The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Magda sat, cross-legged, inside the great hollow oak, humming softly to herself. This was a sound that pleased the bees. She didn’t know how she knew this, she just knew it. The bees were her friends. The tree was a favorite retreat. She liked its quiet. She liked its small secret room, hidden from the world. She’d entered through a hole at the base, squeezing herself to half-crawl, half-slide between the gnarly roots. Carrying her offering with her, she’d twisted her body into a seated position. This is the way a baby feels inside its mother, she thought. No wonder they all came crying into the world.

  Magda liked most small things, small spaces, small creatures. She missed the two little ones that she’d watched at home. On cold nights such as this, she’d hugged her little sisters under her arms in the hayloft where they slept, like a chicken sheltering its chicks beneath its wings. She wondered who warmed them now. And who cared for the ferret for whom she’d filched morsels from her father’s table.

  It wasn’t that she was unhappy at Blackingham. The work was hard, but no more than she could do. And Cook was good to her, even let her sleep with her in her bed on cold nights. She’d plenty to eat and a warm shirt of wool that smelled of herbs. Her old ragged one had smelled like a privy. And wicked bugs lived in it, devil bugs that tormented her. She was glad when Cook had burned it. Now, her skin was pink, and her hair smelled nice, like lavender. And all her scabs were healed. (She couldn’t remember when she hadn’t had scabs to pick.) Still, sometimes the bigness of the place—so many people, so much emptiness, so many colors—confused her. And sometimes, in lonely moments that sneaked up on her, she ached for the little ones. She had nobody to take care of.

  In the shadowy interior she could scarcely see the bees clinging to the wall of the tree-room, a seething mass, a living tapestry, the wings of the outside bees stirring, making body heat, to keep the others warm. She knew that when the outside bees grew cold, they would swap. Such a perfect unity, working together to ensure the survival of all during the winter. Why couldn’t people work like that? Probably some reason that she was too dull to understand. She was, after all, a simpleton. Her father had said so.

  From the bowl on the ground in front of her, she took two sticks, soaked in honey water, and inserted them gently into the living mass so that the bees could feed. The interior of the mass was as warm as the bed-brick Cook placed in their bed on cold nights. The smell of the pulsing bee tapestry mingled with the earth and wood. But there was no hint of rotten sweetness inside the tree. The worker bees had swept it clean.

  The hive was growing. Soon, the tree would be too crowded. Next year, they would drive out the old queen and another hive would be born. She remembered the feel of the bees, gathering on her arms and shoulders like soft wool, when she’d taken the honey last September. That was when the blacksmith had come to kill the bees to rob them of their treasure, but she’d convinced him, with a violent shaking of her head and Cook’s help, to let her gather the honey. And save the bees.

  “Let ’er have a try,” Cook said. “That ’un’s got a surprise or two up her sleeve.”

  The blacksmith had backed away, a gentle giant, smiling and nodding. She knew him well. All the children knew him. He suffered them to hang around his forge, watching his pounding hammer flashing sparks against the anvil. If one of them got a sty around the eyes, he would say, “Come ’ere. Hold this iron rod while I hammer t’other end. When I’ve finished here, I’ll fix yer peeper.”

  The heat from the forge would force the pus and then the smithy would make a great fuss of wiping it away with some magic incantation.

  “She has the gift of charming, all right,” the smithy had said, when she gentled the bees and produced the dripping comb from the interior of the tree.

  Magda hadn’t known it was a special gift, but she’d always known how to take the honey without killing the hive. The bees, like all God’s creatures, owed tribute, and they paid theirs in sweet gold. Now, she brought the sleeping workers her tribute in return: a bowl of sticks soaked in water, honey, and rosemary so they could feed during the winter.

