Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  She arrived at the linen-seller’s house as dawn was wrenching the night from the streets, and to her surprise, Chrispijn de Mildt called out to her from his bedchamber as she ascended the stairs to her room.

  “Judith Leyster, a minute of your time please.”

  She paused and could hear him throw back his blankets and dress himself in a hurry. He emerged from the room with his nightcap still on, and his breeches untied at the calf.

  “I’m glad to see you today. I’ve come to a decision recently, yesterday actually. I’m moving my shop to Amsterdam. It’s where the work is now, where the customers are. But I’m going to keep the house, in case I decide to return to Haarlem. Which is why I’m glad to see you. Because of the house, that is. It makes the most sense for you to rent it, don’t you think? You can have your quarters in the same spot as your work, which, let me tell you, is much more convenient. And you can hire a servant, bring on some apprentices. What do you think?”

  She pretended to look around the large room so that she could gain a moment to think.

  “And the price?”

  “Reasonable, I promise. I would rather let it to you at a modest rate than deal with someone I don’t know. I don’t have a figure now. I wasn’t expecting to see you. But I’ll come up with something.” He gave his shirt another quick tuck into his waistband.

  “Let’s talk more, when you’re ready.” Maybe she could trade him some paintings for the rent; she’d heard of such arrangements happening in Amsterdam. She turned away and then paused. “And I’m pleased you thought of me. Thank you.” Upstairs in the workshop, thoughts of coins and rent tumbled inside her head. But she didn’t have time for that. She propped one of her recent paintings on an easel so it could be readily seen and its lustrous yellow could reflect more color into the room. She straightened each of the props: the floppy cerulean hat, the pewter flagon, the scuffed violin, and the others, all hung on nails along the wall. She swept the floor clean. But the boy, Davit de Burrij, and his mother arrived before she had time to throw down fresh sand. The boy, about twelve, was clean and simply dressed in a white shirt and brown breeches, and he sat quietly while his mother roamed the space. Judith tried not to cringe at the woman’s careless handling of the prepared panels and canvasses, and she struggled to remember the questions Frans de Grebber had asked her father about her budding skills and discipline, some ten years ago.

  At the end of the interview, the boy’s mother paused to look out the window at the street below, and then turned around. She plucked at an indigo satin ribbon woven into her bodice.

  “But where will my Davit sleep?”

  Judith glanced at the boy, who kept his tawny head lowered. He struck her as a pliable youth.

  “I forgot to mention. How careless of me. I will, by the time your son joins my workshop, be renting the entire house. So he can share a room with the other boys.”

  Davit’s mother raised a thick eyebrow. “Will you apprentice girls too?”

  Judith shrugged and lifted her chin. “If any skilled girls apply, I will consider them as I would the boys.”

  “But they would have separate quarters?”

  “Of course.” Judith suppressed a laugh.

  “And the fee?”

  Judith had spent much of the previous afternoon trying to come up with a fee. But she had not, then, planned on lodging the boy, as unrealistic as that seemed now. Of course an apprentice would be housed by his master, even if that master was a woman. She remembered what Dirck Hals had mentioned charging his youngest boys, and then took a few guilders off of that.

  “Thirty-two guilders per year. Payable half now, half in six months.”

  “Paid in advance? That’s unusual.” The woman placed her hands on her broad hips and tipped her head to the side.

  Judith swallowed. “I could make an exception for a boy as talented as your son.”

  She nodded. “It sounds reasonable. I was wary, I admit, about sending him to live with a woman. And a young one at that. But you’ve got a nice, clean space here, and your figure paintings are pleasing. I imagine they sell well. I’ll speak to the boy’s uncle. My husband is deceased, I suppose you should know. But I expect we will accept an apprenticeship, should you offer one. You will?”

  “I would be glad to have such a fine boy.” She looked at Davit, who gave her a shy smile. His sketches had been decent. But most importantly, she needed a student. Her workshop was nothing without the status granted by apprentice labor. And there was the fee.

