This is a story about a 20 year-old journeyman artist who's goal in life is to become a Master Painter like his famous master, Bartoldi de Cenelli, a transplant from Venice.  He has been training with him for six years.  In a year he must paint a masterpiece for judging by the Painter's Guild in London.  If they accept his work as excellent, he will be awarded the title Master Painter and be able to sell work and get commissions through the Guild.  Therefore, he refuses the attentions of women he meets, but when on a commission with his master, in Romford outside of London, he meets Sharla, the daughter of Lord Romford.  Can he overcome his love for her?  We will see.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“SILENCE!”

 

That word sent waves of echos pinging back and forth off of the high valted ceiling and pillared walls.  The silence that followed in that vast hall was so abrupt that one could almost reach out and grab a piece.  Rayner and everyone present stopped what they were doing and, turned their heads in the direction of the one who had thrust out those powerful words.

 

Rayner glanced quickly at his Master beside him and saw beads of perspiration forming on his brow.

 

Lord Camberwell, who was the Master of St. Lukes Guild and therefore elected Mayor of the City of London, sat behind a table in the center of the raised dias in front of those assembled in the guild hall.

 

Rayner seldom saw the Mayor and thusly fastened his eyes on him for a minute and as an artist would do, studied his features and dress.  Lord Camberwell was a stout man.  Looks like he has taken advantage of his position to dine on fair and dainty foods and drinks, thought Rayner with a slight smile on his face.  The Mayor was at least five foot seven inches tall, Rayner guessed.  He was dressed in the finery befitting his station.  His knee-length doublet was of crimson velvet with gold embroidery, his hose of vermillion.  On his head he wore a black flat two-tiered slouchy and brimmed hat, the custom of the day.  Around his neck hung his heavy gold, ornate necklace of the office of Mayor.  This necklace jangled with the intensity of the chest it lay on.

 

“Master Cenelli, do you presume to insist on breaking the rules of this guild?  I heard from several members that you have decided to paint anything you want to and without a contract for commission, sell them in the Guild Hall, and teach your apprentices to do the same?”

 

A wave of murmering broke over the listeners as every face turned toward the perspiring Cenelli.  This was never done.  If one broke the rules of the guild one could be thrown out and not receive any commissions nor sell any paintings anywhere in London or even of all England.  Everyone had to pay to belong to the guild.  Their work  had to be judged as excellent before they were accepted.  Cenelli was a famous artist both in England and his home country of Venice.

 

“But, but, but, you Honor, zer,” he stumbled in his broken English, “Zees is no troot about Cenelli.  He do no zuch ting.  He only give a zmall paint’n to a fren fer he’s lil chil’.  Zee story a lie, zer.”  He bowed while wiping his forehead with a linen handkerchief.  He looked around with anger to see anyone who would have contrived such a lie.

 

There was a nervous rustling and shuffling of feet as those guilty of defaming this great master turned their heads away from him.  The others gazed on him with pity or graciousness.  It was well known that several men were jealous of Master Cenelli because of his genius in art as well as in other matters.  Also because the apprentices he trained always became masters as excellent if not comparable to their master. 

 

Rayner caught the evil sneer that fleeted across the face of Morley de Alsford.  He has a grudge against the Master, Rayner reminded himself, though I don’t know why.

 

Cenelli’s other two apprentices, Hewie Gatton and Carran Newburn, both younger than Rayner, were cowering in back of Rayner, their eyes wide.  Rayner, being 20 years of age and more versed in the ways of the world, carried himself with assurance and a straight back as if to say to all, ‘my master is an honest and upright man.’  His face and his fisted hands showed to anyone that he would invite them to a fight if they doubted him.

 

Mayor Camberwell called the gathering to order again.  “Alright, let me hear from those of you that have accused Master Cenelli behind his back.  Do you have a grievance against him?  If so, speak now or consider this investigation closed.  He looked slowly in the eyes of each artist assembled there.  There was much flickering of eyes in those who were not appreciative of him and they turned away from the steady and strong gaze of the Mayor.

 

“Alright, now that matter is settled to satisfaction, let us continue with the meeting.  Sir Mansel de Romford has come all the way from Romford today to confir a commission for wall painting in his manor, on two men of this guild.  I have suggested these men for their high quality painting.  Sir Romford will visit the two men’s studios to give them his plans for the work and then come back a week later to see their preliminary drawings.  He will then, of course, make a decision and present the winner a contract for the commission.  The man and whichever apprentice he may bring with him will be expected to lodge at the manor until the work is finished.”

 

This speech caused quite a stir in the crowd.  De Romford was known as a most wealthy and prominent man in London.  He was a dealer in fine glassworks, some produced in his own factory and others imported from many countries far and wide. 

 

Rayner, sucked in a breath.  Oh, if only we could get the contract.  The Master has been having me take on some of his paintings.  What a wonderful opportunity to travel and live in a beautiful manor away from the busyness of this city.  I shall be able to proove myself capable of becoming a master myself shortly.

 

He looked intently at the Mayor as he waived to a man seated at his left to arise.  The man, it seemed was in his late thirties and dressed in green velvet even to his toes.  Gold jewelry and embroidery adorned his clothes. 

 

The Mayor picked up a sheet and read out two names.  “Morley de Alsford and Bartoldi de Cenelli.”