  She sat with the bees while the evening gathered, thinking about how fortunate she was to have found this hermitage. The thickening gloom reminded her it was time to return to the kitchen to help Cook. It was Magda who carried the meals to the illuminator and his daughter. Lately, the last week especially, they no longer came to the solar to eat with Lady Kathryn. The illuminator seemed cross, out of sorts, and the girl was sick a lot, green and retching. Not really sick. Her father should not worry so. Magda knew why Rose could not keep her victuals down. And she’d figured out why the illuminator’s daughter was surrounded by two colors, the pink with an inner rim of light and that light growing brighter, more distinct, as Rose grew sicker. The sickness would be over soon. It never lasted long.

  When Magda could no longer see the bees clustered on the brown velvet of the tree wall, she took two honey-soaked sticks from a waxed linen pouch tied to her belt and placed them on the spot where she’d been sitting, a sweet tribute for the bees. Then she hushed her singing and crawled backward from the tree.

  She stood up just in time to see a white light, flying low and fast, skimming the ground, headed in the direction of the kitchen. From her position on the hill, Magda could see the kitchen door open, see Cook standing, outlined by the kitchen firelight, gesturing to someone in the purple twilight shadows. As she started down the hill, Magda smiled to hear Cook’s shrill voice, her bark always so much worse than her bite.

  “I don’t care who be chasin’ ye. Ye’ll not be coming in my kitchen with muddy boots.”

  Magda’s curiosity outweighed her natural shyness, and her feet fairly flew across ground that night cold was already hardening into spiky clumps. She almost burst out with glee when she entered the kitchen. There was a delightful little man, a perfect little man, gulping for air, gesticulating wildly, right there in Cook’s kitchen. And he had the most beautiful aura she’d ever seen.

  THIRTEEN

  But if this illness [failure to menstruate] is a result of anger or sorrow, cause her to be cheerful, give her refreshing food and drink, and get her used to bathing sometimes. And if it is the result of too much fasting or overwakefulness, see that she eats good food and drink which will give her good blood and get her to enjoy herself and be happy and give up gloomy thought.

  —THE SICKNESS OF WOMEN,

  COMPILED BY GILBERT THE ENGLISHMAN

  (13TH CENTURY)

  Finn stood as he worked, easier to catch the ephemeral December light through the slit of casement. From his position, leaning over his desk, he spared a glance, now and then, for the curtain that served as door to Rose’s antechamber. He’d ordered his daughter to bed shortly after nuncheon. The kitchen maid had brought a bowl of pottage and a cup of hot spiced cider, but Rose had refused to eat, pleading interest in her work. When the girl had placed it in front of her, like a sacred offering before a goddess, Rose had pushed the bowl away as though the aroma of sage and rosemary offended her.

  “My daughter’s appetite is fickle,” Finn said to appease the serving maid. The girl withdrew tentatively. She seemed about to reply. Her lips parted and she gathered her breath for speaking, but exhaled silently without utterance. Finn picked up the bowl, warming his fingers against it, wishing his daughter had taken a few bites of the rich, sustaining broth.

  “You may take it back to the kitchen,” he said, “but tell Agnes it’s not the fault of her cooking.” He moved his own to the other side of the great desk, out of offending range. “I will enjoy mine later.”

  The girl took the bowl in one hand, curtsied and dropped her head, then moved to the door with soundless dignity. Hard to believe this was the same dirty urchin he’d seen hiding in the shadows beside the hearth. Finn would have liked to coax her out of her shyness, explore the flash of animation he’d seen in her eyes, but not now. Now, he was more concerned with his daughter. He’d noticed a greenish tinge slide over Rose’s face. And h
e didn’t like her pallor, or the smudges darkening the skin beneath her eyes. Maybe it was some mysterious female thing. He wished that he could discuss it with Kathryn.

  “Maybe a nap would do you in better stead than victuals, Rosebud.” He’d not called her that in a while. He hoped to get a protest of the childish nickname, but she said nothing. “Go on,” he said. “I heard you up late last night. I know you didn’t sleep. Besides, I’ve work to do you cannot help me with.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said without protest.

