The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  * * *

  “Lady Melisen hasn’t arrived yet,” announced Jankin, the glazier’s apprentice, when the serving lad showed her in. He offered her a seat by the window.

  “Ale or wine?” he asked.

  “As it’s so hot today I’d better have ale,” she replied. She was glad she had changed into her crisp, clean habit. It was her summer one but even so she felt her head swimming in the heat of the workshop. The kiln, she noticed, was alight.

  Dorelia was sitting quietly in a corner with some embroidery on her lap. She was wearing a pale green shift with diaphanous silk sleeves overprinted in a darker shade. They were in the new fashion and fell in graceful folds to the floor. She didn’t raise her head even when Jankin came back with the ale. He handed Hildegard a stoup then refilled Dorelia’s clay beaker without being asked.

  “Master won’t be long.” He darted a glance at Dorelia then went over to his workbench and pulled out a stool. His tight breeches strained over his thighs as he stretched out his legs. “Too stifling to work in this weather,” he said, generally.

  Hildegard murmured an agreement. It was certainly overheated in here. She wondered why the kiln was burning. She supposed it was for some work in hand.

  Moments passed.

  Nobody spoke.

  A bee flew in through the window and buzzed once round the workshop before flying out again. Dorelia rose to her feet and stretched in a languid sort of way as if she had been sitting too long. The lace of her bodice were loose. Flapping the edge of one sleeve she fanned her burning cheeks.

  Jankin’s glance flickered and fell.

  Eventually she leaned across the apprentice to try to reach a pair of scissors lying on the bench on his other side. Her sleeve brushed the back of his neck and he gave a sudden smile like a contented cat and moved so that it brushed him again.

  Something familiar about the pattern of her sleeves drew Hildegard’s attention. Then she recalled where she had seen it before. It was the same pattern Gilbert had drawn so beautifully on one of the little squares of vellum he was making into a book.

  Then Danby walked in and the strange mood was broken.

  He was sweating.

  “Another scorcher!” he announced as if perhaps they hadn’t noticed. “That kiln’s the last thing to get close to in weather like this. I’m firing some pieces for a window in minster nave,” he explained to Hildegard after the usual greetings.

  “And you can’t trust us to get the timing right,” Jankin chipped in with a grin.

  “Wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.” Danby punched him genially on the shoulder. “It’s the third firing,” he told Hildegard. “I don’t want my silver stain ruining.” He looked pleased with the world as he usually did despite his words, adding, “This is going to show ’em what we can do.” He rubbed his hands with relish.

  “I suppose the secret of how you get such colours lies in the firing?” She took a sip of ale.

  “Every craft has its secrets and I’m hanging on to mine. But I can tell you this. St. Peter’s is going to have the best glass in the country.”

  “Is Gilbert ready to set about this drawing?” Hildegard asked him.

  “He is. You can go through if you like. He should be in there at his bench. The quiet little sod.”

  She could see he was itching to get on with his work. Jankin had picked up some lead calmes and began to shape them in a half-hearted manner round a piece of glass. Taking her ale with her, Hildegard went on into the inner workshop.

  Gilbert was there after all, working quietly, his head bent over some vellum as he made a rapid sketch in pen and ink. At the sound of someone entering he cupped his hand round his drawing and darted a glance.

  She went over. “It seems we have to wait for your model to appear,” she greeted. “I hope your time isn’t being wasted?”

  He put down his quill and whipped the leather thong off his hair to allow the sheet of silver to fall to his shoulders. His eyelids quivered. Even his lashes were silver, like flecks of foil.

  “Time is never wasted,” he replied.

  Hildegard walked over to the open window. It gave onto a private yard where there was a line of washing drying to a crisp in the sun. When she turned back Gilbert had selected a piece of charcoal and it was a different sketch he was working on now.

  “Your master tells me he’s firing some glass. It must be hard work on a day like this. Wouldn’t it be cooler by night?”

  “He won’t work by night. The guild forbids it.”

  “Honest then, and in this weather!”

  “My master’s honest in all weathers.” He darted a glance from beneath his bright lashes. Then, as if he imagined he was being unwelcoming, he told her a little about the minster window they were working on. “It’s The Last Judgement. Usually goes in the west window. But they’re planning something really big to go in there. At present there’s some indecision about where to put ours. Master’s hoping it’ll persuade them to give him the commission for the big one.”

  “It’s an important undertaking then?”

  “If they’re impressed enough it should see the master out. Unless he lives to be a hundred and ten.” He paused. “As we pray he does.”

  “I’ve often wondered how you decide what to put in—at least when your donor doesn’t have such strong ideas as Lady Melisen about her husband’s chantry window.”

  “It’s fairly standard if it’s for the church. Scenes from the Old Testament, called the type, and parallel scenes from the New Testament, called the anti-type. You pair things, like.”

  “I’ve heard of that. You mean like Jonah living in the belly of the whale for three days then coming out alive and Christ dead in his tomb for three days before being resurrected?”

  He lifted his head. His eyes were piercing. “Everything has its parallel. Like a forewarning of what’s going to happen. It gives symmetry to our understanding of the Book.”

