The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Not exactly a lie. Although she didn’t keep to the canonical hours, she counted the beads on her rosary daily and sometimes visited the small brick chapel attached to the back of the main house. She and Finn had even gone there twice together, sat on the first of the four benches provided and prayed before the small gilded statue of the Virgin, which sat on the altar. His devotions were less traditional, but somehow more personal than hers. He had said no prayers, counted no rosary, merely sat in contemplation while she mouthed the Ave Marias.

  Sir Guy said nothing, as if waiting for more explanation.

  “We rely on the priest at Saint Michael’s. Father Benedict serves Blackingham well. We have contributed generously, from the wool profits, to the building of Saint Michael’s.”

  If he had any further thoughts on the subject of Blackingham’s religious conformity, he kept them to himself. The look of disapproval vanished, swept away like words written in sand, and was replaced by that secretive, closed-off look that was his more habitual countenance. Kathryn did not particularly like Guy de Fontaigne. She thought him pretentious and cunning— maybe even dangerous, but for all that she was glad he was here.

  And when he clicked his heels together and said, “As you wish, my lady. I will not come back without the priest, and I will attempt to divert your son’s mind from the horror it has just witnessed,” she felt almost warmed by his smile.

  With the matter of the priest and Colin seen to, now she could turn to the task she dreaded. She thought fleetingly of calling Glynis to assist Agnes with the body, but the vacant look on the old cook’s face told Kathryn that she herself would have to direct the washing—if indeed a charred corpse could be washed—and laying out. Agnes’s grief had rendered her incapable of action. Thank God I have a strong stomach, Kathryn thought. If only the pain in her head would be so agreeable.

  She took Agnes to the kitchen, sat her before the fire, and held a cup of ale to her lips. “Drink this,” she directed. Agnes opened her lips and swallowed, her movements jerky and wooden, like a mummer acting in a Christmas play.

  “Agnes, if you feel you cannot prepare John’s body, I will call Glynis to help me.”

  The old woman shook her head, a short, jerky movement. “No. It’s my duty. It’s the last thing.”

  Kathryn patted her shoulder to reassure her. “We will do it together, then.”

  She had a sudden image of what Roderick would have said about her touching the body of a servant, and this was followed by a flood of longing for Finn. For his strength and confidence and compassion.

  Simpson shuffled through the kitchen door. “The body is in the chapel, milady. If you have no other need for me, I will return to my supper. My servant had just served it when Sir Guy requested my assistance.”

  “By all means, Simpson. Go. It would be a sin for your supper to get cold.”

  His face reddened to the color of a boiled ham. He turned to go but flung a parting shot over his shoulder.

  “By the by, milady. If you wish to investigate the burning of the wool shed, you might start by questioning that son of yours.”

  Scurrilous dog. To fling such an insinuation and then retreat before she could respond. Could Alfred have burned down the shed, started the fire in carelessness? Or worse, in an angry rage? They’d had words only that morning. But that was lunacy. It was his loss too. Still, who could fathom the temperament and illogic of youth? She would confront him when next she saw him, provided he was sober enough to give her a straight answer. As for now, she had work to do.

  While Agnes sat like a wooden image beside the kitchen fire, watched over by the wide-eyed scullery maid, Kathryn went in search of a clean linen sheet. She selected one of coarse weave, then, sighing, dug deeper into the chest and brought out a finer one. She ferreted through the silk flotsam of her sewing basket for thread of sufficient weight and strength and collected her needle case.

  On her way back down the stairs to the kitchen she found Glynis and instructed her to lay a table in the solar. She would have to pull together proper victuals later. Sir Guy and the priest and her sons would all have to be fed. But she couldn’t think about that now.

  She returned to the twilight gloom of the smoky kitchen and approached the cook as gently as she could. “Come, Agnes. Let’s do this one last thing for John.”

  Together, they walked to the chapel to sew the dead man into his shroud.

