11
The days passed quickly. Kieron’s leg mended and was not noticeably shorter. Spring deepened into summer – and brought a bloom to Mistress Alyx’s face that did not pass unnoticed. She taught Kieron to ride – or, at least, not to fall off a horse when it was in motion. He made studies of horses. Horses grazing, horses ambling, galloping, jumping. The first time Alyx took her mount over a seven-bar gate for him, he was too terrified to put charcoal to paper.
‘My love, never again! Don’t do it. You are like to break your neck.’
‘Poof! Thus speaks the cloud walker, who rose ten times the height of a man and fell into the sea.’ And, to emphasise her point, she put her horse to the gate again; and rose, chestnut hair streaming in the sunlight, to ride like a goddess between sky and earth in a moment of infinite beauty.
Kieron worked like a demon, like one possessed. He made a hundred sketches and discarded ninety. This portrait of Alyx Fitzalan would be his sole claim to greatness as an artist. He knew it would be good, because it would be compounded of love, of beauty, of youth, and of joy in life.
Master Hobart coughed much and complained little. He complained little because Kieron had ceased to complain at all.
Hobart gazed at the sketches he brought back, and was filled with wonder. The boy had achieved rapport with his subject. There was elegance in his work and, yes, greatness. Hobart reached for the usquebaugh or the eau de vie and contemplated this greatness. Escapades with kites mattered little – indeed, were irrelevant – against such purity of line, such mastery of motion.
Soon, Kieron would begin to paint. Not at the castle, but in Hobart’s studio. And the painting would be a masterpiece, signed Hobart. And when is was acclaimed a masterpiece, Hobart would add: app Kieron. Thus would his life’s work be completed. Thus would Kieron be set upon the path to fame.
Kieron executed the painting in one day only. One day being a full twenty-four hours. During that time, he did not speak. He did not recognise Hobart. The old man hovered about the canvas, wringing his hands, and Kieron did not know him. The Widow Thatcher brought food. Kieron stared at her, uncomprehending, and the food was left untouched. As darkness fell, Hobart brought lamps, many lamps, and squandered whale oil prodigiously. Kieron muttered to himself at the change of light, but did not know what brought it about.
Once he fell to the floor, and was conscious of someone forcing a fluid that burned between his lips. He got up, and went back to the canvas. The rider was finished; but the fetlocks of the leaping horse were wrong. He scraped them away from the canvas and started again.
Now, what of that damned tail? And the nostrils? And, Ludd have mercy, the mane? And now the eyes were wrong. The creature should have great, proud eyes as it supported its glorious rider in that impossible leap. He looked at Alyx once more. Purgatory and damnation! The hair was wrong. That long, beautiful hair should flow with movement, be alive in this instant with a life of its own.
Master Hobart tended the oil lamps and drank usquebaugh and muttered plaintively to himself and gazed with awe at the young man who seemed to be engaged in a life or death battle with brushes and pigments as his weapons.
Who was the enemy? Hobart asked himself blearily, drunk with spirits and fatigue. Who was the enemy against which Kieron waged so ferocious a battle? It came to him that the enemy was time. Kieron was not only trying to paint a great portrait, he was challenging the Adversary, He was the Life Force incarnate; and every brush stroke was a sword thrust. He was declaring his bid for immortality.
The picture was finished shortly after daybreak. Hobart, who had dozed intermittently, drew back the curtains from the window but left the oil-lamps burning.
Kieron stood in front of the canvas. Brushes and palette had dropped from his exhausted hands.
Hobart gazed at the portrait and wept, knowing that he was in the presence of greatness.
Kieron looked at him, pale, drawn, red-eyed. ‘I have done my best, Master Hobart. What say you?’
‘My son, my son!’ the old man was beside himself. ‘You have joined the ranks of the immortals. I am a fool. I presumed to teach you. But now that it is too late, I know how much I had to learn.’
‘If you love me,’ said Kieron, ‘you will sign it Hobart. You will add nothing.’
‘Kieron, I am not worthy.’
‘The style is yours. Had you been younger, the brush strokes would have been yours.’
