Read Online The Illuminator by Brenda Rickman Vantrease - Free Book Online Page A

“He’ll hang, if he’s not careful. Though I’d rather see him burn.”
    The heretofore gentle-mannered monk smiled smugly, as though he would take delight in torching the fire himself. Lady Kathryn could almost see the flames reflected in the little black pupils of his eyes. She felt her throat close as she chewed unsuccessfully on a bit of pheasant pie. Her father had taken her to a burning once, as a girl, and she’d never forgotten the terror in the eyes of the woman who’d been charged with witchcraft. As the bailiff lit the faggots and the smoke billowed up, Kathryn had cried and hid her face in her father’s sleeve. But that had not shut out the stench of the charring flesh.
    Tiny beads of perspiration popped out around her hairline. She dabbed at them with her silk handkerchief. The long twilight had not dispelled the July heat. Moisture formed in between her breasts, and the linen of her shift clung to her skin, sticky and damp. Odors from the kitchen fires, smoke from dripping fat and roasting meat drifted in through the open windows of the great hall, mingling with the sweat of Sir Guy, whose day in the saddle lingered in his clothing. Was it her imagination, or did his scent also carry a hint of the dead priest’s putrefaction?
    She should have offered her guest at least a change of linen, but she had been too absorbed with stretching the small repast. If the sheriff stayed the night, and he probably would—even a man of Sir Guy’s prowess with arms would be hesitant to ride the twelve miles back to Norwich through wood and marshland during the black of night—she would have to drag out Roderick’s smallclothes.
    Suddenly, she became aware of silence around her, an awkward, intrusive silence.
    â€œWhat did you say, sir?” The sheriff, his posture taut, leaned across her, gazing intently at the illuminator.
    â€œNot
sir.
Just Finn. My name is Finn. I am an artisan, not a member of your noble estate.”
    There was an archness in his tone just short of sarcasm. His voice had thesame smooth-gravel quality that she remembered from earlier in the day, when he had kept her from falling, only now the edge was honed.
    â€œI said, ‘He’ll never burn.’ Wycliffe will never burn. And he’ll not hang. He has too many friends in high places.”
    â€œHe’d better beware lest he be perceived as having too many friends in
low
places.” The sheriff laughed as he split the back of a partridge with his knife before spearing it and raising it to his mouth.
    â€œAh, I take your meaning,” Finn said slowly and without raising his voice. “But high and low may not necessarily make strange bedfellows. I suspect, if you listen closely, you may hear the devil laugh at many a papal edict.”
    Brother Joseph gasped.
    Kathryn had to stop this line of talk before it got out of hand. As she clapped her hands for the carver to reappear, she looked askance at this newcomer. She hoped he was not going to bring more controversy at a time when she was trying so desperately to cleanse her household from any stain of un-orthodoxy.
    â€œPlease, kind sirs, no more talk of burnings. It is not comely conversation at table. You should not misconstrue the words of my guest, Sir Guy. He’s not the humble artisan he proclaims himself to be. He, too, has friends in high places. He’s an illuminator of great renown, here on business for the abbot. Perhaps he only seeks to draw you out for the sake of conversation. Here, try some of the smoked herring with murrey sauce.”
    She motioned for the butler to squeeze a few more drops from the leathern bottle as the carver ladled a generous portion of the fish swimming in its red mulberry sauce onto Sir Guy’s side of the trencher. She placed her hand over her own side to decline, shaking her head. “Give my portion to Brother Joseph, I find the heat has destroyed my appetite.”
    Smiling,