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I packed up the camera equipment and left to spend another night with the warring couple in Darlington.
Seventeen
Barnard
The third time I saw him was in the shelter of a tower. The thunderstorm had lasted into the middle of the night, and intermittent downpours had spilled over into the next day, adding an extra layer of saturation to the already sticky humidity. There were hardly any visitors venturing out in the rain.
I located the oriel window in the Great Chamber of Barnard Castle and cushioned my disappointment by telling myself that this was the nature of the business – what I wanted to photograph wasn’t important. If Medici valued a barely discernible stone carving of a boar then that was his choice. I zoomed in, opened the shutter, and released. One image of a crippled boar, supposedly once white and now eroded, captured for my patron.
According to Braithwaite’s guidebook, there was evidence of Richard III’s boar emblem in many places in the region. It was stamped on seals, etched onto glass and carved into stone: a reminder that he had once been powerful and popular in the north of England. I supposed the purpose was no different to the garish logos of big brands. Money was power, whether it came from land or commerce, and it granted those who had it the licence to do as they pleased. I wondered if Medici was that wealthy he could afford the same honours. In the end, it didn’t work out for King Richard, and his grand plans for upgrading Barnard failed. He was killed at the Battle of Bosworth.
The boar wasn’t the only item on the list. There was the Round Tower, a cylindrical pepper pot cut-off midway, as if sliced horizontally by an executioner’s axe. I tried to picture what it might have looked like with a roof. Circling it a few times, I chose spots to take a range of photographs, some with my own camera.
The downpour arrived without warning. I grabbed the bag and equipment, and raced inside the tower. High above, the haloed sky was laden with charcoal clouds. The shelter was minimal and reeked of distant seaweed and mildew. The temperature drop was palpable, and the dampness potent, and the shade darkened the verdant moss and lichen that inhabited the stonework. Rivulets of rainwater ran along grooves of the weather-worn mortar and collected into puddles. The strap of my camera bag dug into my shoulder, and I leaned against the driest wall to ease the burden.
Opposite, there was a high niche, an embrasure as thick as the walls, and below it, another one with the window barred. At first, in the darkness, I was oblivious to his presence. Then my eyes adjusted, and his form took shape.
He had taken refuge in the window nook and was peering through the criss-cross of metal grating. There was no easel, only a rucksack resting nearby. His back was towards me, but I recognised the short-cropped hair and the loose-hipped jeans. Scrunched into a ball, he was balanced on his haunches and hugging his legs in a self-embrace, while his fuzzy chin rested on a flat-topped kneecap. He was a silhouette of human greyness bundled into a monkey-shaped package. He remained there, absorbed and isolated, coiled as if ready to spring into action, rocking back and forth on his heels, and gazing out.
Why was he here? What had brought him to the same places at the same time, again and again, timetabled like me to perform a duty. I recalled a man at Bamburgh mentioning an artist painting there before I had arrived, and how he had chosen the windmill as his subject. The coincidence was beyond supernatural; it had to be engineered. There was no explanation other than the obvious. I had been fooled into thinking Medici was old and foreign. Yet, here he was, fit and young, moving from place to place, painting, spying on me, then lying to me in emails. Medici was doing what I was supposed to do on his behalf – capturing his castles.
Ridiculous.David said Medici lived abroad. But the exact wording escaped my mind. Abroad back then, but not now maybe? Was this why he was incommunicado – he was actually on the road like me?
The temptation to open my mouth and provoke him was overwhelming. Something stopped me; a little voice nagging inside my head. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him. What if this man had nothing to do with Medici? He could be a kindred spirit, a secret admirer of the ruined structures, or a romantic artist inspired by landscapes. Or maybe he was like Yvette, an art-loving historian or a student, mature in years, and completing an assignment.
The rain shifted from drenching to a trickle. The cessation brought to an end the need for shelter. Still in a defensive frame of mind, I walked out of the tower determined to ignore the man, but, glancing over my shoulder, I saw him turn his head in my direction and stiffen again. It seemed he had recognised me.
Outside, the humid air was a wall in itself, and I waded through it, annoyed with my cowardice. I had every right to ask him why he was at Barnard. He might be a castle enthusiast, or he could be following me for nefarious reasons. I had to know which for my parents’ sake, and my own; I had promised them I would act sensibly. I also felt indignant: why hadn’t he chased after me to ask the same questions?
Eighteen
‘No easel today?’ the young woman asked.
Her shrill voice bounced around in the tower. Above their heads, doves took off, spraying a fan of water onto their heads.
She had remembered him and returned, which wasn’t a surprise given their previous encounters. On this occasion, she wasn’t going to ignore him, which he welcomed as progress and necessary.
She fidgeted with a silver hoop bracelet. Her honey-dew hair, cropped short, was shaped under her chin, the sleeves of her t-shirt puckered around her shoulders. The shorts were long to the knees and didn’t suit her; the linen fabric hung limp and colourless against her bronzed legs. The scuffed shoes meant she didn’t mind the rough terrain. She was though, woefully slight in frame, and young. And there was plenty for an artist to admire, too: the high cheekbones of her oval face were classical; her eyes were set wide. Once again, he was examining a new face in the same manner he might an oil painting hung in a gallery. Her thin lips broke into a frown, which still managed to be both perversely charming and awkward. She was probably better at smiling. Underneath the put-upon stiffness, she was shivering slightly – a bundle of nerves, or cold?
He stretched his legs out, and picked up the rucksack. The look she gave him was hostile – once upon a time, he might have thought such an expression worth painting. Why the anger? She had followed him here and there, arriving when he was ready to depart, leaving while he was in the middle of a brush stroke, and at Bowes Castle, to his bemusement, she had dispatched dagger-like stares while humping the camera equipment and tripod in circuits around the grounds. The constant movement was far removed from his preferred static style of artistry. How could she concentrate?
The way she spoke, the slight snarky tone, was a clue to her apprehension. He could understand it; he felt the same unnerving flutter in his stomach too.
‘No,’ he said, answering her curt question on the absence of the easel.
She blocked the exit. He stepped sideways, hinting, but she refused to budge.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I’m waiting for the rain to stop. Then I’ll get my easel and paints.’
‘So you are painting today.’
A rhetorical statement. She already knew the answer and he left it hanging while the thin frame of her shoulders slumped. She backed into the shadows, hiding her face. A moment ago, he had thought she was angry. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He gestured to the sky above. ‘Or tomorrow, if it doesn’t clear up. And you, are you taking photos?’ He was barricaded in place by two filthy puddles and a strange woman who maintained the advantage. He stood his ground while the interrogation continued.
She hitched the bag strap up. There was a substantial rucksack on her back, too. She had to be a professional photographer working for somebody. Did she think they were in competition? He nearly laughed. It wasn’t possible. They weren’t moving in the same sphere. His project might have weird stipulations, but he didn’t consider them unique to him or sinister – commissions sometimes came with foibles and peculiar requirements.
