“Go to the kitchen and tell Glynis that I said to heat some water for a bath,” Kathryn said. That should be incentive enough. He bathed more than any three men she’d ever known. Was that something his Jewish wife had taught him? The ostler had gone inside the barn, leading Finn’s horse. She lowered her voice. “Tell Glynis to carry the water to my chamber. I’ll join you there after vespers.” Would he wonder at her sudden piety, her desire to pray alone in a chapel where no priest said the office? “You can chat with Agnes over a mug. Tell her I said to pour the French wine she’s been hoarding.”
He hesitated, ran his fingers through his gray-streaked mane that her own fingers twitched with wanting to touch. Had she lost the power to charm him?
“We need to talk,” she said.
“I’m too weary to do much else, Kathryn.”
There was hurt in the look he turned on her, and mistrust. She felt a momentary pang for the deception, but had not he deceived her first? She reached for the leather satchel.
“You don’t need to go to your chamber. You might disturb Rose. I think she’s resting. She’s been working very hard on some task you’ve set her. My husband kept a change of clean linen in my garderobe.” She heard a vestigial longing in her voice. She hoped he heard it too, and would read a promise there.
“Pain demain, you say? With honey? ”
“With honey. Still warm.”
“Don’t pray too long,” he said, a bit of the old tease returning.
“Here. I’ll take that satchel and place it on your worktable.” She touched his sleeve in a half-stroke before taking the scrip from him.
“Now, go. Before your bread gets cold.”
She passed his chamber on the way to Colin’s, tiptoed in and placed the leather satchel in the center of the worktable. The curtain to Rose’s alcove was drawn. No sound. The soothing tea she’d sent up was working.
Now, for Colin.
But Kathryn saw, to her dismay, that Colin was not in his chamber, and his bed had not been rumpled. He could not have gone far. His lute lay on the lone chair in the corner. She’d never noticed before how plain he kept his quarters, how cell-like. She lifted the lute and strummed it. He’d taught her a few notes, once, a long time ago. But her anxious fingers would not hold the strings.
Finn would be waiting for her, might become impatient and seek out his daughter—she returned the instrument carefully to its chair. A piece of parchment fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up. She recognized Colin’s fine script.
She had to read it twice before her mind could comprehend its meaning.
Her first thought was to go after him, bring him back. She could send Finn. She could guess which way he’d taken. Not to the Norwich monks, or even Broomholm. These would be too close to home. West, maybe, to Thetford, but more probably north to Blinham Priory, to the Benedictines, the wild lonely cliffs of Cromer, desolate, isolated.
But, if she brought him back, he would find out about the baby, and he would marry Rose. It wouldn’t matter that she was a Jewess. That would just make his atonement more complete in his eyes.
No, better this way, she thought, as the tears began to flow. Better this way, for now. She might not have the strength to send him away, even for his own protection. This way he would never have to know about the baby, would never have to make a choice. He was too young to take a monk’s vows; he would be a novitiate for years. Time enough to bring him back after she’d sent Finn and Rose away. She would keep Blackingham safe for him. For Alfred, too.
One day they could both come home.
She sat for a time on the floor, rocking herself back and forth until the room grew dark. In his note, he said he would dedicate himself to God, his hours to prayer. He said he was going to take the vow of silence. Little Walshingham and the Franciscans? It would help if she could just know where he was. The music in his voice hushed forever. She could not bear it. The room was almost in total darkness now. She must pull herself together.
She tucked the note carefully inside her bosom and stood up. Finn would be waiting for her.
FIFTEEN
He (God) suffereth some of us to fall more hard and more grievously than ever we did before, and then we think—for we are not all wise—that all we have begun is brought to naught. But it is not so.
—JULIAN OF NORWICH, DIVINE REVELATIONS
Finn lingered over his supper to give Lady Kathryn time to return from vespers. He chatted with the cook, telling her of the hanging at Castle Prison, of the tension building in the city. She complained of the poll tax.
