The Lady and the Unicorn (10 page)

‘She's gone out,’ Nicolas said, cocking his head to one side and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘She's gone to get me some oysters.’

‘Has she, now?’ Jacques pulled his whole body into view. He is a big man, like a barrel with a scraggly beard and hands stained blue from the woad. ‘And who are you to be telling her what to do?’

‘Nicolas des Innocents. I've designed the new tapestries for Georges.’

‘The Paris artist, are you?’ Jacques crossed his arms as well and leaned against the doorway. ‘We don't think much of Paris men, do we, Philippe?’

I made to answer, but Nicolas got in before me. ‘I wouldn't bother waiting for her. I told her to get the best oysters, you see — only what is fit for Parisians to eat. That may take her some time to find in this city, for I do not think much of your fish market.’

I stared at Nicolas, wondering why he would dare to provoke a man so much bigger than he. Didn't he want to keep his face pretty for the women? I heard Aliénor shift beside the loom and tried not to look at her. Perhaps she was thinking of coming out, to save Nicolas from his rash words.

Jacques Le Bœuf also seemed surprised. He didn't respond with his fists, but narrowed his eyes. ‘Is that your work, then?’ He came to stand next to us and look down at the paintings on the floor. I tried not to gag at the smell. ‘More red than blue in them. Maybe it's not worth my while for Georges to work on them.’ He grinned and made to step on the painting of the Lady with the unicorn in her lap.

‘Jacques, what are you doing?’

Christine's sharp words made Jacques Le Bœuf freeze, his foot dangling over the painting. He took a step back, the sheepish look on his big face comical.

Christine hurried up to him. ‘If this is your idea of a jest, it's not funny. I said Georges was out. He'll come to speak to you soon about the blue wool for these tapestries — if you don't ruin them first. Off you go, now — we're busy here.’ She opened the door onto the street and stood aside.

It was like watching a dog round up a cow. Jacques hung his head and shuffled to the door. Only when he was in the street did he pop his head back through a window and say, ‘Tell the girl I was asking for her.’

When we were sure he was gone, his rank smell fading, Nicolas leaned over and smiled at Aliénor by the loom. ‘You can come out now, beauty — the beast is gone.’ He held out a hand. After a moment she reached out and took it, then let him help her up. When she was standing she raised her face to his and said, ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

It was the first time she had looked at him in the way that Aliénor looks — her eyes trying but not able to meet anyone's — and Nicolas' smile disappeared as he gazed into her face. He looked as if he had been winded by a blow. Finally, I thought, he sees. For an artist he is not very attentive.

Aliénor knew that he finally understood — she had chosen to let him see. She does that sometimes. Now she pulled her hand from his and bowed her head.

‘Come, Aliénor,’ Christine said with a fierce look at Nicolas, ‘or we'll be late.’ She went out through the same door Jacques Le Bœuf had.

‘Mass,’ Aliénor reminded me, before running out to join her mother.

‘Mass?’Nicolasrepeated. He glanced up at the sun coming through the window. ‘It's too early for Sext, isn't it?’

‘It's a special Mass for weavers at Notre Dame du Sablon,’ I said. ‘A church not far from here.’

‘They have their own Mass?’

‘Three times a week. It is a powerful guild.’

After a moment he said, ‘How long has she been like that?’

I shrugged. ‘All her life. That's why it is so easy not to notice. It is natural for her.’

‘How does she —’ Nicolas waved at the Adoration of the Magi tapestry, which was draped over the loom it had been woven on.

‘Her fingers are very skilled and sensitive. Sometimes I think her eyes must be on her fingers. She can tell the difference between blue and red wool because she says the dyes feel different. And she hears things that we don't. She told me once that each person has a different footstep. I can't hear it, but she can always tell who is coming, if she has heard them before. She will know your footstep now.’

‘Is she still a girl?’

I frowned. ‘Don't know what you mean.’ Suddenly I did not want to talk about her.

