7
The following day it rained also. This time Kieron took precautions. He covered his head and shoulders with sackcloth and wrapped his drawing materials and a spare pair of boots in the same material. Then he trudged up to the castle. Before he was taken to Mistress Alyx, he begged leave to straighten his hair and change his boots.
She received him as before, seated at the clavichord in the long, book-lined room.
‘So, boy, you keep time. That is something. And you contrive to appear less bedraggled. That, also, is something. Let us hope that this time you will not ruin good paper … Well, don’t stand there like a scarecrow. Find somewhere to sit, and begin to prove that my dear father is not recklessly throwing away many a good schilling.’
Kieron felt the blood rush to his face. A volley of words struggled to burst from his throat, but he compressed his lips and stifled them. He stood rooted to the spot. There was no chair within reach, so he sat on the carpet.
‘I hope your breeches are clean,’ said Alyx. ‘The carpet came from a far land, of which you are doubtless not aware, and cost more schilling than your poor talent is like to earn you in a lifetime.’
‘Mistress,’ he retorted softly, ‘my breeches are clean, and I am aware that the carpet is of Persian style. Whether it came from Persia, I know not; though I am told that the Flemish weavers now make carpets in the Persian style, which are less costly than the originals and, therefore, of some convenience to the nobility.’
The carpet was Persian, as Kieron well knew. But some retaliation seemed necessary, and he chose the first that came to mind.
‘Impudent peasant!’ stormed Alyx. ‘The carpet is truly Persian.’
‘Mistress Alyx, I am indeed a peasant, and I doubt not your word,’ said Kieron with every possible inference of doubting. ‘May I commence?’ He felt better.
‘Yes, stupid one. Scratch the paper if you must. But let your representation be better than that of yesterday, else I swear my father’s bailiff shall kick you all the way from the castle to Master Hobart’s hovel. The poor man must be in his dotage to have taken such a prentice as you.’
‘I may do him little credit,’ said Kieron, ‘but Master Hobart is the finest painter in the south country. The finished portrait will be to your liking, Mistress. That I can swear.’
For some minutes there was silence. Kieron sketched, Alyx fidgeted, but not too much.
Kieron felt he could get the measure of this young lady. She must be vulnerable. She must be vulnerable, as all women were, to flattery. So, his hand being steady now, he was able to flatter her. He made her eyes larger and more beautiful than they were, he narrowed her waist, he gave fullness to her breasts, he made her hair cascade luxuriantly round her shoulders.
Presently, curiosity overcame her. ‘I would see your scribblings, boy.’
Kieron stood up; but, one leg being stiff and numb from sitting cross-legged to support his drawing board, he promptly fell down.
Alyx laughed. ‘No doubt your legs give way with fear at my disapproval.’
Kieron said nothing. He picked up the drawing, hobbled to the clavichord, and laid the paper before her.
She studied it. ‘My nose is not bent,’ she said, ‘and my ears are smaller. But you have improved somewhat since yesterday. Perhaps there is hope.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
‘I said perhaps,’ she warned. ‘Perhaps means only perhaps.’ She glanced at one of the leaded windows. ‘See. The rain has stopped. Now we shall ride.’
Kieron was nonplussed. ‘Mistress, I do not ride. My commission is only to take your likeness in many attitudes and aspects.’
‘Your commission, boy, is to attend me. It is agreed that Master Hobart shall depict me on horseback. In order for you to make studies of horses, you must be familiar with them – and with me when I ride. Therefore you will ride also. Wait here while I change.’
As Kieron waited, the books on the shelves became as magnets, drawing him. So many books! So many wonderful, glorious books. And they must be old, very old. The neddies, of necessity, permitted the use of printing machines – but only for the dissemination of approved sacred texts. Here were books that dealt not only with the works and life of Ned Ludd but also with all manner of recondite themes.
Mistress Alyx took much time to change into her riding apparel. While he was alone, Kieron began to examine the books. Many of them were immensely old, their bindings nibbled by mice, their papers brown and speckled with the ravages of time. There were works of biography – the lives of the seigneurs of Arundel, and many others – works of history, works concerning the skills of warfare, fanning, hunting; works concerning voyages of discovery, the establishment of trade with far countries; works concerning the study of the stars. And there was one thin, incredibly tattered, incredibly ancient book about the development of infernal machines – including flying machines.
