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I did, and he massaged the ankle joint at the same time. When he touched the knobbly bone, I exclaimed. ‘Yes, there, a bit.’
‘Aye.’ He rotated the ankle gently, then slipped the shoe back on. ‘Nothing broke or sprained for that matter. A little twist. Might swell a little. Keep your weight off it a bit and keep it up when you sit down. Bag of frozen peas is helpful too.’
‘Sit down?’ I frowned. ‘I’ve not finished.’
‘Finished what?’ He rose. ‘That’s some equipment.’
‘I’m taking photographs. I’m on a schedule.’ I carefully tightened the Velcro shoe strap.
‘A hobby?’
I lifted the bag onto my knees. ‘No. I mean, yes it is, but I’m actually taking photos for somebody else. A commission.’ I liked the fancy word.
‘Really?’ he said, without sarcasm. ‘You’re not local, though.’
‘No. I’m touring the area, taking photographs.’
‘Nice area, but I’m biased. I used to come up here to volunteer on archaeological projects. But I’m not really cut out of the outdoor life.’ He grinned with renewed charm. My chivalrous, floppy-haired knight held out his hand. ‘Let me help you up. See if you can take your weight. Not that you have much, kind of fly-weight, aren’t you?’
I squirmed at the observation; it wasn’t my fault my metabolism burnt its way through food. I felt no shooting pain, merely a harsh throb. He let go of my arm and I balanced equally on two feet.
‘Sore?’
‘Just a little.’
‘You really should keep your weight off it.’
Standing next to him, I wasn’t as intimidated by his height. He came across as a genuinely nice guy. I hobbled forward and although the pain wasn’t bad, it certainly wasn’t improving. ‘Oh, f—,’ I muted the curse and fretted instead. ‘I’ve still got stuff to do. How am I going to hold a camera steady when my leg is shaking?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I’m quite a good photographer myself. Why don’t you tell me what you want to photograph and I’ll work the camera. It’s digital, isn’t it? So you can delete the crap ones.’
No way was a stranger holding that precious camera. I was about to say a polite no when I stumbled on the uneven ground. The pain wasn’t nice.
‘What about your wife?’
‘She’s been up all night with the kid. I needed to stretch my legs before driving home. I like Warkworth. She brought me here not long after we got married. It felt romantic, taking snapshots of her against the walls. They had some kind of mock tournament on too.’
My ears pricked up. ‘I would have liked to have seen that.’
‘Ah, it weren’t that good,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘My wife will be fine. She can see us from the car park.’
‘Okay. If you could take the pictures exactly as I ask.’
‘Sure thing.’ He eased the camera bag over his shoulder. ‘I’m Mitch. This is some weight.’
‘Robyn. I’m getting use to humping it around.’
‘So, your photographing specific things?’
We were next to the Lion Tower, one of the items on the list. I had memorised today’s agenda.
Moments ago, I’d been sceptical and doubted his credentials, but a few minutes later, I happily told him the essentials of my project, although I omitted the role of the mysterious Medici. Mitch attached the camera to the tripod and familiarised himself with the menu options.
‘This is some camera.’ He poked about in the bag. ‘This lens?’
There was a low wall, and I rested against it and pointed upwards. ‘Use the zoom for the lion.’
Less of a lion, more a sheep with a woolly neck. Closer up, it looked even less dramatic. Perched on a stone shelf, the lion’s body was half missing, the back legs resembled skeletal bones, and it seemed to have saucepan on its head. A helmet, I supposed. Medici had requested shots of the different colouration of the stone, the lack of symmetry, and the Percy coat of arms, the archway beneath, too, which meant switching to a different lens and moving further back.
