The Illuminator by Brenda Rickman Vantrease Page A

work that rightfully should have been done by Simpson. This very day Agnes had had to leave the kitchen and go to the wool room to help, because they were shorthanded. It was already late in the season and time for the haying, and John was with the mowers, laborers hired by Simpson who would be paid a wage. She and Glynis had rolled the washed fleeces skin side up and laid them out on the clean-swept floor of the wool house—she and Glynis and young Master Alfred, who’d stopped and offered to help.
    These days, John came home at sunset too tired even to eat and sought his comfort in a flagon of ale. But Agnes didn’t begrudge him, even though ithurt to see her once gentle John loutish and bitter. She had betrayed him for her mistress. Had it not been for her loyalty to Lady Kathryn, her John would be a free man today, working for the dignity of a wage, instead of as a lackey to the likes of Simpson. It hardly seemed fair that she should complain now about her lot, so she determined to say no more about the extra work.
    But extra work or not, it didn’t take the illuminator long to charm his way into her good graces. After two weeks, she had to admit that Finn’s pleasant demeanor and undemanding ways offset the burden of the added chores. She even looked forward to the mid-afternoon break that had become his habit. She had learned to like his wit. He wasn’t Norman French like her mistress, or even Danish like Sir Roderick, but Welsh impudence was more to be tolerated than Saxon brutishness. And she admired a man of learning.
    â€œMight you have a glass of ale or even a sip of perry for a poor scrivener, Agnes?” he’d said that first afternoon when he came into her kitchen. He loomed large in the doorway, shutting out the light.
    She looked up from the meat she was grinding to a paste, not happy with the interruption, and grunted as she poured him a tankard of pear wine.
    To her surprise he settled on the high stool next to her, and resting his elbows and his cup on the chopping block where she worked, began to talk. “You’re making mortrewes, I’ll wager. My grandmother used to make that. She was a fine cook. Your food reminds me of hers.” He motioned toward the mixture of bread crumbs and meat that she was kneading to a flattened ball. “Do you roll it in ginger and sugar? And saffron? I remember hers was the color of saffron.”
    Agnes frowned, begrudging her answer. “Sugar’s too costly. Most times I use honey. The secret to good mortrewes is in the texture. It has to be boiled to the right stiffness. But don’t ye need to be getting back to yer own work, and leave me to mine?”
    â€œI left young Colin and Rose mixing colors. He asked if he could be my apprentice, said since his brother was heir and he didn’t want to be dependent, he’d like to have a trade. I told him I wasn’t a guild master, so I couldn’t take an apprentice, but that he could watch and learn. Rose can be a hard little taskmaster. She’ll teach him.”
    Agnes pummeled the concoction. “And Master Colin’s a quick learner. You can trust yer daughter’ll be safe with him. Now, if ’twere the other one, Alfred, ye might shouldn’t leave them alone, if ye get my meaning.”
    â€œColin is harmless. The abbey will probably claim him one day, and Rose enjoys his company.” Frowning, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and looked off into the middle distance. “I worry that she’s lonely. Lately, I’ve noticed a restlessness about her. She was such a sweet, contented child. Colin plays his lute, and they sing. They talk about music and colors, faraway places. Sometimes their chatter distracts me so, I have to shoo them out just to work in peace. But thanks for the warning. I’ll be vigilant lest young Alfred finds the time from the tasks his mother has set him to steal what isn’t his.”
    He took a long