Chapter 4
Worry filled Rosalyne as she stood watching her uncle struggle to bring his sketch to fruition. His drawing hand trembled noticeably. He would place his left hand over it and it would still for a moment but when he lifted the stabilizing hand, the right one would begin to shake again.
How could he finish the sketches for the chapel’s new panel—much less paint it?
She slipped away and went to sit outside in the sun with her chickens for company. Rosalyne had noticed a slight tremor in Uncle Temp’s hands when he ate. His wooden cup wiggled slightly and she had stopped filling it to the brim so that none of the contents would spill from it. Raising a bowl to his lips, she also saw the slight movement in the right hand.
It began back in the autumn, before cold weather set in. When he rejected a few portrait commissions months ago, it surprised her. He usually enjoyed painting people in the colder months. He had told her he merely put off the offers and planned to reschedule them for a later time. Uncle Temp had said his joints were starting to ache in winter and he preferred to paint when the weather turned mild and his fingers didn’t pain him so. Now, she wasn’t certain that he would be able to complete the commitment to paint those portraits—or any future work.
And that included the triptych the archbishop had asked for.
Picking up Mary, one her favorite hens, Rosalyne placed the bird in her lap and gently stroked the silky feathers as the other chickens waddled around the yard, clucking away.
She bent and brushed her lips against the back of Mary’s neck and whispered, “Oh, Mary, what will we do if Uncle Temp can no longer paint? Though I sell the extra eggs that we do not use to create paints, that is not nearly enough to clothe and feed us.”
At least their large cottage belonged to them and they paid no landlord to reside within it. But how would they survive? Uncle Temp had been a soldier—almost a knight—in his youth. But those days were long past. He had reached two score and ten three years ago. ’Twas old, indeed, and he could never go back to being a soldier at that advanced age, much less with the shaking in his hand. Besides, he had no armor and had even sold his sword many years ago, saying he no longer needed it.
True, she kept all of the monies from his commissions and proved frugal in running their small household. They had one servant who came in a few times a week to help with some cleaning and washing of clothes but Rosalyne performed the rest of the household tasks herself. Mayhap, they would need to let Martha go. That would save a few coins each month.
“Rosalyne?”
She started from her reverie, releasing Mary. The chicken flew a few feet to the ground and began picking up feed, a rooster giving the bird an appreciative glance.
“Aye, Uncle Temp? You have need of me?”
“I do. Let us walk.”
Templeton Parry did his best thinking as he walked the streets of Canterbury. Often, Rosalyne joined him and they would walk for miles around the city. They might not speak the entire time but sometimes he discussed with her ideas he had regarding his art.
He offered her his arm and she took it, glad that she felt no tremors within it. She glanced at his hand. It, too, seemed to be fine. Mayhap, she had been imagining things earlier.
But her heart told her otherwise.
Usually, her uncle set a rapid pace but this time he moved more slowly. After they had strolled past many of their neighbors’ cottages and beyond a local blacksmith’s shop, he cleared his throat. Rosalyne knew that was Uncle Temp’s cue to speak about serious matters. She braced herself for what he would reveal to her.
“Over the years, I have tried to teach you everything I know about art,” her uncle said. “I have shared with you what I learned during my sojourn in Italy. Taught you how to view a subject and capture it. Explained which colors to use and how to layer paint to show dimension and shadows. You have been an excellent student, Rosalyne, and listened well to my lessons. You draw better than I ever have and your painting of people has started to rival mine.”
She grew warm from his praise but wondered where this conversation might be headed.
“Something is wrong with me,” he continued. “I know it—and I know you have noticed, as well.”
“I have seen your drawing hand shake some,” Rosalyne admitted. “But nothing beyond that.”
Uncle Temp shook his head. “’Tis far worse, I’m afraid. I am starting to move more slowly. My legs feel as if I walk underwater and am dragging them through it. My face and neck have become stiff and harder to move. I awoke last night and found myself shaking the bed, the tremors were so great.”
“Oh, Uncle!” she cried. Rosalyne stopped and studied him. “I wish you would have told me.”
