Henry
London, 1665
Henry rises first. He stokes the fire, allowing the heat to warm him slowly from the toes up. The students remain fast asleep beneath their easels, their heads propped on pillows made of shoes and rags. Henry steps carefully over their splayed limbs. George’s mouth hangs open, his lips parted as if about to speak. Arthur and Jacob lie huddled together for warmth, the crowns of their heads innocently touching. The two boys would rather die than allow themselves to be caught this way. Although Henry has no great love for either lad, he stirs Jacob’s foot gently as he passes by, causing the boy to groan and roll away from his friend.
It’s Henry’s fault they were up late, drawing until they could no longer clutch their pencils, too tired to drag themselves up the stairs to their dormitory. Last night during supper, he told them to finish eating and return to the workshop once they’d washed their hands. This change in routine caused a ripple of excitement to run along the table. Henry heard them firing off guesses as he left the room. ‘Must be a woman,’ Jacob said. ‘She’s going to take off all her clothes!’ Tittering laughter. Someone else suggested the master himself would be giving a special class on some important skill every artist must acquire. ‘No chance,’ came the reply.
Lely has not been seen in the workshop for weeks. Henry catches glimpses of him sometimes as he is entering or leaving the studio, but he is always distracted, his attention preoccupied by his work on the Beauties. The most he can manage is a nod in Henry’s direction or, if the boys are there, a mangled proverb designed to inspire. Henry has tried pressing Mary for information on how the series is coming along. ‘Fine,’ she says in her usual abrupt tone. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. It’s none of your concern.’ Mary remains as close-mouthed as ever. The truce they seemed to have reached has apparently been forgotten.
His frustration has nowhere to go so he pours it into his work, painting furiously, completing copy after copy of Lely’s originals. He keeps the boys focused on their projects, assisting them when they need his help, finishing off the works they can’t complete themselves. They have fallen behind in their training but at least they are meeting their commitments. Their little workshop is like a factory now, churning out artwork. And yet it still feels as if they are always behind, always short on time. Henry is aware of how hard they are working. Last night’s excursion was the antidote and the reward. When the boys returned to the workshop after supper, Henry told them to fetch their overcoats. Then, shielded against the breeze by his own cloak and guided by the flaming torch carried by a link-boy, he led them out into the night.
Their first stop was an atelier run by a silk weaver and his seamstress wife. Greeting them at the door, the mistress led them upstairs to the attic, where four men and two women worked the loom, shuttling the yarn back and forth in a frenetic dance, pulling and releasing the tension on the wool, imprinting the fabric with a design of flowers and insects. The atelier hummed with energy.
Next, the mistress showed them into the room where she designed and sewed dresses, doublets and breeches. She conversed with Henry in French, which he translated for the boys. ‘See the way the panels fit together, so the design flows uninterrupted? A seamless fusion. She says this is the difference between a gown made for a county church and one made for court. Notice the heaviness of the fabric, the way it falls? The silkworms who produce this marvel are fed on mulberry leaves and raised in farms outside the city walls. They give their lives for these confections. Never forget that art is about sacrifice. The most beautiful creations conceal the effort that goes into them.’
As the mistress continued to espouse the benefits of sericulture, Henry’s ears picked up a rebellious muttering at the back of the group. He interrupted the woman, begging her forgiveness. Better to confront the issue than let it fester.
‘Yes, Jacob? Is there some commentary you wish to share?’
‘Clothes aren’t really art, are they, sir? They’re just bits of fabric and fur you wear over your nakedness to keep you warm.’ Jacob’s cheeks were flushed but he jutted his chin out defiantly.
