The Lady and the Unicorn (12 page)

‘Nicolas, bring out the linen where I've begun drawing Sound, and I'll add the
millefleurs
,’ Philippe said sharply.

I thought Nicolas might say something sharp back, but instead he went without a word to the workshop. I didn't know why, but suddenly I didn't want to be alone with Philippe, in case he wanted to say something to me. Before he could do so I slipped away to join Maman inside.

I could smell what she was cooking for dinner — trout, new carrots from the garden, dried beans and peas boiled into a mush. ‘Will Nicolas and Philippe be eating too?’ I asked, setting out mugs on the table.

‘I should think so.’ Maman clunked something heavy onto the table — the pot with the pea mush. Then she moved back to the fire, and after a moment I heard the sizzle of more fish frying. I began to pour the beer — I can hear when it reaches the top of the mug.

I am not so confident by the fire as I am in the garden. I prefer things that do not change quickly. That is why I like tapestries — they take a long time to make, growing over months like the plants in my garden. Maman always moves things as she cooks — I can never be sure a knife will be where I left it, or a sack of peas put away so that I don't trip over it, or a bowl of eggs placed against a wall so that I don't knock it over. I am not so useful to her at the hearth. I can't tend the fire — many times it has gone out on me. Once I built it too high and the chimney caught fire, almost burning us down but for my brother beating it out with a bit of wool doused in water. After that Papa forbade me to touch it. I can't roast meat or fowl. I can't move pots on or off the fire. I can't stir pots either — soup has slopped onto my hands.

But I can chop vegetables — Maman says I slice carrots more evenly than they need be, but I can't do otherwise or I might take off a finger. I can scrub pots. I can get things out and put them away. I can season food, though slowly, as I must feel the mace or cinnamon or pepper in my hand first and taste the food often. I try hard to help.

‘What do you think of this Nicolas des Innocents?’ Maman said.

I smiled. ‘A vain, cocky fellow.’

‘That he is. Handsome, though. I expect he's got many girls into trouble back in Paris. I hope he won't be trouble here. You be careful around him,
ma fille
.’

‘What would he want with a blind girl like me?’

‘Eyes are not what he's after.’

My face went hot. I turned from her and opened the wooden bread box. The sound inside told me there was nothing in it but crumbs. I felt around the small table by the hearth, then the big trestle table. ‘Is there any bread? Even for trenchers?’ I asked at last. I hate to admit when I can't find something.

‘Madeleine has gone for some.’

I used to feel it was my fault that we had a servant. Madeleine was with us to be my eyes, doing all of the things a daughter is meant to do to help her mother. But as Papa's workshop became known for its
millefleurs
and he took on more and more work, he needed Maman and me to help him, and it was just as well that Madeleine was here. Now we couldn't do without her, though Maman still prefers to cook when she can — she says Madeleine's stews are too dull, and give her bellyache. But when we are busy in the workshop we are glad enough to eat Madeleine's meals, to wash with the water she fetches, to sit by the fire she has made with the wood she has collected.

Madeleine came in now with the bread. She is a big girl, as tall as Maman and broader. I have felt her arms and they are like legs of lamb. The men like her. I've heard her in the garden of an evening with Georges Le Jeune. They must think I won't hear their grunts or notice that my narcissi by the willow trellis have been trampled. I say nothing, of course. What would I say?

Just after Madeleine came in, Papa and the boys returned from meeting with the wool merchant. ‘I've ordered the wool and silk,’ Papa said to Maman. ‘There is enough at Ostend for the warp and a bit to start the weaving — they'll bring it in a few days so that we can dress the loom. The rest depends on the sea and the passage between England and here.’

Maman nodded. ‘The meal is ready. Where are Philippe and Nicolas?’

‘In the garden,’ I said. I could feel her eyes on my back as I went to fetch them.

