Why did I do it? Why did I ever start the blasted thing? Imprudence and vanity: any man may yield to one, but before both together, even the noblest of us are vulnerable. My only excuse -- a poor one, I know -- is that I thought I could afford it. With a lineage such as mine, that wais surely not an unworthy thing to think.
It was late one night -- or rather, early one morning, for the sun was full up -- in August, 1519, and I had not yet been to bed. I had spent the hours of darkness at drink and cards with my old school friends Malham and Tonks; we had taken it in turns to play at piquet with cards bearing the new French suits, with the kings and queens swaggering about on the pasteboard and egging us on to ever more outrageous wagers. I had lost all, and won it back with more besides, and lost it again, and -- let it suffice to say that when I stumbled out into the dawn, my purse held a gold Galleon and three fistfuls of Sickles. That may seem little enough to you, but it was more than I had possessed at once for some months. Besides, as I sallied forth on the street where Malham's house stood, I was narrowly missed by the first of the night's chamber pots being emptied from an upstairs window, so that I felt myself lucky as well as accomplished.
In Blackfriars, it occurred to me that I need not go home. A fine fellow like myself, still young, and with money to dispose of: what need had I to sleep off the night's excesses? Instead, my footsteps wended their way towards Diagon Alley. By the time I reached the Leaky Cauldron, its proprietress, Mrs. Dodderidge, had opened it up, and begun to sweep the floor. I gave her to understand that I would return to patronise her establishment later in the day, and she did not look displeased.
It is astonishing how fine a street looks, when one knows that every shopkeeper in the whole length of it is one's servant, should one only deign to enter their premises and hint of spending a little money. Thus did Diagon Alley appear to me that morning, as I strolled past the apothecaries and alchemists and cauldron-makers, the bookstalls and the beast-merchants, the fortune-tellers and the herbalists. Ollivander's ancient wand-shop, now -- but no, my blackthorn wand had served me well, and I would have no other, were as I rich as King Henry himself. Rather, the sign that caught my fancy was the one proclaiming the services of Samuel Gosselin, magical portrait-painter.
I knew who he was, of course. To the social circles in which I move, wizarding London is but a village. Every witch or wizard of note is acquainted with every other, and all of them, in that year, either possessed or desired a Gosselin portrait. As I stood there in the morning sunshine that day, I was suddenly aware that I lacked one. My home, indeed, lacked any magical paintings at all, for although no wizarding family has purer blood than mine, our material fortunes have declined grievously in the last generation or two. In a moment, I was resolved. I mounted the stairs to Gosselin's rooms, and there encountered the man himself.
He was a tall fellow, of middle age, with a thin face and a red and yellow smock like a court jester's, much spattered with paint. Though I had never met him before, he recognised me.
–Sir Cadogan Wells, I presume?†I was glad that he had not forgotten my Muggle title; I am much irritated when wizarding folk do that. It is a foolish pride that leads some of our oldest families to live apart from Muggle society; we Wells have never done so, but have always been paid the utmost respect by wizard and commoner alike.
When I stated my desire for a portrait of myself, Gosselin's expression did not change; he merely nodded, as though he had naturally expected as much from the moment I arrived. He gestured towards an upholstered settle, and made haste to fill two generous goblets with a rather pleasant Spanish wine.
–A gentleman who is both wizard and knight,†he mused, as we sat side by side. –And favoured at court, I understand?â€
I permitted him to know that he was not misinformed.
