The Lady and the Unicorn (20 page)

At the gate a nun handed Marie-Céleste a basket filled with eggs, bread and beans — a charity basket handed out to the poor. She didn't look back at me or her daughter as she left.

When I got back to Béatrice — still holding a squirming Petite Claude — I said, ‘You and Marie-Céleste grew up here together.’

Béatrice looked startled, then nodded. ‘My mother was widowed when I was young, and joined the convent.’

Petite Claude reached over and pulled a loose strand of Béatrice's hair. Béatrice yelped, and Petite Claude and I chortled.

‘Are you pleased to be back, then?’ I asked.

To my surprise Béatrice looked at me sadly. ‘The happiest day of my life was when your mother chose me to come and be her lady. It is a horror for me to have to live here again.’

I set Petite Claude down so that she could totter through the garden. ‘Then help me to escape.’

Béatrice shook her head. ‘It's better for you to be here, Mademoiselle. You know that. Why do you want to wreck the path of your life? You will marry a nobleman and live grandly. Why would you want anything other than that? There is no greater joy for a woman than to be married,
n'est-ce pas
? Every woman.’

I picked up the embroidery Marie-Céleste had left folded on the bench, the needle threaded through it. I took the needle and jammed it into my finger, just to feel the jolt of pain.

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Look what I have done.’ Then, to torment Béatrice for acting as my gaoler rather than my lady, I began to sing the song that had upset her. She had probably sung it when she was a girl here:

I should be learning
About love
And amorous ways,
But I am
in prison.
May God curse the one
Who put me there!

IV
BRUSSELS
May Day 1491—Septuagesima 1492

GEORGES DE LA CHAPELLE

By the time he arrived we had already been working for hours. Silence had settled on the workshop. No one had spoken even to ask for wool or a bobbin or needle in at least an hour. Even the shifting of the loom pedals was quiet, as if they were muffled with cloth. The women too were quiet, or out — Christine was winding a bobbin with wool thread, Aliénor was working in her garden, and Madeleine was at the market.

I work best when it's quiet. Then I can weave for hours without noticing time pass, thinking of nothing but the coloured threads under my fingers as I pull them back and forth between the warp. But one restless weaver or a chattering woman can make the whole shop unable to settle. We need this silence now to do proper work, if we're ever to finish the tapestries in time. Even when it's quiet these days, often all I can think of is time — of what has gone and what is left, of how we shall manage and what we can do to catch up.

I was sitting between Georges Le Jeune and Luc, finishing the jewels the Lady held in À Mon Seul Désir, while also keeping an eye on my son as he began the hachure on the Lady's shoulder, yellow into red. He was making a good job of it — really I no longer needed to watch as he did it. It is a habit that's hard to break.

The two hired weavers, a father and son called Joseph and Thomas were working on
millefleurs
in Taste. They have done
millefleurs
for me before, and are good and quick at them. And they're quiet, though Thomas uses the pedals on his loom more than he needs to. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose to make noise, as the young often do. I had to teach Georges Le Jeune to shift his pedals quietly and only when he was making a large enough shed. Of course I cannot tell another weaver what to do, but I grit my teeth when Thomas makes such a racket.

It's not easy being the
lissier
. Apart from watching over the others, I weave the hardest parts — the faces and hands, the lion's mane, the unicorn's face and horn, the intricate cloth. I jump between the two tapestries, trying to keep up as the other weavers press on with
millefleurs
and animals, waiting for me to fill the hole in the centre.

I've told the weavers they must be sitting at the looms, ready to start, when the bells of the Chapelle ring — earlier now May has begun. We began at seven this morning. Other workshops may use the bells as a signal to begin preparing for the day, but there's nothing in the Guild rules to say that weavers can't arrive early and study the cartoon to see what they will be weaving that day and make their bobbins ready. Then they can begin the moment the bells sound.

I don't worry about Georges Le Jeune or Luc — they know we have no time to dawdle in the mornings. The other two weavers have managed so far, but it's not their workshop or commission, and though I trust their work — their
millefleurs
are as fine as mine — I wonder sometimes if there will come a day when they find other work that's not so demanding and don't turn up when they should. Joseph hasn't complained, but I've seen Thomas sit down to the loom and stare at it after the bells ring until at last he lifts his hands to the threads as if he had stones tied to his wrists. Yet I need ten months' more work from him, noisy pedals or not. It could be he hasn't properly recovered from his illness this winter. Though Aliénor dosed him and Georges Le Jeune through their fevers, it took them a long time to get well. We have not yet recovered the time lost.