  That was unlike her, unlike her, too, to be so quiet or so pale. A malady of the body or of the spirit? He watched her draw the heavy tapestry that separated their chambers—a woman’s modesty, too—just one more sign that she was approaching marriageable age. How much longer could he protect her from the implications of her parentage?

  From behind the embroidered curtain, he’d heard muted noises, movement, coughing, then silence. Judging by the slant of light, that had been an hour ago. He resisted the urge to peek behind the curtain.

  He would use this time to work on Wycliffe’s Bible. He had been careful not to involve Rose in this work in any way. He would not add to the burden of his daughter’s heritage with his own indiscretions. Even though he could have used her help, for in this instance, he had to be calligrapher, illuminator, and miniaturist all. The former was an art that he’d neglected. Most of the manuscripts he illuminated were scripted by monks in scriptoriums or by copyists in the great Paris guilds. At least, by doing his own calligraphy, the text would be free of the sloppy work done by the Paris artisans. Moreover, the completed work would have an artistic integrity, a balance that was harder to achieve by work done piecemeal.

  He tidied up the manuscript Rose had been working on—a Psalter, a New Year’s Day gift for Lady Kathryn. It had been his daughter’s idea. She much admired the mistress of Blackingham. Finn had noted the wistfulness in her eyes at even the slightest praise from Lady Kathryn and had hoped for a friendship there, at the very least, for his motherless child. How could he have been so besotted?

  He forced his thoughts back to the chore at hand. It would be better if he made his own ink for the calligraphy. He’d already bought as much as he dared without calling attention to his illicit project. Though it was not Wycliffe who cautioned secrecy. Wycliffe was, if anything, too bold in his confrontations with the Church. Sometimes caution was the better part of valor.

  From beneath the table, Finn pulled out a leathern bucket filled with blackthorn bark that he’d been soaking. This knowledge of inkmaking, like his other artist’s skill, was a gift passed on to him by his Flemish grandmother. What a chuckle it would give her, who hated Wales and all things Welsh, to know the arts she taught him as a child would someday constitute his living. She’d been a strong woman, proud and not sparing with her tongue, not afraid to speak her mind, not unlike Lady Kathryn.

  Except in this one instance, Kathryn had held back, had not spoken to him of her hatred for his Jewish alliance. Some better angel restrained her tongue. Or perhaps she was too horrified to find voice for her prejudice. But he’d not needed words. He’d read it in the way she averted her eyes, the way she could not bear to look at him.

  He carefully strained off the water from the bark, carried it into the garderobe and poured it down the privy, where it combined with the castle wastes that migrated to the Bure River and out to sea. He took the black residue and carefully mixed it with gum from the cherry tree in the garden. He’d tapped the tree in autumn, when the light was warm and golden. Afterward, he and Kathryn had gone to her chamber and made love during the long afternoon. In the garden, the sap dripped from the wounded cherry tree. This image he later juxtaposed in miniature with the crucified Christ onto the pages of Saint John. Cherry-red droplets, flowing from His pierced side. Blood drip, drip, dripping from the wounded tree.

  He warmed the glob of cherry gum over a candle flame until it was of a consistency to grind with the blackthorn residue. He tried not to think about Kathryn, tried not to remember that afternoon. Or the afternoon three weeks ago when she’d sent him from her bed. She’d tried to pretend, said she’d send for him after her sons had come and gone. But she had not. He’d seen little of her since. He’d not wanted to see her at first. His sore pride needed a chance to heal, his anger time to cool.

  Upon their brief and accidental encounters, she would mumble a formal greeting, avert her eyes and plead busyness: the coming Yule, the feast day celebration for her sons. They would have time together, soon, she’d promised when last they’d met, a chance encounter outside the chapel. When boars suckle, he thought. He’d not go to her like a starveling, begging on his knees. To resolve else would be less than manly.

  He stirred the ink, then put the mixture aside. His hand was not steady enough today to draw the fine letters. It could wait for a better day, a day when his patience was not stretched threadbare. He would work on something that took less finesse—the gilded background for the border of the text he’d already transcribed.