–The king's taste for tales of chivalry is well-known. A fashionable knight's portrait should depict him armed and armoured, ready for the lists, or for battle.â€
He indicated one of the larger paintings displayed on his wall, where we had a good view of it. It showed a tiltyard, with silently cheering peasants ranged along its whole length, and in the centre the royal box, with a very good likeness of His Majesty, Henry VIII, and his Queen Consort. In the distance a knight sat his horse, adjusting his helmet, whilst a squire beside him held a wooden lance in readiness for the joust. As I watched, Gosselin waved his wand negligently at the picture. The painted knight nodded in acknowledgement, took up the lance, set it, and began to advance towards us. Slowly at first he came on, then urging his mount to a full gallop, his painted image becoming larger and larger as he approached. Now I could see the loosely flapping reins; his foreshortened lance wavering as he strove mightily to hold it level; his charger's lips working at the bit. It seemed that in a moment he must burst through the frame into the room with us; then his opponent came into view, galloping hard in the opposite direction. In an instant it was over: the lances struck; the other knight flew to the dusty ground; the spectators in the box were on their feet; the victor was drawing rein, coming to a halt in a spot where he filled the frame. He lifted his visor, and showed his face.
–Sir Thomas Darcy,†murmured Gosselin, although I had recognised him already. –It is not quite finished, yet.â€
It was finished enough to convince me. Had I been more familiar with the magical painter's art, I should perhaps have asked Gosselin a few further questions, but he would have found answers, I am sure, to satisfy me. Any doubts were vanquished by that picture.
–That style will suit me very well,†I began, struggling to keep the covetousness out of my voice. –But -- I do not possess any suitable armour, and I fear that your, ah, studio is too small to hold a war-horse.†In truth I did not, at that moment, possess a horse of any kind, but he had no need to know that.
–No matter -- the painter's skill will supply them both. I shall need only your good self, to sit for me. Now, a magical portrait must have more than the appearance of its subject: it must be a reflection of your very self. Have you any notable achievements, perhaps, that could be commemorated in a painting?â€
I tried to think. I am renowned, of course, but as to particular feats -- –My father was at Bosworth Field, you know,†was all I could come up with.
Gosselin was too well-mannered to ask which side my father had fought on. –Hmm -- perhaps a sword of great size, then, to indicate prowess in battle?â€
He was similarly accommodating on every particular we discussed, and after the first half-hour in his company, I felt a great sense of well-being. On only one point was he firm.
–My fee,†he stated, –will be three Galleons. Half to be paid today, the rest at your second visit, in a month's time.â€
But I have a special aptitude for handling servants. I opened my purse and removed its solitary Galleon, allowing him to see the bulk, but not the colour, of the remaining contents. Holding up the coin between thumb and forefinger, I gave him to understand that his overall price was acceptable, but that he would receive no more than this today. He wavered, then capitulated before my commanding tone.
My second visit was not quite so congenial. The painting itself went well enough: Gosselin showed me some sketches and preliminary studies, and I sat while he drew the first outlines of my elegantly armoured self for the principal work. I began to feel that I was in the hands of a master, and imagined myself conversing with Sir Thomas Darcy, as we stood before that impressive mounted portrait in his tastefully appointed home. –Samuel Gosselin,†I would say, –oh, yes, I recognise his style. He carried out a commission for me last autumn: similar to this, but within a frame a trifle larger.â€
No, the sticking point was the money. Since my first encounter with Gosselin my sons, James and Wilfred, had returned to school, and the expense of equipping them both had exhausted what remained of my gambling winnings. Dilcue's Geometry of the astral plane had apparently become the standard reference for Divination students at all levels; James's broom had to be collected after requiring extensive repair work; and the new Head of the Potions Department seemed inordinately fond of dragon parts. It had taken an entire day in Diagon Alley, and a little ingenuity, to effect the necessary purchases within the capacity of my purse. Then, just when I thought our acquisitions were all done, Wilfred revealed that he had sneaked his powdered Basilisk scales out of the apothecary's shop without paying for them. As if a little light pilferage were conduct becoming a gentleman! I gave him a stern telling-off, and made sure that he returned the vial to the shop with a sincere apology. I worry about that boy -- sometimes he seems to have no understanding of the honour of his family's name.
As we left Diagon Alley at dusk, penniless, the street had assumed a rather less welcoming aspect than on my previous visit. A few days later, the boys departed, and I attempted to chase some old debts, but these, alas, had no hope of raising the sum that I still owed to Gosselin. I was left with no option but my usual one in these circumstances: brazen it out, relying only on my bearing to keep my inferiors in their place.
