by Toni Mount
The second letter was bulky indeed. It was, in truth, two letters folded together and, within, a small packet also, wrapped separately. Jude was safe, having crossed the Alps – the same as the alpines mentioned in the previous letter? – that was the main thing and a balm for my heart. In the earlier, written upon St Nicholas’ day the sixth of December, he told of Venice. The place sounded such a marvel that I read that part aloud at dinner:
We came by river boat to Venezia… Such a place it is, little brother. Water everywhere. Like Brugge, it has canals but the buildings are so grand indeed. The Doge’s Palace is beyond even your imaginings, Seb, like an alchemist’s conjuration. I know not how to describe to you such a miracle of intricate carvings and smooth marble and such colours as dazzle the eye. We stay now at the house of Alessandro’s parents; I think he calls it the Casa dell’Angelo or some such, where instead of a street below the window, there is a broad canal that laps against the front door. Imagine if Paternoster Row was a river! Their house is nigh as grand as the Doge’s, if a little smaller, I believe. In truth, I’m not certain of its extent, but Alessandro has promised to show me the whole of the Casa dell’Angelo – it means the House of the Angel – tomorrow.
The third letter informed me that he was spending the season of Christ’s Mass with the wealthy Baldesi family of merchants and bankers. They had interests in Florence and Venice but were at their villa in Ravenna for the celebrations. Part of this letter was unfit reading for mealtime, so I perused it in silent wise:
As at Giorgio’s house in Vittorio, of which I told you in my last letter, this place also has a comely daughter and – isn’t it always my misfortune? – she too is betrothed, so I learned last eve. And who is her future husband? The gouty, one-legged uncle who’s sixty, if he’s a day! Can you believe it, Seb? This beauteous raven-haired creature, Francesca-Antonia, is to wed that disgusting old man. She confided to me as we escaped the crowded house to linger under the olive trees in the garden how much she hates the prospect of being wedded to him. At least they are awaiting her fifteenth birthday at the end of January before celebrating these obnoxious nuptials. But I feel sorry for the lass indeed. To be wedded to Methuselah will be a torment to her. If his bean-sized prick can ever oblige her, I’ll be surprised. She may be young but seems a lusty wench to me, if given the chance.
However, I read aloud the delightful post scriptum:
You must visit Ravenna, Seb. The gold and colours of the mosaics in the churches here will have you in an ecstasy. Even I’m in awe of their splendour. We’ve never seen the like in England. My favourite mosaic was in the Basilica – that’s a church – of St Apollinare Nuovo, an image of Christ in Judgement with St Michael, the good archangel in red, upon his right hand, and Lucifer in blue, the fallen archangel, upon the left. (Lucifer with his straight dark hair had somewhat the look of you, little brother.) Some repairs to a damaged mosaic having been abandoned for the holy days, I picked up a few fallen tesserae. They are my New Year’s gift to you, in the little packet, that you might see the colours for yourself.
‘You must visit Ravenna…’ As if that was ever likely to come to pass. I tipped out the contents of the folded paper packet onto the white linen tablecloth. The tiny squares of glass, smaller than my thumbnail, were coloured with lapis lazuli from Venice, the brightest crimson and gold leaf, imperial purple and silver. We all of us gasped at their shining beauty. Numbered in the thousands upon a wall or ceiling, the effect must be dazzling, wondrous, even magickal to behold.
So engrossed was I with Jude’s epistles, I nigh forgot the other letter. Belatedly, I opened it and was much surprised to learn it had come from Guy Linton – he with whom I had been apprenticed to Master Collop – by way of the Stationers’ Guild. He had not specified the purpose of his letter except to insist, with much under-scoring, that the matter was ‘most urgent’. He wrote that he required me to call upon him this very day. ’Twas hardly a courteous request and one I felt inclined to ignore. Yet he sounded desperate and had once been my fellow. I groaned inwardly, as if I had not enough matters to occupy me already and King Edward’s commission not yet begun in earnest. But, out of respect for Master Collop, rather than for Linton’s sake, I knew I must go.
