The Illuminator

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “Are we to camp in the yard, milady?” Glynis asked, excitement spiking her voice.

  “We shall wait and see,” Kathryn said. “It looks to be a large gathering. The house may be reserved for guests of higher rank.”

  “I like it here. It’s more festive and friendly-like. And this carriage is fine enough for a duchess. Sir Guy must be very rich. And very fond of you, milady.”

  Kathryn ignored the girl’s impertinent wink. She was thinking that the sheriff had forgotten her. Even though she didn’t desire his company, simple courtesy should have made him greet her by now. If they were to encamp in the yard, surely she would not be left on her own. Glynis might like the idea of lodging in the company of knights and their soldiers; Kathryn did not. At a sharp tap on the side of her carriage. Kathryn pulled back the tapestry. Not Sir Guy, but a servant wearing the crimson shirt and cap of his house.

  “If my lady and her gentlewomen will follow me,” he said with a perfunctory bow, “I’m to escort your ladyship to chambers. You are to lodge within.”

  Thank the Virgin, she thought, blowing on her hands for warmth. What had that girl done with her gloves?

  As Kathryn alighted from the carriage, she counted the towers at each juncture of keep and courtyard—thirteen in all. It was to one of these tall, multi-storied towers that the servant led them.

  “I had not expected such an imposing castle,” Kathryn said as she followed the servant carrying her trunk up several flights of curving stone steps. “The duke of Norfolk must be very powerful.”

  “Powerful enough,” the usher said. “But Framlingham belongs to the king.”

  “Will the king be in attendance then?” Kathryn hoped she sounded more curious than distressed, but the truth was she had neither the clothes nor the heart for court intrigue, and she certainly had no desire for the king, or his regent, to be reminded of her existence.

  “Don’t know.” The servant was breathing hard.

  The tower steps curved yet again, and they climbed higher. She thought of Finn in his high square Norman tower. Still higher. Another curve, and suddenly, when it seemed the spiral would go even more heavenward, the stairway opened onto a landing. She followed the usher across the threshold of a small but pretty chamber. The walls were washed with a plain ocher color, not painted with bright murals, like those she had glimpsed in passing. But the simple room had been enhanced with a rich tapestry hanging above the fireplace. A sitting bench graced the hearth. It, too, was draped with a pretty scarf and scattered with tasseled pillows, all slightly askew as though they had been hurriedly and recently placed.

  “Will that be all then?” the servant asked, his chest heaving, as he put down her trunk.

  “Is there a message for me from Sir Guy?”

  “Message?”

  “Further instructions? The custom of the house? Schedule of festivities?” “No message. You should mayhap send your maid to the gallery to inquire.”

  “Are there many other women in attendance?”

  “I’ve seen no other. Though I suppose the duchess and her gentlewomen to be in residence.” He cast a sidelong glance at the door.

  “You may go.”

  Kathryn put down her jewel casket and surveyed her quarters more carefully. A garderobe was attached to the chamber—at least she didn’t have to seek out a common privy. There was a welcoming fire in the grate, clean-burning English oak, not peat. Beeswax candles, not tallow dips, dressed the wall sconces, and a bed warmer lay on the hearth, with a pallet for her personal maid rolled beside it. A small but curtained bed, a chair, and a chest comprised the room’s other furnishings. A basin and a ewer of water waited in the garderobe; a bundle of herbs hung above the privy, and fresh herbs were strewn across the floor. Certainly better than camping in the courtyard. It was blissfully quiet here, only a faint echo of slow steps—were they ascending?—then a diffident knock.

  At Kathryn’s nod, Glynis opened the door to a girl about Magda’s age.

  “I’ve been sent to see to my lady’s comfort. Does my lady require anything?”

  At the sight of the girl’s skinny limbs, Kathryn knew she would not have the heart to ask for hot water or more than a few small sticks of wood. The servant was hardly more than a child. Her arms were pocked with chilblains— probably a scullery maid pressed into extra service for the festivities.

  “I have my own maid. If you would just show her the kitchens and the laundry, she can assist me.”