As we ate, Papa asked Nicolas about Paris. We are always keen to hear about other places. Papa has been to Ostend, and to other weaving towns like Lille and Tournai, but never as far as Paris. Maman and Georges Le Jeune went with him once to Antwerp, but I've never been outside our city walls — I would be too frightened. It is enough for me to know the places I do in Brussels — Notre Dame de la Chapelle close by, with the
place
in front for the market, Notre Dame du Sablon, the gate to pass through the inner walls to get to the Grand-Place, the Church of St. Michel and St. Gudule. That is the world I know. I like to hear about other places, though, and imagine what it must be like. The sea, for example — I would love to smell salt and fish all around me, to hear the boom and suck of the waves, and to feel the spray of water on my face. Papa has described it to me, but I would like to be there to feel for myself how big and powerful water can be.

‘What is Notre Dame de Paris like?’ Papa asked. ‘I've heard it's even bigger than St. Michel and St. Gudule here.’

Nicolas laughed. ‘Your church is a shepherd's hut compared to Notre Dame. Notre Dame is heaven brought straight down to earth. It has the most beautiful towers, the loudest bells, the most stunning stained glass. What I would give to design such glass.’

I was about to ask more about the bells when Philippe said quietly, ‘
En fait
, we Brusselois are proud of St. Michel and St. Gudule. The western façade will be complete later this year. And our other churches — Notre Dame de la Chapelle is also impressive, and the little Church of Notre Dame du Sablon is very beautiful, what has been built of it. The stained glass there is as fine as any Paris glass.’

‘It may be beautiful but it's not grand the way that the Paris Notre Dame is,’ Nicolas insisted. ‘I like to stand outside and watch people look up at it with their mouths hanging open. There are more pickpockets at Notre Dame than anywhere else in Paris because people are staring so much they don't notice the thieving.’

‘People steal from each other?’ Maman asked. ‘Don't they fear the noose?’

‘There are plenty of hangings in Paris, and plenty of thieves too. There are so many riches that thieves can't resist. At Notre Dame you will see noblemen and women going in and out all day long, wearing the finest clothes in the world. Women in Paris are better dressed than anywhere else.’

‘Have you been to other cities?’ Georges Le Jeune asked.

‘Oh, many.’

‘Where?’

‘Lyons. Lovely women.’

‘And?’

‘Tournai.’

‘Papa has been to Tournai. He said it was a lively place.’

‘Dreadful city, Tournai,’ Nicolas said. ‘I vowed never to go back.’

‘There is fine weaving comes out of Tournai,’ Papa said. ‘Some of it rivals any we produce in Brussels.’

‘The women were flat-chested and always frowned.’ Nicolas spoke with his mouth full.

I frowned.

‘Have you been to Norwich?’ Papa said. ‘That's a place I should like to visit one day, to see the wool market.’

‘Venice, that is where I would go,’ Nicolas said.

‘Why, Monsieur?’ I asked. ‘Do you prefer silk to wool?’

‘It's not just the silk. Everything passes through Venice — spices, paintings, jewels, furs. Whatever you could wish for. And then all the different people — Moors, Jews, Turks. It's a feast for the eyes.’ He paused. ‘Ah.
Pardon
, Mademoiselle.’

I shrugged. Everyone talks of seeing to me — I am used to it.

‘The Venetian women would please you as well, I suppose?’ Philippe asked.

Madeleine and I giggled. I knew Philippe said that to make things easy again. He is like that.

‘What is the house of Jean Le Viste like?’ Maman interrupted. ‘Is it very grand?’

‘Grand enough. It is just beyond the city walls, by the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés — a very fine church, the oldest in Paris. His wife goes there often.’

‘Monseigneur Le Viste as well?’

‘He's a busy man — always doing something for the King. I don't expect he has time for Mass.’

‘No time for Mass!’ Maman was indignant.

‘Has he any children, Monsieur?’ I asked, picking at my trencher. I had left some pea mush there — I was too excited to eat.

‘Three daughters, Mademoiselle.’