Guy Linton’s Place, Gracechurch Street
After all these years, I could not understand why the fellow would send such a message, asking me to call. Guy Linton may have been an apprentice with me at Master Collop’s workshop, but he was six years or more my elder, completing his term of indenture whilst I had barely begun to learn my craft.
I recall, even when we worked together, he was ne’er especially friendly towards me. Upon occasion, Master Collop would have Guy demonstrate some aspect of our art to me… One time, our master instructed him to show me how to prepare lapis lazuli pigment, if I recall aright. Ever a detailed process, he had no patience and could not trouble himself to demonstrate the secrets to me, watching as I did my best to grind the precious stone to the correct degree – too fine and the pigment would be dull, instead of the heavenly blue desired. Insufficiently fine would have the same result and make the egg tempera gritty. I erred upon the side of caution. Once lapis was ground too much, there was no saving it. Master Collop was unimpressed with my results but relieved that I had not ruined the pigment beyond saving. Had the lapis been wasted, if I had gone too far, it would have cost the business a deal of money. He gave Guy a sound beating for failing to direct me. My fellow ne’er forgave me for that since the thrashing was a thorough one, made the harder by our master’s anger.
After that, Guy treated me with contempt, calling me Lame-Duck, and worse, when e’er Master Collop could not hear, for so I was in those days: lame indeed. His sneering disdain and hurtful actions – tripping me, hiding the staff I used to aid my walking and striking me at every opportunity – were the bane of those early days of my apprenticeship. I felt naught but relief when he departed to serve as a journeyman in some other workshop.
In the years since, I had seen him but rarely, passing in the street and at one or two guild meetings, but no words had been exchanged betwixt us, not so much as a greeting.
So why should Guy Linton now be asking me to do him the courtesy of calling at his workshop in Gracechurch Street? It made no sense and I was yet of half a mind to ignore the request. However, curiosity got the better of sound judgement… and we all know what curiosity did to the unfortunate cat.
I made my way across the city. Nigh unto Midsummer so it was, according to the calendar, yet the sky was overcast and a chill breeze blew up river from the east, bearing the scent of the faraway estuary, the stink of the dyers’ vats at Whitechapel beyond the city wall and snatches of plainsong chant from Trinity Priory. The wind had twice attempted to rob me of my cap and Gawain’s ears were blown aback, his glossy coat rippling.
From the Stocks Market, I went along Lombard Street and found my destination. Guy Linton’s establishment appeared prosperous. It stood upon a sizeable corner plot, the house entrance being in Lombard Street, ’neath an elegant tiled porch, shielding from the weather its blue-painted door with the brass lion’s-head knocker. A grand place indeed. But I had not been asked to come to the house. This was not to be a social visit and why should it be? We were not friends. I supposed he wished to discuss a business matter. In which case, it would have been more courteous if he did attend upon me, in Paternoster Row. However, I was intrigued to know more.
I found the workshop entrance around the corner, opening off Gracechurch Street, hard by the church of Allhallows. As with the house door, this also had a tiled porch and a striped awning stretched beside to give shelter to the items displayed on the open counter-board. This day, pamphlets were held down with polished brass weights to keep them from blowing away.
Afore I should make myself known, I took the opportunity to assess the standards of workmanship of the pamphlets. I expected them to be of the highest, seeing Guy had been trai
ned by Master Collop, and such grand premises suggested he earned a good living. Thus, I was surprised to see, despite the reasonable penmanship, no decoration but a few plain rubrics. Mayhap, they were done by his apprentices but, if Kate had produced the like, I would not have felt inclined to display them so prominently, as if they were my best wares. Not that Kate’s work was ever so dull and mediocre as these.
The few books upon the counter were lavishly bound but, upon closer inspection, were simply rebindings of old texts and I could find fault with the stitching, blocking and finishing. In one case, the gold leaf was already coming away at the edges from the embossed lettering of the title and the spine was awry, causing the leather to pull unevenly. Such inferior workmanship would ne’er stand the test of time. I admit, I was heartened to learn that Guy Linton’s wares were not comparable to mine. Was it just professional vanity on my part that I felt well pleased? Or was it a more personal pleasure because I had no fondness for a fellow who used to bully me in my crippled youth? Yet I wondered how come, with little to recommend his goods for sale, he could afford such a fine house and workshop.