Pray, Christine is always saying. But it takes too much time to pray, and I tell her to go to the Sablon and say our prayers for all of us so that we may remain here and weave instead.

Now I heard voices in the kitchen. Madeleine had come back from market, and brought a man with her. I thought little of it — Madeleine often has swains buzzing around her. One day she'll be stung by one of them.

Then Aliénor came in from the garden, a strange look on her face.

‘What is it?’ Christine asked, breaking the workshop's precious silence.

Aliénor was listening to the sounds in the house. ‘He's come back.’

Georges Le Jeune looked up. ‘Who?’

He needn't have asked. I knew who. Our peace was about to be wrecked — that man can never keep quiet.

Madeleine appeared in the workshop with a silly smile on her face. ‘The Paris man's here,’ she announced.

Nicolas des Innocents appeared behind her, still splattered with mud from the journey, and grinned at us. ‘You're all sitting just as I left you last summer,’ he scoffed. ‘The world goes on, but Brussels never moves.’

I stood. ‘Welcome,’ I said. ‘Christine, drink for our guest. Small beer.’ Although he was a nuisance, I would not have it said of me that I don't welcome visitors, especially those who've travelled far.

Georges Le Jeune began to stand as well, and Luc, until I shook my head at them. Nicolas needn't disrupt everyone's work.

Christine nodded at him as she passed. ‘So you've come for another look, have you?’ She made a gesture with her head that took in both the looms and Aliénor still idling in the doorway.

‘I have indeed, Madame. I had hoped to see Aliénor dancing around a maypole, but I've arrived too late.’

Christine disappeared inside without telling him we'd worked through May Day — though I had let Luc and Thomas go early to see the fair.

As Nicolas stepped down into the workshop, he winced as if he'd stepped on a nail. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

Nicolas shrugged but held his elbow against his side. ‘A little battered from the journey, that's all.’ He turned to Aliénor. ‘And you, Aliénor — how do you keep?’ When he smiled at her I saw that two side teeth were missing, and there was a trace of bruising around his eye. Either he had fallen off a horse or been in a fight. Perhaps there had been thieves along the road.

‘Very well, Monsieur,’ Aliénor said, ‘but the garden is even better. Come and smell the flowers.’

‘In a moment, beauty. I want to have a look at the tapestries first.’

Aliénor smiled wryly. ‘You want to see her, don't you? Well, you've come too early.’

I didn't know what she meant until Nicolas looked at the strip of Taste on the loom. ‘Ah,’ he said, crestfallen. What he could see was a Lady's arm with the hand holding a parakeet, a fold of an overdress, the beginnings of a monkey and the tip of a magpie's wing. And
millefleurs
, of course. To a weaver there was much to admire, but I could see that for a man like Nicolas the strip must be a disappointment. He glanced at À Mon Seul Désir, perhaps hoping for a face there. But there was only another Lady's arm reaching out with her jewels, more overdress, a monkey, and a blue tent flap with golden flames dotted on it.

‘It could be worse,’ Aliénor said. ‘We might already have woven her face and wound her around the roller so that you couldn't see her until the tapestry was done.’

‘Unless you unwound her for me, Mademoiselle.’

‘Papa unwinds tapestries for no one,’ Aliénor replied sharply. ‘It ruins the tension in the warp.’ That was the answer of a
lissier's
daughter.

Nicolas smiled again. ‘Well, then, I shall have to stay until you've woven her.’

‘Is that why you've come all this way — just to see a strip of tapestry?’ I said. ‘That is a long trip for a woman's face.’

Nicolas shook his head. ‘I have business with you, on behalf of Léon Le Vieux.’

I frowned. What could Léon want now? He knew I was too busy for other commissions. And why send this artist rather than come himself? The weavers were all looking at me. Whatever it was, I wanted them working, not listening. ‘Come into the garden, then,’ I said, ‘so you can see Ali—énor's flowers. We can talk there.’

I led the way. As Nicolas followed me through the doorway to the garden, Aliénor stepped aside to let us pass. ‘Go and help your mother,’ I said as she began to follow us. Now it was her turn to look crestfallen, but of course she did as I ordered.

Aliénor's garden is at its best in May. The flowers are fresh and new, not yet faded by the sun. Solomon's seal, periwinkle, violets, columbine, daisies, carnations, forget-me-nots — they were all blooming. Best of all, Aliénor's lily of the valley had its brief flowers, and its strange seductive smell was everywhere. I sat on a bench while Nicolas wandered for a few minutes, sniffing and admiring.

