by Toni Mount
‘I can’t. That’s why you have to help me, Seb.’
‘Return the money…’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake!’ Guy closed his eyes as a man in pain. ‘There is no bloody money. I owe him a-a huge favour… he said he will consider it repaid, if I paint his portrait for him. He’s seen the likeness you did of the previous mayor before the new fellow was elected.’
‘Humphrey Hayford.’
‘That’s him. The vintner admires it, apparently, and… well… I told him… I painted it.’
‘You told him that? How dare you claim my work for your own? The guild will hear of this.’ I slammed my cup down upon the board, unmannerly, and made to leave.
Guy rushed to block the door, barring my way. His face was pitiful. He was wringing his hands.
‘I’m so sorry. I swear I’ll make amends to you, Seb. I know I was wrong but matters are desperate. If I don’t do this portrait, all sorts of horrible consequences will follow. I have no choice. Now do you understand? Please. You must help me. I’m begging you…’
I must be a lackwit to have embroiled myself in Guy Linton’s mess, he being no friend to me. Mayhap, I considered what Master Collop would wish of me. Or the reputation of the Stationers’ Guild. Or could it be my own vanity that urged me on, convinced I could surpass my fellow’s feeble attempts and put him to shame? Whatever my reasoning, I did not do it that Guy could save face. But, fool that I be, I agreed to abet him in his subterfuge. Naught else in my profession thus far has caused me greater trouble.
Chapter 5
Monday afternoon
Mallard Court in Gracechurch Street
The vintner, Clement Mallard, lived in a grand place further up Gracechurch Street, opposite the Leadenhall. Guy Linton’s premises had impressed me but this establishment was close kin to Crosby Place, where the Duke of Gloucester resided when in London. I recalled that it had also been built for a wealthy merchant, the grocer John Crosby. Clement Mallard could likewise afford a similar fine house, with its grand gated entrance into a paved courtyard and marble steps leading up to the great hall beyond. It was as well that I be familiar with Crosby Place, else I may have felt intimidated by Mallard Court.
I followed Guy – apparently, we were upon such terms now that the use of first-names was permitted – up the steps, into the hall. I remained somewhat behind him, posing as his humble assistant. Thus was I laden like a pack-horse, carrying the offending portrait and a good deal of artist’s paraphernalia besides my own scrip. I disliked this subterfuge more with each passing minute.
‘You’re late, Linton,’ Mallard growled by way of greeting. ‘And who’s this?’ The vintner waved his hand vaguely in my direction, frowning. ‘I don’t want anybody coming here, uninvited. You know that.’
‘Ignore him, Master Mallard. He’s only my assistant. I needed help, carrying my stuff, is all.’ Thus, Linton introduced me. ‘Set up the easel, brushes and pigments there, by the fireplace,’ he instructed me, ‘And then sit out of the way, behind my line of sight, and keep silent. Don’t disturb me at my work.’
I made no answer. The reply that sprang to mind was not of a suitably servile nature but I did as bidden. I sat just behind and to the left of Guy, such that I might view the sitter from the same angle, taking out my charcoal and cheap papers ready pinned to my drawing board in such wise as not to attract the vintner’s eye. I had commenced my first sketch afore Guy had even settled the half-painted portrait upon the easel and dipped his brush.
The subject had little to recommend it. A true likeness would not be one that any but the blind could possibly take pleasure in gazing at. I should not want it hung upon my wall. The expression would turn ale sour and set children wailing. In truth, the physical features were of common proportions – not as Guy had painted them – and naught out of the ordinary, topped by thinning grey hair. But the eyes held such malevolence as I had ne’er espied in any other. If the eyes be the windows of the soul, as we be told, then this one must surely be beyond saving, belonging to Satan already. I was hard-pressed not to cross myself. Suspicious brows were drawn low over these twin pools of darkness, as though to keep their secrets hidden. Even as I drew them, I shivered. Creating their likeness chilled me.
