Authors: Cassandra Clark
“I’ve already asked for an audience. I’m waiting to hear from him. Meanwhile,” she made an apologetic face, “I’ve committed myself to act as chaperone this morning to Lady Melisen while she poses for the donor-drawing for Roger’s chantry glass. I said I would be free, not expecting you and the messengers from Swyne to appear so speedily.”
He smiled. “You know how it is when you get the fever to be out and about. I grabbed the opportunity to come over at once. As we can’t do anything until you hear from His Grace, don’t worry about leaving me alone in the wicked city. I have one or two errands I can do around here. We have our own Corpus Christi celebrations to organise at Meaux and I promised to pick up some extra candles for the sacristan.”
“Are you getting them from Master Stapylton?” she asked.
He said he was.
“Then you need to know there was a fire in his workshop. They say no one was hurt but would you ask after him for me? There were so many people around afterwards I didn’t like to pester him myself.”
He nodded. His hair was untidier than usual, she noticed, and he had a week’s stubble on his chin, giving him a rakish look. In a capuchon and houpelande instead of his white habit he would not look out of place in a tavern playing dice. She smiled. This was an unexpected view of the young monk. He was usually correct to a fault. He must be in want of the austere guidance of his abbot, she decided with a secret smile.
He gave an apologetic shrug now and said, “I’d better not keep turning up here, you know. Those nuns are already looking askance at you. Why don’t we meet at St. Peter’s later this afternoon? If the archbishop has replied by then you can tell me what he says in private and we can discuss how we’re going to get out there. I suppose he’s at Bishopthorpe and not Cawood?”
“I sent my message to his palace at Bishopthorpe. If he’s elsewhere it’ll no doubt follow on until it reaches him.”
“Just so I’m certain I have a bed for the night I’ll go along to the Franciscans and see if they can offer me something.”
Repeating their agreement to meet up again at the minster, as St. Peter’s was usually called, they separated. Hildegard set off at once to Stonegate. She was wondering who that loose-tongued servant of Archbishop Neville’s was, the one who had started the rumour about the cross.
* * *
“Lady Melisen hasn’t arrived yet,” announced Jankin, the glazier’s apprentice, when the serving lad showed her in. He offered her a seat by the window.
“Ale or wine?” he asked.
“As it’s so hot today I’d better have ale,” she replied. She was glad she had changed into her crisp, clean habit. It was her summer one but even so she felt her head swimming in the heat of the workshop. The kiln, she noticed, was alight.
Dorelia was sitting quietly in a corner with some embroidery on her lap. She was wearing a pale green shift with diaphanous silk sleeves overprinted in a darker shade. They were in the new fashion and fell in graceful folds to the floor. She didn’t raise her head even when Jankin came back with the ale. He handed Hildegard a stoup then refilled Dorelia’s clay beaker without being asked.
“Master won’t be long.” He darted a glance at Dorelia then went over to his workbench and pulled out a stool. His tight breeches strained over his thighs as he stretched out his legs. “Too stifling to work in this weather,” he said, generally.
Hildegard murmured an agreement. It was certainly overheated in here. She wondered why the kiln was burning. She supposed it was for some work in hand.
Moments passed.
Nobody spoke.
A bee flew in through the window and buzzed once round the workshop before flying out again. Dorelia rose to her feet and stretched in a languid sort of way as if she had been sitting too long. The lace of her bodice were loose. Flapping the edge of one sleeve she fanned her burning cheeks.
Jankin’s glance flickered and fell.
Eventually she leaned across the apprentice to try to reach a pair of scissors lying on the bench on his other side. Her sleeve brushed the back of his neck and he gave a sudden smile like a contented cat and moved so that it brushed him again.
Something familiar about the pattern of her sleeves drew Hildegard’s attention. Then she recalled where she had seen it before. It was the same pattern Gilbert had drawn so beautifully on one of the little squares of vellum he was making into a book.
Then Danby walked in and the strange mood was broken.
He was sweating.
“Another scorcher!” he announced as if perhaps they hadn’t noticed. “That kiln’s the last thing to get close to in weather like this. I’m firing some pieces for a window in minster nave,” he explained to Hildegard after the usual greetings.