‘I had forgotten how beautiful this garden is,’ he said as he came back to me. ‘It's like a healing balm, especially after many days on the road.’

‘What's brought you here, then?’

Nicolas laughed. ‘As abrupt as ever.’

I shrugged. My hands were twitching — they needed to be weaving. ‘I am a busy man. We've much to do yet.’

Nicolas reached out and plucked a daisy. Aliénor hates people picking her flowers — they're trouble enough to grow without killing them. He began to twirl the bud between his fingers. ‘That's why I'm here,’ he said finally. ‘Jean Le Viste is concerned about getting his tapestries on time.’

That damned merchant, poking around the workshop back during Lent. I knew he was spying for Léon Le Vieux, though he said he was keen to commission me. I hadn't heard from him since.

There was a rustle behind me — Aliénor was crouching in the herb bed with a pair of kitchen shears. She was trying not to be seen, but a blind girl is never good at hiding. ‘What are you doing there, girl?’ I growled. ‘I told you to help your mother.’

‘I am,’ Aliénor faltered. ‘She wanted chervil for the soup.’

Her mother had sent her to listen. I know my wife — she doesn't like to be excluded. I didn't send Aliénor back — she and Christine would know soon enough anyway. ‘Don't repeat what you hear,’ I said to her. ‘Not to weavers, nor the neighbours, nor anyone.’

She nodded and began to cut herbs into her apron.

‘It's nothing to be worried about,’ I said to Nicolas. ‘We did fall behind during the winter because of illness, but we're catching up now. We'll have them done for next Easter as Monseigneur Le Viste has asked.’

Nicolas cleared his throat and squatted to sniff at some carnations and finger their petals. There was something more he wanted to say, I knew, but he was taking his time about it. When Christine appeared with mugs of beer he looked relieved. ‘Ah, thank you, Madame,’ he cried, jumping up and stepping forward to meet her.

Normally Christine would send Madeleine or Aliénor to serve the beer, but this time she had come herself, hoping to hear the news from Nicolas rather than later, second hand, from me. I took pity on her. ‘Sit,’ I said, making room on the bench next to me. Christine might as well hear it too. Whatever it was, it would not be good. We faced Nicolas on the bench, with Aliénor clipping quietly behind us, and waited.

When Nicolas finally got to it — after drinking from his beer and admiring more flowers — he said it bluntly. ‘Jean Le Viste wants his tapestries by Candlemas.’

Aliénor stopped rustling behind us.

‘That's impossible!’ Christine cried. ‘We're working flat out as it is — every moment God gives us.’

‘Can you hire more people?’ Nicolas suggested. ‘Put three weavers on each loom?’

‘No,’ I answered. ‘We can't afford to pay another weaver — if we did that we'd be losing money. I'd be paying Jean Le Viste for the privilege of making the tapestries.’

‘If you finish them sooner you can begin other work sooner, and that will bring you money.’

I shook my head. ‘I have nothing spare to pay anyone — I wouldn't be able to hire a weaver without paying him something first.’

Nicolas made a futile gesture with his hands. ‘Jean Le Viste wants them by Candlemas and is sending soldiers to collect them then. If they aren't done he'll have them seized and not pay what's owed.’

I snorted. ‘Whose soldiers?’

After a pause Nicolas said quietly, ‘The King's.’

‘But the contract says Easter,’ Christine said. ‘He can't break that.’

I waved away her words. Nobles can do what they like. Besides, Léon still held over me the threat of the Magi's green hose. If I had to pay a fine for them, I would certainly be ruined. ‘Why didn't Léon come himself?’ I said with a scowl. ‘I would prefer to discuss this with him.’

Nicolas shrugged. ‘He was too busy.’

Aliénor's rustling stopped again. My daughter is like me in judging people. She has an ear for lies, as I have an eye for them. She heard something in his voice, just as I saw the lie in his eye as it cast about but did not meet mine. He was leaving out part of the story. I didn't ask him, though, for I suspected I wouldn't get it out of him here — perhaps later, in a place where he felt more at home.

‘We'll talk more later,’ I said. ‘At Le Vieux Chien.’ I turned to Christine. ‘Is dinner ready?’

She jumped to her feet. ‘Soon.’

I left him in the garden to finish his beer and went back to the workshop. I did not start weaving again, but stood in the doorway and watched the weavers. They were leaning over their work and sitting very still, like four birds lined up along a tree branch. Occasionally one would push the pedals to shift the threads and change the shed, but apart from that clunk of wood, it was quiet.