The Illuminator (9 page)

Finn also found himself distracted as he sat at table in the great hall. He had noted the irritation in the voice of his hostess, who sat at his right, and so
resolved to make no more political statements. He did not want Brother Joseph carrying tales back to the abbot at Broomholm that the abbey had a heretic in its employ. He had already called undue attention to himself by confronting the bishop of Norwich and confessing to killing his sow. He had tried to be deferential to the impudent stripling of a bishop—even offered to pay for the pig and her suckling—but deference didn't come easily to Finn, and he feared he'd botched it. But by taking the blame on himself, he had saved the dwarf from the stocks or worse.

He hoped the abbot would forget any indiscretion on the part of his new employee when he saw the carpet pages for the manuscript. They would be glorious. On the journey to Aylsham from Broomholm, Finn had had plenty of time to think about the end-papers, the pages that would precede the beginning of Saint John's Gospel. The background would be the rich red of the mulberry sauce soaking into the bread of his trencher and smothering the partridge on which he chewed.

“I hope you find the sauce pleasing, Master … Finn.”

“I find much to please me here, madam.” Was it his imagination, or did her face redden? He hastily added, “You are fortunate in your cook. The bird is well-seasoned.”

She smiled at him—a real smile, not the strained grimace he'd seen heretofore.

“Agnes has been with me since I was a child. She was my nursemaid. She is very loyal.”

Finn saluted her with his knife, speared another bite. Agnes, he thought. A name worth remembering. It was always good to make friends with the cook. Nor did he want to incur disfavor with Lady Kathryn. If she prized loyalty, he must say nothing else to make her wary of his own, but he sincerely hoped hers was not one of those pious households where he would be constantly required to invent excuses for his absence from a numbing ritual of daily prayers. And he really did not want Rose to be influenced by an excess of religious fervor. He'd seen the dark underbelly of that kind of piety. Balance in all things was best, and especially in religion. That's what he wanted for his daughter—devotion to the Virgin, yes, but balanced by intelligent reasoning. His life had been ruled by the sign of the cross—hadn't he dedicated his art to it, even carried it before him into battle? But he had been born under another sign: Libra, the sign of the scales—reason in one, piety in the other.

It would help if he knew why Lady Kathryn had agreed to board him and his daughter. He suspected more than loyalty to the Church; the abbot was probably making it worth her while. Hers was a prosperous household, if the silver cups and horn spoons tipped with silver carvings were an indication, but the table she kept, if respectable, could not be said to be extravagant, and he'd noticed the careful manner in which she directed the pouring of the wine. He and Rose would be served simpler fare in future. She was probably hard-pressed to stretch her income to meet taxes and tithes.

He couldn't help but notice that the widow had other pressures as well. The hawk-nosed sheriff on her right, with whom she shared cup and trencher, brushed her sleeve too often and would have buried his long nose in her cleavage had she not pulled back from him. Some might call her beautiful, but Finn's taste ran to dark-haired, buxom girls with friendlier ways. This woman was too tall, and carried herself too proud, and despite the pleasing bulges above the neckline of her square-cut bodice, she could not be called buxom. Her hair was certainly her most remarkable feature. She couldn't be more than forty, but her hair was gray—almost white—with one black strand above the left temple that threaded like a velvet ribbon through the intricate knot bound in a blue snood at the nape of a slender neck. He wondered what she would look like naked in the moonlight, the whole great mass of hair loosed and flowing over her breasts like melting silver. He was surprised how quickly this lecherous thought had inserted itself—he had not thought the woman that attractive.

“A toast to Lady Blackingham.” Sir Guy raised his glass. “To the beauty of our hostess and the bounty of her table.”

Fawning bastard, Finn thought. Was the sheriff toasting her thighs or her pasturelands? But he raised his glass so as not to appear ungracious. One insulted a sheriff at one's peril.

