The Illuminator (5 page)

Lady Kathryn knew full well that her gold florins—for which the sly priest thanked her “in the name of the Virgin Mother”—went to finance the ambition of Henry Despenser, bishop of Norwich, in his campaign for the Italian pope. Better soldiers for Urban VI, she supposed, than jewels and
women for the French pope at Avignon. And besides, what choice did she have but to pay? Her estate was ripe for plucking by Church or crown, should the slightest hint of treason—or heresy—be breathed.

Not that she thought her late husband capable of treason. Roderick had not the fortitude for it. If indeed he died in a skirmish with the French, as she was told, he must have been struck in the back. But he had a fox's instinct for sniffing out his own interest. And he was very capable of the kind of petty, inept intrigue that could get her and her two sons put off their lands despite her dower rights. In pledging his allegiance to the more ambitious of the young king's uncles, Roderick had played a dangerous game. John of Gaunt was regent now, but for how long? The duke was making enemies within the Church, powerful enemies—enemies that would be no match for a widow alone.

By the saints, how her head ached. Her left temple throbbed, and she felt the bit of capon she'd eaten at nuncheon threaten to return, bringing the boiled turnips with it. Squinting against the afternoon sun, she thought longingly of her cool, dark bedchamber. But not yet. First, she must see the steward to receive his quarterly accounting of the wool receipts and the rents. He was already late with the collections by a fortnight, and she would not feel easy until she felt the weight
of
the coin in her hand. She knew at the first indication of a womanly weakness or lapse in vigilance, he would strip her clean as a beggar's bone.

Her supply of gold florins already plundered, she had been forced to satisfy the priest's third extortion with her ruby brooch. He had shown up on the Feast Day of Mary Magdalene and suggested that, if she paid for prayers for King Edward's soul, the loyalty of her household could not be questioned, even by those who might wish her ill.

And now—today. Today, the greedy priest had taken her mother's pearls. Smiling greasily, Father Ignatius had slid them into his cassock. They are only pearls—she'd steeled herself against the loss—only pearls. A creamy strand of gleaming stones, the necklace that her dying father had pressed into her hands in a rare display of affection.
I gave them to your mother on our wedding day. Wear them always near your heart,
he'd said. And she had, putting them on every morning like some good-luck charm, some angel's token of her mother's guardianship. They had become as much a part of who she was as the chatelaine's keys that nestled between the folds of her skirt. But they are only stones, she reminded herself. Not brick and mortar. Not lands.
Not deeds. And she had no daughter whose hands she could press them into saying,
Wear them next to your heart. They belonged to your mother and her mother before.

“I have nothing left to pay for prayers, Father Ignatius,” she had said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “I trust our souls and our persons are now divinely protected. You have no further cause to trouble yourself on our account.”

He had inclined his head in what she hoped was silent acquiescence, but as she ushered him to the courtyard where he mounted his horse, he spoke to her in the unctuous voice she loathed.

“Lady Kathryn, in a household such as yours,” he said, looking down at her from his horse, “with a breath of scandal hanging over it, you would do well to wear your
natural
piety like a garment. A
resident
priest is a requirement of a truly devout household. I'm sure your friend, the abbot of Broomholm”—the sly smile, the veiled gaze beneath the scraggly black line of brow—“would agree. Would he not?”

So. He had found her out. He knew she had no friends at the abbey.

That was when she first felt the familiar, squeezing pressure around her left eyeball. He would try to plant some spy so that he could keep a tighter grip upon her purse, or, worse yet, insert himself into her household on a permanent basis.

He didn't wait for her reply, but pulling on his horse's reins, said over his shoulder, “Think about what I've said. We'll talk about it when I return, next month.”

Next month! By the saints and by the Virgin, too.

There must be some way to rid herself for good of that extortionist priest.

When the steward finally waited upon her an hour later in the great hall, Lady Kathryn's left temple throbbed. She could not concentrate.

“If my lady is indisposed, I'll just leave the bag with the rent receipts. She need not bother herself with the details of the reckoning. Sir Roderick often—when he was busy—”

She picked up the bag and weighed it in her hand.

“Sir Roderick was more trusting than I, Simpson,” she said evenly. “You would do well to remember that.”

“I meant no offense to your ladyship. My only desire is to serve you well.” The words were right, but not the tone. There was an insolence about the man that made her uneasy—the slump of his large shoulders, the sullen eyes with their hooded, lazy lids.

“Leave the ledgers with me and attend me tomorrow at this same time,” she said as she unconsciously rubbed her temples.

“As you wish.” He placed the sheaf of pages bound with string on the sideboard and backed out of her presence.

At last. Now she could seek the sanctuary of her bedroom. If she could make it that far without retching.

Dusk was thickening in her room when she awoke, several hours later, to the sound of a door creaking on its iron hinge.

