Queen & Country (18 page)

‘I am sorry too,' said Hew. ‘Not for myself. For Clare.'

‘I cannot help that, sir. I did my best, in truth, to make amends to her. It cannot hurt her now.'

‘Why do you say that?' The feelings Hew had harboured, long ago, for Clare, had been so far eclipsed that he was unprepared to find them flooding back.

‘Did ye not ken?' Roger said. ‘I supposed the professor had telt you. It was from Clare that I caught the plague. The sickness was rife in Robert Wood's house. Robert died first, and Clare was afeart, so sorely afraid, that I took off the mask, which Doctor Locke said I must wear on my face. Then I was the friend of her brother George, and not, as she had looked on me, a harbinger of death. I held her hand, and spoke with her. I whispered in her ear, and telt to her my fault. She said it was forgotten now, that Robert Wood was dead, and you had been a true, a good and gentle man, a better friend to both of us than we did well deserve. I stayed there till the end. And after, I fell sick, and Doctor Locke took care of me, and brought me back to life.'

‘What became of George?' Hew forced his mind to anything but Clare; he dared not show the boy the workings of his heart. He found it required all the strength he had; the courage and the fortitude he had from Seething Lane now seeming to evaporate. Phelippes could have toppled him, and floored him with a glance.

‘George was sent home with the rest of the college. He had come into his father's estate. But when the college reconvened, he did not return. Freed from Robert Wood – a tyrannous curator – he lives there as he likes. He is foolish as he ever was; sometimes, he will write to me. He likes to play at caich, as he learned from you, and ride out with his hawks. Our regent says, it is a pity, for he had begun to show some promise at his books – the regent's hopes were dashed,
of George's gifts and feasts, and a sumptuous banquet, at the end of term. To tell the truth I miss him, for I had never had so innocent a friend, so simple in his thoughts. Had you returned sooner, he might have come back. He was fond of you, especially,' Roger answered easily, blind to Hew's distraction. ‘He never knew, of course, that I wrote that letter, though the thought behind it came at first from George. I think it is not something he could easily forgive. Can you forgive it, sir?'

The painter liked to watch his young apprentice. Sometimes, he would break off from the panel he was working on, to guide his hand or brush towards a small adjustment, for sake of that hand, compliant to his, that he knew had no need of a master's correction. And on those occasions, the prentice stood back, and showed no resentment, but smiled his slow smile. The prentice had a perfect eye. But the painter did not feel, as some masters did, jealous of his pupil's skill. In the six or seven years the apprentice had been with him, he had not progressed. He would never be a journeyman, nor set up as a master in the masons' gild, for he had never learned the basics of his craft. He would never leave the master painter's side, nor ever wish to stray beyond what he did perfectly, with natural intelligence, to imitate and draw, with clear and perfect line. His was a rare skill, which a painter might come upon once in a lifetime, and never at all if he stayed here in Scotland. The painter felt a pride in him, fierce, proprietorial; his feeling for the man was complex, in a way. It was simple, after all. It was a kind of love.

It was meant to be. The painter was quite sure they had not met by chance. There had been a purpose to it, and his luck had changed. The prentice had been mewling like a kitten in a barn; any other man would not have stopped to look. There he found a lad, no more than thirteen, filthy, frightened, starved. In the first year he had been with him, the boy had grown so much he had outstripped the painter, tall and straight and strong. He had strong, subtle fingers, great flapping lugs and a long slender tongue, that sometimes when he
worked poked out from his mouth, like the tongue of a tomcat, supple and grooved. That was God's jest, for lugs and a tongue were little of use, when a man could not listen nor talk. Though God had his sport with him, he was not cruel. He gave that boy to compensate a perfect eye to see and a hand to draw, that he could catch a likeness in a few flicks of his wrist. The painter did not ken where the boy had come from, or what kind of people they were who abandoned him. Likely, they were dead. Nor, for a while, did he trouble with his name: since the laddie could not hear, he had little need for one. In their first year together, he would answer with a grin to anyone who asked, ‘I dinna ken his name. He never telt me, see?' But later, when they took the boy to be the painter's brother, he had called him Mark, which seemed to him to fit, for
mark
was what he did, and what he could not do. As surname for them both, he had chosen Workman, solid and dependable, that had served them well. He had taught himself how to talk to the boy, with deft and quick movements, using his hands. The boy was no daftie, by no means at all. And fortune had smiled on them both, when she had brought him to the painter.