“ ’Tis the second one in three years. Thank the Holy Virgin, Lady Kathryn agreed to pay mine, but now there’s me girl to pay for.” Agnes waved a stirring spoon in the direction of the scullery maid, who was scouring a kettle with as much concentration as he would have given the mixing of a crimson wash.
“If Lady Kathryn paid your husband’s head tax,” he said between bites, “she’ll be no more out of pocket for the girl’s.”
Agnes nodded, doubling her ample chin, but the creases on her brow showed she was less sanguine. “Aye, but that was before she lost the wool in the fire. Last time, she paid for crofters as well. But there’s only so much juice in a turnip, and I’m afeared when the king’s uncle has squeezed all the juice, there’ll be a riot.”
“The threat of a noose is a powerful silencer.”
“Not when ye figure a rope is quicker than starvation.”
Finn agreed to the simple wisdom of that statement and pondered it as he made his way up to Kathryn’s chamber, though he soon banished it for more personal thoughts. He’d had enough of crime and punishment for one day.
He tapped softly on the door of Lady Kathryn’s chamber before letting himself into the empty room. The room was dimly lit against the gathering gloom by a sputtering fire and two rushlights, and in front of the fire sat a tin tub whose bottom was barely covered with water, no more than five fingers’ worth. Finn tested the water. Tepid. Not enough to chase the cold from his bones but sufficient to remove the travel stench. He disrobed and folded his body into the tub. A draft from the flue caused him to shiver, and he winced as his back touched the cold tin. He rubbed his arms for warmth and looked down at his shriveled manhood. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. His body had never yet failed him when desire was awakened, but there was always a first time, and he was no longer a young man.
As he scrubbed his gooseflesh with Saracen’s soap, he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the raucous barking of stable curs drifting up from the courtyard, muffled by the heavy wall hangings of Kathryn’s chamber. Pilgrims, probably, seeking hospitality against the frigid December night. He knew they would not be turned away, but would be allowed to spread their bedrolls—some in the great hall, some in the stables—depending on their social standing. The Norwich beggar boy who’d held his horse outside the tavern stalked across his mind, giving him another cheeky salute, another wink and grin. Who would pay his head tax? What could the king’s bailiffs extort from him—the ragged shirt off his back, the blanket Finn had given him—and where would he sleep tonight?
The soap was fragrant, mingling its own lavender scent with the earthy smell of the peat fire. It reminded him of Kathryn, the smell that lingered in her clothes, her hair, the enticing hollow between her breasts. Thoughts of Kathryn awakened a familiar stirring. Good. The blood was warming. If he’d read her right—and one could never be totally sure when a woman was concerned—there had been a promise of reconciliation in her eyes. She must be as eager as he to end the coldness between them. She had made the first move.
One of the dogs in the courtyard below yelped as though it had been kicked. Loud voices, unintelligible words, muted by the tapestries and closed window, followed by raucous laughter. Then, pounding on the door as though with the hilt of a broadsword. Boisterous, for a company of pilgrims.
He sluiced the lather from his shoulder with cupped hands, dried himself with the scrap o
f linen, and stepped out of the tub. Kathryn had said something about her husband’s smallclothes. He eyed a chest in the corner but reached for his own mud-stained garment. He’d not stoop to wear Roderick’s clothing. Frowning, he brushed at a spot on his tunic.
“Open up! We demand to see the mistress of the house!” Voices loud enough even the dead sleeping in the crypt could hear them.
“Open by command of the king! Serjeant-at-arms.”
Kathryn’s softer voice, her words not clear but her tone indignant, carried up the stairs.
Finn hitched up his leggings and pulled his shirt over his head as he headed for the door. He did not stop to pull on his boots and was halfway down the steps when he remembered that he’d left behind his dagger. For Kathryn’s sake, he could ignore the cold floor on his bare feet, but the dagger was another matter altogether. He turned back, leaping the twisting stairs two at a time.