–I do not find it convenient to finalise pecuniary matters today,†I essayed, when he raised the subject of the two outstanding Galleons. He frowned, and I knew I was foundering. He had made it plain enough that his other clients had no need to quibble over payment, and that he expected the same behaviour from me. He continued to stare meaningfully at me, while a large portrait of a haughty-looking wizard -- which had replaced Sir Thomas and his steed -- did likewise, muttering to itself.
–Very well,†I managed, when I could no longer withstand his impertinent efforts to shame me. –As token that I am in earnest, you may have all the money that I am carrying this morning.†And I tipped out the six Knuts that were all the money I had just then, and all that I was likely to have for several days at least.
He took them, a disturbed look on his face. –I see. I will need to see you again on the twenty-fifth of October; your painting should be well along by then. Our meeting that day will begin with your discharging your obligation to me. One Galleon, sixteen Sickles, twenty-three Knuts, Sir Cadogan: I shall make a note of the exact amount.â€
October came, and the air turned colder, but my finances did not improve. On the morning appointed for my sitting with Samuel Gosselin, the street outside the Leaky Cauldron was dusted with frost; I hurried inside to warm myself at the inn's fireplace. The warmth was gratis, which was just as well, for Mrs. Dodderidge had ceased to give me credit the week before. I tarried there while I still could, before wending my way up Diagon Alley with no slight feeling of trepidation. It was not that I was unfamiliar with awkward situations of this sort -- I am well-practiced at being in debt, and unable to pay. But Gosselin was a more refined class of merchant than one usually deals with, and I wished heartily that I was not so obliged to him.
I think he must have known what was coming, for when I confessed my penury, his features betrayed no surprise.
–So be it,†he sighed. –I foresaw as much, and have prepared accordingly. You will find that I am not unaccustomed to customers of your variety.â€
He reached for his wand, and for one terrified moment I thought he was about to curse me. But the spell on his lips was for another kind of torment.
–Accio Sir Cadogan!†It was not I being Summoned, but a large canvas, which extracted itself from a stack of similar canvases and flew onto an easel that was standing by. The painting thereon showed a short figure standing in a grassy meadow. It wore antique plate armour, with a helmet surmounted by a gaudy red plume like a quill. The belt bore a scabbard so long that its tip rested on the ground.
–What is this?†I demanded -- but the painting answered for him. Raising its visor, it revealed a swarthy face with moustaches similar to my own, but longer and less kempt. It squinted at me.
–Sir Cadogan, at your service. Who are you, knave?â€
–I --†I was speechless. This was the portrait Gosselin had painted for me? In none of my apprehensive imaginings had I envisaged such a scene.
–Half-witted, and dumb besides? Do not concern yourself with this afflicted churl, my lord,†-- this to Gosselin -- –we have nobler pursuits before us. You promised a tourney, did you not?â€
Ignoring him, I turned to Gosselin in mute appeal. What had he done? Did he always make sport of his debtors in this fashion?
–It is a passable likeness, is it not?†He smirked.
–It resembles me not at all!†Not that I would know, for I am no fop or fine lady, to pass time regarding my own features in a mirror glass.
–I should think not!†The other Sir Cadogan seemed deeply offended. –Do I look like a doltish nithing?â€
–Silence, painted fool. Your japes do not amuse me, and your --†But the ill-mannered thing had the temerity to interrupt me.
–Have a care, varlet,†he warned, in a voice of alarmingly rising pitch. –Did chivalry not restrain me, I should spit you where you stand!†He took a step or two towards me, tugging on the pommel of his sword. But the great length of it tripped him, and he fell forward onto his face.
Gosselin was chuckling now, but I had no time for him. –Get up, you scurrilous windbag, and deliver me an apology!†I bellowed at the painted knight. I would not tolerate blackguarding of that sort from anyone, least of all from an archaic caricature whose only purpose seemed to be to aggravate me.