The shop door stood open. Since it faced easterly, bits of leaf, torn blossom and scraps of straw blew in, swirling into corners and ruffling papers. With one last puzzled thought concerning my presence here, I called to Gawain and stepped into the workshop.
A heavy-set man looked up from his ledger. A momentary frown gave way to a smile of recognition.
‘Well, Foxley. You decided to come then?’ Guy Linton stood up, holding out an ink-stained hand in welcome. It matched my own as I accepted the gesture.
‘You requested me to do so, otherwise…’
‘You’d never set foot in my workshop from choice, eh? Come along in, have some ale. No doubt you’re wondering why I asked you here.’
I followed Guy through a doorway, into a workplace much like that back at Paternoster Row except for its grave air of disorganisation and misuse. A grey-haired fellow was bent over a desk, copying a text at some speed.
‘Make yourself scarce, Ralf. Go to the tavern. I have things to discuss – privily – with Foxley here.’
‘Aye, Master Linton. How long should I be gone?’
‘An hour will do… and no longer, if you want a day’s wage.’
Ralf the journeyman departed. An elderly soul, he was just as bowed upon standing as when labouring at his desk. Mayhap, he had some maladjustment of his bones, as I once had, afore the Almighty, in His infinite mercy, granted me a miracle. He touched his cap to me courteously in passing.
Looking around, there was but one other desk. Considerably well crafted and ornate, I surmised that it was Guy’s own. There was no sign that anyone else worked here: no indication of an apprentice to learn the trade. Mayhap, that was as well. Unless Guy was much changed by the intervening passage of years, I could not think that he would have patience with an untrained youngster, to instil the rudiments of the craft into a novice’s head and guide uncertain hands.
‘Sit yourself on Ralf’s stool and tell me, Foxley,’ Guy said, handing me a chased pewter cup brimming with ale. ‘How’s business in Paternoster Row these days?’
I moved the stool to avoid a spillage of ink upon the floor and sipped the ale. It was a good brewing.
‘’Tis passing fair. We have commissions enough to keep us occupied until leaf-fall. And you?’
‘No shortage of work for us, either,’ he confirmed and yet his eyes slid away and he did not look at me. ‘Caxton’s bloody contraption should be chopped to kindling, though, denying proper scribes their rightful livelihood. Is the wretch’s printing interfering with your profits?’
‘It would do so, if we relied on pamphlet sales for our income but we produce other work besides. Illuminated books, coats-of-arms, shop and inn signs and a few portraits, such things becoming the fashion of late.’
‘Aye, I saw the portrait you did of Ol’ Collop last year to hang in the Stationers’ Hall. It looked very like the miserable bugger, I’ll give you that.’
I disapproved of his speaking so disrespectfully of our one-time master but held my peace, drinking the ale to cool the beginnings of anger’s heat. I had painted a likeness of Master Richard Collop last autumn, when he was elected to replace the felonious Clifford as Warden Master of the Stationers’ Guild. It was the least I could do after his intervention had restored my reputation and returned my name to the guild roll. I had asked no payment since it was a gift, yet I had been repaid right well because the portrait brought in a number of commissions, serving to advertise my skills.
‘Have you ventured into other fields?’ I asked.
‘Indeed I have and most successfully too. A month since, a wealthy vintner commissioned me to paint his portrait.’
‘Ah.’ I finished my ale, still no wiser concerning my visit here. Was idle chit-chat Guy’s only purpose? I doubted it. ‘I thank you for the ale, Master Linton, but I too have work demanding my attention.’
‘Don’t go, Foxley. Have more ale. I need your advice.’
‘My advice? Concerning what?’
He made to refill my cup but I covered it with my hand, shaking my head. It was a strong brew and I would not spend the rest of the day half befuddled.
