Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (6 page)

‘You drip more than a washerwoman, bumpkin. I am minded to have my father’s men put you out.’

‘Then I shall drip even more, Mistress. It cannot have escaped your notice that the skies have opened.’

‘Do not exercise your simple wit, prentice. Recollect that you are dealing with a high-born person.’

‘Forgive me again, Mistress Alyx. I have yet to adjust to the importance of my task.’

‘Then commence your task, boy, and say no more.’

‘Yes, Mistress. Would you be gracious enough to remain still for a short time?’ Kieron, not having been offered a chair, squatted on the carpet and pinned paper to his drawing board.

‘If I choose to move, I shall move,’ retorted Alyx. ‘Your hair is too long and you stink somewhat. I do not think I can bear your presence with great patience.’

Kieron bit his tongue and selected a piece of charcoal from his pouch. He began to sketch Mistress Alyx as he saw her.

‘You are contracted to the slut Petrina, I understand.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘She is quite pretty, but you are odious. Poor child. We women are rarely lucky in the men chosen for us.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Do not talk, bumpkin. Get on with your work.’

Kieron’s hand was shaking badly. The lines he described were terrible, and he knew that this first sketch could be nothing less than grotesque.

‘Let me see what you have done. Though you are ill-dressed and your conversation deformed, and though you are the son of a peasant, you may yet have talent.’

Mistress Alyx was enjoying herself. This one she would roast over a slow fire.

‘Mistress, the sketch is but a trial,’ said Kieron desperately. ‘It is not worthy of your inspection.’

‘Nevertheless, I would see it.’ She rose from her seat at the clavichord, came to where Kieron sat and peered down at the sketch.

‘Ludd have mercy! You draw like a dotard. Get from my presence, boy. I do not wish to see you again.’

‘Yes, Mistress Alyx. I am sorry.’ Kieron gathered up his papers and charcoal sticks and drawing board. It seemed to him that his best recourse was to leave the castle and quietly hang himself.

‘Until tomorrow,’ added Mistress Alyx in silky tones. ‘Present yourself at this time tomorrow, boy. And pray for happier circumstances.’

Kieron fled sweating. He did not hang himself. But when it was time to go to his bed, he was greatly troubled by nightmares.

The following day it rained also. This time Kieron took precautions. He covered his head and shoulders with sackcloth and wrapped his drawing materials and a spare pair of boots in the same material. Then he trudged up to the castle. Before he was taken to Mistress Alyx, he begged leave to straighten his hair and change his boots.

She received him as before, seated at the clavichord in the long, book-lined room.

‘So, boy, you keep time. That is something. And you contrive to appear less bedraggled. That, also, is something. Let us hope that this time you will not ruin good paper … Well, don’t stand there like a scarecrow. Find somewhere to sit, and begin to prove that my dear father is not recklessly throwing away many a good schilling.’

Kieron felt the blood rush to his face. A volley of words struggled to burst from his throat, but he compressed his lips and stifled them. He stood rooted to the spot. There was no chair within reach, so he sat on the carpet.

‘I hope your breeches are clean,’ said Alyx. ‘The carpet came from a far land, of which you are doubtless not aware, and cost more schilling than your poor talent is like to earn you in a lifetime.’

‘Mistress,’ he retorted softly, ‘my breeches are clean, and I am aware that the carpet is of Persian style. Whether it came from Persia, I know not; though I am told that the Flemish weavers now make carpets in the Persian style, which are less costly than the originals and, therefore, of some convenience to the nobility.’

The carpet was Persian, as Kieron well knew. But some retaliation seemed necessary, and he chose the first that came to mind.

‘Impudent peasant!’ stormed Alyx. ‘The carpet is truly Persian.’

‘Mistress Alyx, I am indeed a peasant, and I doubt not your word,’ said Kieron with every possible inference of doubting. ‘May I commence?’ He felt better.

‘Yes, stupid one. Scratch the paper if you must. But let your representation be better than that of yesterday, else I swear my father’s bailiff shall kick you all the way from the castle to Master Hobart’s hovel. The poor man must be in his dotage to have taken such a prentice as you.’

‘I may do him little credit,’ said Kieron, ‘but Master Hobart is the finest
painter in the south country. The finished portrait will be to your liking, Mistress. That I can swear.’