  NINE

  The night-raven under the eaves symbolizes recluses who live under the eaves of the church because they know that they ought to be so holy in their lives that all Holy Church, that is Christian people, may lean upon them.… It is for this reason that an anchoress is called an anchoress and anchored under a church like an anchor under the side of a ship to hold it so that the waves and the storm do not pitch it over.

  —ANCRENE RIWLE

  (13TH-CENTURY RULE BOOK FOR ANCHORESSES)

  Finn enjoyed his trip to Broomholm Abbey. It was a fine day, warm for October, at least for the dreary Octobers that he was used to in the mountains that formed the spiny border between England and Wales. Even in London the winter rains would have set in. But here, it was sunny, summer at dalliance, and there had been no rain for days. He passed the night as a guest of the abbey, not like the pilgrims and travelers who sheltered in the hospitality wing, but as a special guest of the abbot. He dined well and slept soundly. Surrounded by centuries of silence absorbed into the stone walls, he dreamed of Kathryn and awoke with a smile on his face and dampened sheets—a circumstance he had not experienced since his youth.

  He broke his fast that morning with the abbot, who squinted at the intricate knotwork and the interlacing gold crosses of the mulberry carpet pages. “These endpapers are exquisite. Very complex. The real test of an illuminator’s skill. Perfect symmetry! You know how to use a compass as well as a brush. We’ll be hard-pressed to make a cover to equal them.”

  Finn took an artist’s satisfaction in such praise, making his breakfast of the abbot’s excellent ham and bread and cheese taste all the better. The abbot shuffled the pages of the first five chapters, carefully examining each, tracing the tempera drawings with a beringed forefinger. “Excellent work. Couldn’t be more pleased.”

  He handed the pages to Brother Joseph, who hovered at his shoulder, eyeing Finn suspiciously. On his initial journey from Broomholm to Blackingham, the monk had been an amiable escort, and Finn had greeted him warmly yesterday, only to be rebuffed. Ever since, he’d been trying to figure out in what manner he had given offense.

  “Your art is worthy of its text,” the abbot said. “And I have commissioned a goldsmith of some renown. The cover of the book will be beaten gold encrusted with gems.”

  “Your Excellency is also to be commended on the work of your scriptorium. They provided me with well-spaced text.” The monks had done the tedious work of copying, leaving only the large square capitals, and of course the borders, for him. “My Latin is not as fluent as it should be, but I know a good transcription when I see it.”

  Finn was uncomfortably aware of Brother Joseph’s look of disdain. What was it? Something about Scripture and text. That was it. Translation. Wycliffe and his English translation of the Bible. Finn suddenly had a vision of Brother Joseph leaning across the table in Buckingham’s great hall, his little mouth screwed into a tight little line at something Finn had said. The talk had been of Wycliffe and his Lollards, and Finn vaguely remembered that he had made a half-hearted defense of the beleaguered cleric. Unwise of him, considering the circumstances.

  “Careful, Brother Joseph, don’t smudge them,” the abbot said sternly over his shoulder. Then, turning back to Finn, who sat across from him at table, he pushed back his chair and rested his interlocked fingers across his chest, covering the ornate cross that hung around his neck. He looked like a man well satisfied with himself.

  “Finn, your reputation is well deserved.”

  “I am glad that you are pleased.”

  “Pleased. I
’m beyond pleased. Such work deserves a bonus. Rich pigments … and so much gold in the carpet pages … I know that doesn’t come cheaply, my friend.” He motioned for Brother Joseph, who seemed to understand his wordless commands. The monk returned quickly with a carved casket, placed it carefully in front of the abbot and then stepped back. The rigidity of his posture showed his disapproval, which the abbot ignored, as he fumbled among the keys on his belt, opened the lid, and counted out six gold coins. He handed them to Finn.

  “I thank you for your generosity.”

  “You’ve earned every farthing.”

  “I’m pleased to be a humble servant to the abbey.”

  The abbot then took several silver coins and, placing them in a small bag, pulled the drawstring to secure it, then handed it to Finn also.

  “And this is for the lady of Blackingham. Would you be so kind as to see she receives it? ”

  “I shall place it in her hand myself.” Finn smiled and tucked the little purse inside his own larger one, which hung around his neck and just inside his shirt.