Nicolas smiled. ‘You do know what I mean. You've thought about it.’

‘Leave her be,’ I said sharply. ‘Touch her and her father will tear you apart, Paris artist or not.’

‘I have plenty whenever I like. It's you I was thinking of. Though I expect the girls like you well enough, with those long lashes of yours. Girls love eyes like that.’

I said nothing, but reached for my bag and pulled out paper and charcoal.

Nicolas laughed. ‘I can see that I will have to tell you both about the unicorn's horn.’

‘Not now. We need to start work. They can't begin the weaving until we've painted one of the cartoons.’ I gritted my teeth as I said ‘we’.

‘Ah, yes, the painting. Luckily I have my own brushes with me. I wouldn't trust a Brussels brush — if I painted my unicorn with one it would probably look like a horse!’

I knelt by the paintings — it kept me from kicking him. ‘Have you ever drawn or painted cartoons?’

Nicolas stopped smirking. He doesn't like to be reminded of what he does not know.

‘Tapestries are very different from paintings,’ I said. ‘Artists who haven't worked on them don't understand this. They think that whatever they paint can simply be made bigger and woven just as they have made it. But looking at a tapestry is not like looking at a painting. A painting is usually smaller so that you can see everything at once. You don't stand up close, but a step or two back, as if it is a priest or a teacher. With a tapestry you stand close as you would to a friend. You see only a part of it, and not necessarily the most important part. So no thing should stand out more than the rest, but fit together into a pattern that your eye takes pleasure in no matter where it rests. These paintings don't have that pattern in them. The
millefleur
background will help, but we will still have to change them.’

‘How?’ Nicolas said.

‘Add things. More figures, for a start. The Lady should at least be attended by a lady-in-waiting,
n'est-ce pas
? Someone to hold carnations for her as she weaves them in Smell, or to work the bellows of her organ in Sound, or to hold out a bowl of something for her to feed to the parakeet in Taste. You have a servant holding the jewellery casket in À Mon Seul Désir. Why not in the others?’

‘In a seduction a lady should be alone.’

‘Ladies-in-waiting must have witnessed seductions.’

‘How would you know — have you ever seduced a noblewoman?’

I turned red. I could not dream of being in a noblewoman's private chamber. I'm rarely in the same street as nobles, much less the same room. Only at Mass do we share the same air, and even then they are far away in the front pews, separate from the rest of us. They leave before we do, their horses taking them away quickly before I have reached the church porch. Aliénor says noblemen smell of the fur they wear, but I've never been close enough to smell it. Her nose is keener than most.

Clearly Nicolas had been with noblewomen. He must know all about them. ‘What do noblewomen smell like?’ I asked before I could stop myself.

Nicolas smiled. ‘Cloves. Cloves and mint.’

Aliénor smells of lemon balm. She is always treading on it in her garden.

‘Do you know what they taste like?’ he added.

‘Don't tell me.’ I quickly picked up the charcoal and, choosing the painting of Smell to copy, began to sketch. I drew a few lines for the woman's face and head-dress, then her necklace, bodice, sleeves and dress. ‘We don't want large blocks of colour. For instance, the yellow under-dress needs more pattern. Elsewhere you've used a pomegranate brocade — in Taste and À Mon Seul Désir. Let's add it here, like this, to break up the colour.’

Nicolas watched over my shoulder as I filled in the triangle of cloth with leaves and flowers. ‘
Alors
, you have the lion and the unicorn holding their banners to the left and right. Between the Lady and the unicorn a monkey sits on a bench holding a carnation. That is good. What if we add a servant between the Lady and the lion? She can hold a plate of flowers the Lady will use to make her crown.’ I drew the outline of a lady-in-waiting in profile. ‘Already this is much better. The
millefleurs
behind will fill out the scene. I won't draw them here, but on the cartoon. Aliénor can help us with them then.’

