Shepherd's Story, PG 13+
Title: Street Rat
Author: Arachne002
Genre: slash; angst; (origi-fic?)
Pairing: Shepherd/Stengren (the painter)
Rating: PG 13+
Warnings: Angst, Slash, Misery, mention of Christianity; and underage stuff - not gratuitous or explicit; OC death
A/N: This is Shepherd’s story; I wrote it for butterbean3 because she asked about the Shepherd. It’s set in the first years of James 1st’s reign - early 1600s.
BIG WARNING: IF readers - you might not want to read this because it hasn’t been told in the main story; can I just point at the header and wave my hands? Then again, if you’re not reading the ‘IF’ story this will make as much sense as an ink stain on parchment.
The night tasted like cheap wine and stale sweat and the tired end of summer where the river whispered against stone steps on its sluggish journey to Dartford and Gravesend and on to the sea. There were lights nearby on the water and in the stinking alleys and further away where the bridge stretched with its huddled houses, black against the dull glow of the city. Dark figures crouched in doorways and harsh cries and muffled curses fell into the shadows.
Ren walked with his head down watching his feet lest he tread in the filth on the cobbles and ignored the hands that clutched at the hem of his long cloak and the whine behind them.
He wondered sometimes why he lingered in this place with its smells and its darkness but he’d made his choice and he could not let himself think about going home to that sprawling grey house on the Downs and the suffocating expectation and the cold certainty there. That was the past and a closed door now. His boots printed marks on the steps by the river and along the embankment and the dark doorways beckoned and the lights on the water shimmered and broke on a ripple: this was his life now.
He thought about the unfinished canvas he’d left on the easel in his studio: Sir William Forebridge, newly raised to the peerage thanks to his considerable fortune and the new monarch being intent on securing the loyalty of London’s merchants, was a difficult subject. The man insisted on an honest portrait but his petty, harmless vanity painted him in more vivid colours than Ren could afford. He’d learned to weigh flattery and honesty in a bright spill of paint on a palette.
And he was walking in the thick night to hide from the muddied pigments of deceit and flattery that earned him a living in this other world where the only magic was a smear of orange light across the ravaged face of a foul-mouthed whore and her momentary humanity at the corner of his vision as he passed.
The ‘Bird and Bush’ was crowded and reeked of tallow and other things as Ren pushed his way to a table in the corner where the blackened oak beams dipped low. He ordered ale and bread and cheese and watched the three men at the nearest table leaning into earnest conversation with their greasy doublets hanging open under their ruffled collars and the candlelight dancing over sweaty faces and small pointed beards. He imagined painting them just like that with the shadows and the dented pewter tankards and slightly damp cloth stretching across broad chests as they waved their hands in wide gestures and laughed together. They were actors of the King’s Company, he thought.
* * *
Later that night he almost fell over the boy where he was hunched in the darkness three steps from Ren’s lodgings.
“Out of my way rat,” Ren went to move on and a thin hand closed on his knee.
“Please, Sir, a penny for the love o’ th’ Saviour?”
“He’s not my saviour, nor yours;” Ren shook off the small hand and twitched his cloak about his shoulders. He refused to look down.
A little sigh that spoke of resignation rather than disappointment; “Pardon, Sir;” the boy dragged himself closer to the leaning wall out of the way; “Thank’ee, Sir.”
Ren turned back, “Why are you thanking me, boy?”
“You didn’ kick me, Sir.”
There were few lights here in Baker’s Lane but Ren could see the boy where he crouched filthy and emaciated with his shirt hanging around him like a shroud; and the lines of his face reminded the painter of the works of the Masters when he’d walked in wide halls, and of southern sun through tall windows and the blue intensity of a folded robe and the sharp edge of perfectly realised perspective years ago.
“Come with me, boy, I’ll give you food and a place to sleep. You’ll give me something in return.”
“Yessir,” the boy turned his face away then as though he was ashamed and the light seemed to fade.