‘No sons? He should have prayed more,’ Maman said. ‘That must be a trial for him, not to have an heir. What would happen to this workshop, after all, if not for Georges Le Jeune?’

Papa grunted. He doesn't like to be reminded that the workshop will be Georges Le Jeune's one day.

‘How long does it take to walk across Paris?’ Luc asked.

‘At least as long as two masses said together,’ Nicolas said. ‘And that is if you don't stop at any of the stalls or taverns, or to say hello to those you know. The streets are jammed with people, day and night. You can see whatever you fancy and buy whatever you like.’

‘It doesn't sound so different from Brussels — only bigger, and with more strangers,’ Georges Le Jeune said.

Nicolas snorted. ‘It is very different from here.’

‘How? Apart from the women, I suppose?’

‘Actually, Brussels women are better-looking than I'd first thought. You just have to look more closely.’

I flushed. Madeleine giggled again and shifted on the bench so that I was pushed against Maman.

‘That's enough, Monsieur,’ Maman said sharply. ‘Show some respect in this house or — Paris artist or no — you'll be out on your arse!’

‘Christine!’ Papa said, while Georges Le Jeune and Luc laughed.

‘I speak as I feel. Apart from myself there's Aliénor and Madeleine to think of. I don't want some honey-tongued charmer worming his way among them.’

Papa began to say something, but Nicolas interrupted. ‘I assure you, Madame, that I meant no disrespect to you or your daughter, nor to the fair Madeleine.’

Madeleine squirmed again and I had to nudge her with my toe.

‘We'll see,’ Maman said. ‘And you'd best show your respect by attending Mass. You haven't been once since you arrived.’

‘You're right, Madame — I've lapsed unforgivably. I shall make up for it by going to Nones this afternoon. Perhaps I'll go along to your Sablon so I can have a look at this famed stained glass as well.’

‘No,’ Papa said. ‘Mass can wait. I need that first design painted as soon as possible so that we can start. You and Philippe work until you finish it — then you can go to Mass.’

Maman's anger made her quiver, but she said nothing. She would never put work before Mass, but Papa is the
lissier
— it is for him to decide such things. She didn't stay angry at him for long, though. She never does. After dinner she and Papa went into the workshop. Although she's not meant to weave — the Guild would fine Papa if she did — she often helps him with other work. Her father was a weaver, and she knows how to dress a loom, thread heddles, wind and sort wool, and work out how much wool and silk are needed for each tapestry, and how much time they will take to make.

I can't help her with these things, but I can sew. At night when the weavers are done I sit for hours and feel my way around the tapestry on the loom, finding the slits that form when one colour stops and another begins. That way I get to know the tapestries as well as the weavers who work on them.

Of course, if the patron is willing to pay enough and the design allows for it, Papa will dovetail colours, weaving different coloured threads into each other, interlocking them so that there are no slits to sew. It is fiddly work that takes longer and costs dear, so many patrons don't ask for it, as Monseigneur Le Viste did not. It seems he is too mean and too rushed — just as I expected of a Paris nobleman. There will be much sewing for me these next months.

While they were in the workshop I worked out in the garden again, weeding and showing the men the flowers they needed as they drew and painted the cartoon on a piece of large linen cloth. We were peaceful together, and I was glad — I prefer that we are not always battling.

Later Georges Le Jeune and Luc came out to the garden and watched Nicolas and Philippe paint. The sun had dropped from above. I picked up two buckets to get water for the plants, and was passing through the kitchen on my way to the well down the street when I heard the name Jacques Le Bœuf spoken. I stopped just beside the doorway leading into the workshop.

‘I saw him today, to tell him I would order the blue soon,’ Papa was saying. ‘He asked about her again.’

‘There's no rush, is there?’ Maman said. ‘She's only nineteen. Plenty of girls wait longer than that, to make the right match or for their husbands to get themselves sorted out, or to sew for their trousseau. And it's not as if women are waiting outside his door to marry him.’