“Alfred?” she asked, keeping her voice low lest she wake the sleeping beast inside her head. It was an effort just to form the word.

“No, Mother, it's me. Colin. I came to see if I could get you anything. I thought maybe some food would help. I brought you a cup of broth.”

He held it to her lips, gently. The smell made her stomach lurch. She pushed it away. “Maybe later. Just let me lie here a bit longer, then have the lamps lit in the solar. I'll come down by and by. Have you eaten? Is your brother home?”

“No, Mother. I've not seen Alfred since prime. Are we to have vespers in the chapel? Shall I go and find him?”

“Father Ignatius is gone.” The taste of bile was on her lips, or maybe the bitterness was just the priest's name in her mouth.

Her elder son, elder by only two hours, was probably at the tavern and would come home drunk and stagger to his bed—his father had taught him at a tender age. But at least, she reasoned, the boy had been obedient, had abstained while the priest was in the house.

Her younger son stirred, reminding her of his presence.

She patted his hand. “No, Colin. We are spared the tyranny of praying the hours for a little while.”

In the dim light she could make out the pretty shape of his head, his pale hair falling in a shimmering curtain over one eye.

“It wasn't so bad, Mother. To have the priest, I mean. I think the ritual beautiful in its way. The words fall on the ear almost like music.”

Lady Kathryn sighed, and the beast sleeping inside her head stirred, sending shooting pains into her temple. So unlike his twin. It was just as well Colin would not inherit. He had not the heart for it. She wondered, not for the first time, how Roderick had begot such a gentle creature.

“I've learned a new song. Shall I sing it for you? Would it soothe you?” “No.” She tried to answer without moving her head. It felt as though it were stuffed with soggy wool. The linen sheet beneath her was warm and moist. She would have to change her smock, find more linen rags for padding. “Just send Glynis to me, and close the door. Gently,” she whispered.

She didn't hear him leave.

When Lady Kathryn entered the solar two hours later, Colin was at supper. And he was not alone. Her pulse quickened when she saw the back of the Benedictine habit.

“Mother, you're better. I was telling Brother Joseph about your headaches.”

“Brother Joseph?” The question rode out on a relieved sigh.

Colin got up from his stool. “Do you want the rest of my supper? It'll make you feel better.”

He pushed the half-eaten fowl toward her. Queasiness threatened. She shook her head. “I see that you have divided your supper once already.” She pointed to the bird that had been neatly halved, then turned to look more closely at the unexpected visitor, who had risen when she walked into the room. She held out her hand. “I am Lady Kathryn, mistress of Blackingham. I trust you have found my son worthy company.” She hoped he mistook the relief in her voice for hospitality. “If you're passing through, it would be our pleasure to provide you shelter for the evening. Have you a horse that needs grooming?”

“Your son has already seen to it; and since the evening grows late, I'm grateful for your kind hospitality. However, Lady Kathryn, I am not just passing through. I have come on a mission. I have brought you a message from Father Abbot of Broomholm Abbey. He has a request to make of you.”

“A request? From the abbot of Broomholm?”

Had the priest stirred a hornet's nest with his inquiry? Blackingham could not satisfy the greed of an abbeyful of monks.

“How can a poor widow serve the abbot of so esteemed a company of Benedictines?”

“My lady, you look quite pale. Please, sit.”

He indicated the bench upon which he had been sitting. She sank down on it and he sat beside her.

“Please, don't be distressed, Lady Kathryn. We heard through Father Ignatius that you desire friendship with our abbey. What Father Abbot and Prior John suggest will cost you little but will offer you a chance to serve our abbot in a profound way and ensure you and your household the friendship of our brotherhood.”

The friendship of the brotherhood?
But it was unlikely she would be granted
gratis
that which she had falsely claimed.

“Please, Brother, tell me how my humble household may serve his lordship.”

The Benedictine cleared his throat. “It is a simple matter, Lady Kathryn. Blackingham Hall has ever been known for its hospitality. With the death of Sir Roderick, I'm sure this tradition will continue. Therefore, our abbot and our prior feel that this request would not place too heavy a burden on your ladyship.”

He paused for breath.

“And what request might that be?” she asked, impatient for him to get beyond his rehearsed speech. “I hope I may not seem as slow to grant your request as you are to voice it.”

The monk looked momentarily disconcerted. He cleared his throat and began his recital again. “As you know, my lady, we at Broomholm are blessed with many holy treasures, including a relic of the true cross on which our Lord suffered. However, we have few books of note. Father Abbot thinks that so esteemed an abbey should have at least one manuscript worthy of its glory, one to rival
The Book of Kells
or the
Lindisfarne Gospels.
We have a scriptorium and several monks who toil daily in copying the Holy Scriptures.”