A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  Even Kendall’s two sons seemed to have been reformed by the season, and Margaret thought she had finally managed the reconciliation that she had prayed for so long. Both Lionel and Thomas had received her invitation graciously, and now treated their father with a great show of deference and respect that warmed his heart. They even suggested that they were thinking of becoming partners in establishing their own trading firm, and reforming their lives, if he could only see his way clear to assist them.

  Merriest of all was the head of the house, who washed down roasted swan with great swigs of mead as he told a tale of his adventures in Italy, which had put him in Rome itself one Christmas long past. Margaret put her hand on his arm to remind him to take care, for his gout’s sake, but what good is Christmas if one must always be taking care? He smiled indulgently at her as he filled the drinking cup for another toast.

  By the time the guests were gone, Roger Kendall was in agony. When the servants had carried him upstairs and put him on his bed, Margaret bared his bad foot.

  “It’s just like the old days, isn’t it?” He grinned his funny, lopsided grin, but with his teeth clenched.

  “Exactly so,” smiled Margaret, “for you are as self-indulgent and willful as a child, I think.”

  “Put your hand—right—there; yes, that’s the place. You see? You married me and cured my gout, so I could have plenty of merry Christmases. It was all planned by God.”

  “Still, you ought to be careful of yourself.”

  “What have I to fear with you beside me, Margaret?” Kendall relaxed as the pain left his abused limb.

  “Why, nothing at all. I love you so much, I would go to hell itself to snatch you back, like Orpheus in the story.” Margaret had finished the treatment of his foot, and they sat together on the bed, holding hands.

  “The only snatching that shall be done in this family, my dear, will be when I keep you from the grasp of that lecherous Duke of Lancaster when we attend his masque at the Savoy next week. Did you know that there is a new rumor about town? Since you’ve learned French, it is said that I wed you after kidnapping you from a convent.”

  He chuckled as Margaret exclaimed, “Honestly, I consider that human beings will not only believe anything they hear, but they can hold no idea in their heads longer than four and twenty hours!”

  The rumor followed them about that holiday season to a number of entertainments, to the amusement of both husband and wife, who collected several variants of the story by careful listening. At last Margaret could no longer resist the temptation to add fuel to the fire. So when next approached by a rouged degenerate, she murmured into his ear as he demanded unseemly favors from her, “Oh, if only my wicked uncle had not shut me up in the convent—but now, alas, it’s altogether too late, my fate is sealed—” She then vanished into the crowd to tell her husband all about it, leaving the painted fellow bereft.

  “My dear baron, it’s altogether wrong for a nobody to capture a refined girl of gentle breeding like that,” complained the degenerate.

  “Who knows? You may yet get your chance at her. She turned down my go-between just after Martinmas, the pious little fraud. But I predict she’ll soon tire of her dull life with that old merchant,” replied his companion. But of course, Margaret didn’t hear any of this.

  On New Year’s Day the Kendalls presented gifts of new clothing and money to the members of their household, which was none too soon for most of the apprentices, who had the bad habit of growing out of things almost as soon as they were bought. The little girls had each a toy, and from their mother, two little sewing baskets, for she thought it was never too early to start learning useful things. Their father had got them each a string of amber beads and a little bracelet of gold, with their initials engraved on them. Then Margaret gave her husband a gift that she had kept secret a good long time, a chess set of carved Oriental pieces and an inlaid board that were as fascinating to look at as to use.

  But it was his present to her, so cleverly planned for so long, that transformed the day for her completely. The Psalter was handsomely bound in plain calfskin, with Margaret’s initials worked into a circular design on the front cover. Inside, the orderly lines of Latin flowed down the pages, with the English translation lying just above, almost word above corresponding word. There was no illumination, but the English capitals were prettily traced in red, while the Latin ones were blue, to set them apart. There was nothing like it in all of England, for it was at the same time a book of instruction as well as one of devotion. Margaret was enchanted. What a fabulous thing it seemed to her! A real book, all her own, a symbol of her husband’s pride in the hard struggle she had made to learn to read. And who could tell? Maybe someday the mystery of Latin would be unlocked for her as well.

  Roger Kendall was very pleased with himself when he saw the look on Margaret’s face. It was fun to make her happy. And to do it in this particular fashion gave him a very complex sort of pleasure, the sort he liked best, for simple pleasures had long ago come to bore him. He had been set up for days when he’d first had the idea of the Psalter. The psalms—how exhausted they were with overuse: number fifty-one the “neck verse”; if you could read the first lines, the civil hangman would undo the noose and release you to the easier justice of the Church on the grounds you were a cleric. Illiterate rascals memorized the lines to evade punishment. The seven penitential psalms: their daily recital imposed as one of the numerous penalties for recanted heretics—the lips moved as the heart rebelled. Sometimes the entire Psalter was required of a penitent. And there were the learned doctors, who broke apart each line, looking for evidence of how the natural world was made, when nature’s book lay fresh and unread before them. Oh, yes, the Psalter was a worn-out pile of letters, jumbled over by clerks. But not this Psalter. Here was Margaret, holding the book with the same expression on her face that she did the day one of his captains had brought her a casket of Turkish rosewater candies. It made Kendall remember when he was young and had loved those verses too.