The other boys looked to Henry, assessing his reaction. Henry knew he must respond in a way that did not make him sound superior or make it seem as if he were punishing Jacob. Jacob’s coat was milled from quality wool, tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders and embroidered with the family’s insignia. It must have cost three times what an average London tradesman could afford. When Henry was Jacob’s age, he would have been given similar attire to wear and would not have thought twice about where it came from. Only since leaving home and moving to London did the cost of such things reveal themselves. Not fiduciary – that was just the tip of the iceberg. The value lay in labour, in the hours spent spinning fibres, cutting cloth, sewing hems, fitting the garment to a person’s body, unstitching, restitching, failing and trying again. In London, industry was on display. Hard work was applauded. Until students like Jacob could see the parallels between their own output and the work of people they considered mere labourers, they were doomed to waste their talent painting replicas of other people’s masterpieces. Art was suffering. It was sweat and disappointment and years of thankless application, of honing your skills with no guarantee of a reward. This is not the narrative Henry has grown accustomed to telling himself about his own blessed career, but since assuming responsibility for his young charges he has realised with sudden clarity the inherent truth of it.
‘For some people, clothing is warmth and comfort. For artists, it’s full of symbols. Part of the language of portraiture. The work that goes into this is mostly unseen. It’s up to us, as artists, to know the value of a bolt of silk, for only then can we demonstrate our subject’s status. Only then do we know how to frame him. You haven’t yet been required to make these decisions; the master or Mary does it for you. But one day, if you are lucky enough to have your own studio, you will need to choose how to dress your subject, what textiles and props to include. It could be the making of your career. It could mean the difference between life as a court artist and resigning yourself to painting houses to make ends meet.’
Slipping the seamstress a few coins for her trouble, he led the boys back out into the street, where night had almost fully descended. As they shrugged on their coats, Henry observed that they were quieter than they had been when they set off. He hoped a few of them at least had absorbed something from the excursion to the weaver’s house. And those who hadn’t still had one last chance to learn. Hailing another link-boy, he urged his charges towards Southwark.
Near the river, the noise increased, a cacophony of human voices mingled with creaking ships and the warring calls of bargemen squeezing the last custom from travellers. On St Thomas Street he stopped outside a red door. Nobody responded to his knock, so he pushed it open, entering a dark reception hall. A timber staircase led upwards. At Henry’s bidding, the boys ascended in single file, pausing at the top of the stairwell in front of an arched door to await further instruction. Henry shouldered his way to the front then opened the door, propping it with his foot so the group could crowd inside. George was the last to enter. He glanced at Henry as he passed, eyes wide as if he guessed what the secret the room held. Perhaps he recognised the smell? Beneath the scent of tallow wax, Henry detected it: a pungent, watery scent, a vegetative rot like cut flowers left out in the rain.
A familiar voice called, ‘Henry?’
‘Just a minute.’
Letting the door thud closed, Henry followed George into the room. The round antechamber was large enough to accommodate three partially enclosed observation platforms overlooking a raised dais on which stood a man in a frayed coat, a woman’s body stretched on a table before him. Torches glowed on the walls, casting flickering shadows across the domed ceiling and making strange reflections in the glass casements. Their warmth should have been enough to obliterate any trace of cold, but as Henry approached the stage, his skin prickled and his hands and feet felt numb, as if he’d been marching for hours through the snow. He tried to focus on the man standing behind the dissecting table, but his gaze kept wandering towards the body. Blue skin, small wrists and ankles, a curved stomach, a thatch of hair darkening the space between her thighs. Forcing himself to breathe in the putrefying aroma, he embraced the old man.
‘How are you?’ said his friend. ‘You look a little pale but otherwise seem to be in good health. Better than Miss Lincoln here. Poor woman. May her soul rest peacefully in the Lord’s embrace.’ The physician’s hair was grey and thinning above his lined face. He seemed to have shrunk since Henry last saw him. An old memory reared up: a younger version of the doctor, his hair still tinged red, a beard covering the lower half of his face. He wore a grave expression, and although his lips were moving the words coming from them were unintelligible. Henry’s mind strained to make sense of them, but it was as if the surgeon was speaking underwater. All he knew was that something terrible had happened and that his worst fears had been realised. On the other side of understanding lay a loss from which he might never recover. The memory receded.
‘I’m well, sir,’ he said. ‘And yourself?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I can’t complain. Well, I could, but who would listen?’
‘Thank you for doing this.’
