by Toni Mount
‘He tried to eat it earlier,’ Rose said, watching him, smiling the while. ‘I told him only French peasants eat snails, or so I’ve heard tell. True Englishmen eat roasted beef and, in special cases, battered whitebait, of course.’ She moved along the row of red caboches and stooped to pick off a caterpillar. ‘Here, Dickon. Here is a new beast for you.’ She held out her hand so Dickon could watch the creature’s odd, looping gait. ‘Nay. Don’t put him in your mouth. See how he walks.’
I stepped back, observing them: Rose and little Dickon. How like a mother and her child they seemed. In truth, she was a mother to him. They laughed together and she smoothed my son’s dark hair from his brow with a gentle hand.
‘After we have dined,’ Rose said, pushing tendrils of her fair hair back into her cap, ‘I shall take Dickon up the lane beyond Newgate, if you agree, Seb? I want to gather meadowsweet from the hedgerow there before everyone else takes it all. It’s in full bloom now and will scent the parlour floor when I strew it there. Some I will use to make the headache remedy, as Em showed me how to do.’
‘Take him by all means but have a care, Rose. ’Tis not the safest part of the city and there be much activity up by Smithfield as incomers have begun arriving for the Midsummer Horse Sales. Thaddeus’ constables have had to break up a few brawls there already, so he said.’
‘Fear not, Seb. We’ll be safe enough.’
Refreshed but thoughtful, I returned to my desk. Seeing it anew, I added a few lines to the image of soldiers readying for battle. It was a sight I had not seen, except in other images, but I could picture it in my mind’s eye, hear the rasping of sand on steel as the esquires polished their lords’ armour, the hammering as new arrowheads were forged, the screech of blades being sharpened on whetstones. The hurrying and scurrying as preparations were made for war. I tried to depict these things as well as what the eye would see, trying to bring a flat image to life.
‘Shall I sketch in the foliage in the margins as I go for you to paint after?’ Adam asked, shaping a new quill to his liking.
‘No need. I was thinking of interspersing English oak leaves with swords, arrows and the like. It will be something different and suitable for a warrior’s instruction book.’
‘You think English oak is a good idea? The book is going to Florence remember.’
I shrugged.
‘’Tis a gift from the King of England. The recipient should be reminded of that whenever he turns the page. Besides, for all I know, oak trees may grow in Italy too. I shall ask Jude when I write to him… whenever I next have time to spare. And whilst we be thinking upon English images, I intend to have St George arrayed for war on the frontispiece. Or be George too much our own English saint? What be your opinion, Adam?’
‘They worship the same God in Italy; praise the same Christian saints as we do, isn’t that so? In which case, I’m sure George will be acceptable, especially if you give him a marvellous and ferocious dragon to slay. Everyone enjoys a colourful dragon, the more formidable, the better. You’re brilliant at creating such beasts. Do you remember the sign you painted before Christmas last for the Green Dragon tavern? That was as magnificent a beast as I’ve ever seen. Such a one must surely meet with approval. Aye, Seb, St George will make a most excellent frontispiece.’
And so we laboured diligently until Rose called us to the kitchen for dinner. I was glad of the respite. Having determined to keep fine detail to the least that would suffice, my cramped fingers and sore eyes brought realisation: I had been painting every rivet in the armour, each filament in the fletching feathers and all the hairs in a horse’s mane. I could not prevent myself from doing the best of which I was capable. At such a rate, it would take until the long day’s end to complete the miniature – too long.
Twelve full miniatures taking a day each; twenty half miniatures at half a day… that meant twenty-two days’ work. Add in the marginal decoration and the initials… another five days at least. Without labouring upon the Lord’s Day… I tallied upon my fingers… that meant I had thirty-three working days until the book must be presented at Westminster and twenty-seven days’ worth of illumination work to do. That would leave but five days for collating, stitching, trimming and the elaborate binding of gilded leatherwork, tooling and embossing to be done, not to mention the gold filigree and gemstones for which the book would have to be left with Edmund Shaa. ’Twas not enough time. I must find ways to speed my progress. What a task I had! The very prospect was sufficient to give me nightmares. No wonder my head ached at the thought of it.
