The Lady and the Unicorn

by Tracy Chevalier

  Christine laughed then, a sharp sound like a knife clattering to the floor. I think she was relieved. ‘They will be the making of us,’ she said. ‘You'll see.’

  PHILIPPE DE LA TOUR

  No one was in the workshop when I arrived in the morning. I was glad, for I could look at the designs alone, without Nicolas des Innocents boasting or Christine butting in or Aliénor cocking her head and smiling as she sewed. Now I could look and think in peace.

  It was a bright day, with light streaming in at the windows. Luc had swept the floor clean and cleared away the hanks of wool left over from the Adoration of the Magi tapestry. The loom had been stripped as well and sat empty, waiting for the next warp threads to be laid across it. The wood creaked occasionally, making me think of a horse shifting in its stall.

  Nicolas' designs had been rolled up and stored in a chest with other tapestry designs. I knew where Georges kept the key, and got them out now, spreading them on the floor as they had been the evening before. When Nicolas and I had been talking about them then, he'd kept looking over at Aliénor as she sat with her mother, sewing on the tapestry that had just been cut off. He had turned himself this way and that, thinking it was for her benefit. At last he had said to her, ‘Shouldn't you put down your sewing now, beauty?’

  Aliénor and Christine had both raised their heads. No one had ever called Aliénor beauty before, no matter what they thought of her. I think she is beautiful, especially her hair, which is long and golden — but I would be ashamed to say so. It is hard for me to say such things. She would probably laugh at me and tell me I am a fool. She treats me as a younger, silly brother, even though I am a few years her elder.

  ‘It's so dark over where you are,’ Nicolas continued. ‘You'll get a squint. You should sit closer to the window where the light is better. Besides, I've heard of all the rules you Brussels weavers work by. No work outside of daylight, no work on Sundays. Would that Paris painters had such easy lives, to save their eyes so.’

  Christine and I stared at him in astonishment, but Aliénor bowed her head over her work, trying not to laugh. She did, though, and then Christine burst out laughing, and I joined them.

  ‘What is so funny?’ Nicolas demanded. That made us laugh even harder. I wondered if we should take pity on him and tell him what he had not seen.

  It was Aliénor herself who decided. ‘Such rules don't apply to women,’ she said when we had finally stopped laughing. ‘We're not weavers, we're just family.’

  ‘I see,’ Nicolas said. He looked puzzled, though, for that didn't explain our laughter. We weren't going to tell him, though. It was good to have a joke on the Paris man.

  We got little done that evening, Nicolas and I. Soon after we went to Le Vieux Chien with Georges Le Jeune and Luc, and Georges later joined us, to raise a cup to the finished tapestry, and to the new commission. Nicolas was very lively, and got us to drink more than we are used to.

  He is a boaster, that Paris artist. I have not been to Paris. I don't leave the city walls except to collect firewood and mushrooms in the nearby forests, or to fish sometimes along the River Senne. But I've met enough Paris men to know I wouldn't like it there. They are too sure of their ways. Always they know best — they have the best wine, the best shoes, the best cloth, the best brushes, the best ways of making paint. Their women bear more children, their hens more eggs, their cows more milk. Their churches are taller, their ships faster, their roads smoother. They hold their beer better, they sit their horses more gracefully, they always win when they fight. Probably their shit smells sweeter too.

  No, I was glad to be without him in the workshop now. I gazed down at the designs. My head was sore from the noise and smoke and drink of the tavern, for I don't go there often.

  I will say this of Nicolas — his Paris ways may bother me, but he is a fine artist. He knows so too, and because of that I will never tell him how good his paintings are.

  It's easy enough to find fault with them as tapestry designs. To him they are paintings — he hasn't seen that with tapestries there needs to be an even pace to the design to make them smooth, so that nothing jumps out. That is what I do when I draw a cartoon — I make the design big and paint it as I know the wool will look when woven, with less blending of colours and more bright, even patterns. Cartoons are not so beautiful as paintings, but they are essential for the weaver to follow as he works. That is how I often feel — essential but unnoticed, just as Nicolas des Innocents is a painting you cannot take your eyes from.

