The Lady and the Unicorn (11 page)

‘No.’ I didn't want him to talk like that with Aliénor so close.

He grinned at me. He would say it anyway. ‘Women may smell of cloves but they taste of oysters.’

ALIÉNOR DE LA CHAPELLE

The men found me weeding among the strawberries. I have planted them so that there's a place for me to kneel easily and weed. I don't think much of them as plants — the flowers don't smell and the leaves are neither soft nor prickly nor thin nor fat. But the fruit is heavenly. Now in early summer the berries have begun to grow but are still small and hard and have little scent. Once the fruit is ripe, though, I would happily spend all day in this square of the garden, crushing the berries between my fingers to smell and taste.

I heard Philippe on the path between the squares — he scrapes one of his toes when he walks — and Nicolas des Innocents' bouncing step behind him. The first time Nicolas came into my garden he said, ‘Sainte Vierge, it's a paradise! I have never seen such a kitchen garden in Paris. There are so many houses that there is no room for anything — or perhaps a row of cabbages if you're lucky.’ It was the only time I've heard him praise something in Brussels as better than Paris.

People are always surprised by my garden. It has six squares, laid out as a cross, with the fruit trees — apple and plum and cherry — at the corners. Two squares are of vegetables, where I grow cabbages, leeks, peas, lettuce, radishes, celery. One square is of strawberries and herbs — that was where I was weeding. Then there is a rose bed, which I do not much like — the thorns prick me — but it pleases Maman, and two beds for the flowers and more herbs.

I am happiest in my garden. It is the safest place in the world. I know every plant, every tree, every stone, every clod of dirt. It is surrounded by a trellis woven of willow and covered with thorny roses to keep out animals and strangers. Most often I am alone in my garden. Birds do come in and sit on the fruit trees, stealing cherries when they are ripe. Butterflies fly among the flowers, though I know little of them. Sometimes when I am sitting still I've felt the air stirred near my cheek or arm from their fluttering, but I've never touched one. Papa told me there is dust on their wings that comes off when you touch it. Then the butterfly can't fly, and birds eat it. So I leave them alone and have others describe them to me.

I smiled now when Philippe announced, ‘It's only us, Aliénor — myself and Nicolas des Innocents. Here we are, by the lavender.’ He has known me all my life, yet he still tells me where he is when I already know. I could smell the woody, oily scent of the lavender they were brushing against.

I sat back on my heels and raised my face to the sun. Early summer is good for sun, as it is directly overhead for longer during the day. I have always loved heat, though not from the fire. Fires scare me. I have singed my skirts too often by the fire.

‘Will you pick me a strawberry, Mademoiselle?’ Nicolas asked. ‘I have a thirst.’

‘They're not ripe yet,’ I snapped. I had meant to sound pleasant but he made me feel strange. And he was talking too loudly. People often do when they discover I'm blind.

‘Ah. Never mind, I expect they'll ripen before I go back to Paris.’

I leaned forward again, feeling the ground around the strawberry plants, crumbling the sun-baked earth between my fingers as I gently searched for chickweed, groundsel, shepherd's purse. There were few weeds, and none more than a seedling — I had worked among the strawberries only a few days before. I could feel both men's eyes on me, like pebbles pressed into my back. It is strange how I can feel such things when I don't know what it is like to see.

As they watched me I knew what they were thinking — how could I find the weeds and know them for weeds? But weeds are just like other plants, except unwanted — they have leaves and flowers and scents and stems and juices. By feel and smell, I know them as well as any other plant.

‘Aliénor, we need your help with the
millefleurs
for the tapestries,’ Philippe said. ‘We've drawn some of the design large for the cartoon. But we want you to point out flowers for us to use.’

I sat back on my heels again. I am always glad to be asked for help. I have spent my life being useful so that my parents will never find me a burden and send me away.