I cannot say what we dined upon. My mind consumed by the puzzle of fitting a quart into a pint pot, as they say, or rather two months’ worth of work into one, I did not hear the rapping on the shop counter-board.
‘Shall I see who that is?’ Kate asked. ‘Rose has gone up Smithfield way, to gather herbs and blossoms.’
‘What be amiss?’ I queried.
‘A customer in the shop.’
What manner of artisan was I, leaving the shop unattended?
‘Aye. Well done, lass. I did not hear a sound. Did you, Adam?’
My cousin mumbled a reply, being fully engrossed in his penmanship. Glancing over, I could see page after page of faultless script appearing under his hand. Adam was a fine scribe, indeed, heaven be thanked. Mayhap, he could do some of the marginalia when he was done writing, as he had suggested. If the marginal decoration had to be simplified, then so be it.
‘It’s an urchin with a letter, Master Seb,’ Kate said, bouncing back into the workshop. ‘Says he won’t hand it over ’til he gets the farthing he was promised.’
‘Well, I promised naught. Here…’ I fished out a coin from my purse. ‘Give that to the young rascal.’
‘’Tis a whole penny, master.’
‘No matter. Tell him to be gone, then you may serve in the shop a while; best not leave it unattended: any rogue might help himself to our wares.’
The letter, when Kate brought it, proved to be from Guy Linton. Ah, a word of thanks, at last, I thought, breaking the wax seal. But it was not. Instead, it was another plea that I attend him at once, this very afternoon. Some new dire situation must have befallen. He did not say what it was, and I felt not the least inclined to learn of it. If he must see me, he would have to come to Paternoster Row. I had not time to spare to trail across the city on his behalf, yet again.
I threw the letter aside and returned to painting a bowyer, bundling bow-staves into a barrel for safe-keeping. I delineated the figure’s jerkin in malachite green, as marked earlier with an M, though he sported the Duke of Gloucester’s white boar badge plainly upon his sleeve. That was my decision: to include a reference to the king’s brother in the book. It contented me.
With but a horse and groom to paint, I took another walk out to the garden plot, to rest watery eyes and flex cramped fingers. Nessie was gathering lavender flowers to dry and strew among our winter woollen garments to keep the moths at bay. Clearly, it was the season for such activity.
Gawain joined me. He attempted to herd the hens into a corner but they were having none of it. Feathers flew as birds fluttered up to the pigsty roof or took to the apple tree where he could not harass them.
‘Save your strength, lad,’ I told him, laughing. ‘’Tis too hot for such antics.’
He came to me, tail wagging, expecting praise for his efforts. I patted him and he rolled on his back in hope of a belly-scratch. I obliged him.
‘I see you have time at hand, enough to frolic with your bloody dog. Why did you not come as I asked?’
Guy Linton stood in my garden, uninvited, and giving not so much as a greeting. I wished to send him off with a few choice words but, as ever be my way, courtesy prevailed.
‘Good day to you, Master Linton. I have much work to do, so I pray you, state your business directly if you will.’ I did not go so far as to offer him ale, though that would
have been proper for a visitor. His manner did not sit well with me.
‘It’s the portrait…’
‘If aught was amiss with it…’
‘No. Ol’ Mallard approved it right heartily. Much favoured the duck you added.’
‘Then all be well. Now, you must pardon me. I have a royal commission in need of my attention.’
‘But, Seb.’ Guy caught at my sleeve to delay my return to the workshop. ‘That’s the problem. He thought it so fine a likeness, he’s commissioned me to paint his son, the son’s wife and their children. And this time he will pay me for it. I need the money, Seb. You have to help me. I’ll give you a share, say, one-tenth. I’m not an unreasonable man. We can discuss terms, if you wish?’
‘Nay. Not again. There be naught to discuss, Guy. I shall not paint another portrait for you to claim as your own work. I made it clear to you: I would save your reputation but once. I even showed you how to improve your art. If you cannot do the likeness yourself, then you must admit your failing. Or find some other foolish artist to abet you in your subterfuge.’