  I was still looking at the paintings when Georges came into the workshop. His face was bleary and his hair stuck out everywhere, as if he had rolled his head about in his sleep. He stood next to me and looked down at the paintings. ‘Can you make them into proper designs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bien. Make some small sketches of the changes for Léon to see. When he's satisfied you can start on the cartoons.’

  I nodded.

  Georges stared at the painting of the Lady with the unicorn in her lap. He cleared his throat. ‘Nicolas is to stay on and paint the cartoons.’

  I stepped back. ‘Why? You know I can paint as well as he. Who —’

  ‘Léon wants it. It is part of the terms of the work. Monseigneur Le Viste is buying the cartoons, and may hang them in place of the tapestries when those travel with him. Léon wants to be sure the cartoons look exactly as Nicolas has painted the designs. We have so little time to weave them that it helps us if he stays here to work on them.’

  I wanted to protest but knew I mustn't. Georges is the lissier — he decides what is to be done and I do it. I know my place. ‘Am I still to draw the cartoons or will he do that too?’

  ‘You will draw them, and make the changes needed. And you'll help with the painting. You'll work together, but he will be the master.’

  I was silent.

  ‘It's only for a few weeks,’ Georges added.

  ‘Does Nicolas know?’

  ‘Léon is telling him. In fact I'm going to see him now, to go over the contract.’ Georges looked down at the paintings and shook his head. ‘These are going to bring me trouble. Poor wages, little time, a difficult patron. I must be mad.’

  ‘When do we start?’

  ‘Now. Georges Le Jeune and Luc have gone to buy the linen and will be back soon. You and Nicolas can take it back to your house and work there if you prefer, or you can stay here.’

  ‘Here,’ I said quickly. I always prefer to work on the rue Haute when I can. It is lighter than my father's house near one of the city wall's towers, and despite the looms there's more room. My father is also a painter and not so well off as Georges. With my older brothers working with him there is little room for the youngest.

  Also when I work here I am near to her. Not that she cares. She has never shown any interest in men — until now.

  ‘If the weather holds you can paint in Aliénor's garden,’ Georges said over his shoulder as he was going. ‘That will keep you out of the weavers' way — it will be crowded in here with two looms.’

  Even better to be in her garden — though I wasn't sure I wanted Nicolas around Aliénor so much. I didn't trust him.

  Even as I thought of her, she appeared in the doorway with my morning beer. She is a little thing, small and neat. The rest of her family is much taller. ‘I'm here, Aliénor,’ I said. She came towards me with a little smile, her face bright, but stumbled over the bag of drawing things that I had foolishly left in the middle of the floor. I caught her before she fell, but much of the beer slopped over my sleeve.

  ‘Dieu me garde,’ she muttered. ‘I'm sorry. Where did it spill? Not on the paintings, I hope!’

  ‘No, just on my sleeve. It doesn't matter. It's only small beer.’

  She felt my wet sleeve and shook her head, angry at herself.

  ‘Really, it doesn't matter,’ I repeated. ‘I was stupid to leave my bag there. Don't trouble yourself over the beer — I wasn't so thirsty anyway.’

  ‘No, I'll
get you more.’ She didn't listen to me, but hurried out again and came back a few minutes later with another full mug, stepping carefully this time.

  She stood at my side, the designs at our feet, while I drank. I tried not to gulp my beer loudly. When I'm with Aliénor I'm always aware of how noisy I am — my boots creak, my teeth chatter, I scratch my hair, I cough and sneeze.

  ‘Tell me about the story,’ she said. Her voice is low and smooth — smooth like the way she walks or turns her head or picks up something or smiles. She is careful in everything she does.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. My voice is not so smooth.

  ‘The tapestries. The Lady and the unicorn. What is the story?’

  ‘Ah, that. Well, in the first there is a Lady standing in front of a blue tent with words on it. À mon seul désir.’ I read it slowly.

  ‘ À mon seul désir,’ Alienor repeated.

  ‘The lion and the unicorn sit holding open the flaps as well as the banner and standard of the Le Viste family.’

  ‘Are they very important, these Le Vistes down in Paris?’

