The Lady and the Unicorn

by Tracy Chevalier, Kati Nicholl

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

The new novel from the author of the much-loved Girl with a Pearl Earring and Falling Angels.

The Lady and the Unicorn tapestries are a set of six medieval tapestries. Beautiful, intricate and expertly made, they are also mysterious in their origin and meaning.

Tapestries give an appearance of order and continuity, as if designed and made by one person, belying the complicated process required to create them. Weavers, patrons, designers, artists, merchants and apprentices were involved in their making, and behind them were the wives, daughters and servants who exercised influences over their men. Like the many strands of wool and silk woven together into one cloth, so these people came together in a complex dance to create the whole picture.

Jean le Viste, a newly wealthy member of the French court, commissions the tapestries to hang in his chateau. Nicolas, his chosen designer, meets le Viste's wife Genevieve and his daughter Claude, both of whom take a keen interest in the tapestries. From Paris, Nicolas moves to a weaver's workshop in Brussels. The creation of the tapestries brings together people who would not otherwise meet – their lives become entangled, and so do their desires. As they fall in love, are shunned, take revenge, find unrequited love, turn to the church or to pagan ideals, the tapestries become to each an ideal vision of life – yet all discover that they are unable to make this ideal world their own.

Release date: December 28, 2004

Publisher: Penguin Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Nicolas des Innocents

The messenger said I was to come at once. That’s how Jean Le Viste is—he expects everyone to do what he says immediately.

And I did. I followed the messenger, stopping just briefly to clean my brushes. Commissions from Jean Le Viste can mean food on the table for weeks. Only the King says no to Jean Le Viste, and I am certainly no king.

On the other hand, how many times have I rushed across the Seine to the rue du Four, only to come back again with no commission? It’s not that Jean Le Viste is a fickle man—on the contrary, he is as sober and hard as his beloved Louis XI once was. Humorless too. I never jest with him. It’s a relief to escape his house to the nearest tavern for a drink and a laugh and a grope to restore my spirits.

He knows what he wants. But sometimes when I come to discuss yet another coat of arms to decorate the chimney, or to paint on his wife’s carriage door, or to work into a bit of stained glass for the chapel— people say the Le Viste arms are as common as horse dung—he’ll stop suddenly, shake his head, and say with a frown, “This is not needed. I should not be thinking about such commonplace matters. Go.” And I do, feeling guilty, as if I am to blame for bringing a carriage’s decoration to his attention, when it was he who called for me.

I’d been to the rue du Four house half a dozen times before. It is not a place that impresses. Even with all the fields around it, it is built as if it were in the middle of the city, with the rooms long and narrow, the walls too dark, the stables too close—the house always smells of horses. It is the sort of house a family that has bought its way into the Court would live in—grand enough but poorly placed. Jean Le Viste probably thinks he has done well to be given such a place to live, while the Court laughs behind his back. He should be living close to the King and Notre Dame, not outside the city walls in the swampy fields around Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

When I arrived the steward took me not to Jean Le Viste’s private chamber, a map-lined room where he performs duties for Court and King alongside family matters, but to the Grande Salle, where the Le Vistes receive visitors and entertain. I had never been there. It was a long room with a large hearth at the opposite end from the door and an oak table down the center. Apart from a stone coat of arms that hung on the chimney breast and another painted over the door, it was unadorned—though the ceiling was paneled with handsome carved wood.

Not so grand, I thought as I looked around. Although shutters were open, the fire hadn’t been lit and the room was chilly with its bare walls.

“Wait here for my master,” the steward said, glaring at me. In this house people either respected artists or showed their contempt.

I turned my back on him and gazed out of a narrow window where there was a clear view of the towers of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Some say Jean Le Viste took this house so that his pious wife could step across to the church easily and often.

The door opened behind me and I turned, prepared to bow. It was only a servant girl, who smirked as she caught me half-bent. I straightened and watched as she moved across the room, banging a pail against her leg. She knelt and began to clear the fireplace of ashes.

Was she the one? I tried to remember—it had been dark that night behind the stables. She was fatter than I recalled, and sullen with her heavy brow, but her face was sweet enough. It was worth a word.