‘How can I do that? You’re London’s only portraitist, Seb. There’s no one else can help me. Please… I beg you, my dear friend… for Master Collop’s sake.’
‘Do not bring his good name into this as you did the last time. I told you “nay” and that stands as my answer. Go home, Guy, practise with chalk and charcoal. You know the rudiments of drawing as Master Collop taught us. I cannot and will not do your work for you. I bid you good day.’
Gawain growled, showing his displeasure also.
With that, I brushed past Guy, leaving him in the garden to return to my work, collecting some ale from the kitchen as I went by. I noticed my hands shook somewhat. Sharp words were never my way but I had no choice. Even if I wanted to aid him, I had not the time to do so. Guy had created his own mess and would have to deal with it.
‘You told ’im well, master,’ Nessie congratulated me with her gap-toothed grin. The lass had witnessed all. She was tying the lavender into bundles to be hung from the rafters to dry. It scented the air pleasantly – a perfume that was supposed to soothe.
‘Aye, but I wish he had not asked.’
Unbelievably, I found my thoughts turning to what I might say in a letter of instruction that I should send to Guy, guidance as to the better drawing of a likeness. But there was little point in that. What would I write but “Observe, observe and observe again”? There was naught else to say and he knew that much as well as I. I would not trouble myself to write to him but put all such concerns aside.
Seated at my desk, I took up my finest brush and dipped it into the white lead pigment to add the glint of sunlight on a polished armour breastplate. And yet Guy Linton’s face, his desperate expression as I abandoned him, kept leaping into my mind, unbidden.
I laboured on, steadfast, until Rose called us to supper.
Over mussels in a green sauce, the talk was all of what was afoot at Smithfield. Rose had seen tents pitched, striped in gay colours, and swarthy traders from foreign lands exercising their beasts upon the field.
‘You must go look at them, Seb,’ Rose said. ‘They’re not like the heavy dray-horses or the coursers or palfreys we usually see. I asked about them and the fellow said they were from Araby: fleet of foot but lightly built. They had such pretty faces. Dickon quite took to them.’
‘Rose! You did not take my son so close to these strange beasts? And you spoke to some incomer concerning them? I warned you to have a care. Whatever were you about?’
‘Oh, Seb, we did but watch from afar and I spoke to no incomer but a London ostler who knew of these beautiful horses. He is Mistress Fletcher’s ostler at the Hart’s Horn. I know him vaguely.’
‘Ah. Forgive me, Rose. I misunderstood. I did not mean…’ I stabbed a juicy mussel with my knife somewhat more forcefully than intended, splashing sauce upon the board. I chewed the delicate morsel. ‘Did you find the herbs you went searching for?’ I asked quietly, hoping to make amends.
‘Aye. Armfuls. Did we not, Dickon?’ My son waved his spoon in agreement. ‘He helped pick some and I think we were the first to gather the meadowsweet, for we had the choicest of blossoms. I’ve already strewn the parlour floor, as you’ll appreciate after supper. It smells so fresh. The rest I have put to steep overnight, ready to boil up tomorrow to make the remedies. Which reminds me, I must buy honey at market to sweeten it. Meadowsweet smells delicious but tastes bitter otherwise. Oh, and Dickon found a mouse’s nest attached to the tall grasses, all neatly woven as any basket. You should be proud of him, Seb, he was so gentle with the tiny creatures, watching but not disturbing them.’
‘I be proud of him, whatever the case.’ I wiped my mouth upon my napkin and leaned across to kiss his soft, dark hair where it stuck up in unruly tufts since his nap. He had had a long walk for a toddling and quite an adventure, by the sound of it.
‘Master Seb,’ Kate began in that tone I knew so well. ‘Master… how would it be if you allowed me to paint something in the margin of the king’s book? Naught too large. I thought I could do King Edward’s sun in splendour badge, just once… just so I can say I worked on a royal commission.’
‘You have ruled a goodly number of pages for it, lass. That be a most valid contribution. The work would not look so neat and regularly set without your fine lines and measured margins to guide our hands.’