For some minutes there was silence. Kieron sketched, Alyx fidgeted, but not too much.

Kieron felt he could get the measure of this young lady. She must be vulnerable. She must be vulnerable, as all women were, to flattery. So, his hand being steady now, he was able to flatter her. He made her eyes larger and more beautiful than they were, he narrowed her waist, he gave fullness to her breasts, he made her hair cascade luxuriantly round her shoulders.

Presently, curiosity overcame her. ‘I would see your scribblings, boy.’

Kieron stood up; but, one leg being stiff and numb from sitting cross-legged to support his drawing board, he promptly fell down.

Alyx laughed. ‘No doubt your legs give way with fear at my disapproval.’

Kieron said nothing. He picked up the drawing, hobbled to the clavichord, and laid the paper before her.

She studied it. ‘My nose is not bent,’ she said, ‘and my ears are smaller. But you have improved somewhat since yesterday. Perhaps there is hope.’

‘Thank you, Mistress.’

‘I said perhaps,’ she warned. ‘Perhaps means only perhaps.’ She glanced at one of the leaded windows. ‘See. The rain has stopped. Now we shall ride.’

Kieron was nonplussed. ‘Mistress, I do not ride. My commission is only to take your likeness in many attitudes and aspects.’

‘Your commission, boy, is to attend me. It is agreed that Master Hobart shall depict me on horseback. In order for you to make studies of horses, you must be familiar with them – and with me when I ride. Therefore you will ride also. Wait here while I change.’

As Kieron waited, the books on the shelves became as magnets, drawing him. So many books! So many wonderful, glorious books. And they must be old, very old. The neddies, of necessity, permitted the use of printing machines – but only for the dissemination of approved sacred texts. Here were books that dealt not only with the works and life of Ned Ludd but also with all manner of recondite themes.

Mistress Alyx took much time to change into her riding apparel. While he was alone, Kieron began to examine the books. Many of them were immensely old, their bindings nibbled by mice, their papers brown and speckled with the ravages of time. There were works of biography – the lives of the seigneurs of Arundel, and many others – works of history, works concerning the skills of warfare, fanning, hunting; works concerning voyages of discovery, the establishment of trade with far countries; works concerning the study of the stars. And there was one thin, incredibly tattered, incredibly ancient book about the development of infernal machines – including flying machines.

Kieron pored over it greedily. Some of the words were hard, some incomprehensible. Nevertheless, it began to yield information – about people with strange names, who had accomplished strange things, such as the Brothers Montgolfier, Otto Lilienthal, Santos Dumont – until Mistress Alyx returned.

Guiltily, Kieron closed the book and pushed it back into its place on the shelves.

‘Boy, did I give you permission to examine my father’s books?’

‘No, Mistress Alyx.’

‘Then do not presume. Come, we will ride.’

‘I cannot ride, Mistress.’ Kieron had never felt less like attempting to mount a horse.

‘You will ride, boy. It is my wish.’ Alyx had the air of one anticipating much amusement.

The episode was doomed – as Mistress Alyx had intended. She had an old mare saddled for Kieron; so old and so gentle, she told him, that a child barely able to walk would be assured of a safe ride. For herself, Alyx chose a fine, spirited hunter.

Having had the grooms hoist Kieron more or less bodily into the saddle, Alyx led the way, allowing her horse to amble down the hill from the castle and among the cluster of houses that marked the growing township. Kieron followed as best he could, his teeth rattling somewhat in his head, and his bottom rising from the saddle and hitting it again somewhat heavily.

People looked up as Mistress Alyx rode by. Women curtsied, men touched their hats. They marvelled indeed to see that she was accompanied by Kieron the prentice boy, and were amused at his obvious discomfiture. Petrina saw him struggling anxiously to retain his seat, and could not repress a smile. Two or three idle apprentices made so bold as to cheer.

Once Arundel was behind, Alyx allowed her horse to canter. The open grazing land was still soggy from the rain, but the going was not too bad. Except for Kieron. Independent of anything he might do, the old mare seemed to take guidance from the hunter – or secretly from Mistress Alyx.

Soon Kieron had abandoned the reins and was hanging on desperately to his poor animal by its mane. Inevitably, he fell off.