“I just want to paint you, boy.” Ren turned away and he was opening the door and Mistress Bow was offering him a candle to his room and the boy was trailing up the stairs after him.
* * *
“You stink; you’ll bathe before you eat.”
“Yessir . . .” Wide brown eyes looked at him across the room and the candlelight wavered across a straight nose and a curved lip turned down in hesitation.
Sir William seemed to send a patched canvas smudge of disapprobation from his corner but Ren had painted him in the bland pigments of this world and he ignored the portrait as he pulled a battered tin tub from a corner and set the fire and the kettle over it while the boy was looking around with his eyes wide and wondering.
The studio was a large room with a curtained off area at one end serving as a bed chamber. It had a diamond-paned window, a fireplace and a few rugs scattered on the floor; there were chairs and tables and stretched canvases leaning against the wall. Most of what Ren earned went to paying for this place where the light came in and he could work.
“Did you make this, Sir?” The boy was standing with his fingers reaching towards Sir William’s painting; “’tis a marvel, Sir, jus’ like a man.”
Ren set two mugs on the small table and a bottle; “Yes, I made it,” he gestured to the chair opposite his own, “Sit, the water will take a time to heat.” He poured wine.
“Yessir;” the boy sipped his wine and smiled warily across the table.
* * *
“Take off those rags and wash yourself,” Ren set a yellow square of soap on the floor and a linen sheet on the chair next to the tub.
“God’s blessin’s on you, Sir;” the boy lowered himself into the shallow water with a sigh and rubbed the soap over his tawny skin; “I ha’nt been clean for . . . since I don’t remember rightly.”
Ren noticed that the thin body was covered with cuts and bruises, he frowned and looked instead at the ragged shirt on the floor, “I’ll see the Goodwife about food and something clean to wear . . .” He listened to the squeak of the door on its hinge as he left the room and thought about a new painting that he wanted to render in all the colours of the life he’d left behind. He wanted to touch the magic again even if he couldn’t bring it to life.
* * *
Cold fluttered at the window and Ren pulled his blankets around him and listened to the small warm breathing on the floor beside his bed where the boy was curled and contented on a makeshift bed.
He dreamed about other days and another world and his school fellows laughing in disbelief when he said that he was leaving, and then he dreamed of the river lapping the steps just by Westminster and the barge pushing through the oily water and the wasted curses at his back and an old woman with blackened teeth selling bags of dried herbs to ward off evil spirits and sickness.
* * *
In the morning Ren worked on the merchant’s portrait while the boy watched him and when the light moved too far above the window he threw his cloak over his shoulders and went out into the city with the boy following close like a well trained dog at his heel.
They turned into Hobbs Lane and the little apothecary shop was still there where he remembered it with its tin mortar and pestle swinging above the door. “Wait for me here, boy;” Ren went inside on his own.
“Ren? Is it really you?” The man behind the counter was about his own age with dusty brown hair and blue eyes; “It must be ten years since . . .”
“Twelve years, Will. It’s been twelve years since I left and I need a favour.”
Will Warrington looked at his old school mate with a hint of calculation in his light eyes and brushed a spider from his black robes with one thin hand; “What kind of favour, Ren?”
“I want to make a picture, Will; I need some supplies.” Ren pulled a small leather bag from his pocket and put it on the greasy counter making sure it clinked. “
“But you can’t . . .” the other man shrugged and weighed the purse in his hand; “For old time’s sake, then . . .”
* * *
Sir William came for a final sitting two days later and his three daughters came with him and sat stiffly on their chairs while Mistress Bow brought wine and sweetmeats. The boy watched from a corner with a smile playing over his pink lips.
“I like it, Stengren, I’ll pay you above the price we agreed on;” The Knight was bluff and hearty and the little daughters simpered nicely; “Send your apprentice along to the house with the picture when you’re done with it.”
The door creaked after them and their echo dwindled down the stairs.