  Somebody had moved his paint pots again. A quick shifting among the colors. Where were the gold leaves? He’d brought the gold back from the market the day he’d bought the pretty shoes with the silver buckles. Had Kathryn liked them? She’d sent him a polite note of thanks. Formal in its wording; “Master Finn, your generosity is gratefully … “ It was a note such as a great lady might send one of lesser birth. Hardly a billet-doux to be carried near the heart. Hardly the language of love. Had she worn the slippers? With this new coldness between them, he had not the temerity to playfully lift her skirts to see.

  His frustration increased as he picked up and rearranged, picked up and rearranged the same color pots, over and again. Still, no gold leaf. Maybe Rose had put it away in the book bag hanging on the peg.

  He removed the carefully placed pages of the Gospel of John that he’d already finished. Burrowed deeper past the fragment of English Scripture last worked on, carefully hidden from prying eyes, until his fingers encountered … not the leaves of gold, something, several somethings, smooth and round as stones. He pulled his find from beneath the rustling papers. A waist-length string of perfect pearls gathered the meager light in the room and glowed up at him.

  From behind, he heard the swishing of the tapestry. He turned to see Rose, her cheeks pinker, smiling.

  “I’m sorry to be such a slattern, Father. You must think me a lazy daughter, truly.” Her teeth flashed white, the color of the pearls he held in his hand.

  “Feeling better now, I hope?”

  “Fit as a summer day. I don’t know what came over me. Some silliness, I suppose. Don’t furrow your brow so. I’m fine. Now, what is this mysterious project from which you banished me?”

  She had moved closer now, and was standing on her tiptoes, peering over his shoulder into the book bag. When she saw the pearls in his hand, she gasped. “Father, they are beautiful. Are they for me?” She was already reaching for them. “First, the shoes with the little silver fasteners and now this wonderful necklace. Was ever a girl so blessed to have such a father! Here.” She lifted the heavy braid that swung just above her waist, “Fasten them around my neck.”

  He was so tempted. The excitement brought a bloom to her cheek. She almost glowed.

  “I hate to disappoint my beautiful daughter, but I’m afraid—”

  “Oh.” She let her hair drop. “They’re not for me, then.”

  Her full lips twitched with trying to hide her disappointment. She has her mother’s mouth, he thought. He’d never noticed that before. The more woman she became, the more she reminded him of Rebekka.

  “Are they for Lady Kathryn?”

  “Lady Kathryn? And why would I buy such an extravagant gift for our landlady?” Did she mark the bitter edge to his voice?

  The pink in Rose’s face deepened. She dropped her eyes. “Well, then, if not for me or Lady Kathryn, why did you buy them?”

  “That’s just it. I didn’t. I was looking for my gold l
eaf, which seems to have gone missing, when I found this necklace among my manuscripts. I don’t know how it got here or who put it here.”

  His mind groped for possibilities. Some servant had stolen the pearls, maybe, and about to be apprehended, hidden them among his things, hoping to retrieve them later. Or another possibility. He looked at Rose hard.

  “Could it be, Daughter, that you have some lovesick swain on the string, some suitor that you haven’t told me about, who has made you this extravagant gift?”

  “No, Father. Of course not.”

  So far-fetched was the idea of a lover that she could not even look at him, he thought.

  “I … I know nothing about the pearls. But I might know something about the gold leaf. Though I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure? You either know something about the gold leaf or you don’t.”

  “I think there might have been an intruder.”

  “You think there might have been an intruder.” He tried to rein in his frustration; he did not want to upset Rose. “Well, of course there has been an intruder, if neither you nor I know anything about how the necklace came to be in my possession.”

  “No, I mean I think I saw an intruder.”

  “You think? Did you see an intruder, Rose?”

  “Yes. But I thought it was a dream. I saw Alfred going through your things.”

  “Alfred?” She had his full attention now. “Alfred has been here and you never told me?”