‘The pleasure is mine. I spoke to Miss Lincoln before she passed. She was an actress who suffered greatly from a lifelong pain inside her head. She wanted to be seen. She was not a vain creature but she was proud of her body’s strength, its capabilities. She saw its flaws as part of its beauty. She would be pleased to know she had helped your students in their artistic pursuits. Tomorrow, she will give her final performance, helping to educate my medical students on the methods of dissection. Do you have everything you need?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Then I’m ready to begin.’
Henry turned to address the apprentices. ‘This is Dr Green. I don’t need to tell you how fortunate you are to be here. This woman gave her permission to be studied, to be observed and understood. I want you to listen and look. Pay attention. Be respectful. You have been granted a gift. Human anatomy is a crucial component to your learning. Do not waste this opportunity.’
Unhooking the satchel slung around his shoulder, he began handing out sheets of parchment and sticks of graphite. The students accepted the materials wordlessly. Some boys – Jacob included – looked a little ashen-faced, but none succumbed to their nausea. Each took hold of his graphite, spread the parchment before him, and watched and listened attentively; a credit to their artistic instinct, Henry thought. The physician named the woman’s body parts, touching her pale shoulder, cupping her face gently in his hands then letting her head sink back onto the table. The boys sketched quietly as Henry walked among them, supervising their work. Sketching at night required a new set of skills; the artist had to judge distance and perspective differently. Shadows lied. Light made reality tremble, obscuring the sharp edges of objects and filling the crevices of well-known faces so the subjects appeared unfamiliar.
Leonardo da Vinci had invented a machine which could aid with perspective; he called it a perspectograph. But Henry disliked the idea of machines, preferring more organic drawing methods. When you sat down with a live model, you could not always control the light or the way the human flesh behaved when propped against a cushion or chair. The only way to improve, therefore, was to simulate unstable environments. In this case, the boys could not predict how the shadows cast by the candlelight would play on the dead woman’s body. They would simply have to do their best with the tools he had given them. They would need to rely on their experience and their curiosity and their natural gifts. He told them this as he walked between them. He watched the dead woman’s likeness appear slowly on layers of parchment. In death, she was beautiful, her thin lips relaxed, as if she were smiling, her long hair creating a pillow for her curved cheek. She looked like his mother as he had seen her last, lying on a table very much like this one.
His stomach lurched and he looked away, his vision afflicted by a sudden prickling in his eyes. Everywhere he looked, he met the woman’s image. Every boy had replicated her differently, yet her likeness was unmistakable. Perfection in death, her soul captured fleetingly upon the page before her body fed the worms. Renaissance artists like Cennini considered it a waste of time to draw women – believing the antiquated notion that no woman had perfect proportions, that only men were perfect specimens – but Henry couldn’t imagine any greater privilege.
He heard himself telling the boys to pack up their things. The experiment was over. Wiping his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeve, he went to collect his satchel from the dissecting table.
‘Leaving so soon?’ The doctor bent to retrieve the crumpled sheet. Taking hold of the corners, he let the folds fall over the body. Henry watched him tuck in the edges tenderly, as if he were putting the woman to bed. Sadness welled inside Henry’s chest. He cleared his throat.
‘They’ve seen enough to be getting on with. Thank you for your generosity tonight. And for your help with my mother.’
His heart felt heavy in his chest as he escorted the boys home. He’d expected them to be tired after their excursion, ready for bed, but the proximity to death had enlivened them. He allowed them to continue sketching until they fell asleep at their easels.
Crossing the room now, he plucks a pen from George’s fingers and eases the parchment from under the boy’s arm, where it is in danger of being crushed. George has captured the dead woman’s features, but he has dressed her in a sable-lined cloak, concealing her nakedness, and drawn a ribbon around her throat. These additions layer the sketch with other meanings. She appears to be sleeping, instead of dead. Through his rendering of clothing, his tender dressing, George has resurrected her, caught her living essence on the page. Henry never had the chance to do so for his mother. It had been too painful to look upon her – to see the way her body had been reduced to skin and bones. Only her face was recognisable, still beautiful beneath the bluish shadows dappling her skin. He committed her face to memory before they took her away. All those years in which he had longed for her in vain had made him all the more determined never to forget it.