People often praise my work. ‘How even your stitches are,’ they say. ‘How bright your flowers, how red your cherries. Such a pity you can't see them.’ Indeed, I can hear the pity in their voices, as well as the surprise that I can be so useful. They can't think of the world without eyes, just as I cannot think of the world with them. Eyes are simply two bumps on my face that can move, the way my jaw can chew or my nostrils flare. I have other ways of knowing the world.

For instance, I know the tapestries I work on. I can feel each ridge of warp thread, each bead of weft. I can trace the flowers of the
millefleur
pattern and follow my stitches around a dog's hind leg or a rabbit's ear or the sleeve of a peasant's robe. I feel colours. Red is silky smooth, yellow prickles, blue is oily. Underneath my fingers is a map made by the tapestries.

People talk about seeing with such reverence that I sometimes think if I did have eyes the first thing I would see is Our Lady. She would be wearing a robe all blue and silky in my fingers, and Her skin would be smooth and Her cheeks warm. She would smell of strawberries. She would lay Her hands on my shoulders and they would feel light but firm too, so that once She had touched me I would always feel the weight of Her hands.

I wonder sometimes if seeing would make honey taste sweeter, lavender smell richer, the sun feel warmer on my face.

‘You must describe the tapestries to me,’ I said to Philippe.

‘I did so the other day.’

‘In more detail now. Where is the Lady looking — at the unicorn or at the lion? What is she wearing? Is she happy or sad? Does she feel safe in her garden? What is the lion doing? Is the unicorn sitting or standing? Is he glad to be caught or does he want to get away? Does the Lady love the unicorn?’

Philippe began rustling paper, laying out the designs. The sound annoyed me. I turned to Nicolas. ‘Monsieur, you have made the designs. Surely you know them so well that you can describe them without looking at your drawings.’

Philippe stopped rustling.

‘Of course, Mademoiselle,’ Nicolas replied. There was a smile in his voice. The pebbles crunched under his feet as he knelt by the edge of the square.

‘You're stepping on mint,’ I said sharply as its scent reached me.

‘Oh.
Pardon
.’ He moved a little. ‘
Bon
, what were all of those questions you asked?’

I couldn't think now what I wanted to know from him. I wasn't used to the attentions of such a man. ‘How much blue is in the tapestries?’ I said at last. I'm not happy when the tapestries my father makes have much blue in them. Then I know we will have too many visits from Jacques Le Bœuf, with his heavy tread, his lewd words, and of course his smell — the smell only a broken, desperate girl would live with.

‘How much would you like there to be, Mademoiselle?’

‘None, unless you are willing to stay and fight with Jacques Le Bœuf each time he comes.’

Nicolas laughed. ‘The Lady stands on blue grass that makes up the bottom part of each tapestry. But if you like we can make that grassy part smaller. Perhaps an island of grass floating among red, encircling the Lady and the unicorn and lion. Yes, that could work very well. And we can make that change ourselves, can't we, Philippe? It is part of the
verdure
,
n'est-ce pas
?’

Philippe didn't answer. His angry silence hung in the air.

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘
Eh bien
, what does the Lady look like? Describe her to me. Describe Taste.’ I chose the Lady I did not like.

Nicolas grunted. ‘Why that one?’

‘I am punishing myself. Is she really very beautiful?’

‘Yes.’

I was feeling among the strawberries and accidentally picked one. I threw it down. ‘Is she smiling?’

‘A small smile, yes. She is looking to her left and thinking of something.’

‘What is she thinking of?’

‘The unicorn's horn.’

‘Don't, Nicolas,’ Philippe said sharply.

That made me more curious. ‘What about his horn?’

‘The unicorn's horn is a magical thing,’ Nicolas said, ‘with special powers. They say that if a unicorn dips his horn into a poisoned well, the water will become pure again. He can make other things pure as well.’

‘What other things?’

There was a pause. ‘That's enough about it for now. Perhaps I'll tell you another time.’ Nicolas added the last under his breath so that only I heard. My ears are sharper than Philippe's.

