The Crown that Lost its Head

by Jane Thornley

  Which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since the morning. We left the ornate palatial area and crossed a porticoed walkway into a long buff-colored stucco building that appeared almost regimental next to the royal residence.

  “These were once were the soldiers slept. Today they are offices but we have set up temporary beds here. There are no furnished bedrooms at the museum sites. We have washrooms available down the hall and have brought in temporary beds. Please let me know if you need anything else. We have set up dinner five doors down and I will wait for you there.”

  We were shown to three rooms side by side, all furnished alike. Seeing my backpack there, I stepped into the first, a plain butter-yellow room with a crucifix on one wall and a small bookcase against the other. A foldout bed had been made up with a pile of towels stacked next to extra blankets on a chair. Our hosts had thought of everything, right down to a new toothbrush and other toiletries.

  Evan arrived at my door minutes later holding an icepack to his mouth and clutching something green in his other hand. “Phoebe?” My name now came out as “Fweebe.”

  “Evan.” I turned.

  “Yours, I presume?” He held out a pair of my silk undies that I must have stuffed into his bag by mistake.

  “I was in a hurry,” I said, taking them from fingers that held on seconds too long.

  “I don’t mind.” He was trying to smile.

  “You’re in no condition to tease.” I whipped them out of his hand, trying not to notice the twinkle in his swollen eyes.

  “Always in condition…to tease.”

  “Wait until the swelling goes down first. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  His shirt was torn and now that he’d removed his jacket I could see the beginnings of a livid bruise forming across his chest. Without thinking, I peeled back his shirt and gasped. The bastards must have punched him repeatedly. “Oh, Evan, let me bathe and bandage that!”

  He clasped my wrist. “You can bathe me…any time you want but…later. We need information first.”

  I suppressed a smile and watched him walk away with a slight limp.

  Back in my room, I hastily gathered up a change of clothes, cringing at the thought of those brutes pawing through my stuff. Using one of the washrooms to clean up and change, I returned to my quarters only long enough to scan my phone for emails and texts.

  I hastily dispatched an I’m fine to Max, minus relevant details, and sent something similar to Peaches after reading that Rupert had been issued a Covid test by somebody in a hazmat suit. Rupert himself texted only to complain that he’d run out of his beloved tea bags so we had best return before he was forced to drink coffee. There was a message there that worried me. Connie emailed asking our location but I didn’t respond.

  Minutes later, I counted five doors down the hall and entered a barrel-ceilinged room where a table had been set with paper plates of food and drinks. Dr. Morales was already seated at the head of the table, her mask removed, talking with Ilda, everyone six feet apart. Don’t ask me why it surprised me that she wore bright red lipstick.

  “Señorita McCabe, I have just learned what a day you have had and heard that you encountered Don Santos,” she said.

  “You know of him? And please call me Phoebe. I am not used to such formalities.”

  “Phoebe, then, and you may call me Sofia. Yes, we know of Don Santos. He is one of the order of the Divinio brotherhood, one of at least twenty members spread across the world with an unknown number of followers.”

  “Are they all priests?”

  “The ruling brotherhood, yes. ‘The world is full of monsters wearing the faces of the angels’—an old Spanish saying. Please do not think that the Catholic church has been corrupted by this sect’s beliefs. They do not represent the church today, though much has been done in the name of Catholicism in the past. There are many priests and sisters from various orders who work on our behalf. Please eat and then we will talk further. This is what you refer to as takeout, I’m afraid, from the restaurant nearby.”

  Evan stepped in behind me and held out a seat for me, which I took, catching the wry glint of humor in Sofia’s eyes at this little display of gallantry. Ilda only beamed and passed us a plate of small ham sandwiches along with other platters of bite-size edibles like sausages and seafood. We all ate in silence while Sofia sat at the end of the table with her hands folded, her perfectly manicured red nails adding color to the otherwise austere room.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

  “Thank you but I have already dined. Try the sangria. It is a local specialty.”

  “Not for me, thanks.” Though I noted that Ilda had taken a tall glassful. “Do you live near here?”

  “I live in Madrid with my husband and two daughters but I travel often for my work. I am in charge of the nation’s historic properties. That is my official role.”

  “Are the museums funding this operation?” Evan asked as he carefully divided his tapas into even smaller pieces. He chewed carefully as if favoring one side of his mouth. “We’d appreciate an explanation of the resources you are able to command such as government helicopters and historic sites.”

  Sofia smiled again, a self-possessed glimmer of humor that seemed to flicker just below her otherwise severe exterior. I sensed that passions ran like an underground river beneath that surface. “My historic properties role is only a piece of my work for my employer. They are very powerful and generous. I have worked in their employ for many decades, since I was very young. They financed my education as a historian and I have devoted my career to Spanish history in order to stop this scourge that grows more powerful by the day.”

  “Do you work as a historian?” I asked.

  “Yes, and my employer has provided me with all the resources necessary to assist you. Whatever you need, it is only necessary to ask.”

  “Is this room secure?” Evan asked. “Are all your devices masked against technological intrusion?”