“I did not want to worry you, my dear,” he said. “But now it’s time you knew in order for me to carry out my latest commission from the archbishop. I have prepared you for this day all along. You have aided me by preparing the woods that I work on and creating the paints I use. ’Tis why I have allowed you to do some of the actual painting when no one else is present.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You will be the artist who creates the sketches for the archbishop to see and approve. And you, my dearest Rosalyne, will be the artist who paints the panel for Trinity Chapel.”
*
Rosalyne rolled the set of sketches up, fighting the nerves that danced inside her. They would leave soon for their meeting with Archbishop Courtenay and she thought she might lose her noon meal before going. Sitting in a chair, she tried to calm herself as she wrung her hands absently. The anxiety mounted as her mind whirled.
Would the archbishop endorse the drawings that she had created? Would Uncle Temp continue to grow worse? Would they be able to pull off the deception and allow her to paint the panels? How could she earn a living to support them both if they failed in this matter?
Exhaling a long breath, Rosalyne had a partial answer to only one of those questions.
When her uncle came to Canterbury, he’d used the last of his coin to purchase their cottage. Both had their own bedchamber and a third also existed which had originally been designated as the place for his work. Unfortunately, the room proved too dark, so Uncle Temp had added on to the rear of the abode, creating a space to work in and store all of his art supplies. He had purchased large panes of expensive glass and included two huge windows in the room, needing as much natural light as possible. On mild days he would throw open the windows to work, allowing the paint fumes to escape while the light shone in. Even in cooler weather, he would allow the windows to remain open while he worked, not closing them until it proved absolutely necessary.
That meant they had a free bedchamber and Rosalyne intended to rent this out for the income it would bring in. It wouldn’t solve all of their problems but it would be a start. She hoped a widow with a little one might choose to move in with them, for she would love to hear the sound of a child’s laughter. Though she longed for a family and children of her own, Rosalyne doubted that would ever come to pass because of her odd position in the community. Thanks to the lineage from her father’s side, she could claim the title of lady. But the only nobility she even encountered involved those she met when she and Uncle Temp traveled to paint some nobleman’s portrait. She was invisible to whoever had hired them, merely someone who mixed the master’s paints and cleaned his brushes while he labored over the portrait. Rosalyne doubted any nobleman would wish for his son to marry a painter’s assistant—even if she was of the same class.
For the most part, she and her uncle kept to themselves. When they did mingle in society, it was with others who were in trade—carpentry, brick makers, and the like. They all knew her as Lady Rosalyne and, though she never put on airs, it was obvious others held her at a distance because of her background. Only her friend, Metylda, who possessed a carefree spirit, treated Rosalyne as she wished others would.
A shadow crossed her vision and Rosalyne looked up to see Uncle Temp standing in the doorway.
“’Tis time to leave for the cathedral.”
Gathering up the rolled sketches, she accompanied him outside. They walked to Canterbury Cathedral in silence as her distress grew.
“You’re trembling,” he said as the church came into view. “What has you so upset?”
“What if Archbishop Courtenay doesn’t like my sketches?”
Uncle Temp smiled gently. “You mean the ones you have labored over till they are perfection themselves?” He chuckled. “The archbishop won’t know they are yours. At least, not now. That will change later.”
His plan involved gaining the archbishop’s approval and having Rosalyne complete the triptych for the chapel at home before having it carried to the church. Once installed, Uncle Temp would meet privately with the priest and reveal to him the identity of the true artist. She feared the man of the cloth would reject the panel outright—and refuse to compensate them for the hard work that would go into the process. Though Rosalyne had not expressed these fears aloud, they had kept her from sleeping well the past week while she and her uncle discussed what the panel should look like and even after she’d finished her drawings.
“We’re here,” she said, tamping down her fear.
Instead of entering the church, they went around the massive structure in order to visit with the archbishop in his private quarters. A servant admitted them and led them to a small room, promising to return soon with the archbishop in hand. They seated themselves and, after some minutes, William Courtenay made his appearance. They kissed his holy ring before he greeted them warmly and sat on the bench next to a large table.
“I am eager to see what you have to show me, Master Parry.”
“I discussed the panel at length with my niece, your grace. Together, we have come up with several drawings to show you. Hopefully, one will meet with your approval.”
The first of the seeds had been planted, with Uncle Temp making sure to divulge her part in the sketches that Courtenay would view.