Kieron pored over it greedily. Some of the words were hard, some incomprehensible. Nevertheless, it began to yield information – about people with strange names, who had accomplished strange things, such as the Brothers Montgolfier, Otto Lilienthal, Santos Dumont – until Mistress Alyx returned.
Guiltily, Kieron closed the book and pushed it back into its place on the shelves.
‘Boy, did I give you permission to examine my father’s books?’
‘No, Mistress Alyx.’
‘Then do not presume. Come, we will ride.’
‘I cannot ride, Mistress.’ Kieron had never felt less like attempting to mount a horse.
‘You will ride, boy. It is my wish.’ Alyx had the air of one anticipating much amusement.
The episode was doomed – as Mistress Alyx had intended. She had an old mare saddled for Kieron; so old and so gentle, she told him, that a child barely able to walk would be assured of a safe ride. For herself, Alyx chose a fine, spirited hunter.
Having had the grooms hoist Kieron more or less bodily into the saddle, Alyx led the way, allowing her horse to amble down the hill from the castle and among the cluster of houses that marked the growing township. Kieron followed as best he could, his teeth rattling somewhat in his head, and his bottom rising from the saddle and hitting it again somewhat heavily.
People looked up as Mistress Alyx rode by. Women curtsied, men touched their hats. They marvelled indeed to see that she was accompanied by Kieron the prentice boy, and were amused at his obvious discomfiture. Petrina saw him struggling anxiously to retain his seat, and could not repress a smile. Two or three idle apprentices made so bold as to cheer.
Once Arundel was behind, Alyx allowed her horse to canter. The open grazing land was still soggy from the rain, but the going was not too bad. Except for Kieron. Independent of anything he might do, the old mare seemed to take guidance from the hunter – or secretly from Mistress Alyx.
Soon Kieron had abandoned the reins and was hanging on desperately to his poor animal by its mane. Inevitably, he fell off.
Mistress Alyx had chosen to ride by the bank of the river Arun, now swollen with the rains. It was a cunning choice; for when Kieron became unseated there was an even chance that he would fall on the river side.
Ludd was not with him, and he did. He fell into a large patch of mud, taking much of the fall upon his shoulder and the rest upon his backside as he rolled over. It was worse than a body slam at wrestling on the green.
Alyx laughed heartily. ‘So, prentice, your horsemanship is the equal of your limning. Mount again, boy. Do not look so dazed. I do not choose to wait here for ever.’
Kieron mounted, somehow. Aching and bruised, he managed to get back on to the mare. He did not stay in the saddle for long. The next time, however, he had the good sense to fall not on the river side but on the pasture side. It hurt more, but there was no mud. He got to his feet, shaking and aching. Blindly, he tried to get back into the saddle.
‘Enough, boy. You have so terrified my gentle mare that she will throw you as soon as she feels your weight. Follow me bac
k to the castle. I will go slow. Lead her carefully. She is not accustomed to boors.’
Alyx turned her horse round and, hardly glancing at Kieron, headed back through Arundel to the castle. Still showing extensive streaks of mud on his face and clothes, and visibly shaken, Kieron followed her, casting many nervous glances backwards at the docile mare he was leading.
The townsfolk who were about surveyed the spectacle and took care not to let Mistress Alyx see their amusement. However, they also took care that Kieron-head-in-the-air, whose muddy face was now downcast, should see. Worst of all, Petrina, having made purchases at the bakery, was now returning home with a basketful of fresh bread. At first, when she saw Kieron, her expression was one of horror; then slowly it changed, and she could not repress a smile. The smile hurt him as if it had been a blow.
At the castle, solemn-faced grooms relieved him of the mare. A lackey, commanded by Alyx, went through the motions of cleaning him up a little, with obvious distaste for the task. Kieron’s clothes were of good, honest doeskin and wool. The lackey wore linen and velvet. Kieron thought it would be a heaven-sent convenience if he were suddenly to die.
