Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (5 page)

‘To the death. But, as you say, it is not unlawful for a miller to paint. On the other hand, flying machines – machines of any kind – are unlawful. You have a bleak future, Kieron-head-in-the-air.’

Kieron smiled at the taunt, which now contained no malice. ‘Men make laws. Men may change them … The kite whose cord was cut was not just a childish toy, Aylwin. It was an experiment. It was an experimental design for a man-lifting kite.’

‘Do not proceed. The neddies will burn you.’

‘Hear me. I have discovered an idea, which, when the time is ripe, will prevent the neddies from doing anything.’

‘What is the idea?’

‘Historical necessity,’ said Kieron. ‘It will be necessary, sooner or later, for man to take to the air once more. Meanwhile, I must work secretly. I must be ready for that time.’

‘I fear for you, Kieron.’

‘I fear for myself, Aylwin. But, we have a bargain, you and I. I will share my skills with you, and you will be content.’

‘What will you require of me, in exchange?’

‘I don’t know. Truly, I don’t know. At some time, almost certainly, I shall require your help. The risks may be high. They may be high enough even to hazard your life. But I shall try to avoid that.’

Aylwin stood up. So did Kieron. They clasped forearms once again, in affirmation.

‘Better a dead painter than a live miller,’ joked Aylwin.

‘Better by far a live painter and a live man of the air,’ said Kieron.

Mistress Alyx Fitzalan was seventeen years old and the bane of Seigneur Fitzalan’s life. Within the year, thank Ludd, she would be wed with the young Seigneur Talbot of Chichester. As far as Seigneur Fitzalan was concerned, it could not happen too soon. He wished Talbot joy of her, but doubted greatly that any joy would come of the union. Still, it was politically necessary for the Talbots and the Fitzalans to stand side by side. Between them, they controlled much of the southern coastline. Which was convenient in times of peace and doubly convenient in times of war. Which Ludd forbid.

Alyx knew that she was destined to be a sacrificial lamb and conducted herself accordingly. As Fitzalan’s eldest daughter, she had many privileges. As the key to his control of a large segment of the coast, she realised that, until Fitzalan had a copy of the marriage vows in his strong box, she could demand anything within reason.

She did, frequently. She demanded entertainments, feasts, diversions. It was well known that Talbot of Chichester was a sickly young man who bled frequently from the nose. Alyx had spies who told her that he was not long for this world. Though she loathed him, she hoped he would live long enough to wed her and get a son. By this means, Alyx dreamed of equalling her father in his power.

Meanwhile, she held Fitzalan in thrall. He could not risk her rejection of the contract.

She was a great horsewoman. She loved horses, it seemed, more than anything else.

What more natural than that she should require a portrait of herself on horseback leaping a seven-bar gate?

Alyx already had five portraits of herself. Two hung in the castle, one had been sent to London, and two had been given to Talbot.

Master Hobart had painted all five portraits. At the suggestion of the sixth, he held up his shaking hands in horror.

‘Seigneur Fitzalan, how shall I catch your daughter on horseback leaping a seven-bar gate?’

‘I know not, Master Hobart, nor do I care,’ retorted Seigneur Fitzalan calmly. ‘But it is the price of peace – at least for a time – and I will have it done.’

‘But, Seigneur—’

‘No buts, master painter. See to it. And see to it also that the horse is no less graceful than its rider. I have a fine stable, and those who see your picture should know it.’

‘Yes, Seigneur.’

‘Be still, man! You shake like an autumn leaf. I trust you will not shake so when the brush is in your hand.’

‘No, Seigneur,’ assured Hobart hastily. ‘It is but a tremor of agitation. When I hold the brush, my hand is rock steady.’

‘If it be steady enough to make good likenesses of both horse and rider, I will put five hundred schilling into it.’

‘Thank you, Seigneur.’

Fitzalan frowned and stared hard at the old man. ‘But, if the canvas be not to my liking, you shall eat it.’

‘Yes, Seigneur. Thank you.’ Master Hobart retreated from the presence, bowing many times, his hands clasped tightly together (partly to stop them trembling) as if with intense gratitude, like one whose execution has just been stayed – if only temporarily.

‘Hobart!’

‘Seigneur?’

‘A word. And stop bobbing up and down, man. You make me nervous.’

‘Forgive me, Seigneur.’ Hobart froze.

