by Ken Fry
Naked, smeared with dirt, cloaked in madness, cursing and screaming at God, she turned and walked back to the town.
The kicking inside her womb became stronger.
§
Madrid
The Foundling Hospital
Two months later…
The nursing mother had finished preparing the meats for the evening meal. It was then she heard the shouts.
With vigour, she wiped her bloody hands down the sides of her shawl and hurried towards the room where three beds were kept for fallen women and diseased prostitutes.
It was small, dirty, and the floors were covered with matted straw. The walls were smeared with the blood and stains of previous patients.
Through waves of gripping pain, Paloma called out for her.
The rapid clip-clop of the woman’s wooden shoes announced her arrival.
Paloma, her complexion ablaze, hauled herself onto the birthing chair. “It’s coming.”
The woman said nothing, knelt in front of her, surrounding herself with wooden trays, buckets of water and majolica bowls. She hauled up Paloma’s skirts and pushed her legs as wide open as they would go. Watching for signs of movement, she scrutinised her vagina before oiling it with unguents to help prevent the perineum from tearing.
Paloma knew the time had arrived. Water had flown from her and she began to push.
“Harder!” shouted the woman.
Blood seeped onto the straw.
Paloma screamed and continued screaming as she pushed and strained, screwing every tendon, sinew and muscle into tight bulges. Her belly began to shift and change shape. Through agonised gasps and heaving breaths, she shouted through cramping, sweaty knots of pain.
“I want this thing out of me. Get it out! Get it out!”
The only thing coming out was blood.
The woman leant forward. “It’s stuck. Its head is stuck.”
“Get it out! For the love of Christ, get it out!”
The nurse had seen this many times. The head was showing, and it needed help to bring it out. It was dangerous. She inserted her hands into Paloma, gently grasped each side of the baby’s head, and began the process of gentle tugging to inch the infant out of her. But it was stuck fast, causing Paloma to throw back her head, grind her teeth, and with every sinew throbbing in her neck, scream with excruciating pain.
“I’m dying! O God, let me die!”
The nurse pushed in deeper and found the child’s shoulders. She began to ease the bloody head and body into the world.
“God, you’ve punished me enough. Let me be. I beg you. I…” A massive painful contraction cut her short. Together with the nurse’s efforts, the baby was born; half pulled, half pushed.
“El hijo de puta,” the nurse muttered as she held up the bloody bundle. The bastard.
Paloma’s last sight was of her baby boy. Pain and fatigue caused her to close her eyes.
“Forgive me. Dear God, forgive me.” Her voice was but a whisper. There was something wrong, she could sense it. Her life force was draining away.
God was finally granting her prayer.
The placenta had not come free, and Paloma had a blood-pumping haemorrhage. In spite of the attempts by midwives to stop the bleeding, within the hour, she died … contorted in agony.
It was agreed the baby boy was to be provided for until he was older, and then placed in an institution for orphans.
§
A month had passed. Salvador Méndez needed supplies for the studio and rode out to the art shop. He was dismayed to see it was closed and boarded up. He banged on the door, rattled at the lock, but there was no reply. Peering through the gaps in the wood, he could see the place was empty.
“What’s happened here? Where are they?” he asked an old woman passing by.
She spat. “They’ve left. Didn’t you hear? His daughter, that Paloma, a whore with child. She died weeks back and her father closed up and left. She brought shame on him and left a bastard son. Good riddance to scum.” She spat again and hobbled off.
Méndez looked stunned. Paloma dead! Pregnant! Apart from wondering where he was to get his supplies, he found it hard to believe that she had a baby. That can’t be true. He’d always found her kind and helpful. She’d been a friend of Francisco. He’ll be shocked. I must tell the Abbot. He’ll pray for her soul. Remounting his horse, he turned and headed out to the monastery.
CHAPTER 20
Ladro looked up. Evita walked in followed by Ulla, closing the door behind her.
“This looks like a delegation.”
Ulla spoke. “Brodie, I’ve made some headway with Evita’s information. I was telephoned earlier by a Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo. All very grand. She said she was most interested in our research as she had tried to find out about Francisco Cortez but found nothing. She wants to meet us. And guess what? She writes books.”
“Bingo! Well done. This could well be Throgmorton’s mystery client.”
“She said we can meet her anytime.”
“When and where?”
“Anytime. She has a country home just south of Guadamur, not a long drive from Toledo. Shall I fix it?”
“A S A P.”
Ulla stretched her neck to see what he was doing. “Have you found anything?”
“Not yet, but it’s getting interesting.”
“Señor Ladro, Ulla, I would like to speak to you both.” Evita looked serious.
“What is it, Evita?” Ladro sensed she was uncomfortable.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled letter that had been folded in half. She spread it out in front of them and smoothed out the creases. “I found it in my father’s waste bin when I was cleaning up. Please read it.”
Ladro could see from the logo and the dull red banner that it came from the Banco Popular. He didn’t have to read it. He knew what it would say. He fixed his gaze on her and passed the letter across to Ulla. “I guessed as much, even from the old documents I’ve been looking at. How much?”
“I don’t know. There is something else you should know.” She began twirling the end of her hair around her small finger.
