The Illuminator (47 page)

“Agnes sent them away, I hope. We've no need for mummers or merrymakers.”

She unfolded the paper—it was stained and frayed and smelled of sweat.

“Will there be anything else, milady?”

“Tell Cook to send the dwarf messenger away in the morning. I've no message to send with him.”

What was there to say? She knew he had not killed the priest, but she knew, too, that even if she thought he had, she would not have given him over except for her fear for Alfred. Nothing had changed. She would not see her son's red curls on the headsman's block. Not even in the name of justice. Besides, there was not enough evidence to convict Finn. “Above the common prisoner,” that's what the dwarf had said. Already Finn had friends. He was smart. He would survive. Alfred might not. He was the heir apparent to a property coveted by both crown and Church.

If only Alfred would come and declare his innocence—but Sir Guy had sent him off with a contingent of his yeomen to train for the bishop's dream
of holy war against the French pope. “If the fighting really starts, I can recall him.” Guy de Fontaigne had dangled this promise like a plum to ingratiate himself—or to show his power over her. Nothing came free with the sheriff. She would not beg favors of him. Not yet.

Glynis picked up the tray, asking as she backed out the door, “Shall I come back to tend ye before bed?”

“Not tonight.”

The girl could not suppress a smile, Kathryn noticed, envying her the energy with which she flounced out of the room, already making plans, no doubt, to spend her free evening in the arms of some snot-nosed groom. Kathryn envied her that anticipation, too.

When Glynis had gone, Kathryn turned her attention to the letter. Colin's handwriting! She read its contents hungrily, then, letting it fall from her hand, rested her head in her hands. Here was something else to worry about.

She had assumed Colin was safe in the bosom of the Benedictines. But it seemed she was to be denied even this small comfort. Her youngest son was cavorting around the winter landscape with a band of profligate mummers— a sheep frolicking among wolves—while the seed that he had planted in Rose's womb grew into his child. But at least he was safe from bodily harm, though heaven only knew what harm might come to his immortal soul in such company.

A coal shifted among the sluggish embers, emitting a sigh into the chilly air. She turned her face to the wall and gave in to the pain in her head. It was no more than she deserved.

The mother may suffer her child to fall sometimes, and to be distressed in different ways, for its own profit … And though, possibly, an earthly mother may suffer her child to perish, our heavenly Mother Jesus can never suffer us who are His children to perish.

—J
ULIAN OF
N
ORWICH
,
D
IVINE
R
EVELATIONS

W
eeks passed before Kathryn gathered enough courage to make the twelve-mile journey to Castle Prison. She had lain awake each night, rifling the drawers of her mind, searching for words to explain. She'd come up empty. But she owed Finn at least the assurance that she would take care of Rose and an explanation of why his daughter could not come to him. What that explanation was going to be she was not sure. But if she could just see him, if he could look in her eyes, mayhap he would read there the love that she still had for him. Mayhap not. But having tried, mayhap she could sleep again.

Twice, she had bound her hair in its golden snood, put on her fur-trimmed cloak and mounted her palfrey. Twice, she had ridden the three miles into Aylsham. Twice, she had turned back, her groomsman following at a respectful distance.

But today dawned clear and brittle as the ice that would stay on the mill pond until March. No wintry clouds threatened on the horizon. Her mare could easily pick its away among the frozen ridges in the road. Her attention was not required in the brewery, the kitchens, the pantry, or the cellars, and she had settled the crofters' accounts with Simpson yesterday. Her bag of excuses was empty.

When she reached the Aylsham cross, she spurred her heels into the horse's side and headed its nose toward Norwich. Her cloak spread out in a train covering the horse's flank. The furred edge of her hood rippled in the wind, but she welcomed the biting cold of the wind that stung her eyes to tears.

The groomsman reined in his horse at the Aylsham cross in expectation. When his mistress did not turn back, he sighed and tugging his jerkin tighter, spurred his mount to a gallop.

Finn stood at the high window and gazed out, resting his eyes from the close work. He should be working on the bishop's panel, instead of Wycliffe's text, because tomorrow was Friday. The bishop always came on Fridays. Finn actually looked forward to these inspections. To a lonely man, even the devil was welcome company. The only other soul he'd seen, except for his jailers and the half-wit who served him, was Half-Tom. He'd seen the dwarf twice since his first visit. Once when he'd returned from Blackingham bringing no message and once when he'd come to pick up the finished Wycliffe text.

