The Illuminator (6 page)

She nodded impatiently.

“Although our brothers do a passing job as copyists and scribes, we have no illuminator of reputation to enhance our texts. It has come to our attention that a very gifted artisan would be willing to serve as illuminator for the
Gospel of Saint John, except that he is unwilling to attach himself to our abbey. It seems he has a young daughter of marriageable age”—here he laughed to ease the awkward moment—“well, your ladyship can see how lodgings in a company of monks would be unacceptable.”

“Can the daughter not lodge with the nuns at Norwich or at Saint Faith Priory? ”

The monk shook his head. “It seems the illuminator dotes upon her and will only undertake employment with us if we can provide suitable lodgings.”

“Ah, so your prior and your abbot think to attach the young woman to my household?”

He hesitated just a moment before answering. “Not only the daughter, my lady, but the father as well.”

“The father? But—”

“He will do his work here, with your permission, so that he can be close to his daughter. Along with food, lodging, and the use of a horse, he will require but a small place with good light…” The monk must have sensed that she was about to plead the poverty of her newly widowed state, because he held up his hand to forestall her protests. “Along with his sincere appreciation, Father Abbot is willing to pay for their board and all expenses incurred. He would not wish to impose on a poor widow.”

If only her head were clearer. Could this be the answer to the troublesome priest? If she did the abbey a favor, then she could in truth plead friendship with the abbot of Broomholm. Colin was eagerly querying the priest about the proposed lodgers. He would be pleased to have an artist in the house. And Alfred would be pleased to have the girl, no doubt. That could be a problem, especially if the chit had a pretty face. But the friendship of the abbot
and
extra income …

There was Roderick's room. It had good lighting. And it was far enough removed from her own not to cause gossip among the servants or endanger her privacy. She and Roderick had been able to avoid each other for weeks at a time.

Her son interrupted her thoughts, his blue eyes bright with interest. “Mother, what say you to this idea?”

She could tell from the excited pitch in his voice that he found the plan appealing. He must get lonely. She was always so busy and his connection with his brother seemed to have ended when they exited her womb.

“What say you, Colin?”

“I think it a fine and noble idea,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Well, then, I suppose we might give it a trial.”

She was rewarded by the look of pleasure on his face. “Brother Joseph, you may tell your Prior John and your Father Abbot that I and my household are pleased to be of service. We will prepare to welcome your illuminator and his daughter.”

Christ and His Apostles taught the people in the language best known to them
…
The laity ought to understand the faith
…
believers should have the Scripture in a language which they fully understand.

—J
OHN
W
YCLIFFE

L
ady Kathryn spent the next two days supervising the cleaning of Roderick's chambers. His best clothing she put away for Alfred to grow into. Colin was much too fine-boned. The elegant brocades and velvet finery would hang heavy on his slender frame.

It was a burdensome chore in the summer heat and fraught with emotional peril, so she was relieved to be at the bottom of the chest when she came upon a folded piece of parchment, half-hidden beneath a moth-eaten tunic, among the residue of aromatic herbs. A love letter from one of Roderick's many conquests? He shouldn't have bothered to hide it. She was long past caring. The more paramours he had, the less he claimed from her the onerous marriage debt. But upon examination, the document proved to be no billet-doux but some kind of religious tract headed in scrawling script,
On the Pastoral Office.
It was not illuminated but hurriedly transcribed and
signed simply at the bottom, “John Wycliffe, Oxford.” She recognized that name. That was the man the bishop's legate called a heretic.

She might have burned the damning paper immediately, except the way it was written caught her notice. Not the subject or even the style, but the language, if language it could be called. It appeared to be the midland Anglo-Saxon dialect spoken among the peasants and the lower classes, hardly a tongue appropriate for a scholar's document. Norman French, the language of her father, was the language of books and court documents. Religious documents were written in the Latin Vulgate. Few of the people who spoke this doggerel could read. And they would never be able to afford the cost of books, not even hastily copied parchments such as these.

Out of curiosity she began to decipher the unfamiliar spellings and found the content even more shocking than the language. No wonder the priest had called Wycliffe a heretic. This document charged that the Church was filled with apostasy, even in its highest offices, and called for the withholding of funds from immoral and negligent clergy. Dangerous language, even for an Oxford master with a patron at court.

It was not that she disputed the truth of such a position—the bishop of Norwich, Henry Despenser, had certainly shown more interest in raising money to set an army against the French antipope, Clement VII, than in saving souls. It was rumored that the bishop even ordered the withholding of the sacraments pending a contribution to his cause. She thought bitterly of her ruby brooch and her mother's pearls. But verity aside, this was a dangerous document to have in one's possession. Proof of heresy. The priest's sly smile slid into her mind.

She'd heard talk before. She knew that Wycliffe had followers not only within the lower classes but among some nobles as well—the presence of this tract among Roderick's possessions was proof—but for different reasons. It wasn't moral outrage that wooed John of Gaunt, the duke of Lancaster, and his conniving courtiers to Wycliffe's call for reformation. As regent to the young King Richard, the duke would be jealous of the pope's authority over civil matters, would want such authority for the crown. Power and wealth: the Church embraced these twin whores. And the crown lusted for them. John of Gaunt saw Wycliffe and his following as a means of plundering the Church's bulging treasury. But that wasn't her concern. Her concern was more personal. The duke of Lancaster had allied himself with
Wycliffe and Roderick had tied himself to the duke, leaving her and her sons on a ship floundering in the shallows, drifting toward a rocky shore.