“What’s that?” Ulla asked, putting down the letter. “We’re not here to get involved in your business affairs.”
“Indirectly, you are involved. The Bodega is in financial trouble. My father doesn’t know how much I know. We have two paintings he refuses to part with, and they would go a good way towards clearing our debt, and possibly there would even be money left over. You are here to investigate the rumours of Francisco Cortez’s last painting. If you find it, it would create a stir. Why? I do not know. You mentioned a name earlier, Throgmorton, was it?”
Brodie’s eyes widened and he heard Ulla’s sharp intake of breath. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much, but enough to suspect that this man was behind the attack you saw last week. You see Señor, I overheard my father talking to this man…”
“What?” Ladro’s face creased with anger. “Are you telling me your father spoke to Throgmorton? How can that be?”
“I don’t believe it! That’s all we need to hear.” Ulla cast her eyes upwards.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but it’s true. Everything you discover, what you say, where you go and anything else, my father will tell him. For any information, he will be paid, and the money he gets will go to the bank. It is not easy for me to tell you this, and my father must not know that I told you. It seems our future rests on you and what you find.” Her voice, imploring, choked, and she spread her hands wide.
Ulla put her arm around her. “Evita, I don’t know what to say.” She gave Brodie a questioning look.
Ladro looked at Evita. Her head hung down and she looked vulnerable, her shoulders shook. Her obvious shame stirred him. His memory went back to the time when his father was prosecuted for embezzling money from his employer. He had said it was to pay for his son’s school fees. When he needed help, there had been no one.
“Evita, there’s more to this Cortez painting than meets the eye. I’ve an odd feeling about it and I want to see it through to the end. But to do that, we would need your cooperation. Throgmorton is an unprosecuted criminal. He will steal from your father and your estate anything that is found. Don’t doubt that. He’s paying us to do research, but that was before we found out the full extent of what he’s prepared to do. It’s an arrangement that is about to come to an end ... Ulla?”
“I agree. You know me well enough to know what I think about him.” She turned to Evita who had regained composure. “Evita?”
Evita gave a sad smile and wiped a tear from her cheek and squeezed Ulla’s hand. “Thank you both. I will help you. I promise.”
§
Ulla swung the rental car out onto route CM-40, heading out of Toledo on the drive south of Guadamur.
Ladro leant back in the passenger seat and thought about Evita’s disclosure. The visit to the Condesa might throw even more light on Throgmorton. Her profile already ticked a number of boxes. She was rich, wrote books and was titled. It was almost perfect. If she happened to be ill and hoping for a miraculous cure from a missing painting or a number of them, then she should be able to throw some light on their mission.
It was vital that they revealed nothing, especially of their connection with Throgmorton.
Guadamur had about 2000 inhabitants, all who must have been at siesta as they passed through its narrow streets. The name was Arabic in origin, dating back to the Moors, and meant River-Valley. Dominating the area stood the imposing Castle of Guadamur, like an iron fist built over the ruins of an Arab fort.
The sat-nav indicated they needed to make a left turn. Brodie checked behind. They weren’t being followed.
The Condesa’s home was situated about four kilometres up the twisting track that cut upwards through the rocky hillside. Brown and dry, the land was bespattered with shrubs, discarded olive trees, goats, innumerable rocks and boulders. The records across the centuries catalogued many battles in the area. It was easy to imagine Templars and Moors riding across the landscape, ready to fight each other. As they rounded a small rise, Ulla stopped the car and switched off the engine.
“That must be it.” Ulla pointed to a large white painted building about two-hundred metres in front.
“Someone wants to be alone.” Brodie pointed his camera at the building. “Listen.”
Deathly quiet.
The click of the camera.
Stillness and not a ripple of a breeze.
Ulla restarted the car, letting it idle for a few moments. “I’ve an odd feeling about this.” She looked pensive.
“This whole mission is odd. It has been from the day we agreed to do it. Don’t forget, whatever is said, we know nothing about Throgmorton.”
“Agreed. What do we call her?”
“I’m sure she’ll tell us.”
The house got bigger the closer they got. It had a monastic look. Verandas and pergolas adorned with multi-coloured bougainvillea flanked white walls, arches and clay pots brimmed with pelargonium and hibiscus. Close by stood a row of palm trees giving needed shade to a cool blue swimming pool. This was all topped by a large, overhanging brown tiled roof. A small 4x4 was parked in the shade of a thatched car port.
“This is her country home. How many has she got?” Ladro said.
“She did say she’d recently returned from Austria. Who knows?”
“That must be her.”
A tall, statuesque woman watched them from beneath a leafy pergola. On a table beside her stood a pile of books, and a maid was bringing out two large ice boxes. A tray stood nearby with several glasses and a large crystal jug.
“Perfect timing. Let’s meet her.” Ulla jumped from the car, followed by Brodie, whose first impression was of an imperious looking, tall, scary, regal middle-aged lady who wouldn’t tolerate fools of any sort ... the type of person who was used to getting her own way. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back into a tight bun and fastened with a large silver clasp. She wore a white, full length kaftan.