  Hildegard hadn’t expected a conversation veering towards the theological. She said, “Your windows aren’t called the Bible of the Poor for nothing then. In fact, you’re writing the Bible in glass just as Wycliffe is writing it in English.”

  His expression was sharp. Sharp and suspicious.

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to offend you by comparing you to Wycliffe,” she said hurriedly, unsure what he thought of the preacher’s ideas. “I happen to be in favour of having the Bible written in a language people can understand. Latin’s all very well, but to most people it’s just mumbo-jumbo.”

  He laughed. “Is that the orthodox Cistercian view these days?”

  “If it’s not, it should be.”

  “What about what Wycliffe says about the Eucharist?” he asked, as sharp as a knife.

  She gave him a careful glance. Over the water in the rest of Europe people were being burned alive at the stake as heretics because they refused to accept the turning of wine into blood as more than a symbol. There were no miracles, said Wycliffe, only superstition and an ignorance as to the true causes of things.

  “I can understand his arguments,” said Hildegard. “His logic seems without fault. Unfortunately he doesn’t write with much clarity. It might take somebody else to put his ideas forward in a way people can grasp. His argument seems to rest on a subtle point in our theory of knowledge. It’s difficult enough to understand without being couched in cumbersome phrases.”

  “I’ve found it slippery enough myself when I’ve—” He broke off, as if having said too much.

  “As you told me yesterday,” she continued, “it must have been difficult to avoid hearing him preach, especially if you lived in his part of the world.” That let him off the hook.

  There was no blame in listening to a preacher, especially if he was standing outside your church door as you left after mass. She had no intention of trapping him into admitting to what was deemed heretical, although she couldn’t vouch for his intention towards herself.

  Why that questi
on about the Eucharist? she wondered. The Inquisition saw it as a test of orthodoxy. The wrong answer in the wrong place could send you to a hideous death.

  It was a strange conversation to be having with a glazier. They had stumbled into it and now they looked at each other with equal wariness.

  It was true nobody was being burned at the stake for holding such views, not here in England, but there were those not yet in power who wanted to follow the example set in Germany and France and rid the world of heretics. Freedom of speech was abhorrent to them. Wycliffe’s preachers were travelling the country in russet robes and carrying few possessions because they had been hounded out of Oxford for questioning the pope’s interpretation of the Eucharist. Many of them had been thrown into prison, although as far as she knew they were all out by now.

  It was a quagmire, however. Bread. Wine. They remained just that in Wycliffe’s view. When the priest raised the host and offered the chalice no miracle took place. It was a symbol only, if of another truth.

  Gaunt and Archbishop Courtenay had bribed Wycliffe’s supporters with gifts of rich livings and browbeaten those who held to their views by threats of prison. It had silenced many of them. Wycliffe himself, old and tired, had withdrawn to an obscure manor near Lutterworth in the midlands where he could write undisturbed.

  Suddenly voices were audible in the yard. It sounded like Melisen and her retinue.

  Gilbert began to shuffle his drawings out of sight.

  Hildegard had spotted something though. “This one—” She placed her hand on his arm as he was about to push it under with the rest. “What is it?” She could see what it looked like. It was a fox wearing a triple crown preaching to a herd of geese. It was what it meant that interested her.

  “Master told you the fox is my sign. I’m just playing around with a few ideas,” he replied. He avoided her glance.

  “Is it for a window?”

  “What sort of window?” He gave a harsh laugh. His expression hardened. When she didn’t reply he said, “You mean a Lollard window? Is that what you’re suggesting, sister?”

  She watched him put the drawing out of sight. It might well be a design for a Lollard window if she had guessed right about something. She decided to take a risk.

  “I was thinking about what you replied when I asked you why you’d chosen a fox for your sign. You said: I should know. It puzzled me. I couldn’t see why I, in particular, should know. Then I happened to remember that commentary on one of the psalms made by Bernard of Clairvaux, the founder of my Order. It mentions foxes, and he writes at length about what the fox stands for. He meant something very specific.”

  Gilbert had allowed his hair to fall over his eyes again and she had no idea what effect her words were having, whether she had got it right or whether he was merely letting her talk.

  There was noise from the other workshop and Lady Melisen’s voice was heard, greeting Master Danby and giving orders to her retinue at the same time.

  Hurriedly Hildegard said, “It made me wonder if you’d read Bernard’s commentary or heard it mentioned and decided for that reason that it would make a good symbol to use?”

  She continued. “If you have read it you’ll know he was referring to heretics. More than that, he was saying that if they won’t change their views they should be exterminated.” Gilbert’s sign could be a simple reference to the psalm … or it could be a play on Bernard’s idea of foxes and heretics. It was something that could turn a stained-glass window into a rebel shout of defiance. Or stand as an affirmation of orthodoxy—with all the punishing horror that implied.

  Type and anti-type.

  Before Melisen entered Gilbert muttered, “So you picked up on that reference? I can see I shall have to watch my step.” His lips tightened. “Or you yours?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Thomas had stabled his horse with the town hostler and when Hildegard met him in the minster as arranged she had to explain that she would have to hire a horse as she had arrived on foot from Deepdale. “The alternative is to go by river,” she suggested.

