The Illuminator Read Online Free PDF

if she had not bled enough this week. Already she had stained two of her best linen smocks and her green silk kirtle.
    And now there was
this.
    The hawthorne hedge had barely sprouted its tight white buds when the bishop’s legate came the first time, demanding money to buy masses for thesoul of Sir Roderick, who had “given his life so valiantly in the service of his king.” Surely the widow would want to ensure an easy passage for her husband’s soul. The
widow
had given him three gold florins, not because she gave a farthing for the state of Roderick’s soul—he could roast on the devil’s spit for all she cared—but there were appearances to maintain. For the sake of her sons.
    When this priest—he’d introduced himself as Father Ignatius—learned that her own father confessor had died at Christmastide, he’d chided her for neglecting her soul and the souls of those entrusted to Blackingham. He’d offered to send a replacement. She thanked him warily. His manner did not foster trust, and since she could ill afford the upkeep of another gluttonous priest, she’d put him off with vague assurances that the void would soon be filled.
    A few weeks later, on May Day, Father Ignatius came skulking back. “To bless the festivities,” he said. Again he inquired about the status of her priest-less household, and again she put him off, this time by claiming a close relationship with the abbot at Broomholm.
    â€œIt’s a short ride to Broomholm, and the abbot is glad to hear my confession. There’s also the new Saint Michael’s Church in Aylsham. And we are frequently visited by friars—black friars, gray friars, brown friars—who, in exchange for a joint of meat and a quart of ale, will see to the souls of the vilest sinners among my crofters and weavers.”
    If he heard the sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it—only wrinkled his heavy furred eyebrows into a single black line—but he warned again of the perils to the unshriven soul. Then, to her relief, he appeared to let the matter drop. But the day of his departure, as he feasted at her board, the priest commented that he had lately become much distressed upon hearing that her dear departed husband might have forged, before his death, an alliance with John of Gaunt, who was a patron of the heretic John Wycliffe. Although any such alliance was probably innocent, unscrupulous persons could make even the innocent appear guilty. Would the widow like to buy another round of prayers? For appearance’s sake?
    Lady Kathryn knew full well that her gold florins—for which the sly priest thanked her “in the name of the Virgin Mother”—went to finance the ambition of Henry Despenser, bishop of Norwich, in his campaign for the Italian pope. Better soldiers for Urban VI, she supposed, than jewels andwomen for the French pope at Avignon. And besides, what choice did she have but to pay? Her estate was ripe for plucking by Church or crown, should the slightest hint of treason—or heresy—be breathed.
    Not that she thought her late husband capable of treason. Roderick had not the fortitude for it. If indeed he died in a skirmish with the French, as she was told, he must have been struck in the back. But he had a fox’s instinct for sniffing out his own interest. And he was very capable of the kind of petty, inept intrigue that could get her and her two sons put off their lands despite her dower rights. In pledging his allegiance to the more ambitious of the young king’s uncles, Roderick had played a dangerous game. John of Gaunt was regent now, but for how long? The duke was making enemies within the Church, powerful enemies—enemies that would be no match for a widow alone.
    By the saints, how her head ached. Her left temple throbbed, and she felt the bit of capon she’d eaten at nuncheon threaten to return, bringing the boiled turnips with it. Squinting