  “I trust you and your daughter are comfortable at Blackingham.”

  “I assure you we are.”

  “And your spiritual needs are being seen to as well as your physical?”

  Had the dampness of the abbey walls suddenly created a tempest in Brother Joseph’s nose, or was that a sniff of disdain?

  “Brother Joseph, please go to the scriptorium and collect the pages of text which have been prepared for the illuminator to take with him.”

  Brother Joseph bustled from the room, his head held at an indignant angle, obviously aware that he was being dismissed.

  “Now we may continue,” the abbot said.

  “Lady Kathryn and her household are devout. My daughter and I have often shared her devotions.”

  The abbot hesitated ever so slightly.

  “We are glad to hear this. There has been some concern, since she has no confessor. Father Ignatius, before his unfortunate death, expressed strong concern that the souls of Blackingham might be imperiled.”

  Finn imagined that Brother Joseph had also contributed to the abbot’s concern.

  “I assure Your Excellency, that is not the case. Lady Kathryn’s coffers have been sufficiently impoverished to insure her soul.”

  Almost immediately Finn regretted the remark. The abbot was his patron. He started to apologize.

  “Your Excellency, please forgive—”

  “No need. Perhaps, if the king’s taxes were less onerous … ”

  “Perhaps,” Finn agreed.

  “Deliver our high regard to her ladyship and convey our gratitude and friendship.”

  The gravity of his tone belied mere ceremonial chatter. The abbot, Finn suspected, was a man who knew which way the felled tree would fall.

  When Brother Joseph returned, Finn’s host stood, indicating that their meeting was at an end. Finn stood also. Brother Joseph handed him the newly transcribed copy and a sealed packet.

  Of the latter, he declared, “A messenger brought this for you last week with instructions to hold it for your coming.”

  “Thank you,” Finn said, taking both packages from him.

  “It has an Oxford seal.” Brother Joseph’s gaze challenged him.

  “Yes, so it does,” Finn said and tucked both packages under his arm, showing the inquisitive monk that he did not intend to satisfy his curiosity. “Your Excellency. Brother Joseph.” He nodded to each in turn. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for your hospitality and your patronage. I serve at your pleasure. I’ll return with the next illuminated installment as soon as I can.”

  “I’m gratified that you and your daughter will be safe and snug at Blackingham. Our roads sometimes become impassable when winter sets in. Winter enters East Anglia abruptly. An impatient husband who takes his bride without courtship or ceremony.”

  Hearing such an incongruous metaphor from a man whose only company was that of holy men, Finn wondered briefly in what waters the abbot had sailed before running aground at Broomholm.

  The abbot held out his hand. “God go with you,” he said.

  Brother Joseph said nothing.

  The sovereigns were more than enough to purchase the superior pigments needed to finish the manuscript. It was Thursday, market day in Norwich, and Finn reached the city in time to squander some of his windfall. He bought a new ladle for Agnes, who complained that the old one was warped, and presents for Rose and Kathryn: fine leather boots, glove-soft; not stitched cowhide slippers such as they usually wore, and of the newest fashion, straight from London, where the new silver fasteners called “buckles” were a fashion statement. Of the fit for Rose, he was reasonably sure. For Kathryn he was certain. He had held her foot in his hand, his palm caressing her instep, his fingers massaging the heel, the ball, between her slender, perfect toes.

  He was eager to get back to Kathryn and to Rose, eager, too, to get started on the new packet delivered to him at Broomholm, the codex from Wycliffe. It would be a different kind of challenge. He’d agreed to the commission at the urging of John of Gaunt, for whom he’d done a Book of Hours last year, though he’d not been aware of the controversy that swirled around the cleric.