She set a torch to the parchment and watched it curl and blacken in the cold grate. Roderick had been a fool to embroil himself in royal intrigue. Who knew which way the political winds would blow? Best to keep her own council in matters of religion and politics—a beast with two heads. If only her husband had been wise enough to do the same.

As she closed the lid on the heavy clothing chest, she took comfort in remembering the two gold sovereigns the abbot had given her as surety for her new lodger. More than the Holy Scriptures was being enriched by the illuminator's art. This new alliance would give her much-needed revenue and make good her claim of powerful friends.

Anything to keep that hateful money-grubbing priest at bay.

By late afternoon, the room was cleared of her late husband's belongings. Kathryn surveyed the space with a calculating eye. The great four-poster with its velvet hangings might give the humble colorist illusions of grandeur. But all in all, it was a room well suited for his purpose—well lighted with that singular light born in the North Sea, sometimes golden, riding in the sun's chariot, and sometimes silver, spilling watery luminance over everything it touched. The pellucid light even penetrated into the adjacent sitting room, where she had placed a daybed for the daughter.

She closed the chest and looked up as Glynis entered the room, bobbing her perfunctory curtsy.

“Did you send for me, milady?”

“I need you to help me move the writing desk under the window. The illuminator will need the light. And did you change the ticking in the mattress?”

“Yes, milady. Just like you said. I put fresh goose-down in milord's mattress and Agnes is stitching a new straw mattress for the daybed.”

“Good.” But Lady Kathryn was rethinking the straw mattress. Suppose the girl was spoiled and put on airs? She leaned her tall frame against the edge of the oversize desk and strained, nodding curtly at Glynis to do the same.

Again the half-curtsy. “Beggin' milady's pardon, but shouldn't we get some help to move this?” the girl asked in her thick North Country brogue.
“I'll fetch Master Alfred. It would be naught to the likes of him. He has his father's manly build,” she said eagerly.

The ghost of yesterday's pain stirred in Kathryn's head as she watched the girl skip away a little too merrily, obviously more on her mind than her mistress's poor back. Glynis was a good worker. Kathryn would hate to let her go because of a swollen belly. God knew she'd lost enough maids to Roderick's whoring. Alfred was only fifteen, but already she'd heard gossip about him and the tavern wench at the Black Swan. She hoped his experience did not go beyond the sighs and gropings of green youth. But he already wore a thin little stain of a mustache, and if he had inherited his father's whoring nature, there might be little she could do about it except to teach him discretion. Harmless flirtation with tavern maids was one thing, but she would not have him fouling their nest with his lechery.

They returned quickly. The maid, with flushed cheeks and simpering manner, followed Alfred into the room.

“Glynis said that my lady mother had need of a lusty lad with a sturdy back. So here I am. I'm your man.” One rust-colored curl escaped the leather thong that bound it and bobbed against his cheek.

“More boy than man, I would say. Though for want of any other, you'll do. Put your sturdy back to shoving that desk beneath the window.”

If the boy wondered at the curtness of her response, he made no mention of it, but good-naturedly set himself to the task.

“ 'Tis easy enough,” he said, pretending less strain than the heavy oak furniture would cause a man full-grown. She wondered what else he'd done to impress the plump little chambermaid.

Giving the desk one last, red-faced push so that the mullion window was exactly centered above it, he asked, “Why did you want the desk beneath the window? And I see you've cleared Father's belongings.” He blew a breath at the offending curl to clear it from his blue eyes—the only feature he shared with his brother.

“You may leave us, Glynis,” Lady Kathryn said. “I'll put fresh linen on the bed.” She waited until she heard the girl's footsteps fade away.

“We are to have a lodger, Alfred.” She picked up the sheet Glynis had brought and turned to the bed, talking to her son over her shoulder. “I would have told you about it sooner, but you have seen fit to deprive yourself of your mother's company for the last two nights.”

“Colin said you had a headache, and I didn't wish to disturb you.” He rapped his knuckles against the oak table.

Too much restless energy, she thought. He reminded her of a simmering pot working up a head of steam. She whipped the sheet in the air. It settled with a snap onto the bed. “Well, in any case, I doubt you were in any condition to wait upon your mother, whose pain would have only been enhanced by the sight of her oldest son so far in his cups he could barely walk, and at such a green age—a boy scarcely weaned, who cannot hold his beer.”

Good. She had at least succeeded in bringing a deeper blush to his naturally ruddy cheeks.

“I see Colin was ready enough to tattle—”

“Your brother, sir, told me little enough. Agnes told me how she had to clean up the puke from your linen. I will not have my son made the butt of jokes among serving wenches and villeins. And while we're on the subject, you make too free with my maid. I've seen the calf-eyed looks that pass between you.”