and short holy days during which he fasted—an indulgence in rich food could overwhelm the senses with unpleasant results.

“Please. Be my guest. You must be weary of the meager fare of the common prisoner.”

Finn shook his head. “Just bread—to soften the effects of the wine. My stomach has become accustomed to the dungeon's humbler rations.”

So. He was to be denied the gratifying sight of the haughty illuminator falling on his food like a beast and being humiliated by his own vomit. But Henry nodded consent and his servant cut a slice of bread and placed it before Finn.

“Maybe a bit of the applesauce,” his prisoner said as he took a minuscule sip from his cup. “And a sliver of plain cheese, please.” He pushed his chair away from the table, edged it closer to the fire.

Seth measured a wedge of cheese with his knife. Finn shook his head and the servant halved it; again, then quartered it.

Henry frowned, but he had to admire the man's willpower. “I trust you have found your cell to be reasonably comfortable.” He sat down across from the illuminator, watching closely to see the effect of his irony.

“It is a habitat created by the devil for his vermin.” He dipped the bread in the applesauce and chewed carefully.

Henry helped himself to a sugared tart, spooned clotted cream over it. “This is delicious. You really should …” He swallowed, licked his fingers. “I'm sorry if you've found your cell unpleasant. We do have other quarters. This chamber that we're in, for example, is furnished … less Spartan than the cellars.”

With a sweep of his hand he indicated the bed with its clean feather mattress, the pegs on which hung clean linen shirts and breeches, the low work-table laid with paint pots and brushes.

“The bishop's chair, of course, doesn't stay. But there is a comfortable chair and the worktable is a generous size. The room is high enough in the tower that it has a rare window where a man could see a patch of blue sky. I would think that might be important—a patch of blue sky—to a prisoner. He could stand at the window and look down at the river, watch it flowing
past. Such a cell might even become a refuge to one dedicated to his art.”

The prisoner said nothing. He sipped his wine, took a small bite of the cheese, then inspected it as though it were some rare delicacy, but his glance lingered on the paints and brushes. Henry noted how the fingers of Finn's right hand made involuntary grasping movements as though holding a sable brush.

Henry smiled, drank deeply from his own glass. “A fine wine. The French should stick to making burgundy and leave the pope to Rome. Now, concerning the matter of your trial. Of course, you could appeal to the king, but it would avail you nothing since the king has no jurisdiction in ecclesiastical matters. The Holy See passes judgment. The king's authority only becomes involved at the execution phase.”

He pointed to a small chest. “There's clean linen there. The occupant of this cell will be supplied with clean linen once a week.” He inspected his fingernails, twisted his signet ring. “If it's a speedy trial you're pressing for, well”—he shrugged his ermine-caped shoulders—“a speedy murder trial usually ends badly for the accused. It's best to take one's time, to forge alliances … “ He nibbled again, wiped his mouth and looked around. “There's enough light here for an artist, wouldn't you think? If you moved that worktable, over there, directly beneath the window?”

The prisoner set down his wineglass and got up abruptly. He walked to the window and gazed out. He dared turn his back on his bishop! Henry considered, then decided to ignore this act of rudeness.

“Of course, we could offer you Trial by Holy Writ. That would be swift. You could be free by nightfall.”

“Or dead by nightfall,” Finn answered, not turning around.

“Exactly so. Depending upon the text my finger lights upon.”

“Or your interpretation of that text,” Finn said, turning around to meet Henry's gaze.

“Exactly so.” This was more fun that he'd had in a while.

“And exactly what would be expected of an artist in return for this exceptional treatment?”

So, now we are to negotiate in earnest, Henry thought. “Only that which you did before your unfortunate arrest. You may recall I mentioned to you once before that I wanted to commission a paneled altarpiece depicting the Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Ascension of our Lord. Do you remember that conversation? ”

“Some vague remembrance,” Finn acknowledged.

“As I recall, you declined the commission, pleading that you did not have enough time to do such a large work justice.” Henry smiled. “Well, suddenly it seems that Fate has conspired to give you time enough.” Now he was really enjoying himself. “Wouldn't you agree?”

There was a pause. The muscles in Finn's face worked as though he were chewing something hard and bitter, but his voice was steady as he said, “Such a piece as you have described would require talent and concentration. What would be the compensation?”

“Compensation! You are bold to speak of compensation from such a weak bargaining position.” The room was close, overheated. He felt sweat popping along his hairline. His prisoner, however, appeared not to notice. He had even moved closer to the fire. “You would have a clean supply of linen once a week, a servant would be supplied to look after your chamber, purchase, prepare, and serve your food.”

“It is written man does not live by bread alone.”

Finn extended his hands to the fire, almost touching the flames.

God's Blood. If the man got any closer, he'd be sitting in the fire. “You may well be too clever for your own good, Illuminator. If by your choice of Scripture you seek to cast me in the role of the devil, I would remind you that you are hardly fit for the role of Jesus Christ. Look to your own soul. You've much to worry about in that quarter, even if you don't have the priest's blood on your hands as you claim. Sir Guy told me of the wicked translations found in your papers. You're keeping the devil's company, Illuminator, with John Wycliffe and John of Gaunt. These men are not the kind of friends you need now. Maybe by dedicating your art to that which is holy you can find some redemption for your soul.”

“I thought I had dedicated my art to that which is holy. But it's not my soul to which I had reference. I have a daughter. She depends on me for her living.”

“What use will you be to her dead?”

“I'm not dead yet.”