The skin had an unhealthy, jaundiced hue – Guy had painted it aright; it was not wholly caused by light reflecting from the golden curtains – and lay upon the bones beneath like a creased bed sheet. Every line bore the mark of ill-humour. These were not the characterful wrinkles of old age but the deep-scoured imprints of malice and spite. It was hard to gauge this sitter’s age at all but the gnarled fingers, contorted by swollen joints, suggested three score years, or thereabouts, at least.
But, as Master Collop used to instruct: I drew what I saw; five minutes of worthwhile observation giving birth to a few lines of exactitude. In a short space, I had the sketches required of the sitter and tucked my board away in my scrip, out of sight, glad to turn my eyes to more pleasing views.
The parlour at Mallard Court was well appointed. A gilded ceiling looked to be well constructed and I noted the carving on the beams of what I first thought to be a skein of geese in flight. But no. Of course, they were ducks: mallards, a play upon the vintner’s name. A carven mantle surrounded the fireplace, and here, too, images of ducks outnumbered all else. I had ne’er considered these birds to be evil creatures. My son loved to watch them swimming on the water of the Horse Pool and they gave me pleasure also, admiring the iridescent plumage of the drakes, their determined waddling gait upon land. Yet these ducks looked to thirst for blood. I turned away to gaze out the window. I was becoming over-fanciful, imagining such foolish things as ill-intentioned ducks.
When Guy breathed a heavy sigh and turned to me, holding out his brushes, indicating that I – being but his lowly assistant – should clean them, the vintner pushed out of his cushioned chair.
‘Show me the portrait,’ he demanded. ‘I have waited long enough to see your handiwork, Linton. I will see it – now!’
‘No, no, Master Mallard.’ Guy threw a cloth over the portrait, despite the likelihood that the last strokes of egg tempera were yet wet. ‘’Tis ill-luck to see it in its unfinished state.’
‘Who says so?’
‘’Tis a well-known fact, I assure you. Isn’t that right?’ Guy looked at me, his desperation clear.
‘I have heard it said,’ was all I would offer in support.
‘Next time, it will be finished, master, then you can view it as you wish. I promise you.’
Master Mallard muttered to himself, glaring at Guy.
‘Next time, then, and woebetide you, Linton, if it’s not finished. I’ve wasted enough time on this damned porterate business. I have more important matters to attend to.’ With that, he stomped out of the parlour, leaving us to clear and tidy away the materials and equipment. We had not been offered so much as a cup of water and the chamber had grown stuffy and over-warm as the afternoon sun poured through the glazed windows. In truth, with the need for subterfuge ended, I stood back and watched Guy pack up his things. Every craftsman has his own way of it, I told my conscience; better if he does it himself. Indeed, he ‘tidied’ his things much in the manner of his workshop – that is to say, in careless wise, with no thought to ensuring his brush-ends would dry in goodly shape nor securing his pigment pots to preserve the precious powders. E’en so, I helped him carry his stuff back down Gracechurch Street to his house where he had manners enough to offer me ale.
‘How do you wish me to portray the man?’ I asked as we sipped our cups. ‘If I paint a true likeness, I doubt it will please him but aught else will be an untruth.’
‘That was part of my difficulty, Seb, having to invent a new face for the old bugger. A proper likeness will never do: he’ll murder me if he doesn’t have a far more pleasant appearance in the portrait. You understand my dilemma?’
‘I do but
I mislike the thought of producing a counterfeit. Wilfully creating a fake image is not my way.’
‘But all images are fakes, are they not? You create a likeness of a man, yet it isn’t the living, breathing person, is it?’
‘Nay, I suppose that be the case.’ I yet felt discomfited at the thought of purposefully changing the appearance of Our Lord God’s handiwork. The Almighty had created Clement Mallard as suited His divine purpose. Who was I to say it should be otherwise?
‘Surely, ’tis no worse than a woman lightening her hair with camomile water, or an old man hiding the grey of his beard with walnut juice? I don’t see your difficulty, Seb.’
