Chapter Thirty
While Malko cleared away the dinner dishes, the others moved on to Low’s library, a massive room with oak-beamed ceilings and a fireplace the size of Gus’ first apartment. Paintings covered the dark wood walls between the vast shelves of antique books, and while the past days’ exposure to Professor Kitteredge had not greatly expanded Gus’ knowledge of art history, he thought they seemed to be in the same general style as the one he’d glimpsed so briefly in the museum.
Flaxman Low settled himself in a large leather armchair facing the fire, a sketchpad across his knees and a pencil poised above the paper.
“Although he never pursued it, Flaxman is a superlative artist,” Kitteredge said. “Whatever you describe he can duplicate.”
“I’ll bet,” Shawn said.
Low glowered at Shawn, then turned to his pad. “The painting,” he said. “If you can really see it.”
Shawn nodded, then pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. “I see a marble hallway,” he said. “It seems to lead on forever. And a crowd of people pushing to get through.”
Kitteredge looked stricken. “A marble hallway? I don’t remember that.”
Shawn didn’t seem to hear him. “And there’s something on the wall. A sign. Suggested donation twenty dollars.” His eyes flashed open. “What does that mean, anyway? If you walk into the museum without following their ‘suggestion,’ the guards are going to haul you out.”
Low looked ready to jam his pencil into Shawn’s eye.
“Sometimes the spirits are not as precise as you want them to be,” Gus said hurriedly, then glared at Shawn. “Or as we need them to be. Right now.”
Shawn shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Okay, we’re traveling down that hallway. Traveling, traveling. Pass through a door. Okay, we’re in the gallery. Good thing we got here early, so there aren’t any tour groups fussing around the picture. We’ve got a clear view.”
Kitteredge leaned forward in his chair. Low, although he looked dubious, pressed his pencil to the paper.
“In the center of the picture there’s a woman,” Shawn said. “She’s got long curly red hair and a sharp nose.”
“That’s Jane Burden,” Kitteredge said excitedly. “Morris’ wife and Rossetti’s favorite model.”
Low hadn’t yet started drawing. “Go on,” he said.
“She’s standing in the middle of this enormous room. It looks like it must be in a castle,” Shawn said. “The walls are stone where they’re not covered with tapestries. She’s wearing this big drapey dress, and she’s got her arms outstretched to someone who’s sitting in a big chair. Can’t see him, though-just the back of the chair.”
“That would be King Arthur,” Kitteredge said. “He is sitting in judgment of his wife, who has committed adultery with Sir Lancelot. In Morris’ poem she is defiantly stating her own defense.”
Now Low was sketching quickly. “Was the throne on her right or her left?”
Shawn squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly for a moment. “Left.”
Low blocked that in.
“What else?” Kitteredge said.
“There are a bunch of servants or pages or something on her right and two knights standing behind her to the left,” Shawn said. “At least I assume they’re knights. They’re wearing chain mail and holding shields.”
Low looked up sharply. He and Kitteredge exchanged an excited look. “Just two?” Low said. “Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty good at counting,” Shawn said. “At least as far as two. Once we get past six it’s a little tricky, but we’re definitely on safe ground here.”
Gus tried to figure out why Kitteredge and Low suddenly seemed so fascinated. “Is that important?” he said.
“In the poem, the entire Round Table has assembled for the trial,” Kitteredge said. “If Rossetti painted only two knights, that’s a major change and unsupported by any literary account of the event. I can’t believe I didn’t notice that detail, but there was so much to see. This could well be the key to the message he was trying to send.” He turned eagerly to Shawn. “Are their shields marked in any way?”
“The shorter guy on the right-he’s got a silver lion standing up on its hind legs on his shield,” Shawn said. “And a gold crown.”
Low filled in the shape of the shield with the images and lifted the paper for Shawn to see. “Like that?”
“Pretty much,” Shawn said.
Kitteredge and Low exchanged a significant look.
“Does that mean something?” Gus said.
“The lion rampant and crown d’or,” Kitteredge said, trying to put pieces together in his mind. Then they seemed to snap into place. “That’s the crest of George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham.”
“That can’t be what it means,” Low said. “Villiers died early in the seventeenth century. Why would Rossetti place him in Camelot?”
Kitteredge thought for a moment, then broke out in a smile. “I think it’s a little pun,” he said. “In Morte d’Arthur, Malory mentions there was a knight called Sir Villyars at the Round Table. This is Rossetti’s way of labeling him.”
“But why Sir Villyars?” Low said. “Does he have any significance in the poem?”
“Morris doesn’t mention him at all,” Kitteredge said. “In fact, I believe the sole reference to him in all the Arthurian literature comes in Malory’s long list of Round Table knights.”
“Then maybe we’re looking at the joke the wrong way around,” Low said. “Perhaps Rossetti wanted to call attention to Villiers, but needed to find a way to reference a sixteenth-century courtier in a medieval picture.”
“Or possibly not the man, but his name,” Kitteredge said. “There is still a Villiers Street in London, near where York House used to stand.”
“If he was the Duke of Buckingham, couldn’t that mean Buckingham Palace?” Gus said, getting swept up in the excitement of the moment.
Before the others could answer, Shawn cleared his throat loudly. “Spirits have a message here,” he said. “They say one conversation at a time. These interether connections aren’t easy on any of us, you know.”
Low looked annoyed at the interruption, but Kitteredge was immediately apologetic. “Please, go on,” he said to Shawn, then turned to Low. “We’re trying to form a pattern from one piece of data. We need to know more.”
Low nodded his agreement, then picked up his pencil again. “What about the other knight?”
Shawn squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against his temples so hard it looked like they might break through his skull and meet in the middle. “He’s got a shield, too. And it’s got a lion on it, although that lion is sitting.”
Low and Kitteredge looked baffled. “Another lion? What can that mean?” Kitteredge said.
Low threw down the sketchpad and stalked across the vast library. He ran his hand along a shelf of books until he found what he was looking for and pulled out a large volume.
“If it existed, it will be in Fox-Davies,” he said, carrying the tome back to his chair. Gus could make out the words Complete Guide to Heraldry on the cover. “Now, what color is the second lion?”
Shawn squeezed his eyes, then blinked a couple of times. “Gold.”
Kitteredge got up from his own chair to look over the back of Low’s as he paged through the book. “A golden lion,” he said. “That would have been the symbol for England, which meant it would have been on Arthur’s shield. But Arthur is on the throne, so he can’t be standing behind her. It simply wouldn’t make any sense.”
Low flipped through page after page. “This is useless,” he said finally. “The lion is one of the most common symbols in heraldry. Without more details, we can’t tell a thing.”
“Hold on a second,” Shawn said. “It’s not all gold.”
“If it’s got a red tongue and claws, that’s no help at all,” Low said. “They all do.”
“Well, the tongue and claws are red,” Shawn said. “But the spots are all black.”
Kitteredge and Low stared at him. Gus didn’t understand what was happening, but it must have been important because Low nearly dropped the book.
“Spots?” Kitteredge said.