‘This picture … Start soon, Master Hobart, but do not hurry. You follow me?’

‘Yes, Seigneur,’ said Hobart blindly. Though he did not.

Fitzalan explained. ‘Mistress Alyx is a dutiful and loving daughter, but she is also – how shall I put it? – impetuous if not actually headstrong.’

‘Just so, Seigneur.’

‘No, not just so. Damnation! Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes, Seigneur. All in the seigneurie know that Mistress Alyx—’

‘Hobart, you are a foolish old man, and you know nothing of womenfolk.’

‘Yes, Seigneur.’

Suddenly, Fitzalan recalled that Hobart was indeed a foolish old man who knew nothing of womenfolk. ‘Hobart, forgive me. I treat you ill, old friend.’

‘You do me too much honour, Seigneur.’

Fitzalan smiled. ‘Because we are friends, I will confide in you. Mistress Alyx, Ludd bless her, has curious notions. She needs interests, diversions. And for women, Hobart, diversions come costly. This picture, now. You could do it in a week, could you not?’

‘Well, Seigneur, I—’

‘Could you or could you not?’

‘Yes, Seigneur.’

‘The very point. You will not do it in a week, Master Hobart. You will not
even do it in a month. You will take time, much time. You will require many sketches, many sittings or whatever. Many long sittings. I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Seigneur.’

‘Mistress Alyx will scold you. I will scold you. But you will not hurry. I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Seigneur.’

‘Mistress Alyx is burdened by time, Hobart. She does not know this, but it is so. Therefore you will consume as much of her time as possible, without appearing to so do … This prentice of yours – has he his wits about him?’

‘Ay, Seigneur.’ Here, Hobart felt on firm ground. ‘A most intelligent and resourceful young man, and of great talent also with brush, chalk, pencil, crayon, char—’

‘Enough. You need not declaim his battle honours. I have seen him about the castle, Hobart, and about the seigneurie. He is a pleasant young fellow … Yes, he is a pleasant young fellow. Have him attend Mistress Alyx, Hobart. Have him ride with her, have him walk with her. Have him make enough – what the devil do you call them?’

‘Preliminary studies,’ ventured Hobart.

‘Have him make enough preliminary studies, sketches, or whatever the fellow does, to take up a full two-month of the wretched girl’s forenoons, ay, and her afternoons also. Can this be done?’

‘What of Mistress Alyx, Seigneur? She may weary—’

‘Damn the Mistress Alyx! Women do not weary of being looked at nor of artists limning with devotion … Seven hundred and fifty schilling, Hobart, and not a penny more. You have heard my requirements. Go now.’

Hobart began his retreat once more, hands clasped tightly, the sweat dripping from his forehead.

Now he had two additional worries that would take much drowning in Scottish or French spirit. Mistress Alyx was a woman of some temperament. Also, Hobart realised with sad clarity that he had never been much good at horses.

Mistress Alyx drove Kieron to distraction. She was a wild young lady. Wild, beautiful, imperious, bored. Also intelligent. She was intelligent enough to realise that Kieron had been sent to her as a propitiatory sacrifice, a kind of whipping boy. Nevertheless, it amused her to apply the whip – verbally, emotionally, physically.

The first morning that Kieron presented himself with charcoal sticks, papers, drawing board, she allowed him to make a sketch while she offered barbed comment on his appearance, his dress, his accent, his ancestry, his lack of learning.

Kieron set up his drawing board and went to work. But after a few minutes, his hand was shaking, and the lines were terrible, and he knew it. So did Mistress Alyx.

Kieron’s mission had been explained to him carefully and apologetically by Master Hobart.

‘You see, my son,’ Hobart had begun to lapse into this form of address more and more, ‘there are diplomatic considerations in this commission. Seigneur Fitzalan was quite explicit. He requires Mistress Alyx to be distracted for a while. I am too old for such things. Therefore—’

‘Therefore I must play the performing monkey,’ said Kieron calmly.

‘I would not have described your role as such.’ Hobart tried to feign indignation, and failed. ‘Your task is to make sketches which will be invaluable when we come to decide upon the final composition.’

‘A monkey with a charcoal stick,’ conceded Kieron. ‘You yourself will execute the painting, Master Hobart. I am simply to delay matters until you and Seigneur Fitzalan judge that the time is ripe.’

‘Not so, not so, not so!’ protested Hobart. ‘You will execute the portrait.’