  The child, looking relieved, muttered a “Yes, milady,” accompanied by an uncertain curtsy.

  “Go with her, Glynis. Drop off this roll of laundry. Find out from the other servants the household routine. And when you come back, bring a small ewer of hot water.”

  “The Christmas Feast is in the great hall at three bells, milady,” the child offered.

  “Mark the time, Glynis.” Kathryn fixed her with what she hoped was a meaningful gaze. “And don’t dally.”

  When the girls had gone, Kathryn stooped to her trunk and rummaged through her finery. Her newest gown was a velvet brocade of deep claret, embroidered and banded with silver threads. It had been an extravagance, but her heart had been much lighter then, her future more hopeful. It was Finn’s favorite color, but he’d been arrested before she could wear it for him.

  It was time, now, for the dress to earn its coin; nothing to save it for, she’d said to herself as she’d packed it to bring with her. Perhaps it would be better to reserve it for the Feast of the Epiphany on Twelfth Night. No. That was merely to put off the pain of wearing it. She’d wear the velvet brocade now and again on Twelfth Night. And when she got home she would wear it again and again and again, like a pilgrim’s hair shirt.

  She’d gone so thin, the skirt would hang loosely from its high waist. Would there be time for Glynis to tuck it in? There was a velvet cap with a silver snood to match her hair. The cap would have to be brushed, but she could do that herself while Glynis tucked the dress. Kathryn shivered, dreading the moment when she would have to strip down to her shift. Would the guests be expected to attend prayers? She lay across the bed and, covering herself with her cloak, curled into a ball.

  Christmas Day. Finn was alone in his tower, and she in hers. And heaven and hell lay between them.

  “Sir Guy has sent me to escort my lady to the Christmas Feast.”

  It was the same servant who had carried her trunk. He looked at her admiringly but said nothing. Though he was little older than Colin and Alfred, she appreciated the look. It shored up her sagging confidence. There was no pier glass in her room, only a small mirror that showed her a thin, pale face. Too much white hair and white skin against the deep red velvet.

  As they entered the great hall she felt a moment of panic—so many people, at least two hundred or more, and so much noise. She recognized no one, and there were not many women scattered among the trestle boards.

  She was wondering where she would be seated when the servant led her toward the front of the hall. Probably above the salt, for Roderick and her father had both been knights. She surveyed the knights’ boards, hoping to see the face of a congenial wife. She saw with relief that a few of the lords were accompanied by their wives, but there were no vacant seats, and the servant led her past the knights’ board. Mayhap, then, she was to be seated with the gentlewomen of the duchess. An unusual, but unwelcome, honor, to be sure. She blessed her choice in choosing the elegance of the fabric, if not the color. At least she would not suffer the embarrassment of looking like a common robin roosting among royal birds of paradise.

  But they passed the ladies’ board and approached the dais where the duke and duchess perched amid a horizontal string of noble dignitaries.

  “There must be some mistake,” she said. But the servant, several paces ahead of her, either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her.

  Sir Guy stood up. Of course, as guest of honor he would be on the dais, and since she was his guest, he would escort her to her seat. But, instead of co
ming down from the dais and leading her to one of the boards below, he merely held out his hand, indicating the empty seat beside him. He smiled that crooked smile she detested. “A rare delight, my lady, to be your mess mate for a fortnight. An auspicious foreshadowing.”

  Her heart sank. Holy Mother, she had been invited by the duke of Norfolk as the lady designee of Sir Guy de Montaigne. She did not even want to think about what that might portend.

  “An honor made more delightful by its singleness, my lord,” she said as she took her place beside him.

  By Twelfth Night Kathryn was weary of the nightly feasts and longing for home. Her smile felt as frozen as the hoarfrosts that greeted her each morning. She was weary, too, of Sir Guy’s company, though she had to admit that his demeanor had been courteous, and in this alien courtly society, she was grateful for even his companionship. At least he was a familiar face. But thank the Holy Virgin, this was the last time she would have to sit at this high table.

