Free Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset by Edmund Cooper Page B

Adversary, He was the Life Force incarnate; and every brush stroke was a sword thrust. He was declaring his bid for immortality.
    The picture was finished shortly after daybreak. Hobart, who had dozed intermittently, drew back the curtains from the window but left the oil-lamps burning.
    Kieron stood in front of the canvas. Brushes and palette had dropped from his exhausted hands.
    Hobart gazed at the portrait and wept, knowing that he was in the presence of greatness.
    Kieron looked at him, pale, drawn, red-eyed. ‘I have done my best, Master Hobart. What say you?’
    ‘My son, my son!’ the old man was beside himself. ‘You have joined the ranks of the immortals. I am a fool. I presumed to teach you. But now that it is too late, I know how much I had to learn.’
    ‘If you love me,’ said Kieron, ‘you will sign it Hobart. You will add nothing.’
    ‘Kieron, I am not worthy.’
    ‘The style is yours. Had you been younger, the brush strokes would have been yours.’
    ‘The brush strokes could never have been mine.’
    ‘They are yours, because I was an extension of your will.’ Kieron put his foot upon the fallen brushes. ‘Sir, I will not paint like this again.’
    ‘But why? Why, Kieron? You are a great artist. If you paint in this manner at the beginning of your career, who knows what we may see?’
    ‘I will not paint like this again,’ repeated Kieron. ‘It was a work of love – doubly so.’ He laughed. ‘I may paint to live – though the work will be no more than adequate – if such is necessary. But I shall live to fly. That is my true destiny.’
    Hobart could say nothing. The picture was magnificent. But the poor boy was clearly out of his mind.

12
    Seigneur Fitzalan was pleased with the painting. He did not know that Kieron had executed every brush stroke, though he surmised that much of the fine work had been carried out by the prentice. Master Hobart’s shaking had become more noticeable; and it was plain even to Fitzalan that the old painter’s useful days were numbered. Fortunate indeed that the prentice showed signs of surpassing his master. There would be work enough for him in the years to come. Fitzalan liked to be surrounded by beautiful things – paintings he merely glanced at, books he did not read. A man’s greatness was reflected in his deeds or his possessions. Time had not granted Seigneur Fitzalan the opportunity to perform great deeds, but it had allowed him to acquire many fine works of art from goldsmiths, silversmiths, armourers, scribes, painters. He would be remembered for his taste, if for nothing else.
    The painting was to be called: Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap. The signature was simply: Hobart.
    But Alyx knew how the picture had been finished, and she wept somewhat that Kieron’s name did not rest upon this painting that would hold the glow of her youth for ever. She wept also because of the grace and artistry she discerned, knowing that it was truly a work of love. And she wept because the dream-days were over. Henceforth, she would have to meet Kieron – if she met him at all – by ‘accident’ in some lonely or clandestine place. Soon, even that would not be possible because the wedding with Talbot was less than a month away.
    Seigneur Fitzalan sent his bailiff with a chamois leather bag containing seven hundred and fifty silver schilling to the house of Hobart. The bailiff also conveyed Fitzalan’s desire that Kieron should attend him. Hobart was apprehensive, recollecting the last interview Kieron had had with Seigneur Fitzalan. But Kieron did not seem perturbed. He put on his best leather and linen and followed the bailiff.
    Seigneur Fitzalan received him in a room that Kieron had not seen before; a room that contained many weapons, a desk, a table, two chairs, a bearskin rug and little else.
    Seigneur Fitzalan was seated at the desk, toying with a fine hunting knife.
    ‘Well, prentice, are you satisfied with
Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap?’
The tone was