by Ken Fry
The missing work would be found, and she would be made well once more.
Throgmorton had his uses. As for his honesty and integrity … that was another issue. She knew her strength had diminished and conducting her own research had become almost impossible. But from what Ruth Overberg and Marcus Urbanek had confided in her, she believed he was resourceful enough to conduct a clandestine operation. What would be discovered was to be hers and kept a secret.
After that, and if need be, Throgmorton would be fed to the dogs.
For safety, she had held back various pieces of information from him. In front of her lay a long wooden coffer. Its contents had remained there for centuries, handed down from one generation of her family to the next.
The lid felt heavy as it swung open with a groan. Before her lay the personal and private legacy of nine-hundred years of her family. It came from the twelfth-century Mozarab nobility, and then followed by the various Dukes of Alba through the Middle Ages up to the present day. Apart from her brother, Fernando, an ageing hippy living in Ibiza, she remained the only living descendant of her branch of the family.
Layers of tissue paper separated one generation from another, each a personal token to be passed on to the next generation. She removed jewellery, porcelain objects, early photographs and various certificates rolled and bound in coloured ribbons. Others were laid out flat. Fine old dresses, boots, diaries, documents and early umbrellas, jewellery and artefacts, she removed with care.
At the very bottom, she found what she was looking for.
The once pure white tabard made of wool and cotton linen was old, very old, and threadbare, discoloured from centuries past. It looked charred and battered in places, and the note attached to it revealed it was the bequest of her distant ancestor the third Duke of Alba, Don Fernando Álvarez de Toledo y Pimentel. That dated the note as being in the mid sixteenth century.
Her body, rotting in terminal decline, had not yet interfered with her memory. Seeing the small black cross on the painting in Valencia Cathedral, she made a connection with the long-forgotten tabard in the chest. It too had emblazoned on its front, a large black cross. The time period of the third Duke had to be about the same period as that of Cortez’s painting.
Why, she thought, had the Duke left the distinctive tabard in the family chest? Could there be a connection with the painting?
She liked to think and hope that there was.
This is more than coincidence. She ran her hand across the tattered cloth and lingered on the cross. A feeling of warmth passed through her ... a willingness to believe that everything would be all right.
§
“Miss Stuart, how nice to hear from you. Now tell me, was that you I saw in the Prado earlier?
Ulla was taken aback. Her eyes widened. “What?” Her instincts took over. She couldn’t admit to seeing him or he’d want to know why she was rushing away from him. “Yes, I was there but...”
“I thought it was you. I tried to reach you, but you seemed in such a hurry.”
“I’ve been doing research … but what were you doing there?” She glanced at Brodie. Tight lipped, he grimaced and shook his fist at the phone.
“I’ve friends here and I’ve business to see to.”
Ulla couldn’t help thinking she could have made a big mistake. It could be genuine. But what about the heavy who tried to block her way? He hasn’t mentioned that. He must have seen it.
He continued. “What progress are you making? I was expecting a report.”
Ulla handed the phone over to Brodie. “He wants a progress report.”
He grabbed the phone. “Throgmorton, it’s Brodie Ladro. There’s nothing much to report and when there is, you’ll know. Let me ask you a question. Are you following us? If you are, the deal is off. Is that clear?”
“Mr. Ladro, that’s an extraordinary observation. Why would I want to do that? Far from it. Seeing Miss Stuart was a total coincidence. You have my word on that.”
“What about the man who tried to stop her from leaving?”
“Man trying to stop her—what are you on about?”
Brodie had the phone on loudspeaker and Ulla could hear every word. She shook her head.
“Well, what about the men who surrounded us at the Toledo Cathedral? One sounded like you.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” He paused. “Mr. Ladro, you came to me highly recommended. Don’t let me revise that opinion. I’ll say this. On one thing, you are correct, the deal will be off—sooner than you think, unless something concrete materialises in the very near future. I’m sure I don’t need to spell that out.”
“I think we understand each other well enough. Let’s leave it at that. You’ll hear from us soon.” Brodie slapped down the phone. He stared at Ulla. “God, I hate that bastard.”
“Let’s not give way to emotion. We’ve a job to do and when it’s finished, we can sort him out in a way he won’t expect. Agreed?”
“Okay, agreed. Can you contact those names Evita gave you? I’ll make notes on what we’ve achieved so far, and then I’ll start looking at Raúl Cortez’s archives. Who knows what we’ll find there?” He hesitated. “I’ve a feeling we could be in for more shocks.”
CHAPTER 17
The red franking mark of the Banco Popular Español accelerated his desire to vomit.
He knew what the envelope contained. With shaky hands, he tore it open.
Raúl Cortez was running out of time.
He read through it with a rapid scan, too fearful to digest the full force of the words used. Urgent ... action will be taken ... unless ... fourteen days ... legal ... let us know your proposals. With moist palms, he screwed up the letter and threw it across his desk.
Five minutes later, he reached out for the crumpled ball of paper, straightened it out and read through it, but this time he absorbed its full impact.