“And you can’t trust us to get the timing right,” Jankin chipped in with a grin.
“Wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.” Danby punched him genially on the shoulder. “It’s the third firing,” he told Hildegard. “I don’t want my silver stain ruining.” He looked pleased with the world as he usually did despite his words, adding, “This is going to show ’em what we can do.” He rubbed his hands with relish.
“I suppose the secret of how you get such colours lies in the firing?” She took a sip of ale.
“Every craft has its secrets and I’m hanging on to mine. But I can tell you this. St. Peter’s is going to have the best glass in the country.”
“Is Gilbert ready to set about this drawing?” Hildegard asked him.
“He is. You can go through if you like. He should be in there at his bench. The quiet little sod.”
She could see he was itching to get on with his work. Jankin had picked up some lead calmes and began to shape them in a half-hearted manner round a piece of glass. Taking her ale with her, Hildegard went on into the inner workshop.
Gilbert was there after all, working quietly, his head bent over some vellum as he made a rapid sketch in pen and ink. At the sound of someone entering he cupped his hand round his drawing and darted a glance.
She went over. “It seems we have to wait for your model to appear,” she greeted. “I hope your time isn’t being wasted?”
He put down his quill and whipped the leather thong off his hair to allow the sheet of silver to fall to his shoulders. His eyelids quivered. Even his lashes were silver, like flecks of foil.
“Time is never wasted,” he replied.
Hildegard walked over to the open window. It gave onto a private yard where there was a line of washing drying to a crisp in the sun. When she turned back Gilbert had selected a piece of charcoal and it was a different sketch he was working on now.
“Your master tells me he’s firing some glass. It must be hard work on a day like this. Wouldn’t it be cooler by night?”
“He won’t work by night. The guild forbids it.”
“Honest then, and in this weather!”
“My master’s honest in all weathers.” He darted a glance from beneath his bright lashes. Then, as if he imagined he was being unwelcoming, he told her a little about the minster window they were working on. “It’s The Last Judgement. Usually goes in the west window. But they’re planning something really big to go in there. At present there’s some indecision about where to put ours. Master’s hoping it’ll persuade them to give him the commission for the big one.”
“It’s an important undertaking then?”
“If they’re impressed enough it should see the master out. Unless he lives to be a hundred and ten.” He paused. “As we pray he does.”
“I’ve often wondered how you decide what to put in—at least when your donor doesn’t have such strong ideas as Lady Melisen about her husband’s chantry window.”
“It’s fairly standard if it’s for the church. Scenes from the Old Testament, called the type, and parallel scenes from the New Testament, called the anti-type. You pair things, like.”
“I’ve heard of that. You mean like Jonah living in the belly of the whale for three days then coming out alive and Christ dead in his tomb for three days before being resurrected?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were piercing. “Everything has its parallel. Like a forewarning of what’s going to happen. It gives symmetry to our understanding of the Book.”
Hildegard hadn’t expected a conversation veering towards the theological. She said, “Your windows aren’t called the Bible of the Poor for nothing then. In fact, you’re writing the Bible in glass just as Wycliffe is writing it in English.”
His expression was sharp. Sharp and suspicious.
“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to offend you by comparing you to Wycliffe,” she said hurriedly, unsure what he thought of the preacher’s ideas. “I happen to be in favour of having the Bible written in a language people can understand. Latin’s all very well, but to most people it’s just mumbo-jumbo.”
He laughed. “Is that the orthodox Cistercian view these days?”
“If it’s not, it should be.”
“What about what Wycliffe says about the Eucharist?” he asked, as sharp as a knife.
She gave him a careful glance. Over the water in the rest of Europe people were being burned alive at the stake as heretics because they refused to accept the turning of wine into blood as more than a symbol. There were no miracles, said Wycliffe, only superstition and an ignorance as to the true causes of things.