  As soon as the boy and his mother departed, Judith rushed downstairs to find Chrispijn de Mildt and accept his offer. She negotiated for the sake of negotiating, and she certainly needed whatever discount she could obtain, but she knew she would accept what he offered in the end. They agreed to sign a contract later. Judith stepped out into the damp, gray street, which glowed with promise and life. A puddle next to a tailor’s shop transformed the white cloth hanging from his display into silver melted upon the earth. She grinned. Her own house, her own workshop. She held herself tall and plucked a new leaf from a bush extending its branches between the bars of a wrought iron fence. She caressed her palm with the soft edge of the leaf and smiled as she walked. She was not her father, coming home with his grand ideas for the brewery he had purchased, as everyone else was investing in Haarlem beer as well, building breweries by the handful. No, she had talent and conviction—she would succeed. An image of her father, ruddy with excitement, came to her. She closed the leaf in her palm and then dropped it into the street.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN MARIA STEPPED DOWN OUT of the carriage in Leiden, her bottom ached from the few hours spent bouncing along the road. She had no idea where she was, but she declined the directional guidance of the older gentleman who had chatted with her during the ride. She was afraid of what accepting such help might cost her in this new place. Better to feign confidence.

  They had disembarked from the carriage at the city gates, by a large canal which ran alongside the city walls and would, one day soon, the burgomeisters claimed, connect Leiden with Haarlem and Amsterdam beyond. The water in the canal reeked of excrement and rot, and she covered her nose with her sleeve while she stood considering the city that stretched in front of her. Leiden was larger than Haarlem, and the bustle of the city’s university gave the air a complication that she had never felt in her native city. Or perhaps it was the foreignness of this city, its more numerous windmills perched high on their pyramid bases and the wide canal below, all overlooked by the De Burcht fortress. The hilltop fortress and the cathedral, which lacked Haarlem’s Grote Kerk’s broad presence, rose in the distance, barely visible over the rooftops. She knew that Father Cloribus was staying with a university professor named Jacob Golius, but she didn’t know where Professor Golius’s house was. She decided to walk to the cathedral and ask someone there. Surely the predicant inside could be trusted to help a woman on her own.

  She followed one of the canals that cut through the city, a waterway that the surly carriage driver had told her was the Old Rijn. The linden trees lining the water were tipped in buds, but no leaves had emerged yet. A pack of boys careened toward her, throwing rocks at one another and into the water, loosing ripples and swirling sediment from the canal. She pressed herself against the brick frontage of a tall house, where the cold of the brick seeped into her shoulder, and she waited for the children to roar past. Those antics had never bothered her in Haarlem.

  She reached the gothic Pieterskerk with its steeply gabled, narrow nave. The exterior was splashed with mud and had known better days. Inside, she tapped the shoulder of a sleeping prelate sagging in a pew. He shouted in surprise upon waking, but quickly calmed himself. To her relief, he directed her to the scholar Golius’s house.

  The sun was setting and taking its weak light from the overcast sky when Maria knocked on the green painted door that she hoped belonged to Jacob Golius. She clutched her small, rough cloth bag of clothes and fi
ngered the drawstring while she waited. She had not found herself a place to sleep. And here she was, knocking on a strange man’s door as night approached. Soon it would be too dark to venture out at all. Curfew would lock everyone in their homes, and she would have nowhere to rest, nowhere safe to scuttle away to. This was foolish, to press forward with her search at this late hour and place herself in danger. She turned to walk down the cramped lane of two-story brick houses, back toward the city center, where surely she would find an inn, but then the door opened.

  “May I help you?” A round-faced woman a few years older than Maria opened the door. She wore a strange, brightly colored shawl over her blonde hair, and her cheeks were flushed.

  Maria stood a few steps away from the door.

  “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong house.” She thought about leaving it at that, hoping she did have the wrong house, at least until tomorrow, but the woman’s eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Well, I’m looking for Jacob Golius. Or Jacobus. The scholar.” Maria stumbled over the Latinized name. Like most girls, she had never studied the language.

  “Yes, that’s us.” The woman smiled. She gave a quick glance at Maria’s mud-encrusted skirts and dusty sleeves. “Come in and tell us what this is about.”