‘The brush strokes could never have been mine.’
‘They are yours, because I was an extension of your will.’ Kieron put his foot upon the fallen brushes. ‘Sir, I will not paint like this again.’
‘But why? Why, Kieron? You are a great artist. If you paint in this manner at the beginning of your career, who knows what we may see?’
‘I will not paint like this again,’ repeated Kieron. ‘It was a work of love – doubly so.’ He laughed. ‘I may paint to live – though the work will be no more than adequate – if such is necessary. But I shall live to fly. That is my true destiny.’
Hobart could say nothing. The picture was magnificent. But the poor boy was clearly out of his mind.
12
Seigneur Fitzalan was pleased with the painting. He did not know that Kieron had executed every brush stroke, though he surmised that much of the fine work had been carried out by the prentice. Master Hobart’s shaking had become more noticeable; and it was plain even to Fitzalan that the old painter’s useful days were numbered. Fortunate indeed that the prentice showed signs of surpassing his master. There would be work enough for him in the years to come. Fitzalan liked to be surrounded by beautiful things – paintings he merely glanced at, books he did not read. A man’s greatness was reflected in his deeds or his possessions. Time had not granted Seigneur Fitzalan the opportunity to perform great deeds, but it had allowed him to acquire many fine works of art from goldsmiths, silversmiths, armourers, scribes, painters. He would be remembered for his taste, if for nothing else.
The painting was to be called: Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap. The signature was simply: Hobart.
But Alyx knew how the picture had been finished, and she wept somewhat that Kieron’s name did not rest upon this painting that would hold the glow of her youth for ever. She wept also because of the grace and artistry she discerned, knowing that it was truly a work of love. And she wept because the dream-days were over. Henceforth, she would have to meet Kieron – if she met him at all – by ‘accident’ in some lonely or clandestine place. Soon, even that would not be possible because the wedding with Talbot was less than a month away.
Seigneur Fitzalan sent his bailiff with a chamois leather bag containing seven hundred and fifty silver schilling to the house of Hobart. The bailiff also conveyed Fitzalan’s desire that Kieron should attend him. Hobart was apprehensive, recollecting the last interview Kieron had had with Seigneur Fitzalan. But Kieron did not seem perturbed. He put on his best leather and linen and followed the bailiff.
Seigneur Fitzalan received him in a room that Kieron had not seen before; a room that contained many weapons, a desk, a table, two chairs, a bearskin rug and little else.
Seigneur Fitzalan was seated at the desk, toying with a fine hunting knife.
‘Well, prentice, are you satisfied with Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap?’ The tone was even, but the voice was ominous.
‘Seigneur, I – I—’ Kieron floundered, suddenly thinking of a hundred things that could be wrong with the canvas. ‘It is as good, I think, as Master Hobart has ever done.’
Fitzalan gave him a faint smile. ‘Ay, boy, that may be fairly said … Since our last meeting, I have had reports of you. Both good and ill. Which would you hear first?’
Kieron began to sweat a little, but his wit did not desert him. ‘The ill, Seigneur. Then I may console myself with the good.’
‘The ill it is, then. Holy Church is interested in you, Kieron. I am told that you constructed a machine.’
‘Seigneur, I did but fashion a large kite tha
t—’
‘Enough, I know the details. Holy Church ruled long ago that a kite is but a toy. However, if such a toy be used to elevate a man unnaturally from the earth, it becomes a machine. You know the history of our race. Machines have twice destroyed the greatness of man. The wisdom of the Divine Boy is apparent. Men can only survive if they reject the temptation of machines. Is this not so?’
Kieron swallowed. ‘Seigneur, I must bow to the wisdom of Holy Church.’
‘That you must, boy. Machines smell of burning. Have you ever seen a man burn, Kieron?’
‘No, Seigneur.’
‘I have,’ said Fitzalan tranquilly. ‘Holy Church is more powerful than all the lords of this island, and rightly so. For Holy Church guides us in the way we must live. I have seen a farmer burn for constructing a reaping machine. I have seen a smith burn for fashioning an engine driven by steam. I have seen a noble man burn for meddling with electrics and creating a light that was not born of fire. I have seen a poor washerwoman burn for devising a machine that would spin the water out of the clothes she washed. The stench of burnt flesh is not like the smell of roast pork, prentice. I make myself clear?’
