A Vision of Light (58 page)

But I always dreamed that someday I’d find a way to reconcile them, to change them and gladden their father’s heart. It always seemed to me that the Gift, which mended broken bones so nicely, ought to be able to mend a broken family, but that was not so. Sometimes it didn’t even do so well on bones, for whenever I was pregnant, the power sank inward to aid the child and could not be summoned up to assist others outside of me. At such times my husband had to live better for his gout’s sake, as other people do, which was not easy for a man who loved good food and drink as much as he did.

When baby Alison was born, he gave her as grand a christening as if she were a son, and for my churching made such a feast and so many gifts to the church that they seemed to think my moral character quite reformed. So what began as a marriage of convenience ended as a marriage of love, and sorrow was transformed into happiness beyond any I had ever dreamed.

M
ARGARET LOOKED AT HER
words, so nice and black on the paper, and was pleased—very pleased. It was just the way a story should end, with “happily ever after.” Now it needed to be finished perfectly. Just as a nice dress needs to be well hemmed, a book should be ended with the right word. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote in large letters the proper word to end a real book with. It was a Latin word; Brother Gregory had shown it to her. The pen had gone dull, so the ink splattered a bit, but it looked quite nice. The word was

FINIS

She held up the sheet and smiled, admiring her work this way and that. Then she put the sheets away. They filled the whole compartment.

B
UT THE STORY WASN’T
really over at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

B
ROTHER GREGORY PAUSED FOR A MOMENT
and looked up at the dark, heaving mass of clouds that covered the sky. Behind him, to the south, stretched miles of the ancient, rutted Roman road to London. There weren’t many travelers in this season, especially not on foot, for it was bitter cold. The bare trees by the road rattled in the wind, and the bleak, windswept fields ahead of him looked uninviting.

Brother Gregory held up a mittened hand. Was that indeed a snowflake he’d caught? Oh, bother. Snow would slow him down even more, and it was many lonely miles to the next village. Best to hurry, he thought, and he redoubled his long strides with the aid of his tall staff.

Soon his hood and the bundle on his back were dotted with white, and Brother Gregory was wondering whether he’d have chilblains before the trip home was done. That was the sort of thing that always happened whenever he went home. Perhaps one should look on the bright side, however. Chilblains would certainly add to his Humility, which was growing nicely with the assistance of certain daily prayers. This thought led Brother Gregory, still striding at full pace, to do an inventory of his soul—something he tried to do at least weekly, if not more often. Several of the Deadly Sins seemed to be held well at bay at last—Pride he was working on, so that was coming along. Gluttony would be no problem at his father’s house—the food was terrible there. Father seemed to have no sense of smell, so of course his cook got away with anything.

Briefly, Brother Gregory wondered if smell and hearing were related, because they were both in the head. From too much battering on the helmet father’s hearing seemed to be impaired as well—at least, music never moved him. Maybe that’s where his sense of smell had gone too. Only one sort of sensual pleasure inspired father, and that was one not located under the helmet. Hmmmm. An interesting idea. Did Sin originate in the head, and from there move outward to the limbs, or did it originate in the parts of the body themselves, and move inward to corrupt the mind? But, like all thoughts that involved father, Brother Gregory realized that this one was also leading him away from God. It was important not to let that happen once he was home. The pressure there would be intense.

Even Sir William had been recruited to assist in father’s efforts. Brother Gregory had, tucked in the bosom of his gown, a letter from Sir William Beaufoy. Clearly he had been visiting father’s house when the letter was composed, for it was written in the hand of father’s chaplain. It wasn’t subtle: it sang the praises of the duke as the most beneficent and worthy lord any man could have, et cetera, et cetera, and reminded Brother Gregory that one could serve God’s will many ways outside the cloister.

