Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett
– trying to imitate things they don’t understand.’
It wasn’t a question; nor was it an explanation he understood. He just looked vaguely hurt, as if it might be a slur on him. She took his arm and led him quickly away from the Butchery. There was no reason to linger. Enough of it was blocked up – another part of the rebels’ punishment – to make it as hard to get to the big ostentatious houses of the butcher clans, the Thiberts and St Yons, as it had always been to penetrate the stinking back alleys: Disembowelment Lane and Pig’s-Trotter Alley and Flaying Yard and Skinners’ Court and the Tripery and Calf Square and Hoof Place.
She crossed herself and passed on. It was only once they were safely on the approach to the river; almost underneath the turrets and crenellations of the Châtelet, with the sun glittering peacefully on the water and the cheerful cries of the boatmen ahead – and behind them the Island from which France was governed, and behind that the alluring world of prayers and vineyards and books of the Left Bank and the University – that she felt the pent-up breath ease out of her.
In a gentler voice, she said: ‘“The beauty of the world lies in things being in their own element – stars in the sky, birds in the air, fish in water, men on earth.”’ She meant: There is an order in creation; the likes of butchers shouldn’t dream of trying to seize power from the King that God has anointed. But she could see Owain stare; she could see him trying to tease meaning out of her words. Whatever did they teach boys at the court of England? she wondered; he was completely unlettered. ‘William of Conches wrote that,’ she said, smiling at Owain, enjoying his visible desire for knowledge so much that she repressed her irritation at his masters for leaving him such an ignoramus. ‘It’s a thought I like to remember, when I see the world stretched out before me like this, in the sunlight; when all is well everywhere you look.’
She could see him trying the words out in his own mouth, experimenting with them in a mutter. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d try them out on someone else. Then his eyes slipped sideways again; she knew now where he was looking. Over to the Left Bank. With a little burst of happiness that she’d recognised one of her own sort so easily, she saw he couldn’t keep from glancing at the University.
But Owain was astonished enough by the King’s new Notre Dame bridge, just completed, with its seventeen wooden pillars and sixty-five narrow new timber houses and the mills rushing and grinding below, between the columns, to be distracted again from his contemplation of the University. The bridge took them at a sedate pace to the Island, where, until this King’s father had moved his family to the gentler pleasures of the Hotel Saint-Paul a few decades ago, kings throughout history had made their homes under the hundreds of pinnacles of the Royal Palace. ‘That’s where Jean’s gone with Jean de Marle,’ Madame de Pizan said proudly, gesturing at the pinnacles on the right before pointing out the enormous mass of the cathedral on their left, with its strange outside ribs of stone. She showed him the market at the Notre Dame approach, too, on the way to the scriptoria of the Island book business. And she let him peep inside the little red door in the side of the cathedral – the one placed just at the spot, on the body of the church, that would remind worshippers of the spear-wound in the Flesh of the Divine Martyr – and watched him marvel at the soaring height of the slim spires, made of honey stone so delicate it seemed like lace, and, further up than he’d have thought possible, at the luminous sky erupting through a vast open fretwork of coloured glass that glowed ruby and sapphire and emerald. Looking up was like seeing an explosion. Owain craned his neck towards the glorious luminosity of the heavens until it hurt. Time stood still. Somewhere in the candlelit gloom around him he was aware of male voices chanting; one sustained, ever renewed, bass note, with a host of others rising and falling in a complex movement around it: working the same magic on his ears that the colours he was staring at were working on his dazzled eyes. He knew exactly what Madame de Pizan meant when, without breaking the spell, she murmured, ‘“I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields. I shine in the water. I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars.”’ The unfamiliar words thrilled through him with something that felt like recognition; he’d never understood how God could be light until he’d come to stand in this space, staring up, hearing what felt like the music of the spheres. He was beginning to understand how his new acquaintance’s mind worked, too, well enough, at least, to know that she’d also murmur straight afterwards, ‘St Hildegard wrote that,’ and put her hand on his arm, before he had a chance to ask who St Hildegard had been (but he could ask later). He could tell she’d nudge him quickly back to the street, where the light was just light, and not poetry and prayer and honey and song spun together, but, even if it no longer made him feel he could float into the heavens, it was still beautiful light, and the sun was warm on his back.
‘They call Paris the mother of liberal arts and letters,’ Christine said breathlessly, in her deep, throaty, musical voice with its rolling southern r’s. She walked quickly and easily, propelling her lean little body so expertly over the dirt so that her feet didn’t seem to touch the ground. Owain liked the respect in her voice. ‘Equal to ancient Athens,’ he added. He was just repeating a chance remark he’d heard somewhere; but he felt proud when she turned to him in surprise, and rewarded him with a glowing smile.
‘The other colours you dilute in water, with gum … pine gum or fir gum,’ Anastaise said, her voice flat and concentrating, watching the thick liquid hover before dropping into the little vessel. ‘It’s only these two – the red and white lead – that you mix with egg white. Minium, the red one’s called. The white is ceruse.’
They’d found her fumbling with the bolts at the courtyard gate when they got back to Christine’s home in Old Temple Street, Owain loaded up with Christine’s purchases – parchment scrolls and a cloth-wrapped package they’d stopped to pick up from a tiny, bent-over goldsmith in a workshop filled with slanting sunlight and glittering dust, one of several workshops they’d dropped in at. She’d looked up in relief as they’d walked up. ‘I can’t open it,’ she’d said, without preliminaries, and nodded down at herself. Owain realised why: she was trying to do the bolts with one hand. The other big raw hand was nursing a bunch of wilting blue cornflowers, wrapped in muslin.
Anastaise was a big, blowsy woman in her middle years, who towered over Christine. She had a bold look in her eye and a ready tongue, and a rude good humour shining on her reddish cheeks; but she and the fine-drawn, high-minded Madame de Pizan were clearly on the best of terms. ‘They say Paris is the centre of the world of illuminations,’ Christine told Owain proudly, as they walked inside and put their packages down on the scriptorium table, ‘and you’ve met some of the finest illuminators and miniaturists in the world today; but, whatever you hear anywhere else, Anastaise is the greatest of them all.’
‘Ahhh – get along with you,’ Anastaise replied roughly, but Owain could see her colour up, redder than before; and he caught her smiling to herself as she tucked her greasy pepper-and-salt hair back inside her kerchief.
He stayed in the room, hovering, unwilling to go and miss finding out how this queen of illuminators worked, but uncertain what to do with himself as Anastaise got to work and Christine opened the big ledger in the corner to enter her purchases. He whistled under his breath and tried to be inconspicuous, and watched. He was going over in his mind their brief stop at the illuminators’ table on the way out of the busy scriptorium in central Paris, where Christine had bought the parchment scrolls. The little man in there, wearing a splodged apron, almost a hunchback, with piercing pale eyes under a bare head, only a few wisps of baby hair still wafting out of its freckles, had caught the newcomer trying to see what he was drawing.
‘You want to see, don’t you?’ asked the little man, whom Owain now knew was Jean Malouel (until last year the head painter to the Duke of Burgundy). And he’d scuttled off, sideways, like a crab, Owain thought, to the shelves and tables at the back of the room, where unattended pieces of parchment were laid out, weighed down with stones and pots – which Owain guessed must be uncompleted work at different stages, drying, waiting for the next coat of colour, or just to be bound.
‘Here,’ Malouel said finally, ‘no one is supposed to see this; but you’ve got no one here to tell, have you?’ He beckoned Owain over. There was a pleased,