‘You would trust me with this matter?’

‘Kieron, I would trust you with my life … Besides, look at my hands, boy. Look at them.’

Master Hobart held out his hands. Kieron looked. They were shaking badly. The veins stood out, the joints were swollen, the fingers were bent. Such hands would never draw a true circle again.

‘Master Hobart, I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.’

‘No need for sorrow, Kieron, my son. No need. I have you. Seigneur Fitzalan does not know that I have finished with painting.’

‘You have not finished with painting, Master.’

‘Hear me. Hear me. The portrait will be signed Hobart. It is the last time I shall put my signature … But, when Seigneur Fitzalan has given his approval, I shall add to that signature. It shall read: Hobart app Kieron. Is that enough?’

Kieron was amazed to find himself weeping. ‘Master Hobart, you cannot do this thing.’

‘I can and will. Is it enough?’

‘It is more than enough. Much more.’

‘This once, and this once only, I require you to call me Father. And I require you to paint Mistress Alyx in such a fashion that it will add stature to us both.’

‘Father, I will do my best,’ said Kieron.

‘I am content. Your best is good enough … Seigneur Fitzalan has undertaken to pay seven hundred and fifty schilling for a successful portrait.’

‘Seven hundred and fifty schilling!’ It was the first time Kieron had ever heard Master Hobart talk of money. The sum mentioned was enormous. Kieron’s own official allowance was ten schilling a year.

‘Mark you, the fee also includes the time that must be spent and the trouble taken to produce the preliminary sketches which will, with Ludd’s help, take up many of Mistress Alyx’s waking hours during the next eight-week.’

Kieron snorted. ‘More a fee for the diversion than for the portrait, I’ll wager.’

‘My son, it is not for us to dissect Seigneur Fitzalan’s generosity. Now, listen carefully. You have seen my hands. Also you must know by now that I paint horses less elegantly – shall we say – than I might … It is a strange thing, this matter of horses. But all artists have some weakness. No matter. I digress … The point is that you will execute the portrait. It will be a good one, that I already know. And in the matter of the signature, the world shall see that the master has been outstripped by the apprentice. But to return to the fee. Upon Seigneur Fitzalan’s approval and payment, two hundred and fifty schilling shall be sent to Master Gerard, thus to recognise that the son of his flesh and the child of my spirit are formidably one person; two hundred and fifty schilling shall be held for you against your majority and the completion of your apprenticeship; and the remaining two hundred and fifty schilling I will keep, in fee for what I have taught you and to dispose of as I wish … Does this arrangement please you, Kieron?’

For a time, Kieron was at a loss for words. At length, he said: ‘Master Hobart, you destroy me with kindness. I accept your generosity in all except one thing. The signature.’

‘You have seen my hands. I will paint no more. It is true that I will attend to simple matters. My eye is good for design and composition. I can still produce schemes for good murals. But I will paint no more.’

‘I will not have it so!’ shouted Kieron.

Hobart was amazed. ‘My son, these are facts.’

‘Sir, you will sign the canvas Hobart, or I will void my apprenticeship and sell refined flax seed oil for a living.’

‘But why? But why?’ Hobart could not understand why Kieron could decline a sudden rise to fame.

Kieron could not find the right words. But the ones he had to manage with seemed good enough. ‘Because, sir, I have the good fortune to serve and be instructed by a master painter. It is my pleasure to enjoy the privilege. I can say no more.’

Hobart promptly had a fit of coughing to conceal his emotions. Kieron brought him a flask of usquebaugh.

When he went up to the castle on that first morning of his attendance upon Mistress Alyx, it was raining heavily. Which was a good thing in some respects. Kieron wished to give some thought to the problems involved, before he attempted to limn a horse in motion.

Mistress Alyx, dressed in a morning gown of blue linen, cut a trifle high above the ankle and a trifle low above the breast, received him in a long room whose walls were covered with shelves on which lay many books. Kieron had never seen so many books. He stared at them openmouthed, a greedy look in his eyes.

Mistress Alyx, seated at a clavichord, stared at the damp young man with disdain.

‘Well, boy, are you here to gawp at books or to begin making a likeness of me?’

‘Your pardon, Mistress Alyx. Forgive me. I have never seen so many books.’ Kieron advanced awkwardly across a rich Persian carpet, leaving behind him the wet imprint of his boots.