The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Rebuilding the cloisters was an ongoing process. As Finn’s horse picked its way along Castle Street and up toward Elm Hill, he saw stonemasons laboring there, heard the slapping of plaster and the scraping of stone as they dressed the sturdy Norwich flint with the more pleasing imported stone from Normandy. Their curses—against the plaster hardening too soon in the frigid air, against their own blue fingers numb inside their open-fingered gloves—mingled with cries of birds flushed from their nests inside the stone ribs of the cloisters.

  When he reached Elm Hill, Finn dismounted in front of the Beggar’s Daughter, with its sign promising a frothy tankard—God’s Blood, how he could use a frothy tankard. He flicked the reins of his horse to a beggar boy he’d seen before.

  “A ha-penny and a pork pie if my beast is here when I come back.”

  The ragged urchin scooted forward, grabbed the horse by the bit and led him to shelter in the narrow space between the buildings.

  “Old Scratch hisself couldn’t get him from me, milord.” He saluted smartly with a vigor and energy that belied his circumstances.

  “It’s not Old Scratch I’m worried about,” Finn said.

  He admired the boy’s enterprise. He’d seen him hustling before—running errands, cleaning up for the vendors in the market, anything to earn a bit of bread. There were dozens of such boys, in spite of the fact that it took a lot of ingenuity for a beggar to stay out of the stocks. Even someone giving charity to beggars was subject to imprisonment. They were mostly runaways from the leasehold, living on the city’s refuse, hiding within its walls until they could become free. And there was plenty of refuse here. Elm Hill was the narrowest street in Norwich. An open sewer running in a gutter down the center of its cobbled street made trafficking treacherous for man and beast. But aside from the weekly market, it was Norwich’s premier commerce section. Rich wool merchants and Flemish weavers lived in some of the larger town houses, with their warehouses spreading out behind them down to the river. At the street’s other end, the houses of shopkeepers and guild masters perched on top of businesses and shops, leaning higgledy-piggledy into the street, giving it the feel of a labyrinth. It was a labyrinth a boy and a horse could disappear into if the temptation should offer.

  Inside the tavern, Finn sat next to a grimy window that afforded him a view of the lad and his horse. The boy saluted him again and gave a cheeky wink. Finn saluted back. His horse would be there when he wanted it, Finn was certain.

  Finn had come to Elm Hill to buy pen nibs. But first, he’d have a little something to warm his bones and wait for Half-Tom, who was to meet him there with a packet from Wycliffe. He didn’t have to wait long. From the farthest corner of the bar he heard drunken laughter from a group of five men, huddled together in a circle. The ringleader, the man closest to Finn, with his back to him, wore the livery of Castle Prison.

  “We could string him up, see if ’e’ll swing as wide as t’other one.”

  “Naw. ’E’s too short. No sport in that. He’d just twitch like a little piece o’ fish bait.”

  General laughter.

  “Well, then, let’s see how high we can pitch ’im.”

  A flash of an arm and then a ball of rags hurtled toward the ceiling, bounced off one of the beams, and somersaulted through the air before landing. It came down just outside the circle, flattening out as it landed, then bounded up onto two legs, miraculously undamaged. Half-Tom. The dwarf ran for the door but an arm reached out and grabbed him, drawing him back inside the circle.

  Finn reached for the dagger in his boot. Moved toward the circle.

  Inside the circle, Half-Tom flailed and cursed and attempted to bite the arm that held him.

  “Blimey, ’e’s a tough little whelp. But a twopence says ’e’ll splatter this time.”

  Finn approached the circle. By and large, they were a motley lot. Playing to the bully more out of fear than love of the sport, and some blood lust maybe brought on by the execution. He’d seen it before: ordinary men, who might at other times be caught in an act of kindness, turned into wild dogs sniffing a scent. Feigning interest, he looked over the shoulder of the prison guard, drawing back ever so slightly as he saw a louse making its progress through the man’s greasy hair. Finn pressed the point of the dagger to the man’s back, just below the rib cage, pushing hard enough that it would penetrate the leather jerkin.