Mistress Alyx had chosen to ride by the bank of the river Arun, now swollen with the rains. It was a cunning choice; for when Kieron became unseated there was an even chance that he would fall on the river side.

Ludd was not with him, and he did. He fell into a large patch of mud, taking much of the fall upon his shoulder and the rest upon his backside as he rolled over. It was worse than a body slam at wrestling on the green.

Alyx laughed heartily. ‘So, prentice, your horsemanship is the equal of your limning. Mount again, boy. Do not look so dazed. I do not choose to wait here for ever.’

Kieron mounted, somehow. Aching and bruised, he managed to get back on to the mare. He did not stay in the saddle for long. The next time, however, he had the good sense to fall not on the river side but on the pasture side. It hurt more, but there was no mud. He got to his feet, shaking and aching. Blindly, he tried to get back into the saddle.

‘Enough, boy. You have so terrified my gentle mare that she will throw you as soon as she feels your weight. Follow me back to the castle. I will go slow. Lead her carefully. She is not accustomed to boors.’

Alyx turned her horse round and, hardly glancing at Kieron, headed back through Arundel to the castle. Still showing extensive streaks of mud on his face and clothes, and visibly shaken, Kieron followed her, casting many nervous glances backwards at the docile mare he was leading.

The townsfolk who were about surveyed the spectacle and took care not to let Mistress Alyx see their amusement. However, they also took care that Kieron-head-in-the-air, whose muddy face was now downcast, should see. Worst of all, Petrina, having made purchases at the bakery, was now returning home with a basketful of fresh bread. At first, when she saw Kieron, her expression was one of horror; then slowly it changed, and she could not repress a smile. The smile hurt him as if it had been a blow.

At the castle, solemn-faced grooms relieved him of the mare. A lackey, commanded by Alyx, went through the motions of cleaning him up a little, with obvious distaste for the task. Kieron’s clothes were of good, honest doeskin and wool. The lackey wore linen and velvet. Kieron thought it would be a heaven-sent convenience if he were suddenly to die.

Unfortunately, Ludd was not merciful. He remained alive. Mistress Alyx, with no expression at all on her face, directed him to attend her in the library. He followed submissively, resolving to gather up his materials and take leave of her as soon as possible.

His sketch and drawing board were on the Persian carpet where he had left them: Alyx seemed not to notice their existence. She went straight to the clavichord; and her riding boots, still wet and bearing traces of mud, left their imprint upon Kieron’s sketch as she walked over it.

Suddenly he knew that he had reached the limits of endurance. To take more humiliation from this spoilt girl would be to accept more than his manhood could permit.

‘Enough, bitch!’ he cried. ‘I have had more than enough of you!’

Alyx turned to him, affecting surprise, indignation. Cool and controlled indignation. ‘Boy, you have exceeded yourself. You have used a certain word in my presence and directed at my person. For that I will have you whipped from the castle. Your apprenticeship will be dissolved and you will be sent forth to live as best you may on nuts in the woods.’

‘Not before I have taught you a lesson,’ retorted Kieron icily. ‘Mistress, I am
a freeborn man and I have dignity. Your blood may be noble, but your manners are exceedingly crude.’

And with that, he lifted her bodily, sat upon the stool by the clavichord and proceeded to spank her bottom with much vigour and enthusiasm.

Alyx screamed. Kieron enjoyed her screaming mightily. He was enjoying it so much that he was unaware of the doors of the library bursting open as servants rushed in. He was aware of nothing but the exquisite pleasure of spanking this spoilt child who presumed to be a woman. He was aware of nothing else until hands seized him and he was struck on the head and sank into oblivion.

He awoke to find himself in what seemed to be the castle donjon. He awoke because a pailful of cold water had been hurled at his face. He awoke to find himself hanging by his hands from manacles fastened into the stone wall. He awoke to find that his wrists ached, his arms ached, his shoulders ached, his head ached. He awoke to find that Seigneur Fitzalan, seated on a chair, was facing him. By Seigneur Fitzalan’s side stood the castle gaoler. Behind his chair stood the Mistress Alyx.

They will kill me, thought Kieron hazily. I care not. Better to die like a man than live like a sheep.

‘So, prentice, you are kind enough to rejoin us.’ Seigneur Fitzalan’s voice was pleasant, gentle, even. But his countenance was stern. Kieron saw no mercy in it.