by Amy Maroney
Darius frowned. “You’ve got a full docket of research ahead of you. I doubt you’ll have much time to pursue that line of inquiry. This is only a six-month contract, after all. But if I’m not as impressed as Andreas promises I’ll be, I won’t hesitate to sack you in six weeks.”
Zari sat up a little straighter in her chair, her mouth dry as dust.
“I won’t disappoint either of you,” she promised. “And I’m very grateful for this opportunity.”
Andreas walked Zari to the elevator.
“Have you ever been to Paris?” he asked her.
“No, not yet.”
“You’re in luck, then. Though you may not love your initial assignment in Belgium, you’ll head to Paris after that. You’re welcome to stay in my husband’s apartment there. It’s in the Marais, a great old neighborhood in the heart of the city.”
This was the first time Andreas had mentioned a partner.
“I—your husband?” she repeated.
“He’s French. We married there because it’s legal. Here in Switzerland we have civil unions for gay couples but not marriage. Since I’m based here, he moved to Lyon, near the border of France and Switzerland. But he kept his parents’ apartment in the Marais.”
“Do you think marriage will ever be legal here?” she asked.
“Yes, eventually. We’re probably another five years away from it. The main issue for us is that we can’t adopt kids in Switzerland, and we both want to be parents. So when the time comes I’ll move to France and we’ll begin the adoption process.”
“Sounds like you have a solid plan in place,” Zari said admiringly. If only she could follow his lead when it came to her own romantic relationship.
“It’s the best we can do,” he said, shrugging. “Right now it seems silly to own a home in Paris that’s barely used, but one day we’ll be able to pass it on to our kids.”
“Would it be okay if I invite a…friend to join me there?” she asked.
“Of course.” He smiled at her with true warmth. “Paris is best explored with someone you love.”
For the first time since she set foot in this building, Zari relaxed.
“I’ll e-mail you all the details for Belgium and Paris.” Andreas lowered his voice. “Listen, I know Darius can be a bit intimidating. I have confidence in you, Zari. Just keep doing what you do well.”
“Thank you, Andreas. For everything.”
She did not remember walking down the stairs or exiting the building, nor did she recall the walk to her hotel. The word ‘Paris’ catapulted through her brain on endless repeat, and it was all she could do to refrain from screaming it aloud. Paris, with Wil? Was this really happening to her?
As if on cue, her mother’s voice penetrated her consciousness. When the universe gives you a gift, Zari, take it.
That was the spirit. She would receive this assignment with reverence and joy, and try not to completely freak out in the meantime. After all, she had a job to do. And if she didn’t do it well, she’d be sacked before Paris even entered the picture.
15
Autumn, 1505
Béarn
Mira
Mira sat on a rough homespun blanket on the deck of the barge. She could not get comfortable. The vessel rocked gently as it glided through the murky waters of the River Pau. Instead of soothing her, the rhythmic movement set off waves of nausea in her belly.
The bargemaster and his helpers used poles to push their craft out of the shallows and away from sandbars. The river was running just high enough to ensure a swift journey, but low enough that they need not fear being swept too quickly downstream and careening out of control. They were lucky, the bargemaster said. These were ideal conditions. He had spent his whole life making this journey, first as a boy under his father’s wing, then taking over the family business when he came of age.
Mira reminded herself that no matter how uncomfortable she was, riding on a barge was far better than riding a mule. She took in a long breath and let it out. A white puff of vapor spiraled away from her in the crisp air.
“Are you comfortable?” Arnaud asked, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. “Warm enough?”
She smiled. “I am.”
“Your face tells a different story,” he objected. “You aren’t feeling well.”
Mira spied a half-dozen cows grazing in a field near the riverbank. One of them wore a wide leather collar outfitted with an iron bell. Its faint chime reminded her of the chapel bell at the Abbey of Belarac that rang incessantly when she was a child, calling everyone to prayer.
“I am as well as I can be,” she said, keeping her eyes on the cows. “Once our child comes I will feel much better.”
At that moment, the baby kicked. She took Arnaud’s hand and placed it on her belly.
He drew in a sharp breath. “Feels like a fish is trapped in there, not a baby.”
“Oh, this is no fish. I fear she outgrows her home already.”
Arnaud sat with his back to hers so she could lean against him.
“You’re sure it’s a girl,” he said over his shoulder, keeping a neutral tone.
“No.” Mira smiled to herself. “I am just used to baby girls now. Because of Rose.”
“So it could be a boy.”
“Yes, it could.”
“A boy,” he said reverently.
“And if it is a boy,” she said, tilting her head against his shoulders and closing her eyes, “you can teach him to whittle as you do.”
“Between the two of us, we’ll teach him to hunt, fish, swim, work his sums...”
“What about reading, writing, drawing, painting?” Mira teased him.
“All of that, too. He’ll be the cleverest child this side of the mountains.”
“Or she.”
Arnaud chuckled. “Or she.”
Through patchy clouds overhead, Mira saw white peaks looming in the south—silent witnesses to every adventure, every tragedy, every moment of revelry that unfolded in these foothills and valleys. She shivered at the sight. Was her brother Pelegrín on the other side of those mountains even now, riding with his men through the valley of Broto, closing in on Castle Oto? Was Alejandro safe and well?