  It was the Feast of the Epiphany, but like the feasts that had preceded it, there was more of sacrilege than sanctity about it. From her seat at the far end of the dais, Kathryn could not see the bishop of Norwich seated between the duke of Norfolk and the archbishop of Canterbury, but she recognized his drunken laughter. She had heard it enough these last few nights; the bishop was often in his cups. She had only seen him from a distance, having no occasion to be presented to him, and had been surprised that he seemed so young, both in appearance and deportment. Poor Finn. A double indignity to be prisoner to such a green and arrogant upstart. Kathryn winced as she heard his snorting approval of the ribald antics presented for their amusement.

  On an opposing dais at the rear of the hall, an urchin dressed in the robes of a bishop entertained the revelers. He wore his Cistercian vestments wrong side out, his oversized miter cock-eyed, and carried a monkey on his shoulder. As he swung his censer wildly, an old shoe hanging from a stick—the stinking smoke of incense—he traded obscene gestures with another, older youth, the designated lord of misrule, who mocked him by making lewd gyrating motions with his hips. The crowd grew rowdier with each pantomimed insult until finally the lord of misrule emptied the contents of the Eucharist chalice on the “bishop’s” head. The monkey chattered, and scurrying from the “bishop’s” shoulder to his partner’s, snatched the gaudy coronet from this “lord’s” head and then thrust his bare little backside at both of them. The occupants in the hall roared with laughter.

  Kathryn did not find the profaning of the Sacrament, or the raucous charade, amusing and wondered how the other nobles could. Were they too blind to see that beneath this traditional Yule amusement boiled disdain, even hatred? And not just for Church ritual but for them as well?

  Beside her, the sheriff inclined his head and shouted above the laughter. “My lady is not offended, I hope. It is but harmless playing.”

  “No, Sir Guy.” She must not draw attention to herself by protesting. “Not offended. Just overwhelmed. I had not expected such excess.”

  A trumpeter appeared in the center arch of three doors leading to the pantry and the kitchens. The “bishop” and the lord of misrule took their places with exaggerated pomp on the alternate dais. The latter made a loud farting noise, and the monkey held his nose and scolded. The crowd howled their appreciation. Then the herald blared his trumpet, and the procession of servants bearing food began, as it had each night, with the marshal of the hall carrying his white staff. The yeomen of the buttery, pantry, ewery, and cellar; the carver and the duke’s cup bearer followed behind, each carrying his respective offering high above his head. But unlike the other feasts, this time the courses were paraded first before the lord of misrule and the boy bishop, who pounded the dais in feigned rage, screaming, “ ’Tis not fit food for lords. Let the almoner take it to the almsgate.”

  The procession then paraded to the real dais, and the food was set before the duke. Kathryn wondered what Agnes would have said had she seen the two roast swans, redressed in their plumage, elegant in their nest of gilded reeds. Roast peacock (also in full dress), souse, and a mince pie, artfully contrived in the shape of a manger, completed the meal. The riot in the hall lessened to a murmur as other, more plebeian fare passed down the boards. The swans were reserved for the dais, the peacock for the knights’ board, but there were pies and blood puddings and custards in abundance down to the farthest trestle, where the guildsmen and the merchants sat.

  “Look, the duchess is leaving,” Sir Guy said as they waited for their trencher to be placed on the silver plate they shared.

  The woman rushing from the table was two, maybe three, years older than Kathryn, but the parting of her mantle showed her belly round and full beneath its silk covering. The veil on her horned headdress swayed dangerously as she rushed through the archway, holding her hand to her mouth. Two of her gentlewomen followed behind at a more leisurely pace.

  “It must be hard for her to be with child at her age,” Kathryn murmured more to herself than to her companion.

  “It’s but her duty. She’s lost six already. Were I the duke, I would be looking elsewhere to get an heir.”

  Six dead babies. Kathryn felt a quick stinging behind her eyelids. “Miscarriages?” she asked.

  “Two were stillborn. Two lived a few months, I think.”