But then, it wasn’t entirely unfair. The duke had worked miracles for Sir William. With a single master stroke he’d cut through all of Sir William’s problems. He’d set his lawyers on the Lombards’ contracts, which they had discovered to be as full of loopholes as a dog has fleas. The ensuing lawsuit, given the duke’s great influence, as well as some rather handsome presents that had been received by the judges in the case, was bound to come out in Sir William’s favor. And in the meanwhile Sir William was in full enjoyment of his lands, his daughters redowered, and his son home again.

“Ha! So much for the power of money, the sword, and the law,” said Brother Gregory to himself, remembering his argument with Kendall. The sword wins again. After all, the king’s absolute favor would never go with any but the greatest warlord of England. He’d like to go and tell Kendall about this case sometime, just to show Kendall he was wrong. After all, it’s very clear that money, if it’s not allied to the sword, can’t hold land. And since land is money, why, then, money can’t hold itself—even if everybody in London thinks money is all that counts anymore. The world hasn’t become that corrupt yet, thought Brother Gregory.

That was one of the things he’d miss, once he went back to the monastery, overwhelmed the abbot with his Humility, and spent all the rest of his days contemplating the Godhead—arguing with Kendall. And, of course, the food—though one ceases to think about food in the presence of the Deity, so that wasn’t as important. And it had made him feel good to teach again, even if it wasn’t Philosophy, and he only had a woman for a pupil. To watch Margaret make baby-letters in wax, and know he was changing her forever, that gave an odd satisfaction.

In fact, now that he thought of it, London was full of things that had made him happy. To live there was like owning a great house: he could always find a good learned argument, an excellent book, or an entertaining dinner. And there was something else, though Brother Gregory hadn’t even thought of it—and if he did, he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself anyway. In the City, the little serpent of his Curiosity had grown immense with the feeding of it. It had fed on letters written for all sorts of simple folk, on Margaret’s book, on observation, on arguments, and on just plain snooping, until it was massive and dragon-sized. Now, whenever the massive thing stirred in the cave of Brother Gregory’s mind, Brother Gregory couldn’t stop himself from wondering where glass comes from, or how clocks are made, or how the stars are attached to the sky, or, most of all, what makes people do the things they do. Brother Gregory had grown to love watching people, as well as prodding at them to see if they’d be annoyed, and improving them whether they liked it or not.

“There’s not that much to see where
you’re
going,” whispered the immense dragon.

“There’s God, and that’s all I want to see,” sniffed Brother Gregory’s soul.

“Don’t get sniffy with
me
,” replied the dragon.

Suddenly, Brother Gregory had a new idea. If God is everywhere, wouldn’t it be just as reasonable to look for Him in the City?

“That’s a very self-serving notion,” said his soul. But the dragon had stirred once more and raised its great head. It wasn’t a creature easily denied.

That evening Brother Gregory lay thinking in a bed at the back of the village alehouse with five other sleeping men curled all around him. All were fully dressed, including Brother Gregory, so that nobody could steal their clothes. Head resting on the little bundle that held his breviary, hair shirt, and many-thonged discipline, he stared at the shadows in the thatched roof all night long, and he didn’t sleep a wink, even though he needed rest badly. There was two more days’ trek ahead of him before he reached his father’s house for Christmas.

T
HE ONE THOUSAND, THREE
hundred and fifty-fifth year of Our Lord had almost come to a close. It was Christmas time at Roger Kendall’s tall house on Thames Street. The sky was leaden, and a cold wind from the river promised snow. Great blocks of broken ice clogged the port, although the river still rushed free in icy rapids between the stone piers of the bridge. But in the City the streets were crowded, the butcher stalls doing mighty business, and street vendors of every description crowded Cornhill and the Cheap. Behind the closed shutters of the poor and the glazed windows of the rich, candle, rush-light, and torch flamed, and the smell of cooking found its way out into every street. For Christmas was a mighty season: not a poor single feast day, but a river of celebration that flowed from the last days of Advent until after Epiphany.