‘But nobody notices the lines once the text is written and the miniatures done. Please, master… I did some sketches whilst I was in the shop – but only when there were no customers. Oh, please let me show you. I’m sure you’ll like them.’ Liquid brown eyes beseeched me.
I must have looked doubtful indeed.
‘At least take a look at the lass’s sketches, cousin,’ Adam said, elbowing me in the ribs. ‘Can’t hurt, can it?’
‘Nay. I-I shall look at them, most certainly, but cannot make you any promises, Kate. You do understand that?’
‘Of course, master, but I know you’ll like them right well.’
When supper was done and, by custom, the day’s work ended, I permitted myself a half-hour in the parlour afore returning to my desk. The freshly-strewn herbs were fragrant indeed and to be enjoyed. However, there were yet three or four hours of good light that I could ill-afford to waste but a short respite, sitting with Dickon afore he should be abed, was time well spent.
He sat upon my knee as I showed him the beasts of Noah’s Ark on his new hornbook. What with the celebrations of yesterday, we had not the leisure to study it ’til now. My son appeared much taken with the serpent that wound down one margin and the lion snarling below the coloured letters of the alphabet, running his finger over the shapes whilst I retold the story of Noah, not forgetting the rainbow at the last, arcing over the Paternoster Prayer on the other side. But all too swiftly, Dickon’s head drooped and his eyes closed. Rose took him away to his cradle.
Afore I could wet my lips after story-telling, Kate hastened to thrust a paper into my hands. Her eagerness overflowed like a stream in flood. I set the little hornbook upon the shelf, out of harm’s way.
‘What do you think, Master Seb? Are my suns in splendour good enough? Look at this one: ’tis not a sun at all but the white rose of York surrounded by the flaming rays of the sun. I saw it on his tabard when the king’s messenger first brought the letter about the commission. Is it fine enough to be used? I pray you, master: say that it is. Or this one: a proper sun with pointed rays like a star and a crown…’
As bidden, I examined her drawings. In my mind, I had already planned out the decoration for every page but, since only one gathering had the under-drawings completed, there was yet scope for change within other gatherings not so far delineated. In truth, Kate’s work was of the highest standard: designs of which no artist could be ashamed but justly proud. But pride be not a vice to cultivate in any young apprentice, therefor
e fulsome praise must be restrained.
‘You have done well, lass. I approve the rose en soleil – for so the device be termed. You say you copied it from the messenger’s badge?’
‘Upon his tabard, aye. I’m so pleased you like it. Will you let me draw it in a margin somewhere – small and in a corner. Please say you will, Master Seb.’
‘I shall think deeply upon the matter. I promise no more than that for the present, Kate.’
‘Oh, but, master…’
‘Do not vex me. There be much to consider afore I decide. Now. I have a miniature to finish whilst the light lasts. I bid you all good night and may Our Lord Christ keep you in His care.’
At last, the first miniature was completed. I had laboured long. Adam assisted in tidying away my pigments and put them safely in the box. The parchment folios were pressed flat on the collating table ’neath brass weights. Now my cousin and I sat over our last few sips of ale in the kitchen by the light of a solitary candle. Rose and Kate were long since gone to their beds in the chamber above, where little Dickon also slept these days. Nessie had withdrawn to her curtained alcove beside the chimney, taking Grayling the cat with her for company. We could hear her snoring gently and kept our voices low so as not to disturb her.
Gawain was the first to respond to an unaccustomed sound: a scratching noise coming from along the passage to the shop. The dog came alert from his slumbers ’neath the board. He stood facing the passageway, his hackles rising upon his neck and a threatening growl rumbling deep in his chest.
‘You hear that?’ Adam whispered.
I nodded, reaching for a hefty fire-iron on the hearth.
‘Did you bar the door and shutters when we closed up?’
I nodded again.
‘Give me a moment.’ Adam slipped out of the kitchen to the yard, returning with the axe we used to chop kindling for the fire.
Thus armed, we went silently along the passage. I held the candle high in one hand, the iron in the other. Gawain came stealthily, growling, but keeping behind me. The parlour door stood closed on the right but I lifted the latch and looked in, thankful for well-greased hinges. There was naught amiss.