  And, of course, she wasn’t allowed to have it. She didn’t even suspect that Church law forbade her to have a vernacular translation of Scripture in her hand. It would have been a rare thing even for a cloistered nun to get such permission, and Margaret was about the farthest thing from a cloistered nun that Kendall could imagine. A secret smile of enjoyment played briefly across his features. How he loved to tweak the tail of the religious establishment! He had taken their measure years ago, found them wanting, and made his accommodation. Now, take Margaret—she tweaked their tails just by drawing breath but didn’t seem to appreciate it. Maybe she needed to be older, like him, to see the humor in it. Kendall found her antics constantly amusing, and as he watched her turn the pages, a kind of sardonic pleasure bubbled up inside him that felt entirely delicious. And Brother Gregory, that rebellious scamp, had been drawn into the plan so quickly, and entirely without protest. It was a pleasure to know he could still take the measure of a man on such short acquaintance.

  Margaret opened the book and smoothed the page with a hand that trembled with anticipation. She began to read aloud:

  “The heavens declare the glory of God;

  and the firmament showeth the work of his hands….”

  She was filled with unspeakable joy. But as she read, she noticed that the copyist’s writing was very familiar. As Margaret finished reading, she suddenly knew why. It was Brother Gregory’s. She smiled as she thought to herself, All those Brothers, they’re all alike. I imagine he charged extra for a copyist, and then kept the money himself. I’m glad to know he was human, after all.

  Master Kendall looked over her shoulder. He, too, recognized Brother Gregory’s handwriting, and smiled. He had suspected that Brother Gregory might have done the whole thing himself, in order to pocket both the copyist’s fee and the translator’s fee in addition to the commission for getting the work together. That was exactly what he had hoped would happen, and he was pleased, because he had been wanting to make a Chris
tmas gift to him, and knew that he was too proud to accept anything directly.

  “Do you like it, Margaret?” he asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

  “I’ll keep it with me always,” said Margaret, laying her hand on top of his.

  “I hope, Margaret, when you’re very, very old, you’ll hold it in your hands and remember how I loved you.”

  “You mean, how I love you,” Margaret corrected him as she kissed him.

  But there was still much of the day remaining, and it looked to be a day of unexpected good fortune. Word came from the docks that the Godspeed had limped into port and now lay at anchor in the ice. She was more than two months late, blown off course by winter storms, and she carried cargo belonging to several prominent merchants, among them Roger Kendall. It had been hard to absorb a bad loss like that, especially just before the Christmas season, but he had smiled as if nothing were wrong and met his obligations without complaining. Kendall’s theory was that one should never reveal that one is bleeding, for it would attract sharks. Now everything really was all right, and he was very relieved.

  “Margaret, dear,” he called out with enthusiasm, “I’m going down to speak to the captain myself and invite him to our table.”

  “Can’t you send someone? We’ll miss you here, and the captain will get a chance to tell his story soon enough,” she answered.

  “Nonsense, nonsense, what kind of welcome is that? It’s hardly any time at all I’ll be gone.”

  Something very, very tiny, like a speck in Margaret’s heart—something she hardly knew about herself—made her say, “Then take me with you. I’d like that very much.”

  “It’s men’s business, and very dull, dear. You’ll hear the best part over supper.” And he was gone, bundled in his heavy cloak and accompanied by two of his journeymen.

  It was not far to walk to the wharf, but a surfeit of celebration made Kendall feel somewhat heavier than usual. Word of the ship’s arrival had spread, and a number of people were converging on her, including Lionel, Kendall’s oldest son, who believed that now his father’s fortunes were repaired, it was a good time to ask for money. He met up with the little party on the dock, and those who stood at a distance heard loud words, and saw Lionel’s fist raised in a rage. But his father did not answer. A cold sweat had broken out on the old man’s face. He turned deathly pale; a heavy weight was crushing his chest, and he was unable to speak. With a sudden look of concern his men turned to hold up his swaying figure. The ship’s captain, who had come to meet him, stood back and crossed himself. Roger Kendall would never invite him or anyone else to supper again.

  Margaret answered the door to the servant’s horrified summons. Looking out she saw the sober faces of her husband’s journeymen and two strangers standing in the street before the door. A light snow was swirling about them, sticking on their hoods and beards and the cloak-wrapped bundle they carried. She searched their faces wordlessly, suspecting what they were going to say. Stepping over the threshold, she uncovered the head of their grievous burden. It was the body of her husband.

  Margaret’s eyes opened wide, and she gave a little gasp. Her face shone ghastly white, and she slowly collapsed unconscious in the muddy snow before the door. There was a scurry of activity as two of the servants gathered her up and brought her inside, so that the door would be clear for the body to be brought in.