Not one man in a thousand would have lifted up the straw, and realised what he found. John Workman believed a man made his own luck. He was, at present, marking out a panel for the picture Doctor Locke had shown to him that morning, of art assisting fortune, which was the kind of sentiment he heartily approved. At Doctor Locke's request, he had veiled Lady Fortuna in a modest smock, and for Hermes had sketched in a tunic, to tone with his bright feathered helmet, lest the students at their board should find themselves aroused by naked globs of flesh. The letters underneath he would pick out in gold; colour was the essence of the painter's art, and he had in mind a particular device for the metal of the plate, which would capture it perfectly.

The prentice, meanwhile, worked on Doctor Locke. It had taken John Workman some little while to settle him down for his portrait, expert though he was in putting men at ease. Once he was relaxed, he could be left safely in the hands of the boy, who would capture a
likeness almost too faithfully. A man of the middle rank, who had come on in the world, wanted his picture to reflect his achievements; he did not want to see, the sour twist in a mouth, the furrow in a brow or the slanting cast of a suspicious eye; therefore such a sitter must be set at rest.

Doctor Locke had been hard to settle, for there were a dozen places he would rather be, and a dozen things that he would rather do. He would not have considered that he was a vain man, but the capture of his likeness for and in perpetuity, occasioned him some anxious interest how it might appear. He was sitting on a chair, in his doctor's cap and gown, and his full beard neatly trimmed above a fresh starched ruff. (‘You do not think the whole effect too solemn and severe? For I should like to show the picture to my bairns.') Behind him was a cloth, and the light from the window glanced across his face, on what he was persuaded was his better side. On the table by his side lay the human skull that symbolised where all of us, pictured in our prime, are certain to find end, as well as his particular and personal stock-in-trade. From his vast array of instruments he had brought along an hourglass and a clock – to warn his students that they were indebted, too, to time.

The apprentice had completed his first drafts, on thin sheets of paper bound in a book, which would be kept in case copies were called for, a pattern for forming a full-fleshed physician. To his panel portrait, drawn in black and white, he began to add a film of crimson lake, filling in the contours of the doctor's face. John Workman set down his own brush to watch, as the likeness, unmistakable, began to take its shape. He was conscious of a movement at the door behind him, and turned round.

The man at his back had an interesting face; sadness underlay a kind, appealing smile. The eyes were clear, intelligent. John Workman thought, this is a face the prentice should paint.

‘I had hoped,' said the man, ‘for a word with Giles Locke.'

The painter sighed. ‘Can you speak with him now, while he sits? For it is hard to get him still for any length of time.'

‘It is a private matter.'

‘You need not fear my prentice. For you see, he cannot hear. And what he cannot hear, for sure he cannot tell.' The painter gave his most engaging smile. He knew well enough how to work his charm. For some reason, though, this man appeared indifferent to it. He was a fair and a civil-mannered man; it was not lack of patience that compelled him to persist with it, but some deep perplexion stirred up in his mind.

‘Even so,' he said, ‘And I do not doubt you, I would like to speak with him alone. Can you tell him I am here? Hew Cullan is my name. Ask him, if he will, if he can step outside.'

‘No need for that,' the painter said. ‘I will call my boy out; we shall take a break. Can you wait a moment, sir?' Once the doctor was unsettled from his place, there was no kenning when he would be settled back. John Workman hid his sigh, resigned to interruption, and moved to the sightline of the young apprentice, to catch his attention, without startling him. He was rewarded with a deep, good-natured smile, that split the concentration on the young man's face. His dark hair flopped forward, over his eyes, and the painter felt fiercely, the strength of his pride. He spoke to him, quickly and deftly, using his hands, in the language that they had made private between them. The young prentice nodded and set down his brush.

To the doctor, John Workman said, ‘There is a scholar to see you. Mark and mysel' will be off for a drink, down to the buttery. And it please you to relax a little, do not leave your seat, for fear to lose your pose. We will back before long.'