“Stay a moment,” I said when she had pulled herself up clumsily and made her way to the door. “Sit and rest your feet. I’ll tell you a story.”

The girl stopped with a jolt. “You mean the story of the unicorn?”

She was the one. I opened my mouth to answer, but the girl jumped in before me. “Does the story go on to say that the woman grows big with child and may lose her place? Is that what happens?”

So that was why she was fat. I turned back to the window. “You should have taken more care.”

“I shouldn’t have listened to you, is what I should have done. I should have shoved your tongue right up your arse.”

“Out you go now, there’s a good girl. Here.” I dug into my pocket, pulled out a few coins, and threw them onto the table. “To help with the baby.”

The girl stepped across the room and spat in my face. By the time I’d wiped the spittle from my eyes she was gone. So were the coins.

Jean Le Viste came in soon after, followed by Léon Le Vieux. Most patrons use a merchant like Léon to act as middleman, haggling over terms, drawing up the contract, providing initial money and materials, making sure the work gets done. I’d already had dealings with the old merchant over coats of arms painted for a chimney breast, an Annunciation for the chamber of Jean Le Viste’s wife, and some stained glass for the chapel in their château near Lyons.

Léon is much favored by the Le Vistes. I have respect for him but I cannot like him. He is from a family that were once Jews. He makes no secret of it, but has used it to his advantage, for Jean Le Viste is also from a family much changed over time. That is why he prefers Léon—they are both outsiders who have made their way in. Of course Léon is careful to attend mass two or three times a week at Notre Dame, where many will see him, just as Jean Le Viste takes care to act the true noble, commissioning works for his house, entertaining lavishly, bowing and scraping to his King.

Léon was looking at me, smiling through his beard as if he had spotted a monkey on my back. I turned to Jean Le Viste. “Bonjour, Monseigneur. You wished to see me.” I bowed so low my head throbbed. It never hurt to bow low.

Jean Le Viste’s jaw is like a hatchet, his eyes like knife blades. They flicked around the room now, then rested on the window over my shoulder. “I want to discuss a commission with you, Nicolas des Innocents,” he said, pulling at the sleeves of his robe, which was trimmed with rabbit fur and dyed the deep red lawyers wear. “For this room.”

I glanced around the room, keeping my face clear of thoughts. It was best to be so with Jean Le Viste. “What did you have in mind, Monseigneur?”

“Tapestries.”

I noted the plural. “Perhaps a set of your coat of arms to hang either side of the door?”

Jean Le Viste grimaced. I wished I hadn’t spoken.

“I want tapestries to cover all of the walls.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

I looked around the room once again, more carefully this time. The Grande Salle was at least ten paces long and five wide. Its walls were very thick, the local stone rough and gray. Three windows were cut into one of the long walls, and the hearth took up half of one of the end walls. Tapestries to line the room could take a weaver several years.

“What would you have as the subject, Monseigneur?” I had designed one tapestry for Jean Le Viste—a coat of arms, of course. It had been simple enough, scaling up the coat of arms to tapestry size and designing a bit of background greenery around it.

Jean Le Viste folded his arms over his chest. “Last year I was made president of the Cour des Aides.”

The position meant nothing to me but I knew what I should say. “Yes, Monseigneur. That is a great honor to you and your family.”

Léon rolled his eyes to the carved ceiling, while Jean Le Viste waved his hand as if he were ridding the room of smoke. Everything I said seemed to annoy him.

“I want to celebrate the achievement with a set of tapestries. I’ve been saving this room for a special occasion.”

This time I waited.

“Of course it is essential that the family coat of arms be displayed.”

“Of course, Monseigneur.”

Then Jean Le Viste surprised me. “But not on its own. There are already many examples of the coat of arms alone, here as well as in the rest of the house.” He gestured at the arms over the door and hearth, and to some carved in the ceiling beams that I hadn’t noticed before. “No, I want it to be part of a larger scene, to reflect my place at the heart of the Court.”

“A procession, perhaps?”

“A battle.”

“A battle?”