The room was warm, and he was vaguely aware of an odor of musk on his right. He noticed how the flimsy fabric of Lady Kathryn's kerchief clung to her breasts. He felt a tightening in his loins and was glad he didn't have to stand to drink the toast. He'd been celibate too many months. Celibate, not because he'd been on pilgrimage or fasting, no such nonsense—he'd leave that to the monks—but celibate out of convenience and squeamishness. Traveling with his daughter made dalliance difficult. The doxies who offered themselves smelled of the hovels they lived in, and their bodies were infested
with lice. Even in the brothels run by the bishops, there was still the danger of catching the pox.

Finn became aware that his companions had fallen silent and were looking at him expectantly. The rotund little monk was leaning across the table, shouting in his direction.

“Do you not agree, Master Illuminator?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't—”

“Brother Joseph, please. Have another sweet?” Lady Kathryn beckoned to the server. “Agnes made the custard tarts especially for tonight.”

The monk held his spoon at ready and his eyes lit up in anticipation, his inquisition forgotten.

Whatever the question, it was obvious to Finn that his hostess had not trusted his answer. She was cunning. He remembered her reaction when the sheriff brought the priest's body, the too-straight way she'd denied seeing the priest. What involvement could be there? Whatever it was, it was none of his affair. He had his daughter to think of. The murder of a priest was a dangerous thing to know about.

Alarm bells in Finn's head pulled him back from his reverie. A different voice this time, coming from his left, hushed, intimate, “I could show you the best place for drawing—a little inlet overlooking the sea.”

He recognized the tone of the jackanapes beside him, whose red head was bent much too near his daughter's. Their lips were almost touching.

Finn spoke loudly enough to pull Alfred away from his amorous pursuit. “Inlet by the sea, you say. Rose and I will be glad to see it, won't we, Rose?”

Alfred hummed and hawed after the manner of a thief caught with his hand in the herring barrel. His daughter blushed, anger at her father sparking in her beautiful eyes. A harmless flirtation, perhaps; still, the boy needed warning that he was being watched.

The meal dragged on interminably. What a relief when his hostess rose. Now he could excuse himself and retire to the pleasant quarters she had provided. He said a polite good night to the others, saluted Lady Kathryn once again for her hospitality, and pulled his daughter from the clutches of her ardent admirer. But before he could make good his retreat, a servant approached him and handed him a scrap of sealed parchment. “This message came for you, sir. I was instructed to give it into your hand.”

The seal was not familiar, but the holy cross embossed upon it gave
some clue to its origin. Probably some afterthought instructions from his patron.

“Did the messenger wait for an answer?”

The sheriff had stopped talking and was taking a noticeable interest in this exchange. This rankled him, just as Sir Guy's earlier probe into the nature of his commission had rankled.

“No, sir,” the page said. “The messenger said to tell you something else, though. He said to tell you ‘Half-Tom pays his debts.'”

The dwarf. But why would he bring a message from the abbey in Broomholm? The abbey was in Bacton Wood, several miles east of Aylsham, and that through forest. And Blackingham was miles out of his way—at least twelve miles north of Norwich. Half-Tom was from the edge of the fens, west of Norwich. The question could be cleared up easily enough by opening the dispatch, and he had started to do just that when the sheriff stood up and, crossing behind him, peered over his shoulder. Nosy bastard. Instead of breaking the seal, Finn tapped Rose on the sleeve with the folded parchment, then gently shoved Alfred aside and took his daughter's arm.

“Come, daughter. It's time to retire to our quarters. Let Lady Kathryn take leave of her guests in privacy.” He nodded at the Benedictine. “Good night, Brother Joseph. You may assure Father Abbot when you return to him on the morrow that his illuminator is hard at work. I wish you good journey. You also, Sir Guy.” The
sir
did not trip easily from his tongue.

“But you haven't opened your message,” the sheriff said.

“It might be from a lady,” Finn replied, “and therefore better enjoyed in the privacy of my chamber.” He pushed back from the table.

