by Toni Mount
‘No. It never did so, Jood. I hear gunnes before. It only fright thin-blood English like you.’ She laughed and I saw my brother’s brows draw down but he had the good grace to say naught, not with me present, leastwise. What he might say later, privily, was not my concern, though if Chesca appeared in the morn with bruises to show, Jude would hear my opinion, whether he wished to or no.
After supper, the others retired to the parlour. No doubt, they would be regaled with more of Jude’s adventures and enjoy the tales he told. Indeed, I heard much laughter and jocundity wafting across the passageway, into the workshop, where I made use of the remainder of the daylight to complete the underdrawing for another full-page miniature. This showed men working a great siege-engine known as a trebuchet. I had ne’er seen such a thing but both Master Collop’s Latin Vegetius and our little English version of the third part of De Re Militari had diagrams of the contraptions. I believe them little used these days, cannon being more efficient at demolishing stone walls and the like, but the trebuchet made for a more interesting subject to depict.
Having completed the drawing, there was yet time afore dark to consider the pigments to be used in painting it. The great beast of a thing lobbed a stone heavenward and I thought to do the missile in gold leaf, as if catching the sun as it flew to smite down the enemies of God. The instructions for the king’s book demanded much use of gold and, there being neither saints nor angels nor kings in this miniature, I could not think what else be deserving of gold colouring. However, a lion rampant in the bottom margin could receive like treatment, so I marked it with a letter ‘g’.
Crimson lake would be the soldiers’ caps, those who did not wear armoured head-coverings, thus I wrote ‘c-l’ in those parts. The armour could be of shell-tin – of discomforting memory – but as I wished to employ vermilion close by for their hose, shell-tin would not blacken as shell-silver might in the vicinity of this vivid but troublesome red pigment. I labelled the areas accordingly: ‘s-t’ and ‘v’. The trebuchet would be in shades of brown and yellow ochres to appear of wood. Still, the ropes could be of azurite to enliven the look of it and its wheels of bright tawny realgar – I must remember to warn Kate ever to have a care in the use of this last, it being a foul poison, if a fine pigment. I marked these parts ‘b-oc’, ‘y-oc’, ‘a’ and ‘r’, as appropriate. The pigments for the horses and dogs which populated the miniature I should decide upon later. For the greens of grass and bushes, weld, verdigris and malachite in varying tints might suffice. For the present, I had achieved a fair evening’s work.
‘You coming to bed or not, cousin?’ Adam put his head in the doorway as I closed the inkpot and set the drawing aside, covering it with a cloth. I did not want any uninvited fowls spoiling the fruits of my labours again.
‘Aye, shortly. Have the others retired as yet?’
‘Everyone but us two. ’Tis late and Ralf will be snoring already. In which case, you may be in need of this.’ He held out his hand.
‘Sheep’s fleece?’
‘I borrowed it from Mercy this day. She works as a spinster, you may know, whenever Nicholas and the babes allow. I asked her for the fleece to stuff my ears. As you’ll learn within the hour, Ralf snores worse than a sow in a thunderstorm. You’ll be needing it, if you hope to get any sleep at all.’
Adam proved correct. Although my cousin and I shared the comfortable bed, whilst Ralf used the pallet with a featherbed atop, sleep eluded me. Even with my ears stuffed, Ralf’s hearty rumblings reverberated around the chamber, keeping me awake despite my weariness. How I begrudged Jude the use of my solitary chamber as I lay counting the journeyman’s in-drawn breaths and exhaled snorts. The night was too hot to bury my head ’neath the pillows, so I abandoned the bed and crept out, down the outside stairs, to the yard.
The garden plot was cool, the air refreshed with the night scents of woodbine and lavender. Moths flew, pale in the starlight, and bats flittered, black against the velvet sky. An owl screeched and, somewhere close by, cats yowled.
I set the old bucket under the apple boughs in such wise that I might lean against the trunk of the tree. Upended, I heaped some sacking upon it for a softer seat and, resting my head on my folded arms, I slept at last.