“Am I your ‘prentice, Sir?” The boy was folding the swathe of red cloth that Ren had draped around his patron and snuffing the candles.
“One day, perhaps . . .” Ren washed his brushes and tidied his pigments and oils away into a wooden box. “We’ll take the painting there together.”
* * *
Paint on canvas and spells that were the only ones left - not his but he could feel them: Ren mixed burnt umber with a clear yellow and touched his brush to the pale charcoaled outline; wiped his fingers on the rag at his side; “Don’t move, boy.”
“I’m not movin’, Sir, but I’m gettin’ a crick in my neck.”
“Take a rest then;” and he was washing out the brushes and the boy was stretching with his thin arms raised over his head and Ren thought that he was washing out the days they’d spent together in the dinted basin.
They walked in the autumn evenings down by the river and the boy pressed against Ren’s side as though the night might tear him away; and Ren tugged the small body close to his own while the whores crooned from darkened doorways and the beggars touched the edge of his cloak.
“Won’t you give them a penny, Sir?”
Ren pulled the boy into the ‘Bird and Bush’ after him; “I don’t have pennies to spare, boy.”
And the actors were there again, bright-eyed and laughing and Nell set ale on the tables with a wink and the boy laughed back at her with his elbows on the scrubbed oak and his brown hair tangled over his forehead and smiled at Ren over the edge of his drink and looked at the broad bold men at the next table.
“I have ter go outside Sir,” the boy made his way to the door and Ren watched him go before ordering more ale.
He was tracing the grain of the table with his fingers and thinking about the play of candlelight on the aged timber when one of the actors leaned across the small distance between the tables, “I think you should keep a closer eye on your property, friend; the boy’s been gone over long.”
“What?” Ren broke out of his reverie; “Are you addressing me, Sir?”
“Aye, friend, I’m ‘minding you of your responsibilities.” The man had a pearl dangling from one ear, “the boy’s been gone over long, I think. You need to pay more heed to the world, painter.”
Ren was already at the door of the tavern and his stomach was clenching and there was a chorus of laughter from the tables at his undignified exit.
The night was a close foggy chill and at first he could see nothing but a smoking torch set in a bracket by the door; then there were shadows moving on the wall and a thin cry of pain and protest.
* * *
“Did they hurt you, boy?”
“No, Sir . . .”
“We’ll go home now.” Ren walked along the alley and he didn’t look back. He heard the rush of footsteps and hurried breath in the night behind him all the way to Baker’s Lane.
“Are ye grieved wi’ me, Sir?”
“You should get to bed, boy.”
“Yessir.”
Tomorrow was distant and the boy said his prayers every night and curled into his pallet on the floor and Ren dreamed of magic in his fingers and groaned in his sleep.
* * *
“Hold the flute to your lips, boy; I have to see how the light works here . . .”
“I can’t play it.”
“Hold it and blow across the . . . don’t move.”
“Like this?” Dark eyes looked at him across the room and slim fingers held the rustic pipe to warm lips.
“Like that . . .” Ren dipped the brush and dropped it on the floor.
“Where’re the sheep?”
“We’ll find the sheep, boy.” He picked up the brush and wiped it on his coat; “just hold the flute in your hand.”
It was possible to paint a smile and it was possible to paint trust even while the plague carts rolled through the city.
Ren painted the flute and the slight fingers; he tidied up while Mistress Bow set stew and bread and ale on the table; he gathered the boy into his arms afterwards and kissed him.
The night was chilling into late bells tolling in the minster and Ren tasted wet lips on his own and tangled his hand into dusky curls; “Stay with me, boy, stay with me.”
“I’ll stay wi’ you, Sir; don’ fear for that.”
And the night was suddenly warmer and filled with promise and there was a small hand twisted in his hair in the morning and warm breath on his neck.
