Chapter 107: The Portrait

Emeric’s jaw tightened.

"So he was watching us. He knew when to strike."

"It appears so, my lord. Since we caught him, it would seem he was the one that was seen in the village."

"And the intruder?"

"His body is gone. I disposed of it as you instructed. No one saw."

"Good."

"Now," Emeric said. "The other matters."

Graves nodded.

"The allocation, my lord. The Crown provides a monthly sum for the running of the household. One hundred thousand gold pieces per month. This covers servants, food, maintenance, and miscellaneous expenses."

Emeric leaned back.

"That’s reasonable. But not enough for repairs."

"No, my lord."

"I’m going to write to the Crown. Request additional funds for the east wing, the west wing. The library and other places are in deep need of renovations as well. I’m also going to request an allocation for knights. Men in service to the manor. We need protection."

"Yes, my lord."

"The Crown gave me this place. They owe me something."

Graves inclined his head.

"Will they grant it, my lord?"

Emeric turned.

"I don’t know. But they gave me this place. They gave me the title. They owe me something."

He returned to the desk. Pulled out parchment. Dipped his pen.

---

He wrote to the Crown.

The letter was formal. Respectful. But direct.

He detailed the state of the manor. The library was water-damaged. Everything he could think of to ask and requested funds for repairs. Separate from the monthly allocation. He requested permission to hire knights in service to the manor.

Graves had stood up, his hands behind his back as he ocassionally adjusted his monocle.

He sealed the letter. Handed it to Graves.

"Send this to the capital. By the fastest messenger available."

"Yes, my lord."

Graves left.

Emeric sat alone in the study.

The sun had set. The candles had burned low. The house was quiet.

He thought about the stage of the manor. This was going to consume the next few months of his life. If he wasn’t adventuring, how would he get the rest of the cure. He had to figure out a balance. Isolde’s treatment could not wait.

Emeric closed his eyes, massaging his temple from the headache that was coming on strong.

---

The morning light filtered into the bedroom before Emeric was ready to get up.

He rolled to find Isolde not by his side. Per his instructions, the bed had been fitted to help her get in and out as well as a ramp for the stairway. But this didn’t work for him.

Not enough.

He rolled over, brushing his eyes from the sleep that was slowly leaving him.

Emeric sat at the breakfast table. Isolde across from him. The table still too long. The chairs still too many.

Graves entered with a slight bow.

"My lord. My lady. I have taken the liberty of arranging for an artist. He will arrive within the hour."

Emeric looked up. "An artist?"

"For your portraits, my lord. It is customary. A baron and his wife should have their likenesses displayed in the manor. For guests. For history."

Isolde set her teacup down. "Portraits?"

"Yes, my lady."

She looked at Emeric. He shrugged.

"Fine. Let him in when he arrives."

The artist arrived an hour later.

He was old. Thin. Grey-haired. His hands were stained with ink and paint. He carried a leather case filled with brushes, pigments, and stretched canvas.

He bowed low.

"Lord Halden. Lady Halden. I am Master Allen. I have painted portraits for three generations of nobles in this region."

"Three generations," Emeric repeated. "And you’re still working?"

"The previous barons did not pay well." Allen smiled. It was a dry thing. "I am hoping you will break the tradition."

They set up in the great hall.

The light was good there. Tall windows. High ceilings. The faded tapestries would serve as a backdrop.

Allen positioned Isolde first. She sat in her chair. He adjusted the angle. The light. The way her hands rested in her lap.

"My lady. If you could look toward the window. Yes. Just so. And perhaps... a slight smile?"

Isolde let out a small smile and Allen began to paint.

Emeric watched from the side.

The artist worked quickly. Confident strokes. Careful attention to detail. He captured the curve of Isolde’s jaw. The way her hair fell over her shoulder. The light in her eyes.

"You’ve done this too many times," Emeric said.

"Many times, my lord."

"For only nobles?"

"For anyone who could pay." Allen didn’t look up. "Mostly minor houses. A few merchants. One duke. He didn’t like the result. I was not invited back."

"What did he not like?"

"I painted him honestly." Allen paused. "He had a crooked nose. I included it."

Emeric laughed. .

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Isolde’s portrait took two hours.

When it was done, Allen turned the canvas. She studied it. Her expression was unreadable.

"Well?"

"It’s... me."

"It is."

She looked at Emeric. He crossed to her. Studied the painting.

It was her. Exactly her. The sharp cheekbones. The dark hair. The eyes that saw too much. The slight smile that hinted at something deeper.

"It’s perfect," he said.

She reached for his hand.

"Thank you."

"Now you, my lord."

Emeric sat. Allen adjusted the light. Studied him.

"You have an interesting face."

"Interesting how?"

"I shall speak if I didn’t fear I would not be invited back." Allen said before he began to paint. "Do not worry my Lord. I will capture your good side."

Emeric laughed and said he hoped so.

He sat still. Let the artist work. His mind drifted.

When it was done, Allen turned the canvas.

Emeric studied himself.

It was him. But different. The artist had captured something he hadn’t seen before. A hardness in his jaw. A coldness in his eyes.

Maybe this was him now. How others would see him.

"You look like a baron," Isolde said.

"Is there a look?" He asked

"Of course my Lord." She said in a mock curtesy.

"Now, I would like you two, together."

The process had taken another four hours before it was complete.