I was unsurprised that he could not. Guy Linton and I had so few matters in common. Finer feelings were not among them.
‘How will you proceed?’ he asked. ‘When can I have the portrait finished? You saw how impatient he is become.’
I heaved a sigh. I should have to confess my error at the first opportunity and beg Our Lord’s forgiveness for tampering with His creation.
‘I shall do it this eve. The figure must be re-done entirely but I may leave the setting for the most part as you have painted it. That much, at least, will be your own work. There be naught amiss with your methods. But hear me, Guy, this will be the only occasion upon which I rescue you from the hole you have dug for yourself. Do not claim my work as your own e’er again. I do this for Master Collop alone, not for you. Do we have a firm agreement on this?’
‘We do, Seb. And I’ll not forget the favour I owe you for saving my reputation – and my neck.’
‘I have not done so, as yet. It will depend on whether Master Mallard approves the work once ’tis completed.’
‘And he’s hard to please; that’s for certain. But I’m grateful all the same.’
I left Gracechurch Street to walk home, encumbered by the portrait – well wrapped in cloth for I would not want anyone to see it and think it my handiwork – and a box of Guy’s pigments for he had made use of some I did not have in my workshop. Our deception required that the materials remained consistent.
The Foxley House
Gawain greeted me at the kitchen door like a long-lost lover. It was rare that I should leave him at home but Guy had warned me that the vintner had even less liking for dogs than he did for his fellow men. Besides, Gawain would have attracted more attention to me – he being of a size and enthusiasm for life that was impossible to overlook.
Rose, Nessie and Kate were in the kitchen and such laughter filled the place as I had not heard for so long. Rose was mixing a batter, Nessie was stirring the pottage pot and Kate was arranging the tablecloth upon the board but such outbursts of merriment hampered their tasks. Kate dabbed tears from her eyes and Nessie clutched her ribs with one hand whilst stirring the pot with the other.
‘Clearly, I have missed some fine jest,’ I said, setting down my burden to pat the dog and take little Dickon upon my knee.
‘You’ve not heard such stories in your life, master,’ Kate said. ‘Rose met someone at the market in Cheapside who told the most wondrous tales. Tell Master Seb, Rose.’
‘Come, Rose, I should appreciate a cheering story, after the dire company I have endured this afternoon.’
‘Which shall you hear? The one about the pot-herbs is most amusing.’
‘Whichever pleases you, Rose.’
‘Well, this tale was told to me at a market stall selling the new season’s radishes and beetroots. A fine-looking woman spoke to me, saying she was but lately come into the city from Oxenford. She was enquiring as to my opinion of the produce for sale and went on to tell me of the doings of some rascal scholars at the university in Oxenford.’ Rose laid aside her whisk of rushes and left the batter to stand.
‘It seems that a townsman was boastful of the pot-herbs he grew in his garden, claiming his radishes were the size of a man’s fist, the beetroot the size of his head – which must have been enormous, what with so much boasting – and the parsnips as long as his arm. Now the townsmen and the scholars never see eye-to-eye on anything – so Eleanor said (that being the woman’s name) – and the scholars determined to teach the man a lesson.
‘Upon the next moonlit night, so they could see what they were about, armed with digging tools, the scholars crept into the man’s garden and dug up his choicest roots. Then, they sliced off the leafy tops and planted them back in the earth. They stole back to Merton Hall, where they lodged, and gave their ill-gotten pot-herbs to the cook. Next day’s dinner was a feast compared to the poor stuff that was usually served up, such that the Master himself commented upon the improvement and said how much he enjoyed the meal.
‘It was a week later that the townsman noticed that some of his crops were wilting somewhat and wondered at it. Upon looking more closely, he discovered the theft and was sure he knew the culprits. So he went straight to the Master of Merton Hall, demanding recompense for his losses. The Master realised what had happened, that the good dinner he had enjoyed came from the man’s garden so he dared not admit it and, of course, the evidence was long gone, eaten by them all. In a quandary, the Master spent his own money, buying the best pot-herbs he could find in the market and, on the next moonlit night, went along to the townsman’s garden, intending to replant the roots. But the man was watching, fearful lest the scholars came to steal more of his crop, and he caught the Master in the act of digging the earth with a heap of fine pot-herbs lying by his feet.