His next words were muffled; he had risen to his knees, but his helmet had been knocked awry, so that the visor faced backwards. With great effort, he managed to wrench it most of the way back around, so that he could see out again.
–Fie on you, miscreant! Shall I ride you down, like the contemptible serf you are? Alice! Alice, come here, you sluggardly moll!â€
This last was directed to his left, as though to someone out of the frame. In response, a fat dapple-grey pony trotted up to him. Though it bore no saddle or harness, he attempted to mount it -- an apparently futile endeavour, as Alice did not look strong enough to bear the weight of his armour.
I gathered what remained of my dignity. –You, sir, are a waste of a wall. I know not why you have been painted, save that the painter delights in scorn. But I shall deal with him, not you. Begone with you!†And I turned my back on his easel, the better to face Gosselin, who by now was laughing out loud.
–Now look here,†I began, attempting the menacing tone that is my usual redoubt when cornered. –This is all very risible, yes, but what will this thing bring you? What useful end can it possibly serve?â€
–If it brings me nothing but mirth, I am well served already.†The odious chuckle had never left his damned lips. –But I fear it will be but a brief joke, alas, for you will surely wish to settle your account quickly, and take the work away. Every day that you do not, it will grace the walls of my humble studio, for the delectation of my respectable patrons.â€
And there he had me. A wizard of my reputation -- and a Muggle knight besides -- could not be held up to ridicule in such a place, frequented as it would be, sooner or later, by all of England's wizarding nobility. It simply would not do. Still, what could I do, but bluster on?
–Pah!†I managed. –The abominable thing is worthless to me now. If you think I'll part with good gold in exchange for it, you're a greater fool than I took you for. Play the jackanapes if you will; it will not avail you. This feeble daub may hang here forever, for all I care.â€
–Why, how dare you!†declared my painted self. –Feeble daub, is it? Get you a lance in your hand, mewling braggart, and we shall let the lists find the feebler of us!†He turned, still trying to mount his pony.
–I shall not keep it so long.†Gosselin had no smile on his face now, only the sharp look of a tradesman about to drive a bargain. –After a year or so, I daresay I shall need the space. I shall make a donation of it, I think -- perhaps to Hogwarts School. You know the place I mean?â€
Certainly I knew -- my own sons' attendance there was the indirect cause of my embarrassment.
–Remarkable, is it not,†he was saying, –that after five centuries there are so many unfilled spaces on the castle's walls? I well remember the magical portraits from my own schooldays; they provided us with much innocent amusement. Gretchen's Harlot with potion-bottle was my especial favourite; we used to speculate on what she was drinking. In time, it inspired me to apprentice to the great master, that I might continue in his style. Perhaps Sir Cadogan†-- he waved at my simulacrum -- –may do the same for some talented child, one day?â€
Inwardly, I shuddered; outwardly, I made of it a furious scowl. The gall of the man! Threatening Sir Cadogan Wells, no less, with the ridicule of half-grown witches and callow stripling boys, like some common criminal in the stocks! The enormity of it, to hound a man of my stature for an inconsequential Galleon or two! But he could do it, too; that picture was his to dispose of as he saw fit. The school might even buy it from him.
–You will hear from me again,†I spat. –In the meantime, do nothing you may have cause to regret.†I turned my back on the villain with as much contempt as I could muster, and retreated from his miserable shop. As the door closed behind me, I heard the painted Sir Cadogan blathering about the honour of the Hogwarts office, and how he would certainly accept it, and what he would wear at his investiture. But I had no ears for him; my own discomfiture was all I could think of.
I am no great thinker, in the ordinary run of things, but when pressed I often surprise even myself by finding a way through the mire -- all the more so, if it is of my own making. Godbolt Lestrange, Transfiguration master and the Head of my own Slytherin House, used to remark on it when I was in trouble at school. As I strode down Diagon Alley, looking daggers at the idlers standing by -- did they have no honest work to go to? -- I was in a foul mood, but my head was churning apace.