  Maria gave one last look down the street before stepping into the entry hall. It was a small space but unusually lush with decoration. Shelves displaying plates and vases lined the walls, but instead of the usual pewter and blue and white pottery, they held enamelware resplendent with deep indigo, emerald, and eggshell-blue tones. Judith would have marveled. As Maria took off her dirty boots, she saw the floor was tiled in a bright geometric pattern, with yellow rays looping and embracing cerulean polygons, like dancers tangled in ritual motion.

  “I’m Hendrikje Golius,” the woman said. They gave a quick kiss in greeting. “You’re here to see my husband? It’s not about Tamer Lane, is it? You don’t look the type. Though, I’ll admit, one never knows who will be interested in that man.”

  Maria frowned and tried to surreptitiously brush the dust from her skirts. “No. I’m here to see Father Cloribus, actually. I was told he’s staying with you.”

  “That old lout. Yes, he’s here. I’m glad you’re not another messenger coming to deliver a note on the Persian. Those always leave Jacob distracted.”

  “No. No notes.”

  “Very good. Come on in.”

  Hendrikje waved for Maria to follow her into the room to the right of the entry hall, up two steps from the main level. Inside, in the waning light, sat two men. One, the younger of the two, had a heart-shaped face and a long nose.

  “Jacob, this is . . . Oh, I didn’t get your name, did I?” Hendrikje put one arm on her hip and cocked her head.

  “Maria de Grebber. Daughter of Frans de Grebber, of Haarlem. I’m here to see Father Cloribus.”

  Jacob smiled and indicated, with the pipe in his hand, the other man, stout with leathery skin, as if he worked outdoors.

  “De Grebber? The painter?” The priest had a small dimple on his chin that emerged as he frowned in thought.

  “Yes, that’s right. The elder is my father. I mean, my brother’s a painter too, if that’s who you were thinking of. Or not.” She clamped her jaw shut and blushed.

  “Have a seat, Maria de Grebber. I’ll get you a foot warmer.”

  As was customary, the men were seated closest to the fire, and although there was an empty chair beside Jacob, Hendrikje pulled a fifth chair next to the one she had obviously been occupying. They formed a semicircle around the hearth.

  Maria set her bag on the floor and hoped someone would comment on it and suggest a solution, but no one noticed.

  “We were doing a little dramatic reading,” Jacob said and pointed at his wife’s colorful head covering. She pulled it over her mouth and raised a coy eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. You should go on.” Even with the little foot warmer that Hendrikje slid under her feet, the room was cold, and Maria shivered.

  “No, I think your arrival provides us with a nice excuse to stop,” said Jacob. He inclined his head toward the empty chair. “Réne was getting bored, I’m certain. He practically leapt from his chair when Hendrikje left to answer the door.”

  “Or he had to piss from all that small beer and jerez,” Father Cloribus said.

  “Same thing.” Jacob stretched his legs out, and Maria saw that the black robe she had mistaken for a dressing gown was rather something more formal, with fine stitching and ribbed trim. Perhaps it was a tabard, which only professors wore. She straightened her skirts and again tried to flick away some of the dirt accumulated during her journey.

  “Would you like some?” Hendrikje held out a small pewter cup filled with light-colored beer. Maria nodded her thanks and drank it quickly.

  “Well, since the reading is done, a little Pass Ten?” Father Cloribus reached into his doublet and held out a pair of dice.

  “If you like. But I want to hear what our guest came for, don’t you?” Jacob’s face was serious, but Maria thought she detected mirth in his tone. “Ah, Réne! Took you long enough. May I introduce Maria de Grebber, from Haarlem?”

  The bearded man who had entered gave a hesitant smile. “Réne Descartes. Also visiting.” He had a strong accent; French, she guessed.

  “Réne, some Pass Ten?” Father Cloribus rattled the dice in his open palm.

  Réne shrugged. “If you like.”

  “Cloribus is only trying to distract us from conversation with the young lady, who has come here expressly to see him,” Jacob said. “Go on if you want, but I want to hear what Maria has to say.”

