Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,24

and finally — after completing a piece his peers judged to be of superior quality — that of master. Acquiring this title was essential for him to open his own studio. Aubusson could then accept commissions and earn a living from his work. He became one of the best portrait painters of his generation. Perhaps the very best of them, in fact. His renown had spread across borders and the courts of Europe vied for his services as he spent years roaming the roads of France, Germany, Italy, England, Spain, and even travelled as far as Hungary and Sweden. He reached the very height of his glory when Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV and mother of Louis XIII, had sent him to Madrid to produce a faithful likeness of the Infante Doha Ana Maria Mauricia, the future Anne d'Autriche, queen of France. It was said that even the Grand Turk himself had requested that Aubusson portray him.

These days, Aubusson no longer travelled.

Lacking a wife and children, he had retired to a charming country manor and was wealthy enough to take his rest following a career that had proved far more adventurous than he could have dreamed. He still painted, however. Landscapes mostly. But sometimes portraits when he chose to accept a commission. These tended to be rare now. Aubusson lived in such reclusion that many believed him dead or in exile, when in fact he resided only eight leagues northeast of Paris. His days passed peacefully near the village of Dam-martin, with a couple of elderly domestic servants and a tall adolescent valet as his sole company.

This valet was grinding colours in a mortar when Aubusson decided to abandon his painting for the day.

'You will wash my brushes, Jeannot.'

'Very good, master.'

And thereupon, the artist left his studio, leaving its clutter, its golden light, and its intoxicating odours of paints behind.

Outside, the afternoon sun dazzled him as he crossed the courtyard. He hurried, the panels of his large sleeveless vest flapping against his thighs, his buckled shoes raising dust which then clung to his stockings, the hand shading his eyes pushing back the cloth cap on his head. He was quite tall.

He had not gained weight as a result of age or retirement, and he remained a handsome man with a firm profile and a thick head of hair which was the same white as his carefully trimmed beard.

Women were still attracted to him, although not nearly so many as in his prime. Back then, he had collected mistresses, sometimes selected among those whose portraits he painted at the expense of an overly trusting father or husband.

The big manor was silent.

In the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, Aubusson washed his hands in a basin of clean water waiting for him. Then he took off his cap and the vest that he only wore when painting, exchanging them for a doublet hanging from the back of a chair. He had finished buttoning it when old Mere Trichet, who had heard him from the kitchen where she busied herself, brought him a glass of newly drawn wine, as she always did when he returned from the studio.

'Have you already finished for the day, monsieur?'

'My word ... It seems to be one of those days when nothing goes right.'

Mere Trichet — a woman in her fifties with a thick waist and a round face — nodded as Aubusson drained his glass and returned it to her.

'Thank you. Is the signora in her bedchamber?'

'No, monsieur. She is out at the back, with her monstrous beast . . .'

The painter smiled but did not respond to this.

'I will sup alone this evening,' he said as he left.

'Very good, monsieur.'

Once out in the backyard where hens were pecking grain and a tired old hound was snoring, Aubusson went round the stable until he came to an enclosure. Here, beneath a sloping roof made of poorly joined planks, he found a chained wyvern asleep, its energy no doubt sapped by the heat. Crouched beside it, with her head bare and her long red hair sparkling in the sunshine, the beautiful Alessandra di Santi was stroking the great scaly head.

Leaning on the fence, Pere Trichet was watching the scene with eyes squinted beneath the brim of his old battered hat, a lit clay pipe in his mouth. He was an elderly man, with a gnarly body hardened and worn from a life of labour. He spoke little, and when Aubusson joined him, he moved