Sunday, the twentieth day of June
It being nigh unto midsummer, the sun rose early indeed. How long I had slept, I know not, but time enough in that bent position that my spine and neck were stiff and aching and my backside quite numb. A bucket with a sacking cushion does not make for an easeful bed, as I discovered. I rinsed my hands, face and neck at the water trough in the yard, rousing myself to wakefulness. Whatever the hour, it seemed a sin to waste this God-given daylight. Thus, I might go to the workshop to begin anew. The cool of morning would make the gesso less likely to set hard afore I finished applying it.
However, clad in naught but shirt and drawers and not wishing to disturb my bedmate in order to dress, I hoped none would see me so. It seemed an unlikelihood. Who would come to the workshop at such an hour? St Martin’s bell had chimed four as I washed. Quietly, I poured a cup of ale in the kitchen and took an egg from the earthen bowl upon the shelf. Nessie did not stir in her alcove beside the chimney but Gawain awoke.
Poor creature, of late, he was become used to keeping me company abed but last eve, there had not been room enough in Adam’s chamber for a great hound, breathing hot vapours, as well as three men. I be sure Gawain believed he was in disgrace for some misdeed when I had told him to remain in the kitchen. But how to explain to a dog? Now I made much of him, praising him, fondling his soft ears and stroking his fur. How else might he know I was not displeased with him? When I split the egg, lifting out the yolk and straining the white through my fingers into a bowl, needing the white part alone for the mixing of gesso, I rewarded Gawain with the yolk. He licked my fingers clean of every speck of yellow.
Having made the egg glair, I mixed it with the powdered chalk and other ingredients upon the marble slab until the gesso was perfectly smooth and of the correct consistency. I then began to apply it to the underdrawings, just as I had shown Kate. So content was I in my work, I began to sing a joyous Jubilate, quite forgetful of the need for quiet, so as not to disturb the rest of the household.
So enrapt was I, it came as a surprise when Rose entered the workshop with Dickon in her arms.
‘Working, Seb? Upon the Lord’s Day? Whatever are you about?’
‘It seemed a sin to waste the God-given light when I might use it in service to the king. I shall make my due penance.’ I stood, easing my back, yet inclined to stiffness after a night of discomfort.
‘Seb!’ Rose averted her eyes and turned away. ‘You’re quite undressed.’
‘What? Oh, aye, I had forgot.’ I resumed my stool such that the desk hid the worst of my embarrassment. ‘Forgive me, lass. I must go to my chamber for my Sunday attire.’
‘You cannot. Chesca is yet abed, claiming an indisposition.’
‘Then I must wear yesterday’s hose and jerkin to church.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In Adam’s chamber.’
‘You cannot come through the kitchen. Kate and Nessie are there, preparing for our breakfast upon our return from St Michael’s.’
‘Then what am I to do? Would you have me use the street door to go around the side of the house to get to Adam’s room?’ I saw then that she was smiling behind her hand, mayhap upon the brink of laughter. I found naught amusing about my predicament.
‘Fear not. Amuse little Dickon and I’ll take Chesca some wine. Whilst in the chamber, I may fetch your Sunday best.’ She set my son in the midst of the workshop floor. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she said as she left, closing the door after.
I wondered if she meant the child or me. As if I dared venture from behind my desk in my nether-clouts.
‘Come, little man, let us amuse ourselves. Shall we play at ‘peep-boo’
? Papa will hide his face behind this cloth and…’
‘So this is where you hid yourself.’ Adam burst in. ‘Christ on horseback, Seb! What game are you at? We’re ready for church and you’re still half-naked.’
‘You think I be ignorant of it? ’Twas ne’er my intention. Now, have pity and close the door.’
‘You think to spend all day in here, skulking?’
‘Skulking? Rose has gone to my chamber to fetch my garments…’
‘What a relief. Can’t have you frightening the goodwives, scaring the ladies and giving children nightmares, showing off those terrible skinny, hairy legs of yours and all else, can we now?’
‘’Tis no jest.’
‘No? Wait until I tell the congregation why you’re late for mass.’
‘You would not be so cruel.’
‘If I don’t tell, your brother surely will.’ Adam went off, chuckling, not even troubling to shut the workshop door. Why did they delight so in mocking me?