‘Seigneur, you make yourself excellently clear.’
‘Then, Kieron, let there be no more meddling with machines. I have writ to Holy Church that you are aware of your folly. This time, my protection holds. Do not think it will hold a second time,’
‘Seigneur, I am grateful.’
‘So you should be. But I am grateful also. Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap is a good painting. Further, the conditions I sought from your master were met in full – with a bonus.’
‘I am happy, sir.’
‘Do not be. The bonus gives me cause for unrest. I required the Mistress Alyx’s spare time to be engaged for a two-month. You, sir, engaged it for a three-month.’
‘There was the matter of my broken leg,’ Kieron floundered. ‘It took time to mend.’
Seigneur Fitzalan lifted the hunting knife with which he had been playing and pointed it at Kieron. ‘My daughter, Alyx, was happy for a time. Now she weeps. Can you explain that?’
‘Seigneur, I am at a loss.’
Fitzalan laughed, grimly. ‘So, prentice, am I … With women, it is always the unexpected that a man should anticipate. Mistress Alyx spoke well of you – not too well, but well enough. She can be careful of her tongue, that one, when it suits her … Yet, now she weeps. She will wed with Talbot in a month. And yet, she weeps. Amazing, is it not?’
‘Yes, Seigneur, it is amazing.’ Kieron dreaded the way the conversation was turning.
‘Know this, then. There are things better unsaid; for if said, they must be admitted or denied. And in certain matters, either course leads to danger. Now, boy, do not think to be clever, but tell me if your mind truly grasps that which I have left unsaid.’
Kieron swallowed, his eyes upon the hunting knife, which seemed to be pointing at his heart. ‘Sir, I understand you.’
‘So. I believe you.’ Seigneur Fitzalan put the hunting knife down. He took up a small chamois sack and rattled its contents. ‘The horse does not shame me, and I know that Master Hobart has no liking for horses. Also the rider is shown to be not without grace and distinction. At your art, boy, you may flourish. See that you flourish in nought else.’ He threw the small sack to Kieron. ‘These fifty schilling recognise that you have worked well under some difficulty. There are other gifts I could bestow for services that were not required. Be thankful that I do not.’
‘Yes, Seigneur.’
‘Go, then. And recollect that tears dry soon if more are not provoked.’
‘Yes, Seigneur.’ Feeling the sweat lie cold upon his forehead, Kieron left the chamber.
13
There was no longer any need for Kieron to visit the castle daily, and he did not. The warning given him by Seigneur Fitzalan had been clear enough. Besides, surely it was in Alyx’s own interest that she and Kieron did not see each other again? As Fitzalan had said, tears dry soon if more are not provoked.
And yet it was hard, very hard, to face the whole of life without holding Alyx in his arms again. But he would love Petrina. It would not be difficult to love Petrina. She would lie by his side through ten thousand nights, and bear his children, and whiten and weaken as he whitened and weakened, Age might cool the passions of youth, but it could only add to the sharing of things known and loved.
Each man has but a single lifetime, thought Kieron. We are here but for a moment in history. There is so little time. So little time to lift man from the face of the earth and make him lord of the sky once more.
Master Hobart was more than content with Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap. Much more than content. He was proud that his spiritual son had carried the day in such triumph. Contractually, Kieron’s apprenticeship had several months to run; but Hobart knew that he no longer gave bed and food to an apprentice. He knew that he was privileged to enjoy the society of a genius. A genius who had insisted that his first great work be signed Hobart. So Hobart did not exercise the rights of a master. He was content to be a proud and a spiritual father. Which meant that Kieron now enjoyed absolute freedom. And this, in turn, meant that Hobart was prey to exquisite anxieties.