  “Why not let the dwarf go, friend?” he said pleasantly enough, but pressed a little harder so the guard would feel his intent.

  The man’s head jerked around to see his assailant, his body going rigid as he felt the dagger pierce the coarse linen of his shirt. His grip on Half-Tom relaxed just long enough for the dwarf to twist free and sprint for the door.

  Finn put one hand on the shoulder of the guard, while he held the dagger firmly in place with the other.

  “Your friends here probably feel like celebrating that they’re not the ones swinging at the end of Castle Bridge.”

  “What business be this of yern?”

  But there was a false bravado in his tone, and Finn saw the furtive gazes of his companions as they tried to assess this new development. He would make it easier for them.

  “Publican, bring a round of good ale for my fellows here and put it to my account.”

  A tall, weary-looking yeoman shrugged and moved away first. Then, one by one, they began to drift away to claim each a tankard from a tray offered by the landlord, who looked much relieved. The tenuous bond was broken and the circle of dwarf-baiters drifted apart, avoiding one another’s gaze. But it’s not over yet, Finn thought as he eyed the burly knave at the end of his dagger whose sport he’d spoiled.

  “How about it, friend? There’s a tankard there for you.”

  Before he’d even gotten the words off his lips, the man had twisted around and grabbed for the knife, but he miscalculated and grabbed the blade instead. Screeching like a scalded cat, he drew back his bloody hand.

  At just that moment, Half-Tom appeared in the doorway with a bailiff in tow, wearing the scarlet insignia that marked him as one of the sheriff’s minions.

  “The little man here says ye’re breaking the king’s peace.” Frowning, he surveyed the room. “Should’ve known ye’d be in the middle of it, Sykes.”

  Reinforcements. But still, they could all wind up in the stocks. “No trouble, bailiff,” he said. “I assure you the king’s peace is as intact as ever. I was just showing my new dagger to the guard here when he dropped it, and trying to keep it from falling, he cut his hand.”

  One by one, the other revelers gulped their drinks and sidled toward the door. One of them had the courtesy to raise his empty tankard to Finn on his way out.

  “See. Everything’s in order. Just ask the landlord.”

  The landlord nodded. No doubt, he’d reason enough to be wary of the king’s justice. The bailiff, apparently not completely convinced, kept his hand on the hilt of his small sword.

  “I was just telling Sykes here that he’d better see to that cut before it goes putrid,” Finn said, as he cleaned the guard’s blood from his dagger.

  “I’ll be seein’ to it awright. I’ll be seein’ to it. Ye can count on it.”

  But despite the glowering looks and implied threat, Sykes wrapped his injured hand in a bit of rag the landlord provided and stumbled for the door. The bailiff moved aside but only slightly, forcing the guard to turn sideways to get past him.

  “Every bloody time there’s a hangin’. Never seen it fail. And usually Sykes is right in the middle of it. I’d stay clear of him fer a while if I was you. The man’s got a mean streak as wide as an old fat whore.”

  “Thanks, but my friend and I”— here he nodded at Half-Tom, noting the surprise on the bailiff’s face—“my friend and I will be gone before Sykes is in any shape to make trouble for us.”

  After the bailiff left, Finn ordered food for himself and Half-Tom.

  “Are you sure you’re unhurt? That was a pretty hard fall.”

&nbs
p; Half-Tom’s wide grin split his round face into two half-moons. “I’ve learned a trick or two in me time.” He tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Chewed vigorously, then continued, “Mostly I stay out of places like this, or I run, but when all else fails, I curl myself into a ball and draw my head inside my jerkin. See, like this.”

  Immediately, the little man’s head seemed to shrink inside his body so that he resembled a large tortoise just emerging from its shell. Finn couldn’t help but laugh. Far from being offended, Half-Tom seemed to enjoy the joke himself. He took a bite of onion, another bite of bread, and swallowed before adding, “And I allus wear two shirts when I’m coming to town. Makes good paddin’.”