 

“Oh, and whew,” could be heard from the members.  They knew that Alsford was a jealous competitor of Cenelli. 

 

Lord Romford stepped down from the dias and approached Cenelli and Alsford, who were eyeing each other.  He shook hands with them both.  “I shall meet with you Alsford tomorrow and with you Cenelli the day after.”  With that he nodded to them and to Rayner and left the hall.

 

Alsford and Cenelli looked at each other with surprise and wariness.  What will I expect from Alsford?  Cenelli thought as he saw a shifty look appear in Alsford’s eyes.  He is a conniving sneek and his work is far below mine.  What could the Mayor have been thinking to pit two antagonists against each other over such a prestigious contract?  I will have to be on my guard and see that my apprentices are also.  No telling what Alsford may try to do to sabotage my being awarded this very  lucrative contract.

 

As other matters were being addressed, Master Cenelli tapped each of his apprentices on the shoulder and jerked his head toward the door.  They all turned and headed for the door.  Many well wishers patted Cenelli’s back and said they hoped he would be awarded the contract.  Cenelli smiled, there were many men here who were kind to him and he appreciated their encouragement.  As they walked out of the door, de Alsford and his apprentices pushed past them and almost knocked them over.

 

“Hey, look out you ruffians, watch it, how dare you,” his apprentices sputtered after the offensive ones who were now running down the hall’s front stairs.

 

“Vell, young men, ve know ve vill have to be on our guard from now on.  Come.”

 

Chapter 2

 

The next day Mansel de Romford dressed in black linen visited Morley de Alsford in his large studio on Etching Lane which was situated in the heart of London.  The studio was housed in a three-storied waddle and beam shoddy and leaning building.  The font yard bordering the street was littered with garbage and tossed-away articles in great piles.  It looked as if it had been there for years.  He took out a white lace handkerchief, placed it over his nose and picked his way to the door.  Entering the studio, he paused looking around at the clutter and dirt gathered all over.  The place was in disorder with piles of rags, plaster casts, barrels of water, tables of marble for the grinding of pigments, great amounts of objects for use in the paintings, and many pots of oil.  All seemingly stirred together as if a giant had been there with a big spoon.

 

There were two huge paintings set up on fixtures on two large walls of the studio. Alsford and his two apprentices were working on one painting of a grouping of people around the cross of the crucified Christ.  Romford stood silently taking it all in.  He was interested not only in the proficiency of the master and his school, but on how they conducted themselves in the process of painting.  He noted that the apprentices were poorly clothed and shod.  They were pushing and shoving each other and speaking rudely to one another. 

 

“Here stupid hand me that brush not this smaller one.  That large one, see there?  Get it quickly before I back-hand you one.”  This said from an apprentice to a new fourteen year old.  The apprentice shivered in fear as he looked for the right brush.  The older boy yanked the proffered brush out of the younger’s hand.  “It’s about time you half-witt boy.”  And he turned to dip the brush in a brown paint.

 

Alsford, in a paint-soiled smock, was high on a scaffold in front of a floor-to-ceiling canvas, working on the faces of the Christ and other men on their crosses.  He happened to turn around and spied Lord Romford standing in the doorway.  He ahm’ed and began to descend down a ladder to the floor and after sliding his hands down his dirty smock to ‘clean’ them, he greeted Lord Romford with a handshake.  Lord Romford pressed his hand lightly abhorring the dirtiness of his hand.   Becking him toward a table Alsford addressed his apprentices.

 

“Alright boys, you may have your lunch now.  Lord Romford and I have something to discuss.  Be sure you wash before you eat and pick up after yourselves.  Be back here in half-of-the-hour.” 

 

The boys carelessly dropped anything in their hands just where they were and scurried off to the back of the studio, disappearing with scoffings, nudgings and yellings.  When the noise subsided, Master Alsford turned again to Lord Romford with an apologetic smile.  He walked to a table and brushed off a cluttered chair, indicating Lord Romford should sit down.  Lord Romford carefully sat as he placed some paper rolls on the table after Alsford cleared a space in the jumble there. 

 

Spreading the rolls out he looked questioning at Alsford for permission to use some of the objects on the table for weights.  After receiving a nod, he smoothed out his sketches.

 

“I want religious paintings for my new chapel.  Also, five bedrooms have been plastered and are to be decorated with ornamentation according to the desires of the occupants.  Here are their measurements.  One bedroom suite is my own, another my wife’s, another is my daugher’s, another daughter and the last, my son’s.  They have designated their preferences in figures and scenery on each roll.  Will you be able to have the plans ready by the end of next week?  I shall be back on Friday morning to see your proposals.”

 

Alsford nodded and said, “Yes, Lord Romford, the sketches for each room will be ready for you to view next Friday.  It will be our hope to win your wonderful commission.” 

 

“Well, yes, I shall look forward to seeing you then.  If you will excuse me I must be off to a meeting.”  Bowing he turned and made his way out through the clutter strewn about the vast floor.

 

Alsford bowed in return and watched him exit the studio.  He had a hungry look on his face.  I need this commission, he said to himself.  For some reason things have been slow lately.  I need to pay my journeyman and the yearly allotment of clothing is coming up soon.  I don’t want their parents angry with me for their lack of clothes.  He slowly turned and walked back to the ladder. 

 

Just then, the boys returned and he barked at them to get back to work as he ascended the ladder.

 

(Buy the book to see how it ends.)