She moved forward to greet them. Her face gave a small but welcoming smile, one that Ladro thought was not given easily. His next impression was that the woman was not well. Not well at all. There was a yellowy sheen to her skin and her brown eyes possessed a faded glow.
The boxes were almost ticked.
“Miss Stuart and Mr. Ladro, you are most welcome.” Her voice wavered as she extended a long thin hand. She gestured for them to sit.
Brodie was the last to sit, a little awed at the woman. Something about her fascinated him. She could have been beautiful once, but that didn’t matter. Her obvious intelligence was magnetic.
“I’ll dispense with formality, you may call me Maria, and you?”
“Broderick’s my name but people call me Brodie, and this is my partner, Ulla.”
“Ulla and Brodie, how gratifying it is to meet people on similar quests. Before we talk, do have some refreshment. Donna, please.”
Donna stepped forward and opened the ice boxes to reveal an array of fruit juices, wines and beers packed in ice. Ulla went for the fruit juice and Brodie chose a chilled white wine.
The gripping silence was broken by self-conscious sips while the landscape breathed with a secret life of its own.
Ladro gave a gasp and looked startled. “Aah!” He clutched at his head with tight fingers.
Crusaders, flags flying with their black pattée on shields and tabards. Knights brandishing swords on horseback, and solemn monks wearing white and brown robes standing in a semi-circle, chanting.
“This can’t be!” It passed almost as soon as it had appeared.
She stared at him. “You have seen them?”
Ladro shook his head and widened his eyes. “How do you know what’s going through my mind? What happened just then?”
“Don’t be afraid. You’re privileged indeed. What you saw is part of our life and history. Those monks and knights live in the soul of this place, Guadamur … the earth, the trees and the hills. They also live in the collective unconscious of certain people here, and they are part of me also. That you have glimpsed them is a good sign. Few ever do. It means, Broderick Ladro, we have much in common.”
Ladro swung his head to look at Ulla, who looked baffled.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea. I just picked up on a whole load of knights and monks...”
“Ulla,” interrupted the older woman, “it’s nothing we need talk about now. I want to talk about Francisco Cortez. I believe, from the examples I’ve seen of his paintings, they exceed anything of El Greco. What you know and hope to know, I want to understand.” Her tired eyes flickered. “God himself knows how much I need information. For that reason, I shall be frank and honest with you. That a minor Spanish artist is, generating such interest is, I suspect, less than a coincidence. God, I believe, sent you to me.”
Ladro prevented himself from saying, no, it was due to a man named Throgmorton.
“I’ve employed the services of somebody to help locate Cortez’s works, who told me he is getting close to solving the riddle.”
Ulla leant forward. “Then why do you need to talk to us?”
“I need all the help I can get, and frankly, I believe this man to be suspect. He was all that I could find at the time.” Her faced softened, and her eyes moistened.
“I have pancreatic cancer. I believe I’ve not long to live, unless a miracle occurs. There are around this Moorish area of Spain many legends and rumours of relics, bones, and true crosses. I’ve never believed any of them. Look at the books I’ve written on the subject.” She indicated the pile standing on the table. “They debunk most claims, but there are a few that remain unexplained. Cortez, I have of late discovered, had painted a work that supposedly possessed healing powers. I’ve no evidence of that, but I’m now hoping
that miracles do exist. I may be stupid, but I have no other lifelines. You do understand, I hope.”
Brodie glanced at Ulla who smiled with a gentle nod.
All the boxes were ticked.
She continued. “My family lineage can be traced back to the tenth century. We were Mozarabs, Iberian Christians living under Islamic rule, in the province and in what is now the city of Toledo. There were the usual political and religious upheaval, but we never deviated from the Catholic faith. Many converted to Islam. My book, Conversion: The Islamic Effect in Medieval Spain, covers that in detail. We were cousins of Alfonso, the first King of Aragón who joined the crusades. Muslims eventually killed him in one of his battles. He died childless. My line goes down through the House of Alba, our foremost aristocratic family, which can be traced back to the earliest Mozarab nobility from where we originate.” She paused, placed her hand on her chest and struggled for breath.
Ladro stood and poured a tumbler of water.
“No, it’s fine. I’m used to it but thank you.” She waved her hand in the direction of the door. “I’m telling you this because I wish to show you something. Follow me.”
Walking through the coolness of her house, with its fresh marble floors and white washed walls, Ladro realised it was far bigger than it first appeared. They descended to a lower level not visible from outside. The Condesa said nothing as they glided down a wide passageway. The marble gave way to flagstones and the corridor got narrower. On either side, the walls were mounted with icons and religious statuary.
Ulla whispered from behind her hand. “We’re underground. It looks like an old abbey or the remains of a disused monastery.”
“It was a small thirteenth century monastery.” Maria had heard her. “It fell into disuse and in the late fourteenth century, the monks moved to Valencia. The lands belonged to my Mozarab ancestors before the first Duke of Alba was born in 1429. It seemed a fitting place to build a home. Look, we are here.”
A few steps led downward to a stout black door embossed with ornamental ironwork. It was unlocked. Maria pushed it open and ushered them into a small low-ceilinged room. Two old stone archways divided the area into three sections.