St Michael le Querne’s Church
I arrived at St Michael’s just in time for Low Mass and suitably attired in my Sunday blue doublet and a decent pair of hose. But Adam and the others – except Chesca – were there afore me and, to judge from the amused smirks and giggling from my fellow parishioners, he and Jude had likely done their worst to discomfit me utterly. Even Dame Ellen wore an unbecoming grin at sight of me and turned to her fellow gossips who made but a token gesture to conceal their mirth behind their aprons. I was a laughing stock.
‘Smile, Seb,’ Rose whispered. ‘’Tis not ill-meant. Folk want something to cheer them at this time. Dame Ellen said there are a few cases of plague down by the Steelyard. Such solemn tidings put us all in need of laughter.’
‘But why at my expense? Why not some other’s? No one be mocking Jonathan Caldicott for his hair standing on end and his shirt hanging. Or Ralf with his shoes unfastened. I come in good order and respectable, yet folk cannot hide their amusement.’
‘Don’t take it so to heart, Seb. We all hold you in deepest affection.’
‘Truly? Sometimes, it seems otherwise, Rose.’
‘Oh.’ In answer, she kissed my cheek, her lips cool upon my flushed skin. At which point, the Eucharist bell rang and our attention demanded by sacred matters.
The office was done and we received Father Thomas’s departing benediction.
‘When you fetched my clothes, Rose, how do you think Chesca was faring?’ I enquired as we waited in the churchyard for Ralf to catch up. ‘I pray she be not sickening, not with the pestilence returning.’
‘Chesca isn’t sick.’
‘Then why does she claim to be indisposed and not attend church?’
‘Jude told her to.’
‘He fears the Baldesis will recognise her? Why would they? The Italians do not attend here.’
‘It has naught to do with them, Seb. It’s you he would hide her from.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because of what you said last eve.’
I went then to Em’s grave with its wooden marker upon which I had scored her name. I bent the knee and laid the posy of rosemary – for remembrance – saying a prayer for her dear soul and making the sign of the Cross.
When I had paid my respects, it took me some moments, firstly, to recall what I had said yesterday and then, secondly, to determine Jude’s reason for concealing Chesca in the bedchamber.
We returned along Paternoster Row, Rose beside me, leading my little son by the hand.
‘The wretch has beaten the lass, has he not? After my explicit warning, he has left her bruised and battered. ’Tis intolerable. He must go. I care not where.’
‘But where will they stay?’ Rose asked. ‘Last eve in the parlour, Jude admitted he had no money left.’
‘That explains much. Little wonder then that he returned, no doubt hoping I may aid his purse; supply his lack. But upon this occasion, he will meet with disappointment. I refuse to give alms to this undeserving beggar.’
‘You can’t throw them out, onto the street, Seb.’
‘I have said naught concerning Chesca. The lass may stay. My brother cannot.’
‘But they’re wed. You can’t come betwixt a man and his wife.’
‘Then Jude will have to decide what be more important to him: to abide by the rules of my house and have bed and board or to ignore them and make the best of it in some bug-ridden inn, if that be all he may afford.’
‘So you’ll give him a second chance, Seb? He said you would.’
‘He said! You mean to say he would have you plead with me on his behalf? The Devil take him!’
‘Please, Seb, let them stay…’
‘You would beg on behalf of the rogue who abandoned you at the church door?’
‘For Chesca’s sake… What if she’s with child, Seb?’
‘With child! Oh, most merciful Lord Jesu, let it not be so. Another of Jude’s kind? Is there not trouble enough in the world as it is? I could not bear it.’
We turned down the alleyway and entered the yard by means of the side gate.
‘I hear you taking my name in vain, little brother?’ Jude threw his arm across my shoulders with such force I staggered somewhat. I shrugged him off.
‘You take advantage of me at every turn. Jude. You go too far, harming Chesca after I forewarned you of the consequences, if you did so.’
‘The little cow deserved it. Besides, I only tapped her. She bruises too easily.’
‘All the more reason why you should not lay a hand upon her. You can be a brute at times, as I have come to realise.’
