The King's Artist

Ch 18: The Rescue Team

The party was quiet for the majority of the ride. Catching up to Henry, they speculated, would take a day. Getting to the port city before the ship debarked would be the first task to accomplish. Under Jasper's speculation, he believed the call to turn over Henry was a rushed one that was made as soon as the Duke fell ill. If they were lucky, the group would be unprepared for a journey overseas and, therefore, would need to stall and prepare for the trip, giving them plenty of time to catch up.

The moments afterward, though, were still unclear and no one seemed ready to touch the topic. After retrieving Henry, it was debatable what would ultimately happen between them and Brittany. If Duke Francis recovered from his illness, there would be no problems. Henry and the others would just return to being under his protection, and no further discussion would be made about turning Henry over to the English King. However, if the Duke didn't recover they were facing a potential standoff.

Adelaide was filled with dread at the prospect.

With a heavy sigh, she shook her head and focused back on riding. The task didn't require much concentration, though. Riding, like painting, came to Adelaide with minimal effort. Being atop a horse was as natural as holding a pencil in her hand.

Looking up at the dark sky and seeing the passing storm clouds, Adelaide wished she could paint and ride at the same time. The scenery was entrancing and both chaotic and beautiful. The clouds rolled over one another, competing for space, while the sun attempted to shine through their squabbling to warm the Earth's surface. The trees that were scattered throughout the plains were desperate for light and their shapes, each distinct from one another, all curved and bent in an attempt for survival. Adelaide watched over the plains with an interested but detached gaze. She wondered if Henry had been able to notice the beauty around them as he was dragged away. He had always been the one to point out the small things to Adelaide that she easily missed or overlooked. Because, after all, Adelaide was great at capturing the details when focused while painting, but when it came to just living and noticing the things around her, she tended not to care.

"You have to have an open mind, Arthur," Henry had told her one day nearly a year ago. They had been riding outside for what felt like hours and Adelaide had been exhausted from the arduous journey that was leading them nowhere. Henry, however, had been enjoying his freedom too much to care about the condition of Adelaide or the guards who accompanied them. He was currently trotting along on his horse flipping through the pictures that Adelaide had sketched that morning of the kitchen staff. "You know what I've noticed, Arthur, you have a small problem." Adelaide cocked an eyebrow in annoyance, making Henry laugh loudly at the expression. "It's not a big problem, just a small one," he insisted.

"It's just that I've noticed that you care too little about the things that you paint or draw," he said with a shrug. Adelaide had opened her mouth to argue, but Henry had waved a hand to silence her. "You're great at painting the details of the people and things around you, and you do it when startling realism, but you lack a connection."

Adelaide didn't say anything and let Henry continue talking without interruption. He had handed her back her drawing and turned back towards the midafternoon sun with a gleeful delight at the heat that caressed his skin. Adelaide inhaled sharply as she looked at him, feeling her heart rate quicken and her fingers itch to reach out and touch his shimmering, dark hair.

"What I mean," Henry resumed with another warming laugh. "Is that it's a talent to be able to notice and be able to capture the small things like a person's freckles or the shape of their eyes and the curve of their mouth, but if you don't remember those people and what they were like and who they were then what's the point?"

Adelaide was silent as she looked at Henry. When she gave him a confused looked, Henry just shook his head.

"The kitchen staff," he said with a nod of his head towards Adelaide's drawings. "Do you remember any of their names?"

Adelaide shook her head and looked down at her own drawings. They were good drawings, in her opinion, realistic enough to capture the light of the room as it danced over the kitchen staff as they worked. The steam from the food wafted through the air and Adelaide had been able to depict the curve of their spines and the twist of their muscles as they moved and turned. She had even drawn the beads of sweat that ran down their foreheads and backs. She didn't know what Henry saw was missing. It looked fine to her.

"I guess I don't understand what you mean," Adelaide admitted, irritated a little at his insistence that there was a problem with how she drew and with her artwork. Henry stopped his horse and turned towards Adelaide at the sound of her voice's frustration. He looked at her carefully, taking in her anger and annoyance with a calm expression. He eventually gave her a kind smile that made him appear years older and wiser than her.

"What I mean, and I'm no expert but," he began gently still looking at her. "Is that painting, at least in my mind, are more than just drawing a few pretty pictures."

Adelaide, still confused, stared after Henry as he moved away from her, kicking his horse into a sprint. The guards hurried after him, leaving Adelaide behind to look at her drawing, still trying to understand just what he had been trying to tell her.

With a furious shake of her head, Adelaide brought herself back to the present day. She wasn't sure why that memory of all memories had been the one to pop into her head, but she felt herself smile a little at the nostalgia that drifted over her. It made her heart tight, though, as she recalled Henry's face and voice and body movements. It seemed odd to her, how distinct his features were in her head. How she could remember every tiny little detail from the curve of his eyebrows to the small dip at the side of his mouth without him having to be in front of her.

Maybe that is what Henry meant all those months ago. That to draw something, to truly capture the moment, there has to be a connection. That Adelaide couldn't convincingly paint someone if she didn't care about painting them. She shook her head a little as she laughed at the realization of what Henry had been trying to tell her. When she saw him again, she would have to tell him she figured it out.

She didn't let herself consider an "if" possibility to her task.