The Black Thornes Rose by Susan King

Author:Susan King
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Medieval
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Pushing open the chapel door, Nicholas closed it firmly against a soaking blast of rain. The interior of the chapel was cool and silent except for the steady beat of the summer storm on the copper roof tiles, and the rumble of distant thunder.

Dropping the damp hood of his cloak, he walked the length of the chapel, his boots scuffing softly on the floor stones, his black wool tunic, trimmed with silver braid, swinging against his calves. The cloth felt light and comfortable after weeks of heavy chain mail. At the altar, he dipped to one knee to whisper a prayer and light a votive candle, then rose to his feet and turned. He noticed the changes almost immediately.

On a sunny day, the chapel windows glowed with colored light, but this afternoon, thick purple shadows lingered in the corners. But there was light enough to see the half-finished paintings on the wall over the doorway: a row of figures sketched over a fresh coat of plaster.

Against the northern wall, a sturdy timber scaffolding, its platform about eight feet off the floor, was set up between two banks of tall arched windows filled with milk-white and colored glass. The wall area between the windows, once plain whitewash all the way up to the vaulted, stone-ribbed ceiling, was now covered with brightly painted images.

Intrigued, Nicholas strolled toward the scaffolding. Far above his head stood an armored Saint George, one foot on the back of a coiled green dragon. The saint’s graceful, swayed posture seemed to echo and balance the arc of the slender windows. Vibrant color sparked the plain little chapel to life: deep ruby red for the saint’s cloak and the cross on his white shield, brilliant grass green, crisscrossed with blue, for the dragon. Nearby, a willowy princess in a gown of yellow and blue thanked her rescuer with folded hands.

Nicholas had seen wall decorations at Westminster on his last visit to London, done by a well-known school; now, standing in his own chapel, looking at the bold color and fluid lines, he knew that this work could compete with the Westminster painters.

A movement from above caught his attention. Though he had seen no one when he entered, he stepped back to peer at the top surface of the scaffold.

A woman sat with her back to him, cross-legged in a loose gown of pale gray, her head covered in a wide white headdress that trailed over her slim shoulders and down her back. Leaning toward the wall, she held a long wooden brush in one hand, another clenched between her teeth.

Oblivious to his presence, she carefully painted tiny flowers beneath the princess. Beside her, a small collapsible stool held a motley jumble of clay jars, clamshells, brushes, and paint-blotched rags. Three fat candles flickered to light her work.

Nicholas frowned, wondering why his lady aunt had neglected to mention the new work in the chapel when he had arrived late last night. He stepped toward the scaffold.

“Greetings, mistress,” he said. The woman jumped and squeaked, dropping the brush clenched in her teeth.

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