“Yes. The Battle of Nancy.”

I kept my face thoughtful. I even smiled a little. But in truth I knew little of battles, and nothing of this one at Nancy, of who had been there, who had been killed, and who had won. I’d seen paintings of battles but never done one myself. Horses, I thought. I would need to paint at least twenty horses to cover these walls, tangled with men’s arms and legs and armor. I wondered then what had made Jean Le Viste—or Léon, more likely—choose me for this work. My reputation at the Court is as a miniaturist, painter of tiny portraits of ladies that they give men to carry. Praised for their delicacy, the miniatures are much in demand. I paint shields and ladies’ carriage doors for drink money, but my true skill is in making a face the size of my thumb, using a few boar bristles and color mixed with egg white. It needs a steady hand, and that I have, even after a long night of drinking at Le Coq d’Or. But the thought of painting twenty huge horses—I began to sweat, though the room was chilly.

“You are sure that you want the Battle of Nancy, Monseigneur,” I said. It was not quite a question.

Jean Le Viste frowned. “Why would I not be sure?”

“No reason, Monseigneur,” I answered quickly. “But they will be important works and you must be sure you have chosen what you want.” I cursed myself for my clumsy words.

Jean Le Viste snorted. “I always know what I want. I wonder at you, though—you don’t seem so keen on this work. Perhaps I should find another artist who is happier to do it.”

I bowed low again. “Oh no, Monseigneur, of course I am most honored and grateful to be asked to design such a glorious work. I am sure I am not worthy of your kindness in thinking of me. You may have no fear that I’ll put my heart and blood into these tapestries.”

Jean Le Viste nodded, as if such groveling were his due. “I’ll leave you here with Léon to discuss details and to measure the walls,” he said as he turned to go. “I will expect to see preliminary drawings just before Easter—by Maundy Thursday, with paintings by the Ascension.”

When we were alone Léon Le Vieux chuckled. “What a fool you are.”

With Léon it’s best to come straight to the point and ignore his gibes. “My fee is ten livres tournois— four now, three when I finish the drawings, and three when the paintings are done.”

“Four livres parisis,” he responded quickly. “Half when you finish the drawings, the rest when you deliver the paintings and they’re to Monseigneur’s satisfaction.”

“Absolutely not. I can’t work with no pay at the start. And my terms are in livres tournois.” It was just like Léon to try to confuse me by using Paris livres.

Léon shrugged, his eyes merry. “We are in Paris, n’est-ce pas? Shouldn’t we use livres parisis? That is what I prefer.”

“Eight livres tournois, with three now, then three and two.”

“Seven. I will give you two tomorrow, then two and three at the end.”

I changed the subject—it is always best to let the merchant wait a little. “Where will the tapestries be made?”

“North. Probably Brussels. They do the best work there.”

North? I shuddered. I once had business in Tournai and hated the flat light and suspicious people so much I vowed never to go north of Paris again. At least I wouldn’t have to do more than paint designs, and that I could do in Paris. Once they were done I would have no more to do with the making of the tapestries.

“So, what do you know about the battle at Nancy?” Léon asked.

I shrugged. “What does it matter? All battles are the same, non?”

“That’s like saying that all women are the same.”

I smiled. “I repeat—all battles are the same.”

Léon shook his head. “I pity your wife one day. Now tell me, what will you have in your tapestries?”

“Horses, men in armor, standards, pikes, swords, shields, blood.”

“What will Louis XI be wearing?”

“Armor, of course. Perhaps a special plume in his helmet. I don’t know, in truth, but I know people who can tell me that sort of thing. Someone will carry the royal standard, I expect.”

“I hope your friends are cleverer than you and will tell you that Louis XI was not at the Battle of Nancy.”

“Oh.” This was Léon Le Vieux’s way—to make a fool of all around him, excepting his patron. You did not make a fool of Jean Le Viste.