‘The portrait. Don’t get me wrong: ’tis well-executed, finely painted but… well… it just doesn’t look like the bastard that sits for it. I can’t get a decent likeness, however much I repaint the damned thing. I thought you might…’
‘Might make suggestions? But how can I when I have ne’er seen the subject? I may advise upon methods of applying paint but not upon improving the likeness.’
‘Well, that’s why I asked you to come this morn. I have to go to the vintner’s house after dinner for his next sitting but he’s getting impatient, wanting to see what he’s, er, paying for. I daren’t show him. He’s not much to look at anyway but the portrait makes him look like a bloody gargoyle with a toothache. I just can’t get it right but I can’t see where it’s wrong, either. I need your help, Seb. That’s the truth. I can’t afford to fail in this commission.’
So, it was ‘Seb’ now, was it, in friendly wise? Not ‘Foxley’, nor ‘Lame-Duck’. At least I understood his purpose.
‘Will you help me, for the sake of our shared apprenticeship? So Ol’ Collop may keep his good name as a master and teacher of fine craftsmen? Please?’
‘Oh, very well, but only for Master Collop’s sake. Show me the work afore your appointment with the sitter.’
Guy took a stout board, draped with a linen covering, that leaned against the wall beside his desk. He hesitated, reluctant to reveal his unsatisfactory handiwork.
‘There!’ he said, shoving it at me and turning away. ‘Don’t tell me how inept it is. I know it’s a poor effort but this is my first portrait. I can improve, if you tell me what I’ve done wrong.’
I removed the cover and took the painting to the window, the better to view it in the light of day. Guy was correct: it was a poor effort. There was no need for me to belabour the fact. Whether it looked like the vintner or not, the arrangement of the sitter, full face, was ill-chosen. The velvet hangings of a golden hue were expensive, no doubt, but only served to reflect upon the sitter’s complexion and turn his skin to the unhealthy jaundiced colour I observed. The hands were as shapeless as uncooked sausages, the face quite out of proportion, the ears far too large – unless the sitter was a very strange-looking fellow, indeed. There were so many things amiss with the portrait, I hardly knew what to say of it. In truth, to begin anew was likely my best advice but if this was Guy’s first attempt at portraiture, that was not helpful and unlikely to assist his improvement for the future.
‘In the main,’ I said, ‘’Tis the proportions of the face. Unless your sitter has no forehead to speak of, and exceptionally prominent cheekbones… Look at my face: ’tis of reasonable shape. See how my eyes be roughly ha
lfway betwixt the crown of my head and my chin. And the tops of my ears be level with the bridge of my nose. Do you see that?’
Guy frowned at me, squinting, then nodded.
‘Now look at your painting. Can you see that the eyes be too high, making the nose and cheeks over long and no room for the forehead? Remember what Master Collop used to tell us whenever we attempted to draw anything living, whether a flower, a butterfly or a horse: “Draw what you truly observe with your eyes; not what you think you see in your head”. I fear you have failed to observe your sitter truly. Therein lies your problem.’
Guy looked about to object to my lecture but then shrugged and sighed.
‘I ne’er paid much heed to Ol’ Collop when he prattled on about how to draw. I’m not much of a one for sketching; curlicues and vine leaves are decoration enough to my mind. I don’t hold with filling the margins with a host of worms and weeds and such like.’
‘But you sketched out your sitter’s pose and a rough likeness before you began the painting proper…’
‘Why would I waste my time? He wants a portrait, not a pile of loose papers.’
‘The preliminary drawings be for your benefit; not his. They enable you to recall the pose for subsequent sittings, to ensure the image of the figure will fit the board, else you may find you cannot include the top of the head…’ I looked once more at Guy’s work. ‘That is what happened, is it not? That is why the sitter has no forehead: when you did his hat and his hair, there was insufficient room for it. This will not do; you cannot expect anyone to pay good coin for it. I fear ’tis fit for kindling wood and little else. I suggest you return the fellow’s down payment and apologise; admit to him that you cannot do it.’