For the second time that evening, Lady Kathryn loosened the tension by inserting herself into his conversation. “In that case, Finn, we will bid you good night and speed you to your pleasure.” She took a rushlight from a sconce, but when Alfred reached to take it from her, she frowned at him and summoned her other son, whom Finn had hardly noticed. Handing him the rushlight, Lady Kathryn said, “Colin will light your way. The stairs are dark and unfamiliar. You would not want Rose to stumble.”

With a measure of relief, Finn turned his back on the whole lot of them. As they mounted the stairs, he thought about the hurt child for the first time since his arrival at the manor. How easily she had slipped from his memory. How had she fared? Of course. Half-Tom. The seal of the holy cross. The
message was from the anchoress. When they reached their room, he grabbed the candle beside his bed and tore open the seal.

The child had lived only three days.

“You sent for me, Mother?” Alfred wiped the sleep from his eyes, trying to keep reproach from his voice. He stumbled in the pale light of pre-dawn that scarcely penetrated Lady Kathryn's bedchamber. The torches flickered in their sconces, wicks burnt low.

She didn't answer him right away, but paced back and forth, her leather-bottomed slippers making little shuffling noises in the stillness of early morning.

The bedcovers of his mother's bed had already been replaced, or maybe, Alfred concluded after noticing the bluish circles that ringed her eyes, maybe the bed had never been slept in. Was it one of her headaches? He forgot his own annoyance at being summoned from his dreams and watched her anxiously as she paced back and forth. She was still wearing the clothes she had worn the night before. Sweat stains ringed the silk of her tunic beneath the armpits. She had removed her headdress, and her silver hair fell in a tangled, unkempt mass below her waist. Her face looked haggard in the gray light.

“Mother, are you all right?”

She halted in her pacing and glanced at him as if startled by his appearance in her bedchamber.

“Alfred, you're up early. Is something wrong?”

“My lady mother sent for me,” he said, unable to mask the irritation in his voice. He had only just gotten to bed. His head felt foggy and his tongue thick. He'd gone out with some lads from the village to a cockfight. But best not tell her that.

“I didn't mean for Agnes to awaken you so early,” she said.

“Well, the old cow did, and seemed to delight in it, too.” He waited for his mother's chiding, but it didn't come. Instead she just stood there looking at him, as though she didn't know what to say. Unusual for his mother to be at a loss for words, she who wielded words like a rapier.

“Are you unwell, Mother?” he asked, feeling suddenly like a child again, panic rising inside him. What if they lost her suddenly, too, like their father? Alfred had loved his father, but it was Lady Kathryn to whom he and Colin
looked for support and whose wrath they feared whenever they strayed. Roderick had often been away for months at a time, fighting the French or playing courtier to the king.

She shook her head, sat down on the bed, and patted the space beside her, inviting him. “I'm all right. Come. Sit beside me. I need to talk to you about a matter of great importance.”

Now, this was a change. She was usually either autocratic or indulgent with him: sometimes stern disciplinarian, occasionally doting mother; but this tone sounded different, almost as though she were seeking his advice. True, he would be sixteen in another year, the age of majority under Danelaw, but he knew that he would never really rule Blackingham as long as his mother was well. She had brought Blackingham with her to her marriage, and retaining her dower rights had been in the terms of her nuptial contract. Nobody could wrest it from her but the king himself.

He sat down on the coverlet beside her, and she turned to face him, raising one leg up onto the bed and leaning against the bedpost for support. She reached up and smoothed his hair. Suddenly he was a child again, and she was trying to explain to him that putting the little green snake in his brother's bed had been a cruel joke—not funny at all. But she'd not seen Colin's little baby mouth screwed into a tight little O while he danced around on one foot, screaming, “A snake, a snake.” Alfred wanted to laugh now just remembering. He hadn't a clue what he'd done this time—or had she found out about the cockfight after all?