“Bon.” Léon took out some papers from his pocket and laid them on the table. “I’ve already discussed the contents of the tapestries with Monseigneur and done some measuring. You’ll need to do them more precisely, of course. Here.” He pointed to six rectangles he had roughly sketched. “There’s space for two long ones here and here, and four smaller. Here is the sequence of the battle.” He explained the battle carefully, suggesting scenes for each of the tapestries—the grouping of the two camps, the initial strike, two scenes of battle chaos, then the death of Charles the Bold, and the triumphant procession of the victors. Though I listened and made sketches of my own on the paper, part of me stood apart and wondered at what I was agreeing to do. There would be no women in these tapestries, nothing miniature and delicate, nothing that would be easy for me to paint. I would earn my fee with sweat and long hours.

“Once you’ve made the paintings,” Léon reminded me, “your work is done. I’ll take them north to the weaver, and his cartoonist will enlarge them to use for the weaving.”

I should have been pleased that I wouldn’t have to paint the horses large. Instead, however, I became protective of my work. “How do I know that this cartoonist is a proper artist? I don’t want him making a mess of my designs.”

“He won’t change what Jean Le Viste has decided on—only changes that will help the design and making of the tapestries. You haven’t done many tapestries, have you, Nicolas? Only a coat of arms, I believe.”

“Which I scaled up myself—I had no need of a cartoonist. Surely I’m capable of doing so on this commission.”

“These tapestries are a very different matter from a coat of arms. They will need a proper cartoonist. Tiens, there’s one thing I forgot to mention. You’ll need to be sure there are Le Viste coats of arms throughout the tapestries. Monseigneur will insist on that.”

“Did Monseigneur actually fight there?”

Léon laughed. “Undoubtedly Jean Le Viste was on the other side of France during the Battle of Nancy, working for the King. That doesn’t matter—just put his coat of arms on flags and shields that others carry. You may want to see some pictures of that battle and others. Go to Gérard the printer on the rue Vieille du Temple—he has a book he can show you of engravings of the Battle of Nancy. I’ll tell him to expect you. Now, I’ll leave you to your measurements. If you have problems, come and see me. And bring the drawings to me by Palm Sunday—if I want changes you’ll need enough time to get them done before Monseigneur sees them.”

Clearly Léon Le Vieux was Jean Le Viste’s eyes. I had to please him, and if he liked what he saw, Jean Le Viste would too.

I couldn’t resist a last question. “Why did you choose me for this commission?”

Léon gathered his plain brown robe about him—no fur trim for him. “I didn’t. If it were my choice I would have someone who has done more tapestries, or go direct to the weaver—they have designs in hand and can work from those. It’s cheaper and they are good at the designs.” Léon was always frank.

“Why did Jean Le Viste choose me, then?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Alors, come to me tomorrow and I’ll have the papers for you to sign, and the money.”

“I haven’t agreed to the terms yet.”

“Oh, I think you have. There are some commissions an artist doesn’t say no to. This is one of them, Nicolas des Innocents.” He gave me a look as he left.

He was right. I had been talking as if I were going to do them. Still, the terms were not bad. In fact, Léon had not haggled very hard. I wondered suddenly if his terms were still in Paris livres after all.

I turned my eyes to the walls I was to dress so sumptuously. Two months to draw and paint twenty horses and their riders! I stood at one end of the room and walked to the other, counting twelve paces, then walked across, counting six paces. Pulling a chair to one wall, I stood on it, but even reaching as high as I could, I was far from touching the ceiling. I pulled the chair back and, after hesitating a moment, stepped up onto the oak table. I reached up but was still at least my height again from the ceiling.

I was wondering where I could find a long pole to use for measuring when I heard humming behind me and turned around. A girl stood in the entrance watching me. A lovely girl—she had pale skin, a high forehead, a long nose, hair the color of honey, clear eyes. I’d not seen such a girl before. For a moment I couldn’t say anything.

“Hello, beauty,” I managed at last.

The girl laughed and hopped from one foot to the other. She was wearing a simple blue dress with a tight bodice, a square neck, and narrow sleeves. It was cut well and the wool was fine, but it was not ornate. She wore a plain scarf too, her long hair falling almost to her waist. Compared to the servant who had cleaned the fireplace, she was clearly too fine to be a maid. Perhaps a lady-in-waiting?