  No wonder the duchess appeared so sad. Kathryn had spoken with her only once during the whole fortnight, and that had been an abbreviated, obligatory conversation between hostess and guest. Though Kathryn had spent many tedious hours doing needlework in the solar with the duchess’s three attendants, most days the duchess pleaded fatigue and absented herself. Kathryn sometimes also feigned exhaustion, but how else was she to fill the long hours between feasts? Sir Guy had invited her to the hunt once, but Kathryn had no peregrine, and hawking was not a sport she enjoyed, identifying more with prey than with predator. She eyed the stuffed carcass the carver placed on the trencher in front of her—yesterday’s prey?—and wondered how much courtly manners required her to eat. The trumpet blew again.

  “My lords, the meat is on the board.”

  The great hall filled with noise again as the guests sounded their approval.

  “Your appetite is small, Kathryn. I hope it is not because you weary of your companion.”

  “Weary of you, Sir Guy?” An effort to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Just one more night, she told herself. “Of course not. Indeed, your company is congenial, and I’m honored. But I’m a little surprised that you chose me to be by your side at such an important celebration. I’m sure there are others more worthy—”

  “Come, Kathryn. Don’t play the coy maiden. By now it must be plain to you that I seek an alliance between us.”

  Such bluntness. For a moment she almost lost her breath. Well, she could be blunt, too.

  “Is that meant to be a proposal of marriage, my lord? If so, it is an untimely one. In this age of chivalry, is it not custom for the wooing to precede the proposal? Truly you have been an attentive companion, but I hear no declaration of love.”

  “But you hear a declaration of intent. Isn’t that worth more to a well-seasoned woman than pretty vows of courtly love? But I can assure you, madam, there is much about you I admire. And I can offer you protection.”

  Well seasoned! She pierced the meat in front of her, then dropped her knife. It clattered against the silver plate. “So it is a practical arrangement that you propose. Tell me, sir, is it me you admire, or my land?”

  He merely shrugged.

  At least there was no deceit in him. “As for your offer of protection, I have my sons to protect me. Colin has come home.”

  “I know.” His nose appeared even more beaklike when he smiled, and his eyes narrowed as though he were about to release an arrow. “I saw him preaching at the crossroads in Aylsham.” He shouted to be heard above the noise.

  The marshal of the hall waved his white cane at the trestles below the dais. “Speak softly, my masters.”

  The no
ise level subsided a little at this admonition. Kathryn answered softly as she picked up her knife to separate a sooty feather from the swan’s breast. “Don’t forget about Alfred. He is Roderick’s heir, too.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about Alfred.” Sir Guy offered the shared wine cup. She shook her head.

  “I hoped to see him among your retinue. All my attempts to correspond with him have been”—she could not say rebuffed—“futile.”

  “There was a small uprising in November. Rebels incited by the Lollards. The king called for men bearing arms. I sent what men I could spare.”

  Of course, she knew it would come to this. Alfred was, after all, in training to be a retainer of the king. She had tried to avoid that thought even at the jousting tournament the duke had sponsored for their entertainment— the tournament where Sir Guy had unhorsed his opponent and then kneeled half-mockingly before her to beg a token. She’d winced at the clanging sound of lance against hauberk and helmet and told herself she was glad that such sport was for men; told herself that Alfred was yet a boy.

  “I suppose it is to be expected that a boy king would send boys to do his battle,” she said.

  “Please, Kathryn, make your tone less strident or you may be even beyond my protection. It wasn’t Richard, of course, it was John of Gaunt who put out the call to arms. An irony. It was he who fostered Wycliffe in his heresies in the first place. Seems Lancaster prodded a cub and baited a bear.”

  And what of my cubs? Kathryn thought. What’s to become of them? One who dances with the bear and one who will be sent to kill the bear?

  Sir Guy drained the cup and motioned behind him for his cup bearer. “Alfred is no longer a boy,” he said.

  The cup bearer served Sir Guy from behind his shoulder but on bended knees, with downcast eyes, as he had each night. Kathryn had paid scant attention to the arm that reached for Sir Guy’s empty cup.

  Until she noticed this one was different.