Unfortunately, Ludd was not merciful. He remained alive. Mistress Alyx, with no expression at all on her face, directed him to attend her in the library. He followed submissively, resolving to gather up his materials and take leave of her as soon as possible.
His sketch and drawing board were on the Persian carpet where he had left them: Alyx seemed not to notice their existence. She went straight to the clavichord; and her riding boots, still wet and bearing traces of mud, left their imprint upon Kieron’s sketch as she walked over it.
Suddenly he knew that he had reached the limits of endurance. To take more humiliation from this spoilt girl would be to accept more than his manhood could permit.
‘Enough, bitch!’ he cried. ‘I have had more than enough of you!’
Alyx turned to him, affecting surprise, indignation. Cool and controlled indignation. ‘Boy, you have exceeded yourself. You have used a certain word in my presence and directed at my person. For that I will have you whipped from the castle. Your apprenticeship will be dissolved and you will be sent forth to live as best you may on nuts in the woods.’
‘Not before I have taught you a lesson,’ retorted Kieron icily. ‘Mistress, I am a freeborn man and I have dignity. Your blood may be noble, but your manners are exceedingly crude.’
And with that, he lifted her bodily, sat upon the stool by the clavichord and proceeded to spank her bottom with much vigour and enthusiasm.
Alyx screamed. Kieron enjoyed her screaming mightily. He was enjoying it so much that he was unaware of the doors of the library bursting open as servants rushed in. He was aware of nothing but the exquisite pleasure of spanking this spoilt child who presumed to be a woman. He was aware of nothing else until hands seized him and he was struck on the head and sank into oblivion.
8
He awoke to find himself in what seemed to be the castle donjon. He awoke because a pailful of cold water had been hurled at his face. He awoke to find himself hanging by his hands from manacles fastened into the stone wall. He awoke to find that his wrists ached, his arms ached, his shoulders ached, his head ached. He awoke to find that Seigneur Fitzalan, seated on a chair, was facing him. By Seigneur Fitzalan’s side stood the castle gaoler. Behind his chair stood the Mistress Alyx.
They will kill me, thought Kieron hazily. I care not. Better to die like a man than live like a sheep.
‘So, prentice, you are kind enough to rejoin us.’ Seigneur Fitzalan’s voice was pleasant, gentle, even. But his countenance was stern. Kieron saw no mercy in it.
‘Forgive me, Seigneur,’ said Kieron with accidental humour, ‘I was not conscious of your presence.’
‘Ha!’ Seigneur Fitzalan permitted himself a thin smile. ‘I will remember the jest … Well, boy, you struck the Mistress Alyx, repeatedly, in a place to which no gentleman cares to refer. Before I determine your fate, I would have you know that this is a precedent. Derive some satisfaction from it, if you may. Previous to your assault, no man – not even I – had ever laid hand upon my daughter in anger. What, then, have you to say?’
‘Nothing, Seigneur,’ said Kieron after a moment or two of reflection. It would be stupid to plead for mercy. It would be stupid to try to explain the provocation.
‘So, boy, you are fairly condemned?’
‘I struck Mistress Alyx, Seigneur. I intended no permanent damage. That is all.’ He looked vaguely at Alyx. She was no longer the imperious young lady. She seemed white-faced, unhappy. Well, thought Kieron, let my death lie on her conscience for ever.
‘That is all?’ thundered Fitzalan. ‘That is all?’
‘Seigneur,’ said the gaoler, ‘allow me to encourage him.’
‘Be silent, fellow,’ snapped Fitzalan irritably. ‘A knock on the head and his present situation ought to be sufficiently encouraging for the time being … Well, prentice, you have spoken. You have nothing further to add?’
Kieron thought for a moment. There was much that could be added, of course, but best keep it to essentials.
‘I pray that my actions will not reflect upon Master Hobart, who is a kindly man and a great painter, and responsible for no actions but his own. I pray also that my parents be held free from blame. It was simply their misfortune to beget me. Already, they have their punishment.’
Seigneur Fitzalan made rumbling noises in his throat. His moustache quivered. Mistress Alyx leaned forward and, looking at Kieron, began to stroke her father’s long silver hair.