  The priest grabbed a small cup from the sideboard hulking along the wall, and he shook the dice inside it before tossing them at the Frenchman’s feet. He groaned.

  “It’s about a relic that my father’s guild gave to Father Cloribus for safekeeping. A relic of St. Luke.”

  “For St. Luke’s Guild, of course. That makes sense.” Jacob elbowed the priest, who ignored him. “What was the relic? I have some interest in ancient artifacts.”

  “Bone fragments. In a silver reliquary, which was itself inside a bronze reliquary.” Maria paused and glanced at Father Cloribus, who looked up from the game and gave her a quick smile. His lips were feathered with fine lines. “The Guild gave it to the Father here, back when they were worried about the war and feared the city might get sacked. But it seems the Spanish aren’t going to be retaking us, not Haarlem or anywhere, so I guess we’re safe enough to want it back.”

  The Frenchman looked up from the clattering dice on the tile. “Oh? The war is over then?”

  She was not sure if he was mocking her, and she frowned in confusion. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I guess it’s still going on. But the Spanish aren’t likely to invade. Right?”

  Jacob looked between his guests. “We had real trouble with them here, you know. Had to gather everyone into the citadel and flood the bastards.”

  Hendrikje looked up from the needlework that she had been doing. “Jacob, you ass. That was nearly sixty years ago. Well before you were born.”

  Jacob gave a half smile and shrugged. “It’s no less true. But in any case, Haarlem feels safe now and that’s that. So, Cloribus, are you going to give the painters their piece of dead saint? Funny, isn’t it,” he said to Maria, “that the Guild still cares about that bit of popery? Under the Reformed Church, I mean.”

  “A few of us are still Catholic. Myself included.”

  “Bah! Jacob, you stop insulting the girl.” Father Cloribus picked up his dice. “He’s trying to irritate me. I’m sure he didn’t mean you any offense.”

  “Do you have it, Cloribus?”

  The priest frowned. “I’ll have to check.”

  “Come on now,” said Jacob.

  Réne leaned back in his chair. “Something sacred like that, you know whether you have it or not. Like my rosary, blessed by the Pope. I always know w
here it is. So, do you?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “No it’s not, Father.” Réne rolled the dice on the floor. “Metaphysics is hard to explain. The location of a sacred object? Non, I think not.”

  Father Cloribus puffed out his cheeks and, for a moment, the wrinkles in his skin smoothed. “I have the silver reliquary, yes. The rest of it . . . Well, you see, I had a friend in Flanders, in Saint Rumboldt’s Cathedral, whose parish was full of artists. No, really Jacob, I mean it! Not painters, but sculptors or some such trade. So I loaned a part of the relic to him. For intercession.”

  “You loaned it?” Jacob leaned forward and slapped his hands upon his knees.

  “Can you get it back to us? All of it?” Maria did not want to ask what part the priest had loaned. She hoped he had not segmented the bone, which was already small. Her stomach turned at the idea of the precious saint’s bone cracked and split, further injury to the blessed man.

  He puffed out his cheeks again. “I’ll try.”

  “Ah, but how hard to try?” Réne ran his thumb and forefinger over the pointed beard at his chin. “Now that is an interesting question, Father. How much do you owe this woman, whom you have never met, but who represents a group of men who once trusted you with something? Something precious.

  And does the answer change depending upon how well you know those men?”

  “Or you could look at it a different way,” Jacob said. He tapped the bowl of his pipe to empty it and restuffed it with dried tobacco. “Is his obligation, in this case, to God, whom the sacred object represents, or to the martyred St. Luke? He was martyred, right? Or is the obligation to the painters?” He lit the pipe and sucked in a deep pull of smoke.

  “No, no, Jacob; you’re looking at it the wrong way. It’s not interesting to consider what we owe God.” René exhaled, exasperated. “We owe God everything, we should sacrifice everything for Him. Just as we owe the plants and animals very little; why would we sacrifice for them? No, it’s the middle ground that we need to consider. What would we sacrifice for a friend? Should Father Cloribus inconvenience, or even, say, endanger himself for a friend? Or a stranger to whom he is obliged?”