  ‘I expect so, if they are having tapestries as grand as these made. So, the Lady is taking jewels from a casket, and she wears them in the other tapestries. Then there are three tapestries where the Lady draws the unicorn nearer. Finally he sits in her lap and looks at himself in a mirror. In the last one she leads him away, holding onto his horn.’

  ‘Which Lady is the prettiest?’

  ‘The one feeding her parakeet. That is meant to be Taste, of the five senses. There's also a monkey eating something at her feet. This Lady is more spirited than the others. The wind blows through the scene, making her headscarf flap. And the unicorn is lively.’

  Alienor ran her tongue over her bottom lip. ‘Already I don't like her. Tell me about the other senses. What stands for each?’

  ‘The unicorn looking in the mirror is Sight, and the Lady holding his horn is Touch. That's clear enough. Then there is Sound, where the Lady plays an organ. And in this one — ’ I peered at the painting — ‘this one is Smell, I think, for a monkey sits on a bench and sniffs a flower.’

  ‘What kind of flower?’ Aliénor always wants to know about the flowers.

  ‘I'm not sure. A rose, I think.’

  ‘You can see for yourself, beauty.’ Nicolas was leaning in the doorway, watching us. He looked bright and fresh, as if the drink had not touched him. I suppose he lives in taverns in Paris. He stepped into the workshop. ‘You keep a garden, I've heard — you must know a carnation from a rose when you see it. Surely my painting is not so bad as that, eh, beauty?’

  ‘Don't call her that,’ I said. ‘She's the daughter of the lissier. She should be treated with respect.’

  Aliénor had turned red, though whether from Nicolas' words or mine, I don't know.

  ‘What do you think of my paintings, beau—Aliénor?’ Nicolas persisted. ‘They're fair, non?’

  ‘Designs,’ I corrected. ‘These are designs for tapestries, not paintings. You seem to forget that they are merely a guide for works someone else will make — Aliénor's father and son, and other weavers. Not you. They'll look very different as tapestries.’

  ‘As good?’ Nicolas smirked.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘I don't see that they can be much improvedon-do you?’

  Aliénor pursed her lips — she prefers modesty to boasting.

  ‘What do you know of unicorns, beauty?’ he said with a sly look I did not like. ‘Shall I tell you about them?’

  ‘I know that they are strong,’ she answered. ‘It says so in Job and in Deuteronomy — “his horns are like the horns of unicorns: with them he shall push the people together to the ends of the earth”.’

  ‘I prefer the Psalms: “But my horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of an unicorn.” Do you know about the unicorn's horn?’ Nicolas winked at me as he said it.

  Aliénor didn't seem to be listening to him, but was wrinkling her nose in disgust. Then I smelled it, and a moment later Nicolas did too. ‘Bon Dieu, what is that?’ he cried. ‘It smells like a barrow full of piss!’

  ‘It's Jacques Le Bœuf,’ I said. ‘The woad dyer.’

  ‘Is that what woad smells like? I've never been near the stuff. In Paris they have to work outside the city walls in a place no one goes near.’

  ‘Here too, but he still comes into town. The smell clings to him but you can't ban a man from his business. Mind you, his dealings are always brief.’

  ‘Where's the girl?’ Jacques Le Bœuf's booming voice came from inside the house.

  ‘Georges is out, Jacques,’ we heard Christine say. ‘Come back another day.’

  ‘Not him. I want to see her, just for a moment. Is she in the shop?’ Jacques Le Bœuf poked his shaggy head around the door. His smell always makes my eyes water. ‘Hello there, Philippe, you rascal. Where's Georges' girl, then? Is she hiding from me?’

  Aliénor had dropped to the floor and was crouching behind the loom.

  ‘She's gone out,’ Nicolas said, cocking his head to one side and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘She's gone to get me some oysters.’

  ‘Has she, now?’ Jacques pulled his whole body into view. He is a big man, like a barrel with a scraggly beard and hands stained blue from the woad. ‘And who are you to be telling her what to do?’

  ‘Nicolas des Innocents. I've designed the new tapestries for Georges.’

  ‘The Paris artist, are you?’ Jacques crossed his arms as well and leaned against the doorway. ‘We don't think much of Paris men, do we, Philippe?’