  By the time Roger Kendall was set down for the last time in his own hall, Margaret had been revived. The people of the household would have felt much better if she had wept, for then they might have comforted her and eased their own sorrow. Instead, in a strange and distant voice, she gave orders for the necessary preparations. The state of shock did not break until the body was being readied to be laid in the coffin. Two monks had been called to prepare the body and sew it into its shroud, but Margaret had pushed them aside. With her own hands she washed the corpse and laid it out; she would not let them touch him. As she raised his hands to cross them on his breast, her eye fell on the great scar that coursed up the back of the right hand. An unbearable lump of pain was pushed up from somewhere inside, and tears began to flow down her face as she kissed first the scar, then the palm, and placed the hand down for the last time. She put the palms of her own hands on the icy cheeks and looked at the sunken face. She whispered, “If only you had let me come with you,” as she slowly bent down to kiss him one last time. Then she sat, all huddled up in a corner by the fire, blinded with tears, as the monks finished the work. All that night she sat up by the light of the candles around the coffin. Her mind worked over and over the terrible grief that he had died unshriven, and when she could keep her mind off her own horrifying loss, she buried her face in her hands and cried out secretly to God that he be saved anyway. She wouldn’t stop, no, never stop bothering God until He told her Roger Kendall was saved. She would hang on to the hem of His garment, weeping and screaming until He would save him, whether He had intended to or not, if only to get quit of the annoyance she caused Him. She would pray to Jesus and the saints, until they all rose up in a body and begged God to get rid of her by giving in. In the morning they found her there by the coffin, still awake, her eyes glassy and a strange look of determination on her face.

  Roger Kendall had been old and well beloved. At the black-draped door with the priest stood every member of the Mercer’s Guild, in full mourning livery, to escort the body. As the coffin left the house, the greatest of the bells in St. Botolphe’s Billingsgate began to toll. Its mournful sound followed the procession that escorted him through the crooked streets. First marched his guild brethren, then the crucifer; behind the cross the clergy walked, two by two, carrying lighted candles. Before the coffin was the solitary figure of the parish priest; men stood on either side of the pallbearers, carrying lighted candles. Behind the coffin walked Margaret, bereft of all sense, supported by Hilde. Her two daughters, their eyes all red and swollen, walked beside her, clinging to her skirts. Then came the dead man’s sons, dressed in deepest black and making a great show of grief. Then followed his household, and the many who had loved him, shrieking, groaning, and wailing, as was the custom.

  Margaret somehow maintained composure during the service, while Kendall’s corpse lay before the altar for the requiem and absolution. But when the pallbearers took up their burden once again, and the cantor began the ancient chant “May the angels lead you into Paradise,” those who watched Margaret follow the coffin to the grave saw her mouth open in a soundless scream of anguish that was more terrible than any tears.

  Funerals are followed by eating and drinking, but Margaret saw and remembered none of this. She was, for a short while, completely mad. Hilde called Brother Malachi and a large number of her friends, both old and new, for she was more widely loved than she would have ever suspected. They sat with her in groups, never leaving her alone day or night, and trying to coax her to speak or eat. They sat her children on her lap, but she did not see them. The household feared that it would not be long before they lost mistress as well as master, and the sadness of the thing was almost beyond bearing.

  Then, one day, as Brother Malachi wandered through the muddy ice of Cheapside, with his head sunk down and his hands behind his back, wondering what to do, he heard a familiar sound. To the beating of a drum two well-known voices were doing the debate between Winter and Summer. Summer was getting the worst of it this time, which was only natural at this season. No one but Maistre Robert le Taborer could do it so well. Waiting discreetly until the money had been safely collected, Brother Malachi stepped up to Master Robert.

  “Well met, Maistre Robert!” he greeted his old friend of the road. “Today I badly need your assistance—only you, a master indeed, can help me. Your old friend Margaret is newly made a widow and has gone mad with grief. Can’t you come and cure her for us?”

  “Why, old friend! What a surprise to see you here!” cried Master Robert in a jovial voice. “But I am sorry to hear the news. Of course, you are right; the only possible
cure is music.” Then he made his excuses to the little crowd around him with a grand obeisance: “My dear friends, I must beg your leave for now—we have an unexpected private performance.” Together the little group—Malachi, Little William the juggler, Long Tom the Piper, and Maistre Robert—trudged the narrow streets down to the river and Margaret’s house. When Master Robert looked up at its bravely painted front, he drew in his breath between his teeth. It was very grand that Margaret had become—not that she didn’t deserve it, of course, but Master Robert couldn’t help but remember when they were all sleeping in coarse blankets by the side of the road, and lucky enough to get together a few pence for stale bread and thin ale.

  “You needn’t worry,” said Brother Malachi, “she’s still just the same nice girl—but sadly changed with this calamity. It worries us all, you see.”

  Together they were shown upstairs, although their gaudy, particolored cloaks and ribbon-bedecked instruments created a certain shock among the more respectable-minded members of the household. Margaret was sitting on the bed, looking nowhere at all, and didn’t see them. Master Robert was very grieved to see this. Plain or fancy, his surroundings didn’t matter too much to him. With a glance he took in the tapestries and the lush carpets, the great curtained bed and ironbound chests, and saw that money, which consoles many a widow, meant nothing to Margaret. Whoever the man was, she must have loved him with all her heart.