musicians of old

Chapter 795 Vincent

"The witch matter is a hot potato! I'm afraid that only Chief Scribe Fanning will dare to come down to question and deal with it."

"As long as you follow Dean Pogre's orders and keep the guards safe, and don't let anything go wrong before Easter, I wouldn't dare to cause any more trouble."

Everyone secretly thought.

After hurriedly speaking a few words to the jailer, they quickly evacuated this "area of ​​filthy souls" for fear of falling behind.

After coming out of the dungeon, Fanning quickly returned to the tower where his scriptorium was located to continue his afternoon work.

He reviewed the music examples and instructed his apprentices as if nothing had happened. Whenever he had some free time, he would take out the manuscript of his "March and Hymns in A Minor" and flip through it in silence.

Sometimes, Fanning even found it difficult to understand how Nancy created these sacred music scores and what kind of inspiration she got.
To make an appropriate but ridiculous description: Fanning felt that these were exactly what he had been searching for and would compose himself in the future, but Nancy had delivered them to him "in advance"!
The rhythm of the march is severe and tense, and seems to foretell the coming of Judgment Day in the biblical sense.
The highly malleable material of "Chorus Anthems" is entirely up to the harmony arranger to decide whether it is light or darkness. This is in line with Fanning's philosophy that "music reflects the inner divine conscience".
The theme melody of "Earthly Love" has notes that rise up passionately, then fall down heartbreakingly, and then confide in a roundabout way, with a lot of tenderness.
There is also a very unique "warning chord" connection method, which goes directly from the major triad down a semitone to the minor triad. The sunny earth is suddenly shrouded in dark clouds. Is it a turning point, a warning, or a fate?
It is no exaggeration to say that the music scores submitted by Nancy have a foundation-shaking impact on Fanning's current creations!
In fact, the development of music and fine arts has been lingering in darkness and ignorance for too long, and has long been in urgent need of a thorough revival in humanities and arts! .
My thoughts drifted too far and were pulled back by Fan Ning.

When this idea came to his mind, even he himself felt it was too shocking.

He continued to work, but the image of the music manuscripts being burned kept flashing through his mind, and even his dinner seemed tasteless.

As the sun was setting, Fanning, still preoccupied, walked in the flowerbed by the steps at the side door of the church.

"Hey, Scribe! It looks like your work today isn't going well!"

A middle-aged man, hunched in the shadow of a leaded window, greeted Fanning.

His few strands of dry red curls were stuck to a hard crust by paint stains. He still had the brass pen hoop on his left hand, and a ferret-hair pen holder was tied to his belt. His entire clothes, including his hat, were gray-brown, like a whole bundle of linen wrinkled by wind and rain.

"Vincent, you know, my work has almost never been completely smooth." Fanning pulled up a smile at the corner of his mouth, the arc was not big but showed sincerity.

This muralist, who had provided commissions to the monastery for many years, often appeared in the flower garden outside after dinner, and the rest of his working time he would probably hang himself on some terrifyingly tall building dome or exterior wall.

“Want a couple of bites?” Vincent threw out an arc in his hand, “Marche goat cheese mixed with fresh figs—the blood you coughed up last time looks more expensive than cinnabar paint!”

"It's just an occasional situation after being pissed off to death. Today's situation is worse than before, and my mentality is much better."

Fanning huddled in the sheltered corner of the porch, unwrapped the oil-paper package, deflated the tin tube, and took a large bite.

The rich aroma of cheese instantly filled my mouth and nose.

It tastes salty and slightly spicy at first, and the more you chew, the more the fruit tastes sour, sweet and granular.

"I've been eating hummus for eight out of ten meals lately. I'm almost developing a fear of that stuff." Fanning curled his lips.

"I will need to go to the city to purchase supplies and pigments soon." Vincent laughed, "I have put my letter of request on Dean Bogre's desk. I'll trouble you to continue to be the guarantor when the time comes."

"My pleasure." Fanning immediately showed an understanding expression.

The next day, when the morning mist was crushed by horse hooves, Fanning and Vincent got out of the monastery's oak carriage. The cobblestone roads of the town of Motlawn were soaked in last night's rain, reflecting the fish-scale texture of the roofs.

This place is not like the countryside where there are thatched houses everywhere. The streets here are narrow, crowded and winding. Rich families even build two-story buildings, and the shops or workshops on the ground floor are bustling with activity.

Fanning paced leisurely with his hands behind his back.

For a 17-year-old young man, this is one of the few legitimate opportunities to "relax", a limited breath of fresh air outside the high walls.

In theory, monks naturally need to guard the monastery for life, but because of the special duties of the chief copyist, there are still some "loopholes" to obtain special permission.