It was the school that was Gosselin's undoing. Had he not made his final threat, to send the picture to Hogwarts, I might never have found the way to escape the promised humiliation. But thinking on that put me in mind of a slight acquaintance of mine, one Francis Fortuin, who held a junior teaching post there. I had last seen Fortuin several months previously; for some reason best known to himself, he had decided to spend the summer in London. Perhaps his potion-making had ruined his sense of smell. At any rate, Fortuin's conversation had touched briefly on the school's magical portraits, and as I recalled what he had said, I began to conceive an idea.
My owl to Fortuin returned with his reply directly, and I Apparated to Hogsmeade the next day. He had suggested we sup at a newly-opened tavern called the Hog's Head; this was not much to my liking, due to the expense, but on this occasion I was willing to oblige him. He arrived punctually, much as I remembered him: a small, meagre man with well-worn and somewhat stained robes.
–Good even, Sir Cadogan,†he greeted me respectfully.
–And to you, Francis,†I replied.
Salutations completed, I supplied him with ale, and began to inquire after the fortunes of my boys, among other small matters. Only after we had discussed at length the prospects of that year's Slytherin Quidditch teams -- both showed great promise, he assured me -- did I bring the subject around to magical portraiture. There had been only a few paintings at Hogwarts in my own school days, but it seemed that their numbers had waxed considerably since then.
–Headmaster Rippringham is a keen patron of magical art,†he explained. –His efforts have acquired more portraits for the school than all of his predecessors', the Founders not excepted. Large as the castle is, we have had some problems housing them all.â€
–How so?†Now we approached the nub of the matter.
–Most of the pictures are gifted to the school. It seldom sits well with the benefactor to find that an image of his esteemed ancestor, or his wealthy patron, or himself, has been placed in some lonely corridor where few pass. Nor do the portraits themselves tolerate such treatment. They are painted to resemble their subjects in more than outward seeming; most demand recognition of their social position, even if it be centuries out of date.â€
That much, at least, I had learned to my chagrin.
–We have no lack of artworks to adorn the Entrance Hall, or the House common rooms, or the Magical Art and Artefacts classroom. But there are many walls besides these, and Rippringham is determined --â€
–Excellent.†I raised my hand to halt him. –The situation suits my purpose admirably.†I had found the means of my escape; now to seize it. –I have a portrait of myself that I detest. I wish to donate it to Hogwarts, on the sole condition that it be placed in the remotest, most seldom-visited chamber of the castle. Do you know of a suitable spot?â€
He considered. –There is a tower that is never climbed, for the stairway is uncommonly steep, and we do no teaching there. Perhaps that would suffice. You will be aware, of course, that magical portraits are able to --â€
–Capital!†Suddenly, I was in better humour than I had been for months. Not since the day I first commissioned that accursed picture had I felt so potent; at last the world was ready again to do my bidding, and I was ready to bid it. –I care not what the thing may do; let it only be hung in the place you mentioned, and I shall be content.†I thumped the table in my enthusiasm.
–Well, if you --â€
–I do. Pray approach Rippringham on my behalf†-- I had never been introduced to the man myself -- –and acquaint him with my wishes. The picture will need to be collected from the artist's studio -- Samuel Gosselin, in Diagon Alley -- and there is a trifling matter of a few Sickles still to pay on it, but I am confident that there will be no difficulty over that.â€
Fortuin seemed a little dazed at first, but soon recovered himself; doubtless it had dawned on him that the brokering of a generous gift to the school would do his own career ambitions no harm at all. For that matter, my own prestige could only be enhanced by the episode. I was a patron of Hogwarts now: not an easy thing to achieve, for a man of modest means. But, as I have often remarked, good breeding will always find a way.
I left Fortuin and the inn soon after, and strutted down Hogsmeade High Street in a tremendous mood. Gosselin thought he could work gold from his betters, did he? Little did he know what he had wrought! I had the measure of him, did I not? If ever brave knight was delivered from perfidious trap by his sharp wits and steely cunning, that one, surely, was Sir Cadogan!