‘Oxenford was up in arms next morning, demanding the Master – ever considered the most honest of fellows – be dismissed as a thieving rogue. Only his scholars owning up to their crime got the Master out of trouble and they were let off with no more than a reprimand because they had saved him. The man got his pot-herbs, the stall-holder made a good sale, Merton Hall’s cook was given money enough to improve the poor food and the Master maintained his good reputation.
‘Is that not a fine tale, Seb? Though Eleanor told it better, doing all the actions, voices and expressions. Quite the mountebank is she. Such a crowd gathered in the market to hear and see her performance.’
‘My sympathies be for the Master,’ I said. ‘He alone appears to have been the loser in this, purchasing all those pot-herbs to no avail on his own behalf.’
‘It’s only a tale. Who’s to say it ever happened?’ Rose said, returning to her batter.
‘Then what be its purpose? An imagined tale must have a moral, else why tell it?’
‘Oh, Seb, you take everything so seriously. Mayhap, ’tis simply meant to amuse, naught more. Now let me get on, else there’ll be no supper.’
True to my word, afore supper, I set out all in readiness in the workshop to repaint Guy’s portrait as soon as the meal was done. How fortunate that at this time of year the light lingered beyond nine of the clock. The guild had regulations forbidding work by candlelight, knowing poor standards would likely result. Not that it mattered so much to me in this case. What cared I for Guy’s reputation? Not a jot. But I did care for Master Collop’s as the man who once trained us both, so I would do the best I might to improve Guy’s poor efforts. I should do the face and hands first, whilst the light was at its brightest. Less vital matters, such as draperies, could be done in the more uncertain light later, if it took me so long.
My first task was to paint out the entire seated figure with a yellow ochre under-layer in order to begin anew. Guy’s figure was too cramped at the top of the board such that the head had been depicted overly small in proportion to fit it in. This could not be remedied without repainting the sitter as a whole and the elaborate chair on which he was seated. Mayhap, this was likely to take longer than I expected at first glance. Oh well, I had committed myself, so it must be done.
Out of kindliness, not duty, Kate mixed the egg tempera and pigments for me, as required, and washed brushes. Rose kept me supplied with cool ale as the evening wore on. I worked without any respi
te more than to step back to observe the progress of the whole. And if paint had to dry afore adding further layers and details in one part, I worked elsewhere upon the image for a while. In truth, on a warm midsummer eve, the egg tempera dried swiftly, which was helpful. With constant reference to my sketches, I recreated the portrait.
It ought not to be termed ‘a likeness’ for it was not. Rather, it was a more acceptable semblance of a man whose true likeness none would desire to look upon, even the sitter himself. I did, however, repaint the hands – Guy’s sausage-shaped fingers – as they truly were: gnarled and bent. They were naught to need disguising but a worthy badge of age, in my opinion. That much at least of the sitter’s image would be the truth, not counterfeit.
My greatest change was made to the eyes, giving them a mild expression. I could not produce the malevolence of that gaze that made me shudder to think on it. No man’s soul could be so black as I had seen through the window of his eye. It must have been a trick of the light, I convinced myself. That was it: the fault of a sunbeam, trapped for an instant at the exact moment when I drew his features.
I went to the trouble of painting a small but perfect image of a mallard drake in the bottom left-hand corner. I thought it appropriate and would appeal to the vintner’s vanity, being the sitter’s name and cognisance. I know not why I made the effort on behalf of Guy Linton, a fellow for whom I have ever had little liking and now, after this, even less respect.
The portrait proved to be a deal of work and dusk had fallen by the time it was done. I kept my fingers crossed that it would look as well in daylight as it appeared to do in twilight. I would rise right early upon the morrow to make certain it would pass a sharper-eyed gaze than could be given now.