* * *
He was sketching the black faced sheep in the park across the river and the boy was running with his arms flung out and his laughter sweeter than the merry tinkle of days. The light was cool bright autumn fading into blue.
They lay on the grass and Ren pressed his lips to soft skin and the boy laughed again and twisted his hand into the untidy ruffle of Ren’s shirt where it had come undone and turned into his side - warm against him.
The sheep gazed at them and the picture of the Shepherd stood in the corner of Ren’s room under a fold of cloth where it hadn’t been touched for a week or more.
* * *
Mistress Bow stood in the doorway with her red fists on her hips; “We’re goin’, Mister Ren; we’re goin’ outa the town while we can.” She was adamant and coarse and simple but her grey eyes caught the light and he couldn’t help but reach towards her before he drew back his hand in regret;
“Mistress . . .”
“Take the boy away, Mister Ren; Sir William ‘d help . . . take the boy away.”
“Sir William’s gone a month ago, Mistress; I can’t leave . . .” The boy was curled into a chair with the stuffing poking through where the fabric had worn and torn; “Thank you for all your care, Mistress Bow,” Ren didn’t stop then and pulled one red knuckled hand to his mouth, touched the rough skin with his lips. “Take your bairns away.”
She left with her flock of children and the boy stood in the street and waved after the cart. “So, they’ll be safe, God bless us.”
Ren doubted that but he pulled the boy close and kissed him; “They’ll be safe.”
“I like ta think that: there’s nothin’ safe in this world.”
“Stay with me, boy . . .” Ren gathered the small body closer still and they went back to the studio and the painting that waited.
* * *
At night the magic hummed around him and the shutters banged in the wind and the air turned cold. Ren stroked the soft curls that tickled his shoulder and slept and woke into darkness and warmth under his hands and slept again.
And the carts rattled through the streets.
* * *
“I’m hot . . .” the boy tossed on the rumpled bed, “I’m hot: I’m thirsty.”
Ren held the frail body against his shoulder and thought about the choices he’d made. He thought about cool spring fields and a rippled lake with swans gliding on it; he rocked back and forth with words spilling from his lips and a knot tied in his gut; and he thought about a smile in the park when the sun was dropping behind the trees.
“Ssh . . .” he murmured against scorched dry lips; “Stay with me, boy.”
“Hot . . . I’m burnin’ in Hell . . .”
Ren felt the tears run down his face, and he felt the tracks they burned there, “I love you. Stay with me.”
It was quiet later: no more magic . . . no more warm breath . . . no more . . .
* * *
Ren tidied his oils away into a wooden box and sorted his brushes one by one. There was a window and the light poured through it catching the linen folds and a small curled hand.
He sat on the floor with his head on his knees and cried for what he’d found and lost.
* * *
Night and morning and the end of dreaming and the clatter of the milk carts over cobblestones: sleeping dreams and waking dreams and ale in the ‘Bird and Bush’ and the merry folk were gone and a new small grave with an angel was in the Abbey ground.
Ren walked in the park and the black faced sheep shied across the green away from him. The river lapped stone steps and the sun was a pale spill and the bells were ringing in the city.
A girl touched his arm as he turned into Baker’s Lane, “Mister Ren?” He couldn’t remember her but she had grey eyes that reminded him of Mistress Bow. They hadn’t come back afterwards, the Goodwife and her merry children . . .
“There’s a picture under a sheet in yer room when I go in there ta clean; I’d never touch aught o’ your’n but would yeh show it ta me?” The girl moved closer, she had a sprig of wormwood pinned at her waist.
“It’s my life . . .” Ren let her curl her hand into his elbow; “I can show you if you promise not to tell.” He thought about all the mornings after mornings when he woke alone and looked for the boy.
The clouds were thick and heavy in the spring time where they walked and a child was crying in the thin spread of air across the mad sad world he’d chosen and the boy was gone into the ground.
“Show me,” said the girl with grey eyes “show me your life, I won’t tell;” and she tucked a twist of willow into her white apron.