The Kendall house glistened with the light from candles and the blazing fires in every chimney. Even the painted sea serpent in the coat of arms over the mantel smiled down through a light coating of soot at the figures scurrying through the great hall on the errands of Christmas preparation. There were countless tasks to occupy every member of the house. The pies for Christmas Day alone took two days to prepare. There were geese, swans, capons, a peacock, beef, lamb, and pork to prepare in dozens of different ways, some in dishes pounded with spices in a mortar, and some arranged as displays in their feathers, on elaborately shaped beds of paste. There were also cakes, jellies, puddings, and no fewer than two elaborate subtleties, one to follow each of the main courses. One of these elaborate food-creations of paste and color was shaped like a ship, the other was a representation of angels appearing to three shepherds, complete with sheep. There were several kinds of wine, ale, and mead; this was a season when the usual river of drink rose to flood level.

Everyone in the house assisted with its decoration, some standing on ladders to tie ropes of ivy and sheaves of evergreen boughs to the rafters of the great hall itself. Now every room was fresh and fragrant with boughs of evergreen, with mistletoe and with holly. The proper celebration of this Christmas was not a task for weaklings; the marathon of eating, caroling, dancing, and churchgoing required a profound supply of stamina and pent-up passion, such as accumulate over a hard and unforgiving fall and winter. Margaret could be seen darting everywhere, seeing to the decorations, food, and Kendall’s Christmas gifts for the poor and his own household. In addition to all of this she went with him as a guest at masques and suppers held at the houses of friends and business acquaintances all over London. In their own house all was in chaos, presided over by the most prankish of the journeymen, who had been chosen as Lord of Misrule to plan the games.

On Christmas Eve the apprentices and journeymen dragged in an immense Yule log, with little Alison, the baby of the family, mounted on it as if it were a pony, shouting and waving her arms, while her big sister, Cecily, followed behind, leaping and shrieking with joy. Those who were young went out to carol and to dance, first before their master’s doors, and then through the streets and into the churchyard, where the concatenation of celebrating crowds, musicians, and rowdies was sure to offend the priests preparing the midnight Mass.

Those who stayed home sat about the fire drinking, telling outrageous stories, and foretelling the future, for it is on this night that girls try to foresee who their husbands will be. Margaret had once enjoyed these games as a girl, but gave them little credence, for they had not once been right about anything that had happened in her life. Now she found herself consoling one of her maids, who was distressed that her fortune showed that she would be married six times, and always to sailors.

“I don’t want to marry a man who will never be home!” the girl said, as she burst into tears.

“Bess, don’t take it to heart. Next year it will say something entirely different, and you can choose whichever fortune you want,” Margaret said, and added, “besides, I once had a fortune that foretold my marriage by abduction on horseback, and as you can see, it was entirely false.”

But Margaret did not sit idly admiring the games, for she had a fund of stories, the reminder of her old days on the road, which astonished even her well-traveled husband. Tonight she told the story of how the Devil disguised himself as a cleric, becoming the favorite secretary of the archbishop, until he lost all his powers in a most embarrassing and amusing fashion on Christmas Eve. And so with storytelling and carol singing the evening passed merrily.

On Christmas Day after Mass the household turned to the serious business of feasting. Barrels of wine and ale were brought in to help wash down the many courses of Christmas dinner. Besides their own “family,” which was large enough, the Kendalls had remembered their Christian duty and invited certain widows and unfortunate ones of the neighborhood. But it was the special guests whom Margaret had invited that brought her the greatest pleasure this Christmas Day.

Of all her old friends only Hilde had been able to come and see her in all this time, and she’d had to come on the sly, through the back door. Now Hilde, Malachi, Sim, Peter, and Hob were all there, resplendent in the new clothing that was Margaret’s gift to them. As memories had faded about her scandal, she had gradually lost her fear that she might inadvertently lead official attention to Brother Malachi’s nefarious activities, and at long last she now felt established and safe enough to lavish the attention on her friends that she had craved so often to give them before. This Christmas was her first public reunion with them, and everyone could see, as she sat at the head of the table with her husband, that her face was shining with happiness.