‘Who on earth is that?’ Mary says, peering over his shoulder.
Henry startles. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
How like her to sneak up without announcing her arrival. He rolls up the sketch and tucks it under his arm. Mary is too distracted to pursue the matter further. She yanks the curtains back, flooding the room with sunlight. The boys groan and sit up, stretching their arms and rubbing the grit from their eyes.
‘It’s nearly noon, Henry. Why are these boys still sleeping?’
‘We were up late,’ he says. ‘Working.’
Mary scowls. ‘This place looks like a pigpen and smells worse. How am I supposed to show the Sinclairs around this afternoon? They want to apprentice their son Thomas next month. We need the money. The boys and the workshop must look their best. The Sinclairs are tastemakers. If they apply for an apprenticeship, other families will also.’
‘You could have given me more notice.’
‘You shouldn’t need notice, Henry. That’s the point.’
She shakes her head as she takes in the dishevelled room. Henry endures her disapproval by reminding himself the situation is only temporary. One day he will be in charge of the studio again. Until then, he must not let Mary undermine his confidence.
He begins to rouse the boys, ordering them to tidy away their materials and wipe away the smudges their charcoal has left on the floor. The apprentices go about their tasks slowly, as if they’ve been drugged. Henry stoops to retrieve a paintbrush which has rolled under the buffet where they store their props. The narrow space is a graveyard for dust and long-forgotten trinkets. Other treasures emerge alongside the brush when Henry withdraws his hand – a glimmering peacock feather, a string of fake pearls made from ground-up paste, assorted buttons, a lady’s handkerchief edged with fine French lace. George pounces on the buttons and the lace. ‘For my collection,’ he says, pocketing them quickly before the other boys see. Henry feels a rush of affection for the child. They keep each other’s secrets.
‘What have you got there, George?’ Mary says, bustling over.
George colours. ‘Nothing, madam.’
‘D’you think I was born yesterday? Come on. Let’s see.’
Reluctantly, George reaches into his pocket.
The other boys snigger as he produces the rumpled handkerchief.
Mary frowns, confused. ‘I don’t understand. What need have you of a woman’s handkerchief?’
‘To dry his tears,’ Jacob whispers, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
The others laugh.
Mary shoves the article back into the child’s hand. ‘Well, you may keep it, George, since it isn’t mine. A client must have dropped it.’
Oblivious to George’s obvious discomfort, she turns to Henry. ‘I need you to run an errand for me.’
She means a favour, Henry thinks, but she will not stoop to ask.
‘But what about the Sinclairs?’
‘Don’t concern yourself with that. There is to be an art auction this afternoon in Austin Friars. I want you to go along and bid on a painting of a horse.’
‘A horse?’
Mary clicks her tongue in irritation. ‘Not just any horse. This horse’s name was Apollo and he belonged to the king’s father. The two supposedly shared a special bond. The painting is one of the king’s lost treasures. Nobody else knows its worth expect the master. If we buy it back, the master can present it to the king himself. It provides a good excuse for him to speak to the king in person. Samuel Cooper, the miniaturist, has been sniffing around. No doubt, he would like a knighthood. We can’t risk him winning the king’s favour.’
‘How much should I bid?’
‘Use your common sense, Henry. Just don’t return without it. I will deal with the Sinclairs.’
‘Do you have time? What about the Beauties? Won’t the master need help? Perhaps I could—’
‘Could what?’ Mary interrupts him impatiently. ‘Paint a hand or an eye? A lock of hair? The master has me if he requires assistance. Indeed, he relies on me more than ever.’ She hurries off, leaving Henry fuming. Attending an auction is a distraction, the kind of work an errand boy could do.
Gathering up his coat, he stalks towards the door leading from the workshop into the street. As he passes George’s easel, he catches sight of the boy’s downcast expression, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. Seized with an urge to rebel, he tells George to follow him. If Mary wants to impress the Sinclairs, let her do so without the pull of the studio’s star pupil.