‘Me? Who cared for you all those years you were a cripple, sneered at and mocked? Who saved you every time you stumbled? Who wiped the shit from your face when urchins threw it at you? You’re an ungrateful toad; I thought you were a better man than that. For once I ask something in return and this is how you repay me? You would cast me aside, throw me out on the street… yet call me “brother”? You’re a heartless bastard, Seb. I’m ashamed to say we share blood.’
I knew he spoke truly, some of what he said, leastwise. He did care for me in my youth, when I had been bent-backed and lame. But he had profited much from my labours even then. Yet my gratitude for his past fraternal benevolence could not out-weigh what he had done since: the nigh-ruination of all we had worked for. Neither did it absolve him of his guilt in humiliating dear Rose a twelvemonth since, nor now in striking a young lass. Whether she be his wife or no, I could not condone cruelty of any kind.
Chapter 12
Monday, the twenty-first day of June
The Foxley House
Last eve, I chose to sleep in the workshop upon a straw-stuffed palliasse on the floor. It was more comfortable than the upturned bucket in the garden and quieter by far than sharing Adam’s chamber, attempting to sleep to the accompaniment of Ralf’s trumpeting snores. With a good pillow for my head, I passed the night well and woke refreshed this morn.
Being a Monday, there was no need to feel the least guilt in commencing work right early, though I had yet to make amends with a penance for my labours of the Lord’s Day, previously. The gesso applied yesterday had dried upon the miniatures, so I set to smoothing the surfaces. There was yet a trace of dampness in the air afore the sun’s heat increased over much. Thus, it was the perfect time to lay on the gold leaf. If matters proceeded without upset, I should have the gold parts finished and burnished afore breakfast.
At least this day I was suitably attired when Rose and little Dickon came to bid me ‘Good morn’ and inform me that the mess of eggs with herbs and honey cakes were ready at the kitchen board. I left the gleaming gold and went to break my fast.
And there was Jude seated in my place at the head of the board, spooning egg into his mouth.
‘Could you not wait? I have yet to say grace.’
�
�I said it on your behalf, little brother. The eggs were going cold.’
‘God give you all good day,’ I said, remembering my manners, belatedly, and greeting the company. I noted one missing person. ‘Will Chesca be joining us? I have not seen the lass since Saturday.’ I sat on a bench, squashed betwixt Ralf and Nessie, the latter seeming to wax broader by the week and taking up more than her allotted space upon the seat. Mayhap, we fed our serving wench too well. ‘Jude, I would not have you usurp my place as master of this house. It undermines my authority.’
My brother laughed out loud, choking on his honey cake.
‘Authority! You? Seb, you know full well you have all the authority of… of a new-hatched chick. I usurp naught. Now cease your prattle and eat your bloody food. Stop making so much fuss about who says grace. I doubt God bothers to listen to you anyway. The prayers of a mouse, not a man…’
‘I shall not bide here and suffer your insults!’ I clambered from my tight perch, all undignified. ‘If required by any respected person, they may find me fully employed at my desk, earning my bread.’ It was a feeble repost. Jude likely would not realise my barb was aimed at him – one who assiduously avoided earning his keep. His laughter followed me back to the workshop: the one place he was not allowed, by ruling of the guild, and would have no desire to enter, in any case.
I returned to my pigments, selecting those required to complete the frontispiece: the full-page miniature of St George. The vibrant malachite ground colour of the dragon was fully dry now and ready for the details of the scales and claws to be painted on in shell-gold, so they should shimmer in the light and bring the beast to life. I also required the brighter red of kermes grain to highlight the folds of the saint’s cloak from the darker red shadowed areas of crimson lake already done. I would then paint the shell-gold spear, overlying the cloak, piercing the beast’s side and the gore spilling forth from the mortal wound. What more suitable pigment for that than dragon’s blood itself? And for the small area of sky, I had marked with ‘l’ for lapis lazuli… But, mayhap, having second thoughts, why use the most expensive of pigments upon it? Azurite would serve well enough and save a few coins, seeing I was unlikely ever to be recompensed in full for this book.