  “As much as possible, yes. My employer established a secure network solely for our use and Señor Barco is vigilant against hacking and technological intrusion. And what of you, Señor Barrows? I see your devices are active.”

  “I have them shielded through encryption, though I admit with the speed of technological change, I worry that our defenses could be compromised at any time.”

  Dr. Morales nodded. “We must remain vigilant. We understand the situation in Portugal grows dire and we have dispatched assistance. But the sect is far less disciplined there and we fear what they may do next. There is not much time.”

  “Our archaeologist, Dr. Collins, disappeared last night,” I said. “As you probably know, he was hacked in Lisbon, which alerted the Divinios to the location of Prince Don Carlos’s skull.”

  “Most unfortunate, yes. And now we must find the crown,” she said. “Do you have an idea as to where to look? We hold great hope that you will provide a unique perspective.”

  I set down my fork and took out my phone, passing it to Evan to hand to Sofia. “These underpaintings were uncovered from a Titian portrait of Queen Isabella of Portugal. The first is of a watchtower behind her head. Do you recognize it?”

  Her fine arched brows rose as she gazed at the paintings. “This was uncovered beside a portrait of Queen Isabella of Portugal, the Empress of the Carnation?”

  “That one is by Titian and it was returned to the House of Aviz at the empress’s request. It’s hung there ever since. There is another, which is a copy of the Titian that hangs in the Prado, but this one interests me most.”

  “Those hills could be anywhere and that style of watch post is common throughout Spain. You will see it in many fortresses. There is one outside this very door.”

  “Can you tell me anything else?” I asked.

  “I know of this painting, of course. There have been many efforts on the part of Spain to bring it back home but the flower…the empress’s association with the carnation is legendary.” Her dark eyes met mine. “Emperor
Charles ordered seeds from a Persian flower to be planted for her, seeds which grew in abundance and pleased her enormously. The carnation became Spain’s national flower as a result, but why would it be painted over?”

  “That is the question,” I said, tapping another photo and sliding my phone toward Sofia, “and why would this wilted carnation be painted on a Titian portrait by someone other than Titian?”

  “Are you certain of that?” she asked, picking it up.

  “Positive. The brushstrokes and style are very different. Though the flower is beautifully executed, it’s not by Titian. No, it was deliberately painted and deliberately hidden. That means something.”

  Sofia sat back, her reserve temporarily disrupted. “But who would do such a thing and when?”

  “The painting hung in the apartments of King Philip II for years, I understand, before it was shipped to the Aviz family in Portugal at the late empress’s request. These clues have a feminine hand. What influential women were at court at the time of Prince Carlos’s death besides his stepmother, Queen Elizabeth de Valois? I have gathered a few names but I’m not sure how they fit.”

  “Ana de Mendoza, Princess of Eboli, for certain.”

  “Yes, the woman featured in the Verdi opera.”

  “She was unique, completely revolutionary, and lived unapologetically for her time. Besides raising nine children, some of them rumored to be King Philip’s, she remained a friend of the queen. If she did indeed sleep with Philip, he was probably exercising his Divine Right of Kings.”

  “Any woman he wanted he could have,” I remarked.

  “Indeed, and she was a beautiful woman despite the eye patch. After her husband’s death, she became lover and ally to the king’s friend, Antonio Pérez. He plotted against the crown and managed to get away with his crimes while the princess died imprisoned alone in 1592, suspected of treason. Pérez is who we believe to be behind the later manifestation of the Divinios.”

  “Could she have been working against Pérez all along and taken the blame for his crimes?” I asked.

  Alma stood up. “As a spy, you mean?”

  “A spy for the counter-Divinios.”

  “Nothing would surprise me about this rebel. She was intelligent, beautiful, and daring. Antonio Pérez, on the other hand, was known as a master manipulator who was responsible for assassinating the king’s uncle at the royal request and now we think Prince Carlos, too.”

  I grew excited. “Meanwhile the princess takes the fall for his earlier crimes.”

  “Not so surprising, yes?” She opened a photo on her tablet, turning it around to reveal a handsome man in black velvet holding a scroll in one hand. “Pérez held great sway with King Philip. He advised him of policies that would eventually bankrupt Spain. His goal like many of the powerful men at the time was to increase his own clout using this breakaway cult to serve his needs.”

  I gazed at Sofia, transfixed. “And maybe Ana de Mendoza, Princess of Eboli, worked against him while pretending to be in his corner?” I was standing now, too, leaning over the table toward Sofia while Evan and Ilda watched.

  “Perhaps,” Sofia whispered. “But she could not have done so alone even if she was trusted by Pérez. By then, Don Carlos was locked away in ‘strict confinement’—those were the king’s words. Even the queen would not be allowed access.”

  “Did King Philip know how his son died?”

  “We don’t believe he knew the full details but there was evidence that Don Carlos had been plotting the death of his father so treason was already in Philip’s mind. The king lost patience. He shut himself away and sat in an armchair the days before his son’s death. We believe it likely that he had given the order for his son’s agony to be brought to an end. By then Don Carlos had gone on hunger strikes and tried to jump from a window. To Philip, no doubt, Pérez had merely brought to an end a difficult and painful problem.”