  “Very resourceful.”

  “Yeah, but don’t always work. Once I got three broke ribs. By my reckoning I’d not have come out so easy this time if you’d not been there to save me bacon.”

  Finn waved his hand as if to say no thanks needed. “If I’d been there at the agreed-upon time, your bacon would not have needed saving. Do you have something for me from Master Wycliffe?”

  Half-Tom reached inside his shirt, untied a strap, and pulled out a leather-covered packet. “This was another bit o’ paddin’. The papers are in here. Master Wycliffe suggests that you should be discreet.” He said the unfamiliar word gingerly, rolling it around on his tongue first. “He says the archbishop has painted a target on his back.”

  “You spoke with him, then?”

  “Aye. He was at Thetford to speak to the synod of bishops, just like you said. I sneaked in with a troupe of players who entertained them at meat. A couple of cartwheels, a handstand or two. Master Wycliffe pretended to send me on an errand and then gave me this packet like it was my pay.”

  “Did you give him the completed pages?”

  “Aye. That was the errand he supposedly sent me on.”

  “Was he pleased with my work?”

  “He only gawked at it real quick-like. He offered a purse.”

  “Did you tell him what I told you?”

  “Aye. I told him that you said the work was … “ He paused, rolled his eyes back in his head. “Gratis,” he said with a swagger, obviously proud of his new vocabulary.

  “And his response?”

  “That you would get your reward in heaven.”

  “That’s good enough, I guess. Did you tell him, too, that I would try to make an extra copy of his translations as time allowed?”

  “He said … I can’t remember what he said, but the gist was that the more people who read the Holy Word for themselves, the more they would see how the Church is fooling them.”

  Finn nodded. He’d read the translation as he worked on it, and found it fascinating. He’d never read the Gospel of John in Latin. He’d only gotten its meaning from sermons and plays and snatches of memorized Latin. He’d believed it because he’d been told to believe it. But Wycliffe’s translation showed a different Lord from the one the priests talked about. Oh, the suffering was there, but so was joy and love, so much love, the kind the anchoress talked about. For God so loved the world … That was all there was, Finn thought. But that was enough. If you believed it.

  “Can you read, Tom?”

  “Monks tried to teach me, but I couldn’t understand the Latin. If I could read the Bible for myself, well, might be worth the trouble.” He grinned. “Now that I’m a messenger, it’d be easier than having to remember all them fancy words you’re always sending.”

  From outside the window, Finn saw the boy who held his horse stamping his rag-wrapped feet to keep them warm. It was time to go. He ordered a pork pie and bought a warm blanket from the landlord, saying he might need it before he got home. If the boy didn’t have a bed, he’d at least have a blanket this night.

  Finn was not to be spared the death mask of the hanged man, after all. Who was the dead man? Poacher, petty thief? Or maybe truth-teller. All hanging offenses. So easy for a man to lose his head—cross the Church or cross the king, he thought. A caution sign for him. Did the fact that he was illuminating the Wycliffe texts make him part of the Lollard movement? Not illegal. Not yet. What angel or devil had prompted him to align himself so hastily? And for what purpose? He didn’t think about heavenly rewards that much. Or the flames of hell. It just seemed the reasonable thing to do. He liked the idea of it, every man reading the Scripture for himself.

  As he left the city by Wensum Street, there, on the pole at Cowgate, was the wretch’s head, or what was left of it.

  Kathryn mounted the three stone steps—one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost—leading to the thick-flagged roof of the crypt, which also served as the chapel porch. The living prayed above the bones of the dead. Her first task was to find Colin and see if Rose’s story was true. And where else would he be but in the chapel? It all made sense suddenly: the incessant prayers, the unseemly grieving for a serf’s death, the porcelain face gone thin and hollow-eyed.