  He’d been intrigued by Wycliffe’s use of English as a translation for the Holy Scriptures, and he liked the idea of a less ostentatious, cleaner artistic expression. Surely a more appropriate illustration for the Gospel story than the gem-encrusted, gaudy display the abbot envisioned. And he’d been impressed by the cleric’s forthright, honest manner, plainspoken, equally plain in dress and demeanor. Finn had enjoyed the lack of pretension, having found a surfeit of sophistry and pretense while in the employ of the duke. All in all, he was not sorry he’d taken on the commission, though he now knew enough to be discreet, enough not to open the packet in the presence of the abbot.

  He was glad to see that the Oxford seal had not been tampered with.

  It was late afternoon when he left the market and mounted his horse. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. The abbot had been right. They were in for a change in the weather. The summer was about to be routed, but that was as it should be. Everything in its natural order. It would be good to spend the cold winter days in the warm cocoon of the redbrick manor house, nesting with his art and the two women he loved. But he had one more stop to make before returning to Aylsham. He turned his horse toward the little church of Saint Julian.

  Julian recognized the man who tapped at her visitor’s window as soon as she pulled back the curtain. “Finn,” she said. “How good to see you.” She still held in her hand a sheet of the parchment she was working on.

  “I knocked at Alice’s door and there was no answer, so I came around here to this window. Now I see I’ve interrupted your work. I’m sorry.”

  “You have interrupted nothing but my frustration. And that interruption is welcome. I wish I could offer you refreshment, but Alice did not attend me today.”

  “I have already eaten. But I’ve brought you a fresh loaf and a treat besides.”

  He pulled a parcel from inside his doublet and handed it to her through the narrow window. She unwrapped it with a small cry of delight. The crusty loaf was welcome, but the small brownish brick beside it was a treasure indeed.

  “Sugar. Oh, Finn, there must be at least a pound here. Too much for one person, surely.” Mentally, she calculated. It would take 360 eggs to barter for a pound of sugar. An egg a day. A whole year’s worth. “You must take some back.”

  “The abbot has paid me generously, and Blackingham Manor feeds me well. You have many visitors. I’m sure you will find a way to share the sugar.”

  His voice was like a reed pipe pitched low. She felt herself relaxing, soothed by its undulating rhythms. He tapped the crusty loaf lightly with his long paint-stained fingers, an artist’s hands. She wondered if she would like his work. Somehow, she thought she would.

  “The bread is still warm from the oven,” he said. “Eat some before it g
ets cold.”

  “Only if you will join me,” she said, feeling her spirits suddenly lighten. “Come around through Alice’s chamber. Alice hides a key beneath the second stepping stone in the garden. We can share a meal through the window into her room. It’s much larger than this skinny little portal.”

  “It would be my pleasure to break bread in such holy company.”

  As she listened for the sound of the key in the outside door, she cut two slices, releasing the yeasty aroma into the close room. She scraped a few precious grains of sugar onto each. By the time she had finished he had already entered and pulled a stool beneath the window.

  “I have fresh milk. Alice brought it before she left.” She pulled her own stool over to sit opposite, poured two pewter mugfuls and set them on the window ledge in front of him. Then she poured a saucerful and set it on the floor at her feet. A gray shadow separated from the deeper shadows in the corner and whipped across the room.

  Finn laughed and pointed to the smoke-colored cat, who lapped daintily at the milky offering. “I see you have acquired a boarder since last we met.”

  “This is Jezebel,” Julian said, breaking a few crumbs into the cat’s saucer, stroking its ruff. “Half-Tom brought her to me. He said he found her in the market, half-starved and choking on her own fur.”

  “An unlikely name for a companion to a holy woman.”

  “Father Andrew, the curate here, named her in a fit of temper. She knocked over the communion wine.”

  “And he let you keep her after such a sin?”

  “When I pointed out to him the line in the Ancrene Riwle—that’s the rule book for anchoresses—that specifically says a holy woman may keep a cat within the anchorhold. That—and the fact that she’s an excellent mouser— convinced him.”

  They laughed together. It was good to laugh. She’d had little cause of late.

  They talked as they shared the milk and the bread: about Half-Tom, about Jezebel’s grooming habits, about Julian’s Revelations. He asked about the bowl of hazelnuts on the wide ledge of the window.