  “But he didn’t necessarily know how. Would he have seen his son after death?” Evan asked.

  “That is not known. The matter was shrouded in mystery. Whether the crown was applied before or after the prince’s death remains unclear. The moment Senhor Carvalho sent word that your archaeologist had located the skull and was able to identify it based on well-known abnormalities, the pieces fit at last.”

  “But supposedly the king retreated to a monastery to mourn?” Evan said.

  “Yes, immediately following the funeral.”

  “And maybe during King Philip’s absence, a woman managed to steal and hide the crown?” I asked, barely able to conceal my excitement.

  “I do not see how she could have done so. This was men’s work, dark deeds they were not likely to expose to women. Women were mostly shackled in the Spanish court, though these had more freedom than most and claimed far more than many dared. Still, I do not see how they could have gained entrance to the prince’s prison especially after this horrible event.” She retrieved the iPad, tapped it again, and slid the device toward me opened to a portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman in a starched ruff, black velvet gown, and an eyepatch.

  “Yes, the princess with the eye patch rumored to be the result of a fencing match,” I said, gazing down at Ana de Mendoza, Princess of Eboli, who had married the man who would later become the Prince of Eboli when she was only thirteen.

  “More likely an eye disease but the more cavalier story suits her spirit,” Sofia said with a decisive nod. “If any woman was deep enough into the court to counter the Divinios and work against Pérez, it would be Ana de Mendoza. She was supposedly involved with Pérez. Still, she could not have done this alone.”

  “Would Queen Elizabeth of Valios have helped?”

  “The queen was not known for her strength of character but supposedly possessed a good heart and attempted to help Prince Carlos, to whom she was briefly betrothed. That was before she became his stepmother. She pitied him, as did Ana de Mendoza. Apparently, they were some of the few women he treated with respect.”

  “But there had to be others in this conspiracy.” I nodded, gazing down at the portrait. “Whoever painted the empress’s wilted carnation must have been in Philip’s court at that time, too. It certainly wasn’t Titian. I'm thinking Sofonisba.”

  Sofia snapped her fingers. “Sofonisba Anguissola! Slide to the right.”

  “She was a rare female artist of the Renaissance,” I said, “talented and supported by the men in her life despite the prejudices against her gender. Though Italian, she had moved to the Spanish court at Philip’s request.” I had studied her in university and refreshed myself on the details in the last few days. “I believe she’s part of this.”

  “I think you could be right. Her portrait of the princess is there, too.”

  Sliding through other portraits of the much-painted Ana de Mendoza, I stopped at one showing the princess wearing a dashing plumed hat. Here the princess was portrayed in a low-cut summer gown holding a tray of what looked to be roses. A pink bud was held delicately between two fingers.

  The similarities to the style of painting between the flowers in this portrait and the empress’s wilted carnation hit me immediately. Both had the same delicate application of paint, the same gray-green leaves, and though I couldn’t be sure without viewing the actual portrait, I was willing to hazard a guess. “This is by the same artist. We have found the artist who dared hide a clue in a Titian—Sofonisba!”

  “She was very much part of the court and even attended the infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia and served as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth of Valois,” Sofia exclaimed. “She gave art lessons!”

  Our eyes locked. “We have found our allies in Philip’s court; we have found the female counteroperatives to the Divinios.”

  Sofia smiled, a beam so dazzling that it transformed her face. “I believe we have!”

  “However,” Evan interrupted in sober tones, “and as much as I hate to disturb this euphoria, we are still no closer to discovering where the crown may be hidden.”

>   20

  Though it was true that we had yet to find the location of the crown, the story of the women in King Philip’s court was a treasure of another kind. It was as though they were allies from another century trying to communicate with us using all the skills they had available—art, symbolism, and their very femininity.

  For most of that evening we sat around the table with Sofia Morales combing through the research material accessed from her employer’s private online archives. It seemed that most of the valuable tertiary documents existent from the court of Philip II had been transcribed into digital form for posterity’s sake and that Sofia held the online keys.

  “Your employer must be very powerful,” Evan had commented, studying Sofia through his puffy eyes.

  “Very,” she acknowledged, “but not so powerful that we can see all things in all ways. A fresh perspective proves most invaluable. Consider your every wish my command.”

  I grinned at the illusion to the fairy tale. “You are our fairy señora, our godmother?”

  “Not as old as that, I hope.” She laughed and waved her hands. “My two daughters are still too young.”

  She ordered computers to be delivered to the room so that we could research more comfortably and even Ilda joined in with the help of the translation app left open on my phone. Anything spoken in either English or Spanish was automatically translated in Evan’s mechanical voice.

  “What shall we call them?” Ilda asked in Spanish, the app immediately translating. By now I knew our rescuer was twenty-three years old and had been volunteering in Don Santos’s church since a teenager. In her own way, she was of the same ilk as the Princess of Eboli, bravely working to counter injustice in a world dominated by men.

  The things she had seen behind the congregation’s back, the many injustices Don Santos permitted in the name of his worldview, had hardened her. Now Sofia would be keeping her under her wing. Once things calmed down, Ilda would inform her grandparents that she would be moving to Madrid.