  It might have been a lamp kicked over in the heat of passion. Or a guttering candle they left behind. Or Rose and Colin might have had nothing to do with the fire at all. But Colin had always been devout. Had the carnal sin he’d committed with Rose festered in his innocent soul until his own guilt heaped on an extra measure of blame?

  She listened at the chapel door. Silence. The door creaked on its iron hinges. Inside, the air was stale as though the room had been sealed for hours. The altar was empty. A sense of dread crept down her spine when she saw that the sundial on the wall indicated time for vespers. Colin had always kept vespers, even before the fire.

  She left the empty chapel, and closing the door behind her, leaned on it for a minute to get her breath, to think. Colin was just worn out with praying, that was all, and was probably sleeping in his room, his blue-veined eyelids twitching in troubled dreams. She would go to his room, wake him, find out if his story matched Rose’s. If it did, then she would tell him everything would be all right. She would send him on some errand, maybe to Sir Guy, with a message for his brother. That would divert him and buy her time to think. It wasn’t that Kathryn didn’t understand the need for atonement. But her cherished child, with his angel’s voice and his gentle ways—he should not be the one to pay. He’d never hurt anyone in his life, had not even torn her when he was born, slipping from her womb in his lustier brother’s bloody wake, like an afterthought.

  Her father, and the mother who died when she was only five, slept beneath the chapel porch on the place where she was standing, next to Roderick— opposing, not beside. And opposing both, at the head of a triangle, a place waited for her. She’d planned it carefully: Alfred and his family completing Roderick’s side, Colin and his bride making the line to her parents. Now, even that was spoiled. But Kathryn was resolved. When the trumpet of Judgment sounded, no Jewess, with the blood of Christ dripping from her shapely hands, would rise from Blackingham to indict her son.

  Colin would not yet know about the baby. Whatever guilt he suffered was for his carnal act, that, and the shepherd’s death as the assumed consequence. Rose could not have told him; she had not known herself. If confronted with the fact of the child now, she knew what her son would say. Thinking he could take Rose for his bride, he would answer any charge with protestations of love. And when he learned the truth of Rose’s birth, would he do what Finn had done for Rose’s mother—give up everything because he was bewitched by a Jewess? Bewitched. Maybe the girl wasn’t as innocent as she professed to be. There were stories aplenty about Jews who practiced the black arts—if they could turn lead into gold, it would be a simple art to seduce her Colin. Then she remembered the look in Rose’s eyes, a frighted fawn stumbling into a peopled meadow. No. The girl was no enchantress, just a maid whose innocence had failed to protect her. But innocence never did. Innocence was flax for a devil’s loom.

  Laughter, easy banter from the stable boys warming their hands by a courtyard fire drew her attention. Finn was back. She’d hoped he wouldn’t return until the morro
w. She needed to talk to Colin before Rose blurted out the truth to her father. She wasn’t sure the girl could be trusted not to tell him, despite her agreement to wait, especially if she saw him now, with the new knowledge of her condition smarting like a fresh wound.

  “Finn,” Kathryn called.

  He looked up and around, searching for the source, then fastened his gaze on the chapel porch.

  “Agnes baked today,” she shouted as she hurried down the three stone steps, her skirts whipping around her. “Your favorite. The pain demain you like so much.” White bread, made with finest flour. A nobleman’s taste. There had been so many clues she’d overlooked. “You should get some while it’s still hot from the oven.”

  They were still a few feet apart. Her pace slowed, preserving the distance. He looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the dying sun with his hand. She had a momentary longing to rush to him, be comforted by him. But she’d find little comfort there if he knew the truth.

  “I think I need to wash the city from me first,” he said.

  Her mind whirred like a mill wheel. He would go to his chamber. Rose would be there, fresh tears still staining her cheek. If Kathryn could just detain him, the girl might be abed by the time he went to his room, and they might be able to buy another day. A day to visit the old woman who lived in Thomas Wood, maybe secure from her some concoction—or even a spell— well, no, not a spell, too dangerous, but a mixture of some wild herbal substance, some virginal restorative for Rose.