‘Yes, lord. I am a sketcher. No more than that.’
‘One of my retainers is also a … sketcher.’ The Moidart rose and moved around the desk, gesturing Ramus to follow him. He walked to the rear of the room. A framed painting had been hung on the western wall. Light from the window shone upon it. Ramus gazed at it, awestruck. He had never seen the like. It was a winter scene of mountains, and pines laden with snow. There was no delicacy in the brushwork, which was vibrant and swift, creating an elemental power that was both immediate and stunning. Ramus stood before the canvas. The trees were breathtaking, for their depth. Ramus felt he could step into the canvas and walk in that winter forest.
‘What do you think?’ asked the Moidart. ‘Does the man have talent?’
‘It is majestic,’ whispered Ramus. ‘One can almost feel the cold emanate from the mountains, and hear the birdsong within the trees. And the light shining on the pines. Oh, sir, this is exquisite. How did the man create such depth?’
‘Lighter layers upon darker backgrounds,’ said the Moidart, ‘then further highlighted with just the corners of a two-inch brush.’
Ramus glanced at the Moidart, knowing in that moment that he was the artist. The Moidart saw the realization in his face. ‘You did not guess?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Not until you spoke of method. It is an amazing piece. How long have you been painting?’
‘Many years. You are the first to see my . . . efforts.’
‘I am honoured, sir. More than I can say.’ The words were spoken with genuine feeling, for Ramus was not skilled in the art of flattery.
‘The hardest part was the water upon the lake, and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?’
‘I could not afford such a … a masterpiece, lord,’ exclaimed Ramus, astonished.
‘I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.’
‘Thank you, lord. I don’t know what to say.’ He paused. ‘Are there others? I would love to see them.’
‘No.’
‘But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?’
‘Time for you to go, master apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.’
Ramus bowed deeply. The Moidart ignored him and returned to the window.
The little apothecary walked to the door, then realized he had not unpacked the salves from his sack. With a sigh he left it behind and stepped from the room.
His mind was reeling as he descended the stairs. In the town centre of Eldacre twelve corpses were hanging from the Moidart’s gibbets. Three of the men had been tortured, their eyes burned out before execution. And the man who had ordered such brutality was an artist of exquisite talent, who could capture the beauty of a moment and the raw majesty of nature in a few brush strokes.
As Ramus emerged into the light he saw the young Gaise Macon and the soldier Mulgrave approaching the house. He stopped and bowed.
‘Good morning, apothecary,’ said Gaise Macon. The young man seemed suddenly concerned. ‘Are you all right, sir? You look very pale.’
‘I am well, lord. I heard you practising,’ he said, pointing to the two silver-embossed flintlock pistols in the young man’s hands.
‘Yes, they are fine pieces.’
The old servant, Maldrak, came into sight, leading the pony. Ramus bowed once more to Gaise Macon. The young man stepped closer. ‘Allow me to assist you, sir,’ he said, cupping his hands and helping Ramus into the saddle.
‘Thank you, lord. Most courteous,’ said Ramus. The sun broke through the clouds, its light shining upon the young man’s face. His strange green and gold eyes glinted in the sunlight.
Just like the portrait in the gallery. ‘You have your great-grandmother’s eyes,’ said Ramus.
‘So I have been told, sir,’ answered Gaise Macon. ‘I wish I had known her, but I was a small child when she died, and remember only a stern woman who dressed in black.’