Had anyone been asked to nominate a friend for such a man they would probably have opted for Alterith Shaddler, the teacher of highland children. He was also shy, and, though taller than Ramus and round-shouldered, another man of gentle disposition. In fact the two men rarely spoke.
No, the friendship Ramus finally formed in the middle years of his life, was not with Alterith Shaddler. For some time the little apothecary had been meeting a man known for his ruthlessness, his disregard for human life, and his merciless treatment of those he considered enemies.
Sometimes Ramus lay awake at night wondering just how such a ridiculous situation should have come to pass. He wondered still, as he sat beneath the paintings in the gallery of the Moidart’s winter residence, waiting for his audience with the ruler.
It had all begun in a bizarre way four years ago. The Moidart had summoned him to the manor, ordering him to bring fresh ointments and salves for the unhealed burn scars that festered on his back and arms. In the Moidart’s private rooms the earl had shown Ramus a painting – a magnificent landscape of mountains, woods and a lake. It was like nothing Ramus had ever seen. All works of painted art, however skilfully they represented the images the artist desired, were mannered and two-dimensional. The medium, Ramus considered, was calm and detached. This painting, however, was vivid and raw. The snow on the mountains had been applied with a knife, the paint unthinned. The trees were vibrant with cold winter colour, and, staring at it, Ramus could almost hear birdsong. He had looked into the Moidart’s dark, emotionless eyes, at the harsh lines of the man’s hawklike face, then back at the awesome beauty of the landscape. How could a man of such evil have created a work of such beauty?
Even now the conversation that had followed was burned into Ramus’s memory.
‘The hardest part was the water upon the lake,’ said the Moidart, ‘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,’ said 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.’
The work now hung in the small living room of Ramus’s cottage, and it was this extraordinary painting which had set in motion the curious chain of events that now had Ramus sitting outside the Moidart’s rooms.
A nobleman known as the Finance – a rival earl to the Moidart, from the lands immediately southwest – had visited Ramus the following year, suffering from what was delicately known as ‘a social complaint’. The visit had been in secret. The Finance had arrived late one evening, accompanied only by two armed retainers. Ramus had greeted the earl courteously, and examined him while his men waited outside. The Finance was well known for his voracious sexual appetite, and it was his love of the company of whores that had led to the painful – and to Ramus mildly disgusting – condition. Ramus applied a poultice to the area, then prescribed a treatment he had perfected some years before. As Ramus was preparing the herbs, and writing out his instructions, the Finance glanced up at the painting. ‘I like this greatly, apothecary,’ he said. ‘Would you sell it to me?’
‘I cannot, lord. It was a gift.’
‘I will give you fifty pounds for it.’
Ramus had been astonished. It would take him years to earn fifty pounds. It was a colossal sum.
‘I … I am sorry, lord. The price is not the issue.’
The Finance, a heavy set man with dyed black hair, smiled. ‘Then direct me to the artist. I desire his work at my castle.’