The Illuminator by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

heard the news. Said whoever struck the blow, he’d lay the blame to John Wycliffe for working up the people against Holy Church. Said if Oxford wouldn’t shut Wycliffe up, he’d go to the French pope.”
    Julian handed her dirty clothing back through the window. Alice reached for it, her string of talk unbroken. “Though I don’t know where that would get him, since everybody knows he’s robbing rich and poor to finance the Italian pope’s claim. Two popes. One in France. Another in Rome. Holy Mother of God. Isn’t one enough? How is a God-fearing person to know which is right? Probably neither.” And then she mumbled, “Mayhap I’ll just declare myself pope, and then we could have three. And one a woman.”
    Alice must have seen from Julian’s expression that she’d gone too far.
    â€œWell, I’ll just go tend the herb garden and leave ye to yer writing.” She opened her chamber door into the morning sunlight. Through her window Julian could see the light from the open door paint the gray image of a tree branch on the wall. A shadow leaf fluttered in a remembered breeze. She could smell the green morning. She longed to feel the sun on her face. Secondhand light filtered through her interior window onto her writing table. That was her portion. And she would be satisfied with it.
    Alice’s voice drifted in. She must be just beside the door, talking to herself as she pulled weeds among the thyme and fennel. A muttered curse, then “two popes. ’Tis an evil world. The anti-Christ is abroad.”
    Julian turned to her manuscript and began to write:
    OF CHRIST’S SUFFICIENCY
    I knew well that there was strength enough for me (and indeed for all living creatures that shall be saved) against all the fiends of hell, and against all ghostly enemies.

    At first, Blackingham’s cook felt much abused that there would be two more mouths to feed from the gaping kitchen hearth she tended. As she flatteneddown the red embers under the white-hot ash to make a level cooking base and swung the heavy pot into place, Agnes grumbled to her husband, John, that her poor old back would not hold out much longer.
    â€œThen where would milady be?” she asked.
    â€œLike as not between the same rock and hard place she is right now.”
    She knew she shouldn’t complain to John. It only made him more resentful, and that was not what she wanted at all. He’d begged her to leave years ago, after the plague swept the country in 1354, killing many of the able-bodied laborers.
    â€œ ’Tis our chance to break with the land,” he’d said. “I’ve heard they be paying wages in Suffolk. A man can hire himself out to whatever job he wants. Leave when he wants. No questions asked. After a year in Colchester, we’d be free. Blackingham would have no hold on us.”
    â€œThe king’s law forbids it. We’d be outlaws for a whole year. I’ll not wear the wolf’s head even for ye, John; I’ll not be hunted in the forest like a wild thing. Lady Kathryn’s been good to us. Ye bide yer time right and Sir Roderick might make ye overseer someday.”
    John had been a good stout man in those days, and smart. He could do anything, and did. Single-handedly, he’d built the flocks to where they produced enough wool to keep every hand they could find busy with the fleeces; shearing and rolling, grading and packing. He’d been a proud man then, but things had not turned out the way Agnes had planned. Her John had not been rewarded for his loyalty and hard work. Instead, Sir Roderick had hired that surly bailiff, Simpson, who lost no time putting John back in his place, lording it over him, never calling him by name, just “Shepherd.”
    â€œShepherd” John had remained, and he’d lost all joy in his labors. He still supervised the shearing and the pulling of the fleeces and much else besides—