The shallow winding river below curved flat and frozen, like a blue-white highway, on the winter-blasted landscape, a highway he could not ride any more than a bird could ride upon a cloud. He could barely see the outside end of the bridge that led across the river and into the prison. The bridge was empty except for a lone rider, a woman, followed close behind by a groomsman. Fresh tracks in the snow marked their progress to the bridge. His painter's eye noted how brightly the blue and silver of the groom's uniform contrasted with the white background. Blue and silver. Blackingham livery! Rose! At last! He moved to the far right edge of the window, trying to see more of the bridge, but the woman had already passed out of sight.

He hurried across the threshold of his chamber, down the crooked stair to the grille at the bottom. Calm down, he told himself. There are many houses with blue livery, and the slash of silver could have been a trick of the light.

He scraped the bars with his pewter tankard. “Send my lackey,” he yelled in the direction of the guardroom. “My chamber is cold. My daughter is coming. I need hot coals and some warm cider. Two cups.”

The day serjeant came out, buttoning his breeches and mumbling. “Keep yer shirt on. A man can't even take a piss without being harassed. What do you think this is? A bleedin' inn?”

Finn didn't stay to listen to his grumbles but called over his shoulder, “Her name is Rose. Tell the constable I have permission from the bishop to see her.”

She would be here any minute, and she would be hungry. It was a long ride. The serving boy would not bring his dinner for at least three more hours, and she would have to leave before then.

He poked at the barely glowing embers in the grate, then scrounged some biscuits from last night's supper and some dried fruit. He sprinkled the stale biscuits with a bit of water and a few precious grains of cane sugar, wrapped them in parchment, then placed them on the hearth to warm. The dried fruit he arranged on a plate and placed on the small table in front of the fire. He sat down to wait, jumped up to find his comb, ran it hurriedly through his hair and beard. Did he have a clean shirt?

“I have come to see the prisoner Finn,” Kathryn said with as much authority as she could muster. “I am Lady Blackingham.”

Handing the reins to her groom, she dismounted in front of the castle keep. The guard stuck his head inside the door, mumbled some words she could not hear. A man wearing a short-sword strapped at his waist appeared. He looked surprised, even a little flustered; he bowed slightly. “My lady, we were not expecting you.”

“Well, of course you were not expecting me. Finn the illuminator is here, is he not? ”

“Well, yes, but—”

“You do allow visitors?”

“We sometimes allow visitors, even female visitors.” He shot the guard a warning look at the sound of a snicker. “But it's a little unusual for a lady—”

“The sheriff was a friend of my husband, the late Lord Blackingham. I was assured I would be able to see the prisoner.” Not exactly a lie.

“I will need to check. Perhaps, if you could come back—”

“Can you not see that I am near to frozen? This is no afternoon ride to the hunt. Sir Guy will not be pleased that you have inconvenienced the widow of his friend.”

He sighed wearily. “I shall take you to him.”

He picked up a large ring of keys and led her across the courtyard, paused at the foot of a sharply curving stairway where another guard lounged in a small anteroom. The door at the foot of the stairs was a network of iron bars. It scraped against the stone floor as the constable unlocked it. Kathryn flinched.

“Is the door at the top unlocked?” the constable asked the guard.

“Aye. His highness was just down here banging on the grille.”

The constable motioned for Kathryn to go before him.

“Please,” she said, “I prefer to see Master Finn alone.”

She smiled, touching him on the sleeve, but she was never any good at playing the coquette. He hesitated. She reached into the velvet reticule hanging at her waist, fished out a silver coin and discreetly pressed it into his hand. Her throat was dry as she said, “I assure you I will be safe enough. I wish to speak to Master Finn about private matters.”

The constable shrugged and motioned for her to go up. “It's quite a climb. Just come back down and bang on the grate when you're finished.” He started to leave, then turned back, causing her to fear he might have changed his mind. “If you will stop by the castle keep when you leave, I have something that I think might be of interest to you.”

He gave her a cursory bow, then she heard the key turning in the lock behind her. Her mind was so distracted at the thought of her encounter that she didn't even pause to wonder what it was the constable might want.

Finn was poking at the fire, trying to stir it with a quill—they would not allow him anything sharper or heavier—when he heard light footsteps behind him. He dropped the quill into the fire. It burst into a bright line of flame. Turning, he saw the cloaked and hooded figure standing in the door, silhouetted against the light. He rushed forward and folded her in his arms.