Nicolas shook his head. ‘How can she be of use to us?’ He gestured at his eyes.

I frowned. ‘She always helps her father with the
millefleurs
. She keeps a fine kitchen garden and knows the plants well, knows their uses. We'll speak to her once we begin the cartoons.
Alors
, among the
millefleurs
we will add some animals.’ I sketched as I spoke. ‘A dog somewhere for fidelity, perhaps. Some hunting birds for the Lady's hunt of the unicorn. A lamb at her feet to remind us of Christ and Our Lady. And of course a rabbit or two. That is Georges' signature — a rabbit holding a paw to its face.’

I finished drawing, and we looked at the painting and the sketch side by side. ‘Still not right,’ I said.

‘What do you suggest, then?’

‘Trees,’ I said after a moment.

‘Where?’

‘Behind the standards and banners. It will make the red coat of arms stand out better from the red background. Then two below, behind the lion and unicorn. Four trees, to mark the four directions and the four seasons.’

‘A whole world in a picture,’ Nicolas murmured.

‘Yes. And the added blue will please Jacques Le Bœuf.’ Not that I want to please him, I thought. Far from it.

I drew an oak beside the standard — oak for summer and for the north. Then a pine behind the banner, for autumn and the south. Holly behind the unicorn, for winter and the west. Orange behind the lion, for spring and the east.

‘That is better,’ Nicolas said when I was done. He sounded surprised. ‘But can we make such a big change without the patron agreeing to it?’

‘It's part of the
verdure
,’ I said. ‘Weavers are allowed to design the plants and animals of the background — it's only the figures we can't change. There was a law passed about it some years ago in Brussels, so that there wouldn't be problems between patrons and weavers.’

‘Or between artists and cartoonists.’

‘That too.’

He looked at me. ‘Are there problems between us?’

I sat back on my heels. ‘No.’ Not about work, at least, I added to myself. I am not brave enough to say such things aloud.

‘Good.’ Nicolas picked up Taste and pushed Smell aside. ‘Now do this one.’

I studied the Lady feeding her parakeet. ‘You've painted her face with more care than the others.’

Nicolas fiddled with the charcoal, touching it and then rubbing the black smudge until it turned grey between his fingers. ‘I'm used to painting portraits, and prefer to make the women here real if I can.’

‘She stands out too much. The Lady in À Mon Seul Désir as well — she is too sad.’

‘I won't change them.’

‘You know them, though, don't you?’

He shrugged. ‘They are noblewomen.’

‘And you know them well.’

He shook his head. ‘Not so well. I've seen them a few times, but —’

I was surprised to see him wince.

‘The last time I saw them was at May Day,’ Nicolas continued. ‘She —’ he pointed to Taste — ‘was dancing around a maypole while her mother watched. They wore matching dresses.’

‘The pomegranate brocade.’

‘Yes. I couldn't get near her. Her ladies made sure of that.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘I still think there should be no servant in these tapestries.’

‘The Lady needs a chaperone, otherwise it wouldn't look right.’

‘Not for the seduction itself,’ he insisted.

‘Why don't we put servants in all but the one in which she captures the unicorn? In Sight, when he lies in her lap.’

‘And Touch,’ Nicolas added, ‘when she is holding his horn. You don't want a chaperone then.’ He smiled. He had become himself again, his mood like a storm suddenly spent. ‘Shall I tell you about the unicorn's horn, then? It may help you.’

Before I could answer, Aliénor poked her head through the window where Jacques Le Bœuf had been earlier. Nicolas and I jumped. ‘Here we are, Aliénor,’ I said. ‘By the loom.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Maman and I are back already. That Jacques Le Bœuf made us so late that Mass was over before we'd sat down. Will you take some beer?’

‘In a moment,’ Nicolas answered.

When she had gone into the house he turned to me. ‘If you don't want to know about the unicorn's horn I will tell you something else instead.’