Author: Arachne002
Genre: slash; angst; (origi-fic?)
Pairing: Shepherd/Stengren (the painter)
Rating: PG 13+
Warnings: Angst, Slash, Misery, mention of Christianity; and underage stuff - not gratuitous or explicit; OC death
A/N: This is Shepherd’s story; I wrote it for butterbean3 because she asked about the Shepherd. It’s set in the first years of James 1st’s reign - early 1600s.
BIG WARNING: IF readers - you might not want to read this because it hasn’t been told in the main story; can I just point at the header and wave my hands? Then again, if you’re not reading the ‘IF’ story this will make as much sense as an ink stain on parchment.
The night tasted like cheap wine and stale sweat and the tired end of summer where the river whispered against stone steps on its sluggish journey to Dartford and Gravesend and on to the sea. There were lights nearby on the water and in the stinking alleys and further away where the bridge stretched with its huddled houses, black against the dull glow of the city. Dark figures crouched in doorways and harsh cries and muffled curses fell into the shadows.
Ren walked with his head down watching his feet lest he tread in the filth on the cobbles and ignored the hands that clutched at the hem of his long cloak and the whine behind them.
He wondered sometimes why he lingered in this place with its smells and its darkness but he’d made his choice and he could not let himself think about going home to that sprawling grey house on the Downs and the suffocating expectation and the cold certainty there. That was the past and a closed door now. His boots printed marks on the steps by the river and along the embankment and the dark doorways beckoned and the lights on the water shimmered and broke on a ripple: this was his life now.
He thought about the unfinished canvas he’d left on the easel in his studio: Sir William Forebridge, newly raised to the peerage thanks to his considerable fortune and the new monarch being intent on securing the loyalty of London’s merchants, was a difficult subject. The man insisted on an honest portrait but his petty, harmless vanity painted him in more vivid colours than Ren could afford. He’d learned to weigh flattery and honesty in a bright spill of paint on a palette.
And he was walking in the thick night to hide from the muddied pigments of deceit and flattery that earned him a living in this other world where the only magic was a smear of orange light across the ravaged face of a foul-mouthed whore and her momentary humanity at the corner of his vision as he passed.
The ‘Bird and Bush’ was crowded and reeked of tallow and other things as Ren pushed his way to a table in the corner where the blackened oak beams dipped low. He ordered ale and bread and cheese and watched the three men at the nearest table leaning into earnest conversation with their greasy doublets hanging open under their ruffled collars and the candlelight dancing over sweaty faces and small pointed beards. He imagined painting them just like that with the shadows and the dented pewter tankards and slightly damp cloth stretching across broad chests as they waved their hands in wide gestures and laughed together. They were actors of the King’s Company, he thought.
* * *
Later that night he almost fell over the boy where he was hunched in the darkness three steps from Ren’s lodgings.
“Out of my way rat,” Ren went to move on and a thin hand closed on his knee.
“Please, Sir, a penny for the love o’ th’ Saviour?”
“He’s not my saviour, nor yours;” Ren shook off the small hand and twitched his cloak about his shoulders. He refused to look down.
A little sigh that spoke of resignation rather than disappointment; “Pardon, Sir;” the boy dragged himself closer to the leaning wall out of the way; “Thank’ee, Sir.”
Ren turned back, “Why are you thanking me, boy?”
“You didn’ kick me, Sir.”
There were few lights here in Baker’s Lane but Ren could see the boy where he crouched filthy and emaciated with his shirt hanging around him like a shroud; and the lines of his face reminded the painter of the works of the Masters when he’d walked in wide halls, and of southern sun through tall windows and the blue intensity of a folded robe and the sharp edge of perfectly realised perspective years ago.
“Come with me, boy, I’ll give you food and a place to sleep. You’ll give me something in return.”
“Yessir,” the boy turned his face away then as though he was ashamed and the light seemed to fade.