He clapped the young apprentice fondly on the shoulder, and the two went out.

Hew, with his mind fixed elsewhere, glanced at the easel as he came past, and was momentarily distracted. ‘He has your likeness, quite.'

Giles strained a little, affecting not to look. ‘Indeed, it is an irksome thing, this sitting down for half the day. So much to be done. You look troubled, Hew. Do I take it you have come to your decision?'

‘Yes. No,' Hew said, abruptly. ‘You did not tell me Clare was dead.'

He half expected, even then, had hoped for, a reprieve. Roger had lied. Of course, he had lied. But the look on Giles' face told him all, and turned his hopes to ashes, choking in his throat. It was a look of drawn out, overwhelming weariness, a heaviness that superseded any sense of grief. ‘Oh, my dear friend. I did not realise you had feelings for her still. There were so many lost, and most of them were friends. What did Roger say?'

‘That he caught the plague from Clare Buchanan's house. That he took off his mask, and breathed it from her. Is that how it was?'

‘Well,' reflected Giles, ‘it is true enough, that she was among the last he attended to, shortly before he fell sick. The silly bairn, for taking off his mask. Why did he do that?'

‘To make amends, he said. The letter that he sent was to her husband Robert Wood, accusing her of infidelity with me. You may be certain that she suffered for it.'

Giles looked at him, appalled. ‘I did not know. But then I have to count myself in part to blame. For had I not allowed her into the college, had she not met with you, he could never have known such a thing.'

‘He did not
know
it. He imagined it. And so bairnly and so feeble were his delusions that, Andrew Wood said, his brother Robert gave no credit to it. It was clear enough a student from the college.'

‘My God,' whispered Giles, ‘they should have come to me.'

‘You were not responsible. And you are not now. And since you confirm that they died in the plague, the whole thing is now laid to rest,' Hew concluded bleakly.

‘It is a sad, wretched, case. And I am sorry for it, Hew.'

‘I am sorry, too.'

‘What will you have me do? Shall I dismiss the boy?'

Hew decided not. For nothing he could do, could help the hurt he felt. And he would not pervert those feelings to revenge. ‘Let him be examined at the black stane, still. I will not deprive him of his laureation. When he is a graduate, he may be more staid.'

‘I thank you, with all my heart,' Giles sighed. ‘For I did not want to
sway you. But he has too much promise, too much hope by far, to throw away. Punish him, however else you will, and I will make sure that he accepts it meekly.'

‘He caught the plague. Which seems to me, punishment enough.'

Clare was dead, and they was nothing else to say. Hew forgave the harm the boy had meant to him. But he would not forget, and would watch him still. He did not believe, with Giles, that Roger's risking his own life had been a sign of virtue, for someone who was careless with his life, he had learned at Seething Lane, could be someone very dangerous indeed.

The painter found the doctor sitting, just as he had left him. But however hard he tried, he could not coax his face into an equilibrium, or put him back at ease.

Chapter 12

Ash Wednesday

For days, they lived as lovers, closed off from the world. Hours were spent in bed together, velvet curtains drawn against the midnight air, where they found new lands, and kingdoms to explore. Sometimes, Frances woke up to the raging of a storm, and reached out in the darkness for her husband's hand. Sometimes, she looked out upon the sliver of a moon, shivered in the frost that rimed the leaded glass, thinking of the stars that shone on Leadenhall, until her husband, waking, called her back to bed. In the mornings, they slept late. In the afternoons, they went for winter walks, through brittle grass and silver streams, to the darkening shore, where Frances saw the sea that billowed in her dreams, smooth and still as glass. And rising in the distance on the far side of the bay she could see the town, kirk and spire and castle craning to the sky.

They knew it could not last. Hew should have gone, at once, to make his peace with James, to answer to the summons of the royal court. He invented reasons to remain at home; the weather was too cold, or else the road was wet. His horse had lost a shoe, he did not have a coat; he would not intrude upon an open grief, before that hurt had healed. Yet he was aware they could not stay for long, sheltered from the glare of a suspicious world. They must be forced apart. And on the first day in Lent, that was the first of March, the spell that bound them fast was broken by the coming of a far from welcome visitor.