“The mistress of the house wishes to see you,” she said, then turned and ran away, still laughing.

I didn’t move. I’ve learned from years of experience that dogs and falcons and ladies come back to you if you stay where you are. I could hear her feet slap across the floor of the next room, then stop. After a moment the steps began again and she reappeared at the door. “Are you coming?” She was still smiling.

“I will, beauty, if you will walk with me and not hurry ahead as if I were a dragon you had to flee.”

The girl laughed. “Come,” she beckoned, and this time I hopped down from the table. I had to step quickly to keep up with her as she ran from room to room. Her skirt flapped, as if she were blown along by a secret wind. Up close she smelled of something sweet and spicy, underlined with sweat. Her mouth moved as if she were chewing something.

“What do you have in your mouth, beauty?”

“Toothache.” The girl stuck out her tongue—on its pink tip lay a clove. The sight of her tongue made me hard. I wanted to plow her.

“Ah, that must hurt.” I will suck it better. “Now, why does your mistress want to see me?”

The girl looked at me, amused. “I expect she’ll tell you herself.”

I slowed down. “Why rush? She won’t mind, will she, if you and I have a little chat along the way?”

“What do you want to talk about?” The girl turned up a round staircase.

I leapt onto the stair in front of her to stop her from climbing. “What sorts of animals do you like?”

“Animals?”

“I don’t want you to think of me as a dragon. I’d rather you thought of me as something else. Something you prefer.”

The girl thought. “A parakeet, perhaps. I do like parakeets. I have four. They eat from my hand.” She ran around me to stand on the stairs above me. She didn’t go higher. Yes, I thought. I’ve set out my wares and she’s coming for a look. Come closer, my dear, and see my plums. Squeeze them.

“Not a parakeet,” I said. “Surely you don’t think of me as a squawker and an imitator.”

“My parakeets make no noise. But anyway, you are an artist, non? Isn’t that what you do—imitate life?”

“I make things more beautiful than they are—though there are some things, my girl, that cannot be improved upon with paint.” I stepped around her and stood three steps above. I wanted to see if she would come to me.

She did. Her eyes remained clear and wide, but her mouth was twisted into a knowing smile. With her tongue she moved the clove from one cheek to the other.

I will have you, I thought. I will.

“Perhaps you’re a fox instead,” she said. “Your hair has a little red in among the brown.”

I pouted. “How can you be so cruel? Do I look devious? Would I cheat a man? Do I run sideways and never straight? Rather I’m a dog who lays himself at his mistress’s feet and is loyal to her forever.”

“Dogs want too much attention,” the girl said, “and they jump up and muddy my skirts with their paws.” She stepped around me and did not stop this time. “Come—my mistress waits. We must not keep her.”

I would have to hurry—I’d wasted too much time on other animals. “I know which animal I want to be,” I panted, running after her.

“What’s that?”

“A unicorn. Do you know of the unicorn?”

The girl snorted. She’d reached the top of the stairs and was opening the door to another room. “I know it likes to lay its head in maidens’ laps. Is that what you like to do?”

“Ah, don’t think of me so coarsely. The unicorn does something far greater than that. His horn has a special power, you see. Did you know that?”

The girl slowed down to look at me. “What does it do?”

“If a well is poisoned—”

“There’s a well!” The girl stopped and pointed out of a window to the courtyard. A younger girl was leaning over the edge of a well and looking down into it, the sun bathing her hair in gold light.

“Jeanne always does that,” the girl said. “She likes to look at her reflection.” As we watched, the girl spat into the well.

“If your well there was poisoned, beauty, or sullied such as Jeanne has just done, a unicorn could come along and dip his horn into it and it would become pure again. What do you think of that?”

The girl moved the clove around with her tongue. “What do you want me to think of it?”

“I want you to think of me as your unicorn. There are times when you’re sullied, yes, even you, beauty. Every woman is. That is Eve’s punishment. But you can be made pure again, every month, if you will only let me tend to you.” Plow you again and again until you laugh and cry. “Every month you will go back to Eden.” It was that last line that never failed when I was hunting a woman—the idea of that simple paradise seemed to snare them. They always opened their legs to me in the hope that they would find it. Perhaps some of them did.