“I just want to paint you, boy.” Ren turned away and he was opening the door and Mistress Bow was offering him a candle to his room and the boy was trailing up the stairs after him.
* * *
“You stink; you’ll bathe before you eat.”
“Yessir . . .” Wide brown eyes looked at him across the room and the candlelight wavered across a straight nose and a curved lip turned down in hesitation.
Sir William seemed to send a patched canvas smudge of disapprobation from his corner but Ren had painted him in the bland pigments of this world and he ignored the portrait as he pulled a battered tin tub from a corner and set the fire and the kettle over it while the boy was looking around with his eyes wide and wondering.
The studio was a large room with a curtained off area at one end serving as a bed chamber. It had a diamond-paned window, a fireplace and a few rugs scattered on the floor; there were chairs and tables and stretched canvases leaning against the wall. Most of what Ren earned went to paying for this place where the light came in and he could work.
“Did you make this, Sir?” The boy was standing with his fingers reaching towards Sir William’s painting; “’tis a marvel, Sir, jus’ like a man.”
Ren set two mugs on the small table and a bottle; “Yes, I made it,” he gestured to the chair opposite his own, “Sit, the water will take a time to heat.” He poured wine.
“Yessir;” the boy sipped his wine and smiled warily across the table.
* * *
“Take off those rags and wash yourself,” Ren set a yellow square of soap on the floor and a linen sheet on the chair next to the tub.
“God’s blessin’s on you, Sir;” the boy lowered himself into the shallow water with a sigh and rubbed the soap over his tawny skin; “I ha’nt been clean for . . . since I don’t remember rightly.”
Ren noticed that the thin body was covered with cuts and bruises, he frowned and looked instead at the ragged shirt on the floor, “I’ll see the Goodwife about food and something clean to wear . . .” He listened to the squeak of the door on its hinge as he left the room and thought about a new painting that he wanted to render in all the colours of the life he’d left behind. He wanted to touch the magic again even if he couldn’t bring it to life.
* * *
Cold fluttered at the window and Ren pulled his blankets around him and listened to the small warm breathing on the floor beside his bed where the boy was curled and contented on a makeshift bed.
He dreamed about other days and another world and his school fellows laughing in disbelief when he said that he was leaving, and then he dreamed of the river lapping the steps just by Westminster and the barge pushing through the oily water and the wasted curses at his back and an old woman with blackened teeth selling bags of dried herbs to ward off evil spirits and sickness.
* * *
In the morning Ren worked on the merchant’s portrait while the boy watched him and when the light moved too far above the window he threw his cloak over his shoulders and went out into the city with the boy following close like a well trained dog at his heel.
They turned into Hobbs Lane and the little apothecary shop was still there where he remembered it with its tin mortar and pestle swinging above the door. “Wait for me here, boy;” Ren went inside on his own.
“Ren? Is it really you?” The man behind the counter was about his own age with dusty brown hair and blue eyes; “It must be ten years since . . .”
“Twelve years, Will. It’s been twelve years since I left and I need a favour.”
Will Warrington looked at his old school mate with a hint of calculation in his light eyes and brushed a spider from his black robes with one thin hand; “What kind of favour, Ren?”
“I want to make a picture, Will; I need some supplies.” Ren pulled a small leather bag from his pocket and put it on the greasy counter making sure it clinked. “
“But you can’t . . .” the other man shrugged and weighed the purse in his hand; “For old time’s sake, then . . .”
* * *
Sir William came for a final sitting two days later and his three daughters came with him and sat stiffly on their chairs while Mistress Bow brought wine and sweetmeats. The boy watched from a corner with a smile playing over his pink lips.
“I like it, Stengren, I’ll pay you above the price we agreed on;” The Knight was bluff and hearty and the little daughters simpered nicely; “Send your apprentice along to the house with the picture when you’re done with it.”
The door creaked after them and their echo dwindled down the stairs.