Rosalyne handed the rolled designs to her uncle and he unfurled the parchments. Handing the first one to Courtenay, he let the priest study it without conversation. After some moments, the archbishop set the drawing aside and reached for the next one. He continued to do so for four sketches and paused.
Frowning, he said, “I wonder . . . mayhap if you could somehow combine the ideas in the first and third drawings, it would be more pleasing to the eye.”
“Then you will appreciate this one.” Uncle Temp passed a fifth drawing to the archbishop.
Rosalyne watched the man’s face alight. “This is more what I had in mind,” he said eagerly.
“Then you have Rosalyne to thank,” Uncle Temp said. “’Twas her idea to merge the two together.”
“Mmm.” The priest reached for the final sketch and looked at it before resting it on the table. He spread all of them out so he could see each design as he looked from one to the next. Finally, he said, “The last one is obviously the best, though all are thoughtful pieces. It calls to mind everything I desire in the panel, even if it looks to be the most complicated of the lot.”
“I agree,” Uncle Temp stated. “It will take a talented artist to complete this task.”
Courtenay laughed. “And I suppose you are up to this challenge, Parry?”
“I am—along with help from Rosalyne.”
The archbishop turned in her direction. She stiffened her knees to keep herself upright under his scrutiny.
“So, you discussed with your uncle what my panel should include?”
“Aye, your grace. And I will help prepare the wood that the panel will be drawn upon, as well as mix the paints for Uncle.”
“Because you have chosen the most complicated of all the designs, your grace, it will take some weeks to complete,” Uncle Temp said. “Longer than I had first anticipated.”
She knew he tried to give her as much time as possible. Rosalyne didn’t know if she would be skilled enough to complete the panel on her first attempt. Or the tenth, for that matter.
“Shall we say a month from now?” suggested Courtenay. “Surely, that is enough time for an artist of your ability.” His tone did not allow for compromise.
Nodding slightly at her uncle, Templeton assured the priest, “The panel will rest inside Trinity Chapel in a month’s time, your grace.”
“Good.” The archbishop rose. “I look forward to seeing your creation, Master Parry. I suppose you are somewhat like the Almighty in that you are able to create something from nothing.” His face grew stern. “But always remember that every talent, including yours, is God-given and should be used for His glory.”
Both she and her uncle bowed their heads as the archbishop exited the room. Once gone, Uncle Temp hugged her tightly.
“I told you that was the best of all of your drawings. He was delighted.”
Rosalyne shrugged. “I don’t know if Archbishop Courtenay is every truly delighted. He always looks so stern. Being in the same room with him terrifies me.”
“Come. I want to go to Trinity Chapel now and show you exactly where the panel will reside. It may inspire you to see its final resting place.”
She rolled up all of the sketches and thrust them under her arm. They returned to the front of the cathedral and entered, heading east to where the chapel lay. Not only did Trinity Chapel hold the remains of Thomas Becket but also Edward Plantagenet, the Black Prince, who had been interred within the chapel. It was near where the Black Prince’s remains lay that her uncle stopped.
“The panel will be placed here,” Uncle Temp said.
Rosalyne deliberated over the size of wood she would use for her triptych, ignoring the numerous pilgrims that moved about the chapel. Now that she had seen the space in which the panel would rest, she knew exactly what she wanted.
Turning to her uncle, she said, “I am eager to return home and go through the wood we have. I believe I can use some we already possess.”
Uncle Temp kissed her cheek. “I think I will remain behind for a while and pray over this task you will undertake.”
“Oh, mayhap I should do the same,” she said, feeling guilty that she had not thought to stop and pray for heavenly guidance.
“Go,” he urged. “You will have plenty of time later to make your bargains with God.”
“Bargains?” she asked, unsure of what he meant.
He shrugged. “I think all artists think to barter with God as they work on a piece.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “There will be times of doubt as you work, Rosalyne. Times you fear to continue. Times you are afraid to stop and consider alternatives. But the Living Christ will guide you in this endeavor.” He smoothed his hand against her hair. “I will see you at home.”
“All right.”
Rosalyne left the cathedral and ventured out into the busy thoroughfare. She was keen to reach home and begin the most important task of her life.