Sir Guy rode into the courtyard just as Lady Kathryn opened the door. Well-timed—he’d known he could depend on his lout of a Serjeant to conduct the business churlishly. All the better. That meant he could play the mediator and not the perpetrator.
The Serjeant was shoving the widow roughly aside. “We don’t need your permission. We have orders to search this place.”
Sir Guy pitched his reins to a stable groom, dismounted and rushed forward, barking at his men-at-arms, careful that his voice would carry to Lady Kathryn’s ears. “Clumsy fools! You insult this noble house and its lady at your own peril.”
He jerked his head sharply left, indicating that his men should wait outside, and inserted himself between Kathryn and the serjeant. He reached for Kathryn’s hand—“Please pardon their insolence, my lady”—and placed her hand to his lips. He held it thus a moment too long, tried to keep the temper from his countenance when she withdrew it abruptly.
“Sir, by whose authority is the peace of Blackingham broken?” She stared first at the serjeant, then at Sir Guy, as though she knew his gambit all too well.
Her posture irritated him. He’d noticed that arrogance in her demeanor before and wondered why Roderick had suffered it. He would not when he was master here.
The serjeant, his perplexity showing in his face, answered. “By authority of the king and his lordship the high sheriff.” This last trailed off in a question. Sir Guy ignored the uncertain glance directed at him.
“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, my lady. It seems this business is being ill-conducted. I thought as much. I left a meeting with the bishop to attend you.”
“You are well come, Sir Guy. But your words, and the arms your men would bear into a lady’s house, suggest this is not a visit between friends.”
“A visit, alas, no. But friendship, truly, on my part”—here he bowed stiffly—“if I may be so bold as to presume.” He started to reach for her hand again, but thought better of it. He closed the door, shutting out the cold and the serjeant. “As the widow of my dear friend, I feel a certain responsibility toward you, my lady. I hope you know that I can be relied upon to look after your interests in this and all matters.”
“And just what matters might these be?” The voice, a man’s voice, came from behind him.
The sheriff recognized the illuminator as he stepped out of the shadowed stairway to his right. A pesky fellow. A horsefly buzzing about the ear. Best not to swat him now. Let him settle so that he could get a square blow.
He directed his answer to Kathryn to imply that the illuminator was not worthy of a response.
“Something easily satisfied, I assure you. A mere formality.”
“Please, sir. Speak plainly,” Kathryn said.
The sheriff nodded. “It is the matter of the dead priest.”
Was it his imagination, or did her spine stiffen even more?
“Dead priest?”
“Father Ignatius. The bishop’s legate found at the edge of Blackingham last summer with his head bashed in. You almost swooned when we brought the body into your courtyard. Surely, you have not forgotten.”
“Not a sight easily forgotten. It pains me to remember it now.”
Indeed it seemed to. She had gone quite pale.
“Pain the lady should be spared,” the illuminator interjected. “Lady Kathryn assured you at the time of the body’s discovery that she had not seen the priest. I heard her say it. It was the day I arrived at Blackingham.”
“Ah, was it indeed? I had not remembered. Thank you for reminding me.”
This scrivener was like a horsefly circling a dung heap. Patience. An untimely swat, and the sheriff might end up with excrement on himself.
He directed his remark to the lady. “As I was about to say, the priest’s unsolved murder weighs heavy on the bishop’s mind. It has been six months. An inventory has been found that would suggest the priest visited Blackingham. In spite of my lady’s denial.”
He chose his words carefully, well enough to frighten her so that his intervention would be that much more appreciated. She held one hand—the hand she’d withdrawn from his lips—at her white throat. She gave no response.
He continued. “Although I’ve done my best to assure His Eminence of your complete innocence in this, the bishop demands a search. My men will do a cursory inspection of your outbuildings and kitchen. Whilst I, with your permission, my lady, will accompany you on a tour of the manor house.”
