Dame du ciel, regente terrïenne,
Emperiere des infernaulx paluz,
Recevez moy, vostre humble crestïenne,
Que comprinse soye entre vos esleuz,
Ce non obstant qu'oncques rien ne valuz.
Les biens de vous, ma dame, ma maistresse,
Sont trop plus grans que ne suis pecheresse,
Sans lesquelz biens ame ne peult merir
N'avoir les cieulx ; je n'en suis jangleresse
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir.
Francois Villon c.1431 - c.1463, BALLADE [pour prier Nostre Dame]
Perth, Western Australia, January 1936
Juniper reached into the letterbox, cautious of spiders. Redbacks loved to spin their scruffy webs in the small brick-lined cavity.
Four letters today.
She tucked them into a pocket of her cotton plaid skirt, and after wrestling open the sagging wooden gate, wheeled her bicycle down the side path and propped it against the back wall.
The milkman had been that morning after Juniper had left for the university. She peeled the gold foil from the nearest milk bottle and sniffed cautiously. Fortunately the milk had stayed fresh in the relative cool of the shelf on the back porch. She unlocked the back door and put the milk in her prized, brand-new GE refrigerator before tossing her straw hat on a chair and unlacing her brown oxfords.
She went into the utilitarian but immaculate bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. A little flushed from bicycling in the sun, a little tired after a busy week, no beauty to start with, but not an unattractive face. The pale green walls of the bathroom complemented her pink cheeks and mahogany curls. She splashed water on her face, quickly ran a brush through her tangled hair and went to put the kettle on.
Cup of peppermint tea in hand, she sat at the kitchen table and looked at her mail. Cheque for £100 from the law firm administering her father’s estate. Not essential, but helpful. The French department did not pay that well. Postcard from her mother - enjoying Italy - food wonderful, trains on time, waiters terrible. Letter from the department - would she please forward an outline of her proposed teaching course for the first term by the end of the month? Monday was soon enough for that. The last letter was bulky. London postmark. Who did she know in London?
An elderly Irish cousin, has died and left Juniper a sum of money and the keys to a flat in South Kensington. Juniper, bored with her job and with her modest life in Perth, decides to take a year off and explore her legacy.
She went into the utilitarian but immaculate bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. A little flushed from bicycling in the sun, a little tired after a busy week, no beauty to start with, but not an unattractive face. The pale green walls of the bathroom complemented her pink cheeks and mahogany curls. She splashed water on her face, quickly ran a brush through her tangled hair and went to put the kettle on.
Cup of peppermint tea in hand, she sat at the kitchen table and looked at her mail. Cheque for £100 from the law firm administering her father’s estate. Not essential, but helpful. The French department did not pay that well. Postcard from her mother - enjoying Italy - food wonderful, trains on time, waiters terrible. Letter from the department - would she please forward an outline of her proposed teaching course for the first term by the end of the month? Monday was soon enough for that. The last letter was bulky. London postmark. Who did she know in London?
An elderly Irish cousin, has died and left Juniper a sum of money and the keys to a flat in South Kensington. Juniper, bored with her job and with her modest life in Perth, decides to take a year off and explore her legacy.
Sint-Jans Hospital, Bruges, August 1494
Edmund was tired and irritable. Though the thick walls of the hospital wards kept out the worst of the summer heat, the air was still humid, thick with the smells of the sick and the dying. It was still some hours until sunset, but he was more than ready to go to his narrow bed.
He was in Bruges that year as a visiting physician. Trained at the great St Bartholomews of London, he had been resident in Sarlat in southern France for some two years. His old mentor had written to Edmund and suggested he would benefit from time spent learning at Sint-Jans, as well as remedying a shortage of trained personnel.
Though he had mostly enjoyed his time in Bruges, he missed the open meadows and great rivers of the Dordogne, and especially Isabel.
Memling is dying in a bed in the hospital. Edmund shows him the drawing. Memling recognises it as the lost sketch from 15 years before and gifts it to Edmund, writing him a brief note to that effect. Memling's daughter, sitting at his bedside, also makes a note in her diary of the gift.
He was in Bruges that year as a visiting physician. Trained at the great St Bartholomews of London, he had been resident in Sarlat in southern France for some two years. His old mentor had written to Edmund and suggested he would benefit from time spent learning at Sint-Jans, as well as remedying a shortage of trained personnel.
Though he had mostly enjoyed his time in Bruges, he missed the open meadows and great rivers of the Dordogne, and especially Isabel.
Memling is dying in a bed in the hospital. Edmund shows him the drawing. Memling recognises it as the lost sketch from 15 years before and gifts it to Edmund, writing him a brief note to that effect. Memling's daughter, sitting at his bedside, also makes a note in her diary of the gift.
Perigord, November 1495
Edmund was so tired and so cold. It seemed as though he had been walking all his life, stumbling from town to town. It seemed years since he had walked in the summer heat of Bruges, though it had been only a few short weeks.
It had been a long walk from the last chance for food or rest, but Edmund looked forward to reaching his home among the English community in Sarlat.
He reflexively patted the little leather-wrapped bundle in his satchel - his letters of commendation from Sint-Jans and St Bartholomews, apothecary's receipts for Isabel and her father, and Memling's gift. The drawing had provided solace on many a lonely night. He would look at her finely sketched features and think of Isabel waiting for him in Sarlat. They had been betrothed since the summer of the year before. She had not wanted him to go to Bruges, but he felt duty-bound to honour the promise he had made to his mentor.
One more day's walking and he would find himself home. But the shadows were lengthening and he knew he could not go much further that evening.
Edmund walks out of the forest and happens on the donjon and fortifications of Commarque. Smoke rises from the chimney and he looks forward to a bed and a hot meal. In the grass in the late afternoon light he treads on a viper and is bitten. He manages to crawl part-way up the steep hill, but is unable to climb further than a sheep pen, used for lambing and abandoned for the winter, tucked under a natural overhang of the rock. He cries out for help but is not heard. Seeking warmth and shelter, he tucks himself in an alcove at the back of the grotto. He attempts to light a fire, but his flint is damp and his hands are shaking too much. In his cold, weakened, exhausted state he succumbs to the snake bite and dies where he lies during the night. The pen remains unused until the spring. By this time windblown brush and left over straw had disguised his body. It remained unnoticed by the shepherds who used the pen of the lambing season. The next autumn, high winds and a minor earth tremor caused a fall of rock, hiding his body completely.
A mysterious letter arrives from a law firm in London. An elderly Irish cousin, has died and left Juniper a sum of money and the keys to a flat in South Kensington.
