Read Online Queen Without a Crown by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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fresh gown.
‘Something bright,’ I said. ‘The orange-tawny, I think.’ Meg’s dark colouring always rewarded lively hues. ‘After all, we’re going to introduce her to a portrait painter.’
Except for Gladys, who preferred to stay where she was and not struggle with the stairs (‘No better than a ladder, they are, and no good to my old legs’), we were all curious to see a portrait painter on his own territory. We set off in a body: Hugh, Meg and myself, Sybil and the Brockleys, who were interested enough, thank goodness, to put aside their quarrel. Indeed, their interest was greater than mine. I kept thinking of the fear which now haunted the castle and my own unsuccessful efforts to carry out Mark Easton’s commission, and I did not look to Master Arbuckle either to help or hinder. He had nothing to do with any of my anxieties. I think I hoped that visiting him might divert me a little, let my mind rest from my troubles awhile.
Which it did, or so it seemed then. It was quite some time before I understood that fate was going to entangle Master Arbuckle very thoroughly in the northern rebellion and the affairs of Mark Easton, and that as I walked with the others along Peascod Street towards this first meeting, I was taking the first steps on a very perilous road.
Peascod Street was and is a long, busy, narrow thoroughfare leading south into the town from the castle’s Lower Ward. Master Arbuckle had taken the upper floor of a house halfway along. ‘The landlady is a Mistress Browne,’ said Hugh as Brockley went to knock.
The door was opened by a faded wisp of a woman who turned out to be Mistress Browne herself. ‘Ah, Master Stannard again. Master Arbuckle’s expecting you. He’s upstairs as usual. Getting ready.’
Her voice had a resigned note. ‘Is he a difficult tenant?’ I asked. Whereupon, in a flood of speech, she proceeded to tell us just how difficult Master Jocelyn Arbuckle was.
‘He pays regular, I grant you that, and his manservant does for him and has all his own utensils, so I don’t have to cook or even lend pans, just let the fellow use the kitchen fire. But the mess !’ She flung up her hands. ‘Paint on the floor, and how I’ll ever get it off when he leaves . . . and there goes that hammering again .’
A banging noise had begun upstairs. ‘He does that now and then,’ said Mistress Browne exasperatedly, ‘and what he’s about, I can’t think. Making nail-holes in my walls by the sound of it.’
‘He does fine work, mistress,’ Hugh said mildly. ‘I’ve seen the portrait he’s just finished.’
‘Oh no doubt, no doubt, but such a disturbance – and the way he goes about it. I’ve had artists here before, and they weren’t like this. The man has all manner of gadgets – silver hoods for candles, to make their light brighter, and mirrors and –’ here her pale brown eyes widened and her voice dropped to a near whisper – ‘he uses a magic glass!’
‘A what?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Well, that’s what I call it. He’s got a glass hanging up that gives me the creeps to look at it. It’s not like a mirror; it’s got something about it,’ said Mistress Browne, ‘that makes me think of an eye . Witchcraft, that’s what I’m afraid it is, and I cross myself, always, before I go into that room. I dursen’t say aught to him; he scares me, and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t let him paint a picture of me, not for any gold sovereigns, no I wouldn’t.’
Hugh and Brockley were both impatient with superstition. Hugh, sensing Brockley’s irritation, grinned at him in a silent permission to speak, and Brockley addressed the landlady sternly.
‘Master Arbuckle,’ he said, ‘is a man of reputation and has been in his profession for many years. There can’t be much amiss with him. Now, may we go up?’
Intimidated, the faded Mistress Browne turned towards a steep wooden staircase and led the way to the floor above.
The hammering, which had ceased while
‘Something bright,’ I said. ‘The orange-tawny, I think.’ Meg’s dark colouring always rewarded lively hues. ‘After all, we’re going to introduce her to a portrait painter.’
Except for Gladys, who preferred to stay where she was and not struggle with the stairs (‘No better than a ladder, they are, and no good to my old legs’), we were all curious to see a portrait painter on his own territory. We set off in a body: Hugh, Meg and myself, Sybil and the Brockleys, who were interested enough, thank goodness, to put aside their quarrel. Indeed, their interest was greater than mine. I kept thinking of the fear which now haunted the castle and my own unsuccessful efforts to carry out Mark Easton’s commission, and I did not look to Master Arbuckle either to help or hinder. He had nothing to do with any of my anxieties. I think I hoped that visiting him might divert me a little, let my mind rest from my troubles awhile.
Which it did, or so it seemed then. It was quite some time before I understood that fate was going to entangle Master Arbuckle very thoroughly in the northern rebellion and the affairs of Mark Easton, and that as I walked with the others along Peascod Street towards this first meeting, I was taking the first steps on a very perilous road.
Peascod Street was and is a long, busy, narrow thoroughfare leading south into the town from the castle’s Lower Ward. Master Arbuckle had taken the upper floor of a house halfway along. ‘The landlady is a Mistress Browne,’ said Hugh as Brockley went to knock.
The door was opened by a faded wisp of a woman who turned out to be Mistress Browne herself. ‘Ah, Master Stannard again. Master Arbuckle’s expecting you. He’s upstairs as usual. Getting ready.’
Her voice had a resigned note. ‘Is he a difficult tenant?’ I asked. Whereupon, in a flood of speech, she proceeded to tell us just how difficult Master Jocelyn Arbuckle was.
‘He pays regular, I grant you that, and his manservant does for him and has all his own utensils, so I don’t have to cook or even lend pans, just let the fellow use the kitchen fire. But the mess !’ She flung up her hands. ‘Paint on the floor, and how I’ll ever get it off when he leaves . . . and there goes that hammering again .’
A banging noise had begun upstairs. ‘He does that now and then,’ said Mistress Browne exasperatedly, ‘and what he’s about, I can’t think. Making nail-holes in my walls by the sound of it.’
‘He does fine work, mistress,’ Hugh said mildly. ‘I’ve seen the portrait he’s just finished.’
‘Oh no doubt, no doubt, but such a disturbance – and the way he goes about it. I’ve had artists here before, and they weren’t like this. The man has all manner of gadgets – silver hoods for candles, to make their light brighter, and mirrors and –’ here her pale brown eyes widened and her voice dropped to a near whisper – ‘he uses a magic glass!’
‘A what?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Well, that’s what I call it. He’s got a glass hanging up that gives me the creeps to look at it. It’s not like a mirror; it’s got something about it,’ said Mistress Browne, ‘that makes me think of an eye . Witchcraft, that’s what I’m afraid it is, and I cross myself, always, before I go into that room. I dursen’t say aught to him; he scares me, and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t let him paint a picture of me, not for any gold sovereigns, no I wouldn’t.’
Hugh and Brockley were both impatient with superstition. Hugh, sensing Brockley’s irritation, grinned at him in a silent permission to speak, and Brockley addressed the landlady sternly.
‘Master Arbuckle,’ he said, ‘is a man of reputation and has been in his profession for many years. There can’t be much amiss with him. Now, may we go up?’
Intimidated, the faded Mistress Browne turned towards a steep wooden staircase and led the way to the floor above.
The hammering, which had ceased while
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