Nobody knew, not even Evita.
What did the bank care that three years of unseasonal weather had all but destroyed his annual yields? That weather had produced successive seasons of Berry Rot and Crown Gall disease, almost impossible to control under the conditions. He was in no position to pay back the accumulated overdraft given on the expectancy of bumper harvests.
He faced ruin.
Yet something had happened ... almost as if it was meant to. A lifeline had been thrown to him.
He was being offered money, enough to fend off the bank and give him breathing space. It was tempting enough to dispel any moral qualms he had. All that was required was for him to supply his caller with anything that Ladro and Stuart came up with. It also included their itinerary, information about or sight of any paintings that might be discovered. Further rewards were hinted at.
His caller had also promised protection for his home, family, business and staff from any unwarranted attacks.
That promise removed any doubt about the source of the call. It had everything to do with the recent attack on Evita. He still had the two paintings unknown to the outside world. They had to be worth a lot of money. Validating them and liquidising assets took time … and time was something neither he nor the bank had. Besides, he fiercely wanted to keep the Cortez paintings. They were part of his flesh and blood, and it was important to know where you came from.
If he went under, he’d have nothing to leave his daughter and they could end up in poverty. Ladro and Stuart hadn’t offered money, only the hint that if they found anything, he could transform his fortunes.
I can’t live on dreams.
Passing on information wasn’t harming anybody. If he worked it well, no one would know, and his business could be rescued.
He rubbed his hand across his wrinkled brow. I’m seventy-three. What time I’ve left on this earth, God only knows. He pushed aside any uncertainty about his decision.
He reached for the phone.
§
Ulla threw her hands up in despair. “Shit!” she shouted as the answerphone message
cut in.
This was her fourth call to the names on Evita’s list. Two had told her not to trouble them again, one didn’t reply, and now this. She left her message.
“... and my name’s Ulla Stuart from the TV production company, Gordian Knots. We are researching a Spanish artist from the sixteenth-century, Francisco Cortez, and are eager to find out what information we can about him and his life. We believe he came from Toledo and painted portraits and scenes from this area. If you can give any information about him, however insignificant, your call to this number would be appreciated.”
Ulla had two thoughts. Using the company name legitimised the operation. Flushing out Throgmorton’s mysterious client could short-circuit his plans.
Neither she nor Brodie had the slightest doubt he’d screw them to the deck as soon as he could.
§
Condesa Maria’s fading brown eyes seemed to shine as she stared out of the window, hearing the far-away bells of Toledo’s Cathedral, her wiry fingers steepled under her chin.
She wanted time to think.
Ulla Stuart’s message had sent a jolt through her body. She found herself muttering. “This is a sign. Please let it be, please, dear God.” It was too much of a coincidence. It couldn’t have anything to do with Throgmorton as she had forbidden him to reveal anything about her or the project. He had promised not to.
Hell, I dislike the man, but he knows if he broke his promise … he’s finished. Not only with me but with all his smart friends in Vienna. With Marcus Urbanek’s help, I’ll make certain of that.
The sudden flood of energy startled her. It was a rare and almost forgotten experience. It felt good; a memory of times past. It didn’t last long.
An unexpected talon of pain hooked into her, breaking the euphoria. It was time for her needle. As she reached for it, she made the decision to call Ulla Stuart.
CHAPTER 18
Ladro stood back as Cortez emerged from the dark basement with the last box of his family records. There were six in total. A thick sheen of ancient dust billowed about in a powdery protest at being disturbed.
Cortez brushed himself down. “There they all are, Señor. That should keep you occupied for some while. I’ve no idea where you would want to start but the last boxes are the oldest. If I remember, I was told some even span the thirteenth century upwards. Shall I leave you to it?”
“Yes, thanks.” He breathed in deeply and pulled on a pair of thin white cotton gloves. He took photographs of the chest from every possible angle.
“Here goes.”
He dragged over the last box, dusted off the debris and undid the metal clasp. This hasn’t been opened for decades. Without a sign of rust, it was in good condition. With care, he eased open the lid supported by two adjacent brass chains. He pushed it up to its furthest extent.
More photographs.
The light of day shone on the earliest records of the Cortez lineage.
In all his years of research, Brodie had never failed to experience a respectful awe at what he saw or discovered, whether it was some old statue or tomb. The Cortez records were no different. History came alive at moments like this.
For a brief moment, he knew this was where he differed from Ulla.
Beloved Ulla.
Vital to their research processes, he knew her of old. She would be making links as to where existed possibilities of liberation. That side of their work had lost its attraction for him. He made a mental note that this was to be his last venture, ex officio.
He knew that decision could split them. He loved her more than he was prepared to tell her, and that was from the first time they met in New York. He was going to hold on to her as long as possible.
At that moment, he caught sight of two small, faded, red leather-bound volumes. He reached in and lifted them out, placing both books on his table.