For example, when on a diplomatic mission - escorting precious manuscripts to a royal client, one might have to stay in the castle for several days. Fanning had such an experience last year, and indeed witnessed some extravagant scenes of secular banquets, which were far beyond those of his own family.

Furthermore, being sent out to escort holy relics was even more of a "long journey", and Fanning had heard about this; moreover, his family was prominent after all, and the monastery would usually agree to formally summon the family at a reasonable frequency.

However, these opportunities are either too few or there is almost no freedom when you go out.

The only reasonable opportunity for "short and convenient" work may be the current one - going out to purchase supplies. Vincent was hired to paint for the monastery, and he brought his own tools, but the cost of the consumables involved was borne by the monastery.

Considering the size of a church, the price would be quite high over the years. If the painters "sold the paintings themselves", there is no guarantee that some of them would have pocketed the money.

This kind of thing requires a "supervisor" to oversee the purchase of painters, but there was no institution specialized in fine arts within the monastery, so as time went by, Fanning, who was young, understood art, was fair and upright, and had a high status in the monastery, gradually became the default guarantor.

At the beginning, Fanning still followed the whole process with a cautious and responsible attitude.
But he soon discovered that Vincent was particularly fiddling with the accounts for purchasing consumables, and sometimes he didn't even know how to calculate the commission for his work and how much he should get!

This solitary freelance painter is even more stubborn than Fanning in some ways. He treats everything in a casual and unfocused manner. Only when he talks about things that fascinate or concern him, his eyes will flow with a swirling, fiery light.

The two of them, one old and one young, get along smoothly and happily.

Later on, Fan Ning simply became too lazy to check any accounts and focus on this kind of things. Was it because he had too many opportunities to relax or that the time was too long?

Walking through the streets with a strong urban atmosphere, although the unhappiness in his heart could not be said to have been resolved, at least his attention was temporarily diverted.

But today, his thoughts always drifted to strange places. Fanning listened to the sound of the blackened small key on Vincent's waist and the pen holder colliding with each other, like an out-of-tune morning prayer bell. He always felt that he had "walked and thought in various busy streets" many times. But this shouldn't be the case. The number of times he went out in the past three years could be counted on two hands, and this seemed to be the first time he had such a feeling.

"Where can we get something to eat?" asked Fanning.

Noisy noises poured in from the cracks in the city walls, mules loaded with books squeezed through butcher shops full of pickled pork legs, and the musty smell of parchment scrolls and the rancid smell of oil wrestled in the air.

"Get the indigo first, then save the stomach!" Vincent squeezed sideways into a paint shop in an inconspicuous alley.

The lapis lazuli ore in the stone trough has been soaked in some special liquid and is being ground by a millstone pulled by a donkey. The slurry overflows from the groove, turning the street gutter into a flowing river of stars.

"The ultramarine from this store is absolutely top-quality! It's the oldest, brightest, and brightest blue with a hint of red. Just dip it in and smear it on the background sky, and a peaceful and holy atmosphere will emerge. But you have to keep an eye on them before they ship! Otherwise, these black-hearted guys will mix inferior indigo into your paint."

Fanning nodded thoughtfully, then squatted down and moved his feet.

Half a page of music score emerged from the cracks in the stone slab, and the ink of the Neum score was swollen into tadpole shapes by the rain.

"Look, your Lamb Sutra has aborted!" Vincent laughed behind him.

"It's both strange and not strange. I've seen Ambrosius's Psalms used to wrap smoked fish." Fanning didn't care, his eyes still fixed on the cracks and textures of the stone.

A snail with strange brightly colored tentacles was crawling hard up the wall.

There were more of them above their heads, their tentacles surging wildly and they were crawling uncharacteristically fast.

"Come on, help me keep the accounts." Vincent patted Fanning's shoulder.

The two turned into an herb market, where the smell was even more sinister. Sulfur blocks were piled up like small mounds, and dried bats used to treat plague were drying next to them.

The spring rain began to fall again. Fanning huddled under the eaves of the tanning workshop, taking a bite of black bread with fig cheese. "What new work are you planning to work on this time? I think you've almost finished the Genesis."

"I haven't done any new work recently. They asked me to hurry up and finish the restoration and color matching of the murals on the dome and the skylight pavilion."

"The Last Judgment?"

"Yes, before Easter."

"Why are you in such a hurry all of a sudden?" Fan Ning frowned.

That series is not small in length and size, and it is also a high-altitude operation.

The mural work involving the skylight pavilion is extremely difficult. The slightest adjustment will affect the light and shadow effects of the entire religious venue. Only Vincent can do it.

"So I guess." Vincent lowered his voice.

"This Easter public trial will probably involve burning at the stake! Did your monastery capture some witch or something?"