  “Let’s do that. We’ll be less conspicuous.” He glanced at the leather satchel she carried over her shoulder. “Have you got it there?”

  She nodded.

  “So when do we leave?”

  The archbishop’s letter requesting her to attend him had been waiting at the nunnery when she returned from the drawing session at Master Danby’s. It offered her an audience that evening after vespers.

  “We have time to kill,” she said. “What would you like to do?”

  “Let’s sit awhile in a niche somewhere and you can tell me about the calamity at Deepdale and what you intend to do about it, and then you can amuse me with your account of this drawing session you’ve just attended.”

  The minster was busy with the usual activities and nobody was bothered by the two Cistercians sitting together under one of the windows. The sun slanted through, casting a bright light over the faces of those who passed and picked out the colours of their garments, the reds, the blues, the yellows, making them like the jewel hues of the glass itself.

  “Lady Melisen must have wished she had never insisted on being drawn from life,” she told him, avoiding the topic of the devastated grange. “There can be nothing more tedious for the sitter. Gilbert is so painstaking he wouldn’t allow her to move at all until he was satisfied. Of course we were forbidden to make a sound. It seemed to go on endlessly, the thin scratching of his pen, Gilbert’s glares at the shuffle of my feet as I changed position or got up and walked around the workshop, Melisen staring rigidly at the wall just as he had positioned her. She had her hair down,” she added. “It’s very long. It covered her like a cloak and there was no need for a suit. And besides it was so stifling hot in there—” She broke off. “Perhaps I’ve told you enough! Anyway, it was a terrible penance, for me as well as for Melisen. Gilbert gave me the blackest look when I went over to see some of his drawings.” She frowned. “You might be interested in the conversation I had with him before Melisen arrived.”

  “What was that about? Craft and illusion again?”

  “Not entirely, although…” she grimaced, “I suppose there is a connection. No, it was more subversive, you might even say heretical, than that.” Briefly she told him what Gilbert had said, omitting his unexpected warning.

  “Our Founder offers many challenges,” Thomas replied carefully when she finished. “I see it as a failing that he didn’t counter Abelard’s arguments when he had the chance. It has left us with the suspicion that he was unable to do so. But you’re uneasy about Gilbert?”

  “He’s surprisingly well read for a journeyman.”

  “Linking him with the rebels, then, who pride themselves on their knowledge of the scriptures?”

  She nodded. “Maybe. At any rate he knew what Bernard meant by the foxes.”

  “Maybe he’s been listening to marketplace preachers?”

  “That’s what I thought. It makes me wonder if it has any bearing on what Agnetha hinted … about trouble brewing?”

  Thomas looked thoughtful. “Stapylton told me something interesting while I was haggling over the price of candles. He said he didn’t think the fire in his workshop was accidental.”

  * * *

  When it was time to leave they hired a boat at King’s Staithe. The archbishop’s palace was a little way downriver. Thomas rowed and they passed the watergate and the inlet to the king’s fish ponds. Soon both banks became more wooded until the spire of St. Oswald’s was visible against the summer sky and a huddle of houses on the waterfront showed they were just off Fulford. The village was swiftly left behind and they were soon floating between thick woodland again.

  It was a calm night. The only sound apart from the soft dip of the oars was an occasional screech of an owl or the plop of a rat as it slipped into the water. Shortly before the river began its long meander through open countryside they came suddenly upon the blazing lights of the palace on the opposite bank.
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  Thomas manoeuvred the bow towards the shore. In a moment they felt the boat bump against a wooden landing stage. He tied a line to a post and even before he finished a couple of guards appeared with flares held above their heads. There was a rattle of arms as they marched up.

  “Who comes?” grunted one of them.

  “Sister Hildegard and Brother Thomas of Meaux.”

  The guard held his flare close to Thomas’s face, noted the white habit, and demanded, “On what business?”

  Hildegard stepped forward. “Private business with His Grace. He expects us.”

  The man seemed satisfied with this and told them to follow. He led them up a long avenue towards a lighted gatehouse. Under the flickering cressets within a few guards were playing dice and barely looked up when they entered. A page was sent to announce them and a few minutes later they were being shown inside the palace.

  “This is lavish,” whispered Thomas in her ear. His mouth was slightly open at the amount of gilding in the small chamber where they were asked to wait.

  Hildegard had been here before. “This is only the anteroom. Wait until you see his audience chamber.”

  An armoured door was flung open and they were ushered through.

  Thomas gasped.

  At the far end was the archbishop’s throne. It seemed to be fashioned entirely of gold. Two large brass stands, taller than an average man, stood on either side of it, bearing thick beeswax candles. The air was heavy with the scent of honey. Archbishop Neville himself was standing at a table hewn from Purbeck marble illuminated by a chandelier of Venetian glass, each facet glittering with the light of many candles. Beyond the light the chamber was in darkness.

  The archbishop beckoned them to step closer. Hildegard felt constrained to bend her knee and she heard Thomas drop to his own.

  “Up, up. Who’s this?” Neville demanded of Hildegard.

  “Brother Thomas, a monk from the Abbey of Meaux, and my escort.”