The girl laughed, raucously this time. She was ready. I reached out to squeeze her and seal our exchange.

“Claude? Is that you? What’s taken you so long?” A door across from us had opened and a woman stood staring at us, her arms folded across her chest. I dropped my hand.

“Pardon, Maman. Here he is.” Claude stepped back and gestured at me. I bowed.

“What’s in your mouth?” the woman asked.

Claude swallowed. “Clove. For my tooth.”

“You should be chewing mint—that’s much better for toothache.”

“Yes, Maman.” Claude laughed again—probably at the look on my face. She turned and ran from the room, banging the door behind her. The room echoed with her steps.

I shuddered. I had just tried to seduce Jean Le Viste’s daughter.

In the times I’d been to the house on the rue du Four I had only ever seen the three Le Viste girls from afar—running across the courtyard, leaving on horses, walking with a group of ladies to Saint-Germain- des-Prés. Of course the girl by the well was one of them too—if I’d been paying attention I would have understood when I saw her hair and how she held herself that she and Claude were sisters. Then I would have guessed who they were and never have told Claude the story of the unicorn. But I had not been thinking about who she was—I’d been thinking about how to bed her.

Claude had only to repeat to her father what I’d said and I would be thrown out, the commission taken from me. And I would never see Claude again.

I wanted her more than ever, and not just for bedding. I wanted to lie with her at my side and talk to her, touch that mouth and hair and make her laugh. I wondered where she had run to in the house. I would never be allowed in there—not a Paris artist with a nobleman’s daughter.

I stood very still, thinking of these things. Perhaps I did so for a moment too long. The woman in the doorway moved so that the rosary hanging at her waist clicked against the buttons on her sleeve, and I stepped back from my thoughts. She was looking at me as if she’d guessed all that was going through my head. She said nothing, though, but pushed the door open and went back in. I followed.

I had painted miniatures in many ladies’ chambers—this one was not so different. There was a bed made of chestnut and hung with curtains of blue and yellow silk. There were oak chairs in a semicircle, padded with embroidered cushions. There was a side table covered with bottles and a casket for jewels and several chests for dresses. An open window framed a view of Saint- Germain-des-Prés. Gathered in the corner were her ladies-in-waiting, working on embroidery. They smiled at me as if they were one person rather than five, and I chided myself for ever thinking Claude could be one of them.

Geneviève de Nanterre—wife of Jean Le Viste and mistress of the house—sat down by the window. She had clearly once been as beautiful as her daughter. She was still a handsome woman, with a wide forehead and a delicate chin, but where Claude’s face was heart-shaped, hers had become triangular. Fifteen years as Jean Le Viste’s wife had straightened the curves, set the jaw, lined the brow. Her eyes were dark currants to Claude’s clear quinces.

In one way, at least, she outshone her daughter. Her dress was richer—cream and green brocade, intricately patterned with flowers and leaves. She wore fine jewels at her throat and her hair was braided with silk and pearls. She would never be mistaken for a lady-in-waiting—she was clearly dressed to be attended to.

“You have just been with my husband in the Grande Salle,” she said. “Discussing tapestries.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“I suppose he wants a battle.”

“Yes, Madame. The Battle of Nancy.”

“And what scenes will the tapestries display?”

“I am not sure, Madame. Monseigneur has only just told me of the tapestries. I need to sit down and sketch before I can say for certain.”

“Will there be men?”

“Certainly, Madame.”

“Horses?”

“Yes.”

“Blood?”

“Pardon, Madame?”

Geneviève de Nanterre waved her hand. “This is a battle. Will there be blood flowing from wounds?”

“I expect so, Madame. Charles the Bold will be killed, of course.”

“Have you ever been in a battle, Nicolas des Innocents?”

“No, Madame.”

“I want you to think for a moment that you are a soldier.”

“But I am a miniaturist for the Court, Madame.”

“I know that, but for a moment you are a soldier who has fought in the Battle of Nancy. You lost your arm in that battle. You are sit