To punctuate his words, he gave her his sincerest smile: the one in which he arranged his face to say, You can trust me for I am loyal and not self-serving; the one he’d practiced before the bishop that very morning, the one he’d used to gain his lucrative position as sheriff of Norfolk. He touched the ribbons on her shoulder, ignoring her recoil.
“Together, we can easily satisfy the bishop.”
He tried, too, to ignore the fact that she was looking past him, at the illuminator, as though asking him what she should do. He wanted to put his hand on her jaw and crack her skinny neck like a chicken bone. The illuminator nodded at her. God’s Blood! If only the cursed insect would light within range.
She said, “Very well, you may proceed. But you will understand if I do not offer you hospitality, since the nature of your visit is official.”
He remembered the day of the fire and the shepherd’s death. Blacking-ham hospitality was something he could forgo. Still, he marked the slight, tallied it in a mental ledger to be settled at some later date.
“And please, ask your men not to treat other members of my household with the same discourtesy to which they subjected me.”
Another tally mark in the ledger.
“Your household must be questioned, my lady. The bishop would settle for no less than a thorough investigation. You must understand, with no one to speak in my lady’s behalf, the cloud of suspicion—”
“Innocence needs no advocate but the truth.”
“If one wishes, like our Holy Saviour, to be martyred for truth. But you have two sons. Would you have them martyred also?”
Color flooded her pale face, and he knew he had shot home.
By now they had entered the solar. He was aware of Finn following on the periphery. Still there. Buzzing, just out of reach.
The sheriff opened a chest that served as table, stool, and storage, rifled through the plate and linens, ran his sword between the wall hangings and the bricks they covered.
Kathryn stood rigidly by, like a sentinel at an unpleasant post.
“Just a quick look in the sleeping chambers, and then we’re done,” he said.
She waved her hand toward the stair passage that led to the private rooms. “My chamber is at the top. My guest and his daughter occupy the room you will remember as Roderick’s chamber. My sons’ rooms are at the other end of the passageway. If you need to question my steward, I will send for Simpson … ?”
“That will not be necessary. The item in question is of a personal nature. But if you would be so good as to call Colin. I will speak with Alfred at my leisure.”
He thought he detecte
d the briefest hesitation before she said, “Colin is not here.” She paused for a longer breath, then, maddeningly again, shifted her gaze to the insect illuminator. Obviously, Kathryn was no longer addressing him.
“Colin has gone on pilgrimage,” she said to Finn. “He joined a band of pilgrims who came through earlier in the day. Just an interlude, a respite, he said, to pray for … he feels responsible for the shepherd’s death. He and Rose had been using the wool house to …” Her gaze wavered as though she was in distress. “To practice the lute. It was to be a surprise for you.”
The sheriff might as well have been an empty suit of armor propped against a lintel post. There was a pleading quality to her tone, a softness that suggested intimacy between the lady and the artisan. They were lovers. He’d suspected it before, but had thought she would not stoop so low. It simply was not to be tolerated. The prospect of Lady Kathryn—or any lady—with such a simpering pretender disgusted him. Yet, knowledge of this despicable alliance might give him leverage to use against her in future.
“I shall speak with Colin later, or I can send my men after him now,” he said. “But perhaps neither will prove necessary. Now, if we can proceed. We will examine Master Finn’s quarters first so that he shall be free to continue his work.”
“But why his quarters if not Simpson’s?” she asked.
“I’m only carrying out my orders. As Master Finn reminded me, he was present at the time of the priest’s murder. But what was it you said about innocence needing no advocate? I’m sure your illuminator has nothing to fear.”
“My daughter is resting. She has been ill,” Finn said. “I will not have her frightened by your rogue’s tactics.”
“Rogue’s tactics? You misspeak, sir. The sheriff of Norfolk is not ungentle with gentle women and innocent children. Please, precede us into the room, if you wish, to prepare your daughter.”
He had no real suspicions that a search of the illuminator’s quarters would turn up anything, but it was pleasant sport to harass him.
The Illuminator Page 24