“Am I your ‘prentice, Sir?” The boy was folding the swathe of red cloth that Ren had draped around his patron and snuffing the candles.
“One day, perhaps . . .” Ren washed his brushes and tidied his pigments and oils away into a wooden box. “We’ll take the painting there together.”
* * *
Paint on canvas and spells that were the only ones left - not his but he could feel them: Ren mixed burnt umber with a clear yellow and touched his brush to the pale charcoaled outline; wiped his fingers on the rag at his side; “Don’t move, boy.”
“I’m not movin’, Sir, but I’m gettin’ a crick in my neck.”
“Take a rest then;” and he was washing out the brushes and the boy was stretching with his thin arms raised over his head and Ren thought that he was washing out the days they’d spent together in the dinted basin.
They walked in the autumn evenings down by the river and the boy pressed against Ren’s side as though the night might tear him away; and Ren tugged the small body close to his own while the whores crooned from darkened doorways and the beggars touched the edge of his cloak.
“Won’t you give them a penny, Sir?”
Ren pulled the boy into the ‘Bird and Bush’ after him; “I don’t have pennies to spare, boy.”
And the actors were there again, bright-eyed and laughing and Nell set ale on the tables with a wink and the boy laughed back at her with his elbows on the scrubbed oak and his brown hair tangled over his forehead and smiled at Ren over the edge of his drink and looked at the broad bold men at the next table.
“I have ter go outside Sir,” the boy made his way to the door and Ren watched him go before ordering more ale.
He was tracing the grain of the table with his fingers and thinking about the play of candlelight on the aged timber when one of the actors leaned across the small distance between the tables, “I think you should keep a closer eye on your property, friend; the boy’s been gone over long.”
“What?” Ren broke out of his reverie; “Are you addressing me, Sir?”
“Aye, friend, I’m ‘minding you of your responsibilities.” The man had a pearl dangling from one ear, “the boy’s been gone over long, I think. You need to pay more heed to the world, painter.”
Ren was already at the door of the tavern and his stomach was clenching and there was a chorus of laughter from the tables at his undignified exit.
The night was a close foggy chill and at first he could see nothing but a smoking torch set in a bracket by the door; then there were shadows moving on the wall and a thin cry of pain and protest.
* * *
“Did they hurt you, boy?”
“No, Sir . . .”
“We’ll go home now.” Ren walked along the alley and he didn’t look back. He heard the rush of footsteps and hurried breath in the night behind him all the way to Baker’s Lane.
“Are ye grieved wi’ me, Sir?”
“You should get to bed, boy.”
“Yessir.”
Tomorrow was distant and the boy said his prayers every night and curled into his pallet on the floor and Ren dreamed of magic in his fingers and groaned in his sleep.
* * *
“Hold the flute to your lips, boy; I have to see how the light works here . . .”
“I can’t play it.”
“Hold it and blow across the . . . don’t move.”
“Like this?” Dark eyes looked at him across the room and slim fingers held the rustic pipe to warm lips.
“Like that . . .” Ren dipped the brush and dropped it on the floor.
“Where’re the sheep?”
“We’ll find the sheep, boy.” He picked up the brush and wiped it on his coat; “just hold the flute in your hand.”
It was possible to paint a smile and it was possible to paint trust even while the plague carts rolled through the city.
Ren painted the flute and the slight fingers; he tidied up while Mistress Bow set stew and bread and ale on the table; he gathered the boy into his arms afterwards and kissed him.
The night was chilling into late bells tolling in the minster and Ren tasted wet lips on his own and tangled his hand into dusky curls; “Stay with me, boy, stay with me.”
“I’ll stay wi’ you, Sir; don’ fear for that.”
And the night was suddenly warmer and filled with promise and there was a small hand twisted in his hair in the morning and warm breath on his neck.
* * *
He was sketching the black faced sheep in the park across the river and the boy was running with his arms flung out and his laughter sweeter than the merry tinkle of days. The light was cool bright autumn fading into blue.
