Ramus gratefully sank onto a couch by the balcony rail, and gazed up at the paintings adorning the wall. Mostly they were of the Moidart’s ancestors, dressed in martial fashion, shining plate armour, swords in their hands. There were occasional hunting scenes, and – closest to where he sat – a stunning portrait of a young woman with golden hair. She was standing beside a tall horse, and dressed in riding garments of velvet and silk, including the long split skirt that had been high fashion half a century ago. Ramus always found himself captivated by her. He had first seen her as a real woman, just before her death some ten years before. She had been old then, her skin wrinkled and leathered, her eyes sunken. Here, in this portrait, she was young, and the artist had captured the fire of her spirit, and the quintessential lure of her femininity. The face had strength, and yet compassion, sensitivity allied with a steely determination. She was the Moidart’s grandmother, and people still spoke of her with reverence and love.
The door to the apartments opened and a young officer stepped onto the balcony. His face was flushed. ‘You may enter now,’ he said, then walked stiffly to the stairs.
Ramus pushed himself to his feet and moved to the doorway. The room within was double aspected, tall windows looking out to the north and east. Glowing coals burned within a red brick fireplace. A single armchair was set before it. Beneath the eastern window was a broad desk, with yet another single chair behind it. No-one else might sit in the Moidart’s presence.
The Lord of the North was standing by the northern window, hands clasped behind his back. Dressed all in black, his silver hair shining in the sunlight, he stood motionless. A distant gunshot sounded, followed instantly by another. Ramus remained in the doorway.
‘Come in, apothecary,’ said the Moidart, his voice, as ever, without emotion. ‘And close the door. It is creating a draught.’
Ramus did as he was ordered and stood before the desk. The Moidart remained where he was for several seconds then returned to his desk, seating himself. Then he looked up into Ramus’s face. Ramus thought he had prepared himself for this meeting of eyes, but it was always a shock. It was not that the man had a malevolent gaze, nor even that Ramus could see his cruelty and power. No, it was that the Moidart’s eyes were empty, devoid of emotion. The look seemed to say: ‘You are nothing; a speck, insignificant and disposable.’
‘My scars have been causing me discomfort,’ said the Moidart. ‘In cold weather the skin still cracks and weeps even after fifteen years.’
‘Most men would have died, lord,’ said Ramus. ‘The burns were severe.’
‘I am not most men. Did you bring me salves?’
‘I did, lord. They should be used sparingly for they are most potent.’
Ramus waited, still unsure why the Moidart had summoned him. Usually a retainer – Mulgrave or one of the other officers – would collect the balms, salves and powders required.
‘You are an artist, I see,’ said the Moidart.
‘An artist, lord?’
The Moidart opened a drawer at the front of his desk and removed a glazed jar. It was from the apothecary, and upon it was a hand-painted label, showing the leaf and flower of a honey suckle. Beneath it, in delicate script, were written the instructions for preparing the tisane. ‘You drew this?’
‘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.