“I can understand his arguments,” said Hildegard. “His logic seems without fault. Unfortunately he doesn’t write with much clarity. It might take somebody else to put his ideas forward in a way people can grasp. His argument seems to rest on a subtle point in our theory of knowledge. It’s difficult enough to understand without being couched in cumbersome phrases.”
“I’ve found it slippery enough myself when I’ve—” He broke off, as if having said too much.
“As you told me yesterday,” she continued, “it must have been difficult to avoid hearing him preach, especially if you lived in his part of the world.” That let him off the hook.
There was no blame in listening to a preacher, especially if he was standing outside your church door as you left after mass. She had no intention of trapping him into admitting to what was deemed heretical, although she couldn’t vouch for his intention towards herself.
Why that question about the Eucharist? she wondered. The Inquisition saw it as a test of orthodoxy. The wrong answer in the wrong place could send you to a hideous death.
It was a strange conversation to be having with a glazier. They had stumbled into it and now they looked at each other with equal wariness.
It was true nobody was being burned at the stake for holding such views, not here in England, but there were those not yet in power who wanted to follow the example set in Germany and France and rid the world of heretics. Freedom of speech was abhorrent to them. Wycliffe’s preachers were travelling the country in russet robes and carrying few possessions because they had been hounded out of Oxford for questioning the pope’s interpretation of the Eucharist. Many of them had been thrown into prison, although as far as she knew they were all out by now.
It was a quagmire, however. Bread. Wine. They remained just that in Wycliffe’s view. When the priest raised the host and offered the chalice no miracle took place. It was a symbol only, if of another truth.
Gaunt and Archbishop Courtenay had bribed Wycliffe’s supporters with gifts of rich livings and browbeaten those who held to their views by threats of prison. It had silenced many of them. Wycliffe himself, old and tired, had withdrawn to an obscure manor near Lutterworth in the midlands where he could write undisturbed.
Suddenly voices were audible in the yard. It sounded like Melisen and her retinue.
Gilbert began to shuffle his drawings out of sight.
Hildegard had spotted something though. “This one—” She placed her hand on his arm as he was about to push it under with the rest. “What is it?” She could see what it looked like. It was a fox wearing a triple crown preaching to a herd of geese. It was what it meant that interested her.
“Master told you the fox is my sign. I’m just playing around with a few ideas,” he replied. He avoided her glance.
“Is it for a window?”
“What sort of window?” He gave a harsh laugh. His expression hardened. When she didn’t reply he said, “You mean a Lollard window? Is that what you’re suggesting, sister?”
She watched him put the drawing out of sight. It might well be a design for a Lollard window if she had guessed right about something. She decided to take a risk.
“I was thinking about what you replied when I asked you why you’d chosen a fox for your sign. You said: I should know. It puzzled me. I couldn’t see why I, in particular, should know. Then I happened to remember that commentary on one of the psalms made by Bernard of Clairvaux, the founder of my Order. It mentions foxes, and he writes at length about what the fox stands for. He meant something very specific.”
Gilbert had allowed his hair to fall over his eyes again and she had no idea what effect her words were having, whether she had got it right or whether he was merely letting her talk.
There was noise from the other workshop and Lady Melisen’s voice was heard, greeting Master Danby and giving orders to her retinue at the same time.
Hurriedly Hildegard said, “It made me wonder if you’d read Bernard’s commentary or heard it mentioned and decided for that reason that it would make a good symbol to use?”
She continued. “If you have read it you’ll know he was referring to heretics. More than that, he was saying that if they won’t change their views they should be exterminated.” Gilbert’s sign could be a simple reference to the psalm … or it could be a play on Bernard’s idea of foxes and heretics. It was something that could turn a stained-glass window into a rebel shout of defiance. Or stand as an affirmation of orthodoxy—with all the punishing horror that implied.
Type and anti-type.
Before Melisen entered Gilbert muttered, “So you picked up on that reference? I can see I shall have to watch my step.” His lips tightened. “Or you yours?”
Chapter Twelve
Thomas had stabled his horse with the town hostler and when Hildegard met him in the minster as arranged she had to explain that she would have to hire a horse as she had arrived on foot from Deepdale. “The alternative is to go by river,” she suggested.