‘
Bon
,’ I said. ‘Let me think. There should be mint among the
millefleurs
, for it guards against poison. Solomon's seal as well. And speedwell and daisies and marigolds — those are for stomach ailments. Strawberries too, for resisting poison, and for Christ Our Lord, for the Lady and the unicorn are also Our Lady and Our Lord. So you will want flowers for the Virgin Mary — lily of the valley, foxglove, columbine, violets. Yes, and dog roses — white for Our Lady's purity, red for Christ's blood. Carnations for Our Lady's tears for Her son — be sure to put those in the tapestry with the unicorn in the Lady's lap, for that is like the Pietà,
n'est-ce pas
? Which one is that?’ I already knew — I remember everything. I wanted to tease them.

There was a pause. Philippe cleared his throat. ‘Sight.’

‘Ah.’ I moved on lightly. ‘Carnations too in the one where the Lady is making the bridal crown, yes?’

‘Yes, in Smell.’

‘There is periwinkle sometimes in bridal crowns too, for fidelity. And you will want stock for constancy, and forget-me-nots for true love.’

‘
Attends
, Aliénor, you go too fast. I'll get some more paper for sketches, and stools so that we can sit.’ Philippe ran to the workshop.

I was alone with Nicolas. I had never been alone with a man like him.

‘Why do they call you Nicolas des Innocents?’ I asked.

‘I live near the Cemetery of the Innocents in Paris, off the rue St Denis.’

‘Ah. I didn't think you yourself were innocent.’

Nicolas chuckled. ‘Already you know me well, beauty.’

‘I would like to touch your face, so that I will know you better.’ It was bold of me — I've not even asked to touch Philippe's face, and I've known him since we were children.

But Nicolas is from Paris — he is used to boldness.
‘Bien sûr,’
he said. He stepped into the strawberries, crushing mint and lemon balm and unripe fruit beneath his boots. He knelt in front of me and I put my hands up to his face. He had soft hair to his shoulders, and his chin and cheeks were sandy with stubble. His forehead was broad. His chin had a cleft in it. There were deep creases on either side of his wide mouth. I squeezed his long thin nose and he laughed.

I felt his face only for a moment before he jumped up and leapt to the path. When Philippe returned, dragging stools through the pebbles, we were as we had been before.

‘Do you want to see the flowers you will sketch?’ I stood up so quickly I felt dizzy.

‘Yes,’ Philippe said.

I stepped into the path and led them to the flower beds. ‘Many of them are flowering now, though you have missed a few. There are no more violets, nor lily of the valley, nor periwinkle. The leaves, yes, but no flowers. And the Solomon's seal are beginning to shrivel. But the foxglove and speedwell are blooming already, and one or two of the marigolds. Do you see them, near the plum trees?’

‘Yes,’ Nicolas said. ‘You grow everything here, then? Why do you take such care when you can't see them?’

'I grow them for others to see, but especially for Papa, so that he may know the flowers he weaves and can copy their true shapes and colours. It works best that way. That is the workshop's secret — that's why our
millefleurs
are so fine.

‘
Bon
, here is the stock. I plant it in the corners of the squares for the smell, so that I know where I am. Here is the columbine, everything in three — three leaves in three clusters on three stems, for the Holy Trinity. Here are the carnations and daisies and marguerites. What else do you want?’

Philippe asked me about other plants he saw there and I knelt and felt them — blue gromwell, saxifrage, soapwort. Then he sat and began to sketch, his charcoal scraping along the rough paper.

‘You may want some of the early spring flowers too,’ I reminded him. ‘Snowdrops and hyacinths. Of course they're not blooming now but you can look at some of Papa's designs if you don't remember them. And narcissus too, for the unicorn in Sight — gazing at himself in the mirror as Narcissus did.’

‘You must have talked to Léon Le Vieux when he was here — you both think the unicorn is a vain, cocky fellow,’ Nicolas said.

I smiled. ‘Léon is a wise man.’ Indeed, Léon Le Vieux has always been kind to me, treating me almost like a daughter. He once told me that his own family had been Jews, though he attends Mass with us when he is here. So he too knows of what it is like to be different, and of the need always to fit in and be useful.