The sixteenth century pages crackled as he began to turn them. The first volume was a treatise on agriculture and the art of wine making titled, Obra de Agricultura by Gabriel Alonso de Herrera, dated 1513. The pages revealed diagrams of wine presses, grapes, and instructions on fermenting musts. Linked to this were comments on the weather and probably the earliest records of grape varieties and subsequent diseases.
Ladro’s investigative self took hold. “Amazing! They’re of museum quality.”
The second volume related to the property, Bodega Cortez. Signed by Sebastian Cortez, it was dated 1474. Inside were details of assets. Listed were horses, mules, tools, the number of vats and barrels, pitch, gesso and wine presses, together with the names of workers and their wages. The faded pages also revealed the extent of the winery and mapped out were diagrams of the location of all the land. It was divided into even sized plots, descending from the top of the large hill down to the river. Not much had changed in terms of geography.
Brodie received his first surprise.
A religious connection had existed. The winery had received the patronage of Cardinal Ximenes de Cisnores. Side notes revealed that both Sebastian Cortez and his father Manuel had been personal friends of the Cardinal.
The next was intriguing.
The present day winery was made up of fifty hectares of arable land. Back in the time the book was produced, the extent of the arable land was listed as one hundred fanegdas.
That was big. Four or five times the size of most. Whether it was all utilised, it didn’t say, but the area converted to fourteen hectares more than the present day. The business hadn’t grown. It had shrunk and was smaller than it was in the sixteenth century. With today’s costs, it didn’t take much to work out that Raúl’s enterprise could be in difficulties.
Brodie’s immediate thought was that something bad had happened, but he wasn’t there to sort that out.
Following his notes, he took more photographs of both volumes and of selected pages. The next item that grabbed his attention was a small painting. It was no bigger than an A6 sheet of paper. It was a head and shoulders portrait of an unnamed middle-aged man, by his clothes, a Spanish merchant or trader.
Sebastian Cortez?
He thought it odd that he was holding a sword almost as if he were in prayer. There was no signature or date, but Ladro gasped when he turned it over. Staring up at him was a solitary symbol. It was the same as what he’d seen on Francisco’s paintings.
The painting can’t be by Francisco Cortez, it’s not his style and it’s too early. It must have been done before he was born. What does that insignia refer to? Is it a religious order of some sort? What does it mean?
He spent time making notes, copying and photographing everything. Buried in these chests, he hoped his intuition would be correct.
Two hours later, covered in ancient dust, surrounded by maps, papers and various artefacts, Ladro came to a halt. He leant back in his chair and shook his head. There’s nothing here of any use. He put the small portrait to one side. That would require closer examination.
He took a deep breath and plunged his hands to the bottom of the chest and rummaged through the remaining items. His fingers wrapped around a bulky package. He tugged it out. There were two thick but brittle journals separated by a document. They were tightly bound together by a leather thong that had not deteriorated over time.
His stomach tingled. He set the item down on his desk and stared at it. To open it was almost sacrilege.
He reached for it, and at that moment, the door opened.
CHAPTER 19
Valencia
1562 A.D.
Paloma’s nakedness absorbed the heat of the noonday sun knifing down onto her body. Stretched out on her back, both arms and legs spread-eagled, she could see the full bloat of her belly
Francisco’s legacy.
The drought blighted field had been the only witness to their sins. Once more, she opened her fruits to its pitiless gaze. She wanted death for herself and the unborn child. No matter how much she willed it, her prayers remained unanswered. God was intent on her punishment. Tight cords, h
erbal remedies and stays had not worked, nor had lifting heavy weights or drinking vast amounts of wine and sherry. The birth would happen.
At first, she had taken to wearing large billowing clothes, but her pregnancy was huge. She had not been able to hide it or prevent the gossip. Her sin was there for all to see.
Her father had been the last to know. Not a man given to violence or anger, he had wept. With help from friends, he had secured an arrangement with the new foundling hospital in Madrid, to care for her and the child.
She recalled his chilling words that morning.
“I shall never say your name again. I will call you by your true name ... Whore. You have degraded the memory of your beloved mother. You have disgraced me, ruined my business, and brought everlasting shame on yourself. Your life is over. It is finished ... Whore. You are no longer my daughter. God will for certain punish you. It would be better for us all if you died. Tomorrow, you are to go to Madrid, to the General and Foundling Hospital where you are expected. I never wish to see you ever again nor the stained bastard festering in your womb.”
Why has Francisco deserted me? Why hasn’t he contacted me? His eternal promises were like a soldier’s drum ... lots of noise but empty inside. Bewilderment coalesced into a spleen of poisonous hatred against herself, Francisco, and his bastard child. He loved God and God had stolen him from her. Her disgrace had devastated her father and she had become an outcast. She blamed God.
She stood. Stretching up her arms and clenching her fists, she cursed God and Francisco to the end of time.
“God, I spit on you and your lying son, Jesus, and his wanton mother. May every hurt and harm befall your disciple, the coward Francisco Cortez.”