‘As to your punishment, prentice, I have given some thought to it. At first, I was minded to have your head struck off, as an example to all upstarts and mischief-makers, of which there are always a few in any domain. Then, since such a punishment was somewhat final and likely to be forgotten by many in a twelve-month, I was inclined to clemency, striking off only the offending hand and blinding the offending eyes.’
Kieron shuddered. Death was preferable to clemency.
‘However,’ continued Seigneur Fitzalan, ‘my daughter Alyx, who is not without a mind of her own, suggested a more ingenious punishment.’
Kieron’s mouth ran dry. The horrors already mentioned seemed bad enough. But, evidently, they were not sufficient to give Mistress Alyx the satisfaction she required.
‘So, prentice, you will endure the punishment that Mistress Alyx has recommended, since she is the offended party.’
‘Seigneur,’ said Kieron quickly, ‘I accept death by decapitation. It is just.’
‘Do you, now? The choice lies not in your province, boy. Think yourself fortunate.’
Kieron did not think himself fortunate. The axe was quick, whereas whatever Mistress Alyx had devised was likely to be slow.
‘I sentence you,’ said Seigneur Fitzalan, smiling faintly, ‘to attend Mistress Alyx upon her request, to execute such drawings as are necessary, and never again to raise your hand towards her in anger lest mine be raised fearfully against you … You are lucky, boy, that my daughter enjoys peculiar whims and also has womanly methods of twisting my resolution. Well, what say you?’
Kieron’s mouth opened and closed, but no words would come.
‘Loose him, father. The boy has suffered enough.’ Alyx gazed compassionately at Kieron. It was the first time she had spoken.
Fitzalan cast a despairing glance at ceiling. ‘When will I ever understand the ways of a woman?’ Then he signalled to the gaoler, and Kieron was released from the manacles.
He found his tongue. ‘I thank you, Seigneur, for the mercy you have shown.’
Fitzalan laughed. ‘Mercy, by Ludd! Speak to me of mercy when Mistress Alyx has taken her vengeance. Now get from this place and pray somewhat.’
9
The following day, Kieron presented himself at the castle as usual; but Mistress Alyx chose not to receive him. He returned to Hobart’s house dejected, convinced that Alyx had had time for reflection and that the co
mmission was lost, seven hundred and fifty schilling and all. He supposed he ought to count himself lucky that he got out of the affair as lightly as he did. But he was truly mortified. He was mortified because he feared that his conduct might reflect upon Master Hobart, and that the old man might lose other commissions also.
He had related the entire story as accurately as he could, adding nothing, omitting nothing. He had expected that Hobart would be dismayed and also disgusted with him, would wish to beat him certainly, and quite likely would desire to end the apprenticeship.
He was right in that Hobart was dismayed. He was wrong in that Hobart would be disgusted.
‘My son, I see that Mistress Alyx used you cruelly. Forgive me. I know that she is a wilful woman. I did not know that she would abuse her position. It matters not if we are out of favour at the castle. I liked this commission but little, anyway. What matters most is that you survived the incident.’ He tried to laugh, but wound up with a fit of coughing that needed to be settled by usquebaugh. ‘In any case, we have the refined flax seed oil, for which the demand will be prodigious.’
Kieron was amazed. ‘You are not angry?’
‘Yes, I am angry that talent should be impeded by temperament. What is Alyx Fitzalan? Nothing but the daughter of Seigneur Fitzalan. That is her sole significance. But you, Kieron, are an artist and quite possibly a man of genius. It is unfortunate that you beat her – though I rejoice in the thought, having had some temptation myself – yet it is not disastrous. Fitzalan was wise enough not to pursue the matter. We shall live.’
‘Sir, I am grateful.’
‘Say no more, Kieron. Tomorrow we will fish for trout.’
But, on the following day a lackey brought a summons. The Mistress Alyx Fitzalan desired that Kieron, apprentice of Hobart, attend her with his drawing materials.
‘You will not go,’ said Hobart. ‘I will plead illness.’
‘Sir, I must go,’ said Kieron. ‘It is part of the sentence.’
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 5