They lay on the grass and Ren pressed his lips to soft skin and the boy laughed again and twisted his hand into the untidy ruffle of Ren’s shirt where it had come undone and turned into his side - warm against him.
The sheep gazed at them and the picture of the Shepherd stood in the corner of Ren’s room under a fold of cloth where it hadn’t been touched for a week or more.
* * *
Mistress Bow stood in the doorway with her red fists on her hips; “We’re goin’, Mister Ren; we’re goin’ outa the town while we can.” She was adamant and coarse and simple but her grey eyes caught the light and he couldn’t help but reach towards her before he drew back his hand in regret;
“Mistress . . .”
“Take the boy away, Mister Ren; Sir William ‘d help . . . take the boy away.”
“Sir William’s gone a month ago, Mistress; I can’t leave . . .” The boy was curled into a chair with the stuffing poking through where the fabric had worn and torn; “Thank you for all your care, Mistress Bow,” Ren didn’t stop then and pulled one red knuckled hand to his mouth, touched the rough skin with his lips. “Take your bairns away.”
She left with her flock of children and the boy stood in the street and waved after the cart. “So, they’ll be safe, God bless us.”
Ren doubted that but he pulled the boy close and kissed him; “They’ll be safe.”
“I like ta think that: there’s nothin’ safe in this world.”
“Stay with me, boy . . .” Ren gathered the small body closer still and they went back to the studio and the painting that waited.
* * *
At night the magic hummed around him and the shutters banged in the wind and the air turned cold. Ren stroked the soft curls that tickled his shoulder and slept and woke into darkness and warmth under his hands and slept again.
And the carts rattled through the streets.
* * *
“I’m hot . . .” the boy tossed on the rumpled bed, “I’m hot: I’m thirsty.”
Ren held the frail body against his shoulder and thought about the choices he’d made. He thought about cool spring fields and a rippled lake with swans gliding on it; he rocked back and forth with words spilling from his lips and a knot tied in his gut; and he thought about a smile in the park when the sun was dropping behind the trees.
“Ssh . . .” he murmured against scorched dry lips; “Stay with me, boy.”
“Hot . . . I’m burnin’ in Hell . . .”
Ren felt the tears run down his face, and he felt the tracks they burned there, “I love you. Stay with me.”
It was quiet later: no more magic . . . no more warm breath . . . no more . . .
* * *
Ren tidied his oils away into a wooden box and sorted his brushes one by one. There was a window and the light poured through it catching the linen folds and a small curled hand.
He sat on the floor with his head on his knees and cried for what he’d found and lost.
* * *
Night and morning and the end of dreaming and the clatter of the milk carts over cobblestones: sleeping dreams and waking dreams and ale in the ‘Bird and Bush’ and the merry folk were gone and a new small grave with an angel was in the Abbey ground.
Ren walked in the park and the black faced sheep shied across the green away from him. The river lapped stone steps and the sun was a pale spill and the bells were ringing in the city.
A girl touched his arm as he turned into Baker’s Lane, “Mister Ren?” He couldn’t remember her but she had grey eyes that reminded him of Mistress Bow. They hadn’t come back afterwards, the Goodwife and her merry children . . .
“There’s a picture under a sheet in yer room when I go in there ta clean; I’d never touch aught o’ your’n but would yeh show it ta me?” The girl moved closer, she had a sprig of wormwood pinned at her waist.
“It’s my life . . .” Ren let her curl her hand into his elbow; “I can show you if you promise not to tell.” He thought about all the mornings after mornings when he woke alone and looked for the boy.
The clouds were thick and heavy in the spring time where they walked and a child was crying in the thin spread of air across the mad sad world he’d chosen and the boy was gone into the ground.
“Show me,” said the girl with grey eyes “show me your life, I won’t tell;” and she tucked a twist of willow into her white apron.