Kieron now possessed fifty schilling to do with as he wished. A veritable fortune. More money than he had ever handled in his seventeen years. How to use it? There were problems. Twenty schillings for Aylwin, who had served him well in the matter of the man-lifting kite. Twenty schilling would buy much canvas and pigment and flax seed oil for Aylwin. Add to this Kieron’s instruction, and Aylwin would be well repaid for his friendship. He would become a master painter as well as a master miller. Aylwin would rejoice in, at least, a partial freedom from his destiny.
The remaining thirty schilling … Kieron had read the book given him by Alyx. He had read it many times. The conquest of the air had been carried out in steps. He would retrace those steps. And the next step was a hot-air balloon, such as had been fashioned by Joseph and Etienne Montgolfier many centuries ago.
For this, Kieron required much linen, and much paper to line the balloon that would be made of linen. Also, he required a small charcoal brazier. Also, he required again the help of Aylwin.
Mistress Alyx did not subscribe to the philosophy that tears dry soon if more are not provoked. Discreetly, she sent messages to Kieron. He did not dare reply. Then she took to riding daily through Arundel, pausing a while in front of Master Hobart’s house. Kieron saw her and felt his heart leap, but he did not go forth to greet her. It was less fear of Seigneur Fitzalan’s wrath that restrained him than the fear that her nearness would make him desire to be yet nearer and nearer, as the first cup of wine brings the desire for a second and a third.
Besides, even if Seigneur Fitzalan’s anger could be avoided, the final parting was yet inevitable. And Alyx should surely take the more kindly to Talbot’s bed if she were not still warmed by Kieron’s touch.
So he watched her ride by and bit his lip and did nothing. And if, by chance, he should be abroad when she rode, he stood and lowered his head and bent a trifle from the waist, giving her courtesy as any man or prentice would.
For distraction, he busied himself with dangerous plans – the hot-air balloon. It was not to be a man-carrying balloon; for that would surely be defined as a machine by Holy Church. If, indeed, Holy Church should discover the matter. Which was not unlikely, for the Brothers of Ludd were feared as much as they were respected by the common folk; and many a man would inform against his neighbour if he thought that such action would improve his own prospects.
So a man-carrying balloon must not be attempted – yet. But a hot-air balloon that a prentice-boy could hold on the end of a cord – surely that could only be regarded as a toy? A clever toy, perhaps. But not a dangerous toy … Kieron was so obsessed by his need to experiment with airborne devices that he stupidly chose to ignore the fact that Holy Church was already interested in his activities …
At first, hi
s design for the balloon was modest. It was to be no more than the height of a man, no wider than a wine cask; and it was to be constructed of four lengths of linen, cut to shape and sewn carefully over a light wooden frame. Where could all this be accomplished so that Master Hobart might remain in blessed ignorance and so that the curiosity of townsfolk would not be greatly tempted? Kieron consulted with Aylwin. Aylwin pondered the problem. It was similar to his own. He wished to be able to paint in freedom and seclusion without being scolded for wasting his time or jeered for attempting an art to which he was not contracted.
The solution was discovered by accident as Kieron and Aylwin walked together one day, discussing their projects, inland along the banks of the river Arun, far from the town that seemed, in the distance, to be squeezed between church and castle.
The solution to the problem was revealed in the form of a derelict windmill, unused for a century or more, that stood near the river. According to legend, the miller and his entire family had been put to the stake for misusing the power of the wind. According to legend the derelict mill was haunted by their ghosts.
Aylwin knew something of the story, and repeated what he knew to Kieron. The miller had been an ambitious and ingenious man who believed that the winds of heaven were given to mankind to be used for whatever purposes mankind could devise. Holy Church permitted the use of the wind for the grinding of corn – necessary for human survival; for the pumping of fresh water – also necessary for human survival; and for the propulsion of ships – again necessary for human survival. The Church admitted the use of machines for necessities: it did not admit the use of machines for luxuries.
But the miller had used wind power not only to grind corn but to turn a lathe that his son might fashion goblets, bowls, platters from seasoned wood, these to be sold to the nobility, who admired purity of shape in all things, whether glass, stone, metal or wood. And he had further permitted wind power to be used to operate weaving machines so that his wife and daughter could produce linen and silk cloth, the like of which could not be found in many days’ travel.
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 7