  I made to answer, but Nicolas got in before me. ‘I wouldn't bother waiting for her. I told her to get the best oysters, you see — only what is fit for Parisians to eat. That may take her some time to find in this city, for I do not think much of your fish market.’

  I stared at Nicolas, wondering why he would dare to provoke a man so much bigger than he. Didn't he want to keep his face pretty for the women? I heard Aliénor shift beside the loom and tried not to look at her. Perhaps she was thinking of coming out, to save Nicolas from his rash words.

  Jacques Le Bœuf also seemed surprised. He didn't respond with his fists, but narrowed his eyes. ‘Is that your work, then?’ He came to stand next to us and look down at the paintings on the floor. I tried not to gag at the smell. ‘More red than blue in them. Maybe it's not worth my while for Georges to work on them.’ He grinned and made to step on the painting of the Lady with the unicorn in her lap.

  ‘Jacques, what are you doing?’

  Christine's sharp words made Jacques Le Bœuf freeze, his foot dangling over the painting. He took a step back, the sheepish look on his big face comical.

  Christine hurried up to him. ‘If this is your idea of a jest, it's not funny. I said Georges was out. He'll come to speak to you soon about the blue wool for these tapestries — if you don't ruin them first. Off you go, now — we're busy here.’ She opened the door onto the street and stood aside.

  It was like watching a dog round up a cow. Jacques hung his head and shuffled to the door. Only when he was in the street did he pop his head back through a window and say, ‘Tell the girl I was asking for her.’

  When we were sure he was gone, his rank smell fading, Nicolas leaned over and smiled at Aliénor by the loom. ‘You can come out now, beauty — the beast is gone.’ He held out a hand. After a moment she reached out and took it, then let him help her up. When she was standing she raised her face to his and said, ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

  It was the first time she had looked at him in the way that Aliénor looks — her eyes trying but not able to meet anyone's — and Nicolas' smile disappeared as he gazed into her face. He looked as if he had been winded by a blow. Finally, I thought, he sees. For an artist he is not very attentive.

  Aliénor knew that he finally understood — she had chosen to let him see. She does that sometimes. Now she pulled her hand from his and bowed her head.

  ‘Come, Aliénor,’ Christine said with
a fierce look at Nicolas, ‘or we'll be late.’ She went out through the same door Jacques Le Bœuf had.

  ‘Mass,’ Aliénor reminded me, before running out to join her mother.

  ‘Mass?’Nicolasrepeated. He glanced up at the sun coming through the window. ‘It's too early for Sext, isn't it?’

  ‘It's a special Mass for weavers at Notre Dame du Sablon,’ I said. ‘A church not far from here.’

  ‘They have their own Mass?’

  ‘Three times a week. It is a powerful guild.’

  After a moment he said, ‘How long has she been like that?’

  I shrugged. ‘All her life. That's why it is so easy not to notice. It is natural for her.’

  ‘How does she —’ Nicolas waved at the Adoration of the Magi tapestry, which was draped over the loom it had been woven on.

  ‘Her fingers are very skilled and sensitive. Sometimes I think her eyes must be on her fingers. She can tell the difference between blue and red wool because she says the dyes feel different. And she hears things that we don't. She told me once that each person has a different footstep. I can't hear it, but she can always tell who is coming, if she has heard them before. She will know your footstep now.’

  ‘Is she still a girl?’

  I frowned. ‘Don't know what you mean.’ Suddenly I did not want to talk about her.

  Nicolas smiled. ‘You do know what I mean. You've thought about it.’

  ‘Leave her be,’ I said sharply. ‘Touch her and her father will tear you apart, Paris artist or not.’

  ‘I have plenty whenever I like. It's you I was thinking of. Though I expect the girls like you well enough, with those long lashes of yours. Girls love eyes like that.’

  I said nothing, but reached for my bag and pulled out paper and charcoal.

  Nicolas laughed. ‘I can see that I will have to tell you both about the unicorn's horn.’

  ‘Not now. We need to start work. They can't begin the weaving until we've painted one of the cartoons.’ I gritted my teeth as I said ‘we’.