“Tell me about your time with Pelegrín,” she said abruptly. “I have waited long enough to hear what happened.”
Arnaud was silent a moment.
“We have a whole lifetime ahead of us for storytelling,” he finally said. “Until we reach the sea, we must keep our private histories to ourselves.”
“That is what you tell me each time I ask,” Mira said, vexed, watching the movements of the crew. “But look around us. The bargemaster and his men are busy with their work. They cannot hear a word we say. And even if they did, what would it matter? Our histories mean nothing to them.”
“Be patient, my love.” Arnaud reached behind him and put a hand on hers. “For me.”
The warm pressure of his hand on hers, the heat of the sun on her face, were enough to keep the sharp retort that danced on her tongue from spilling out. Why ruin this moment with an argument? Neither of them had the energy for one.
So Mira kept quiet and relaxed against Arnaud’s back, listening to the faint clamor of the cowbell fading behind them. When drizzle began to fall, they took shelter under an oiled canvas sail that formed a roof in the bow of the vessel.
As they approached the town of Orthez, the bargemaster joined them under the sail. He and Arnaud chatted about the wool trade and the impact of weather on barge transport. Soon the conversation turned to matters of their upcoming business arrangement.
Mira’s attention drifted. The barge glided silently through the water, parallel to the road. Just ahead, she spied a cluster of cottages near the riverbank. The smell of woodsmoke assailed her nostrils. Looking for the source, she spotted a group of peasant
s tending a burn pile near the cottages. Billowing smoke rose above them and vanished into the gray sky.
The laughter of children rang out. Mira saw the darting shapes of two girls chasing each other in a circle, and then a woman—perhaps their mother—scolding them when they ran too close to the flames. A moment later, the smaller of the two girls fell, and the woman gathered her in an embrace. The other girl caught sight of the barge and raised an arm in greeting.
Mira waved back, smiling.
The bargemaster said, “Those are Cagots, madame.”
She stiffened. “There is no harm in returning their greeting, sir.”
He looked astonished. “But Cagots are—”
“I know what they are,” she interrupted smoothly. “They are people just like us.”
Now he stared at her with an expression that was half-incredulous, half-hostile. “Your husband said you are foreigners. That’s why you’re ignorant of such things. Cagots are nothing like us. They’re unclean, stupid, and not to be trusted. Anyone with sense stays away from them.”
Arnaud watched Mira with weary resignation in his eyes. She knew he expected her to make a scene, to argue with the bargemaster with vehemence, to defend the Cagots with every ounce of passion she could muster.
But what good would it do? Would it bring back Rose? Would it change the past? No. Arnaud was about to enter into a business partnership with this man. As for Mira, she owed the bargemaster gratitude for offering them a place on his craft. Thanks to him, she had been spared the agony of riding all the way to Bayonne on the back of a mule.
She swallowed.
“Good sir,” she said, choosing her words with care, “I spoke without thinking. You are correct. I am a foreigner, and a woman besides. There are many things I do not understand. Forgive me.”
The tension drained from the bargemaster’s face. He nodded. “You are very much forgiven, madame.”
Arnaud’s expression bore a glimmer of surprise. This display of self-control was something he had not anticipated. He dipped his head at her in an almost imperceptible nod.
“Now, about the terms of our agreement,” he said to the bargemaster.
The men fell back into conversation as if nothing untoward had happened.
Mira fixed her eyes on the river ahead, willing her heart to slow, willing the angry thoughts in her mind to burn away and vanish like smoke in the sky. The dun-colored stone walls of Orthez were visible now. The place was much smaller than Pau, she forced herself to notice, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh. It was more than a typical market town, she knew—it had once been the capital of Béarn and still housed the palace where the ruling counts resided in those days. It sat on the edge of vast plains that were planted in grain each year. Now that harvest time had passed, the land bristled with rotting stubble.
When they arrived at the town’s river harbor, the bargemen used long lengths of flax rope to tie their craft to a dock. Then Arnaud, Mira, and the bargemaster disembarked to find a notary.
At the notary’s home, Mira waited in a chair while Arnaud and the bargemaster sat side by side at the man’s desk, sealing their agreement with ink. She looked around at the notary’s possessions: silver candlesticks, oak furniture gleaming with oil, whitewashed walls hung with hand-hooked tapestries. They had not been in such luxurious surroundings since their days at the manor house in the Valley of Maury.
Since Rose died.
Tears pricked at her eyes. An image of the dark soil mounded with rocks that marked Rose’s tiny grave forced its way into her mind as she watched Arnaud and the bargemaster sign their names to the notary’s record book.
Imagine Rose with a baby sister or brother to play with, she thought. What a help she would have been, once she got older.
Mira exhaled, angry at herself for indulging in thoughts about Rose yet again. What was the use? Rose was dead, she was gone, there was nothing to be done about it. And now they could travel where they wanted without fear that Rose would encounter harassment or abuse for being a Cagot.
There was a tiny measure of comfort in that.
16
Autumn, 1505
Oto, Aragón
Pelegrín
Squinting into the bright sunlight, Pelegrín saw twin columns of dust rise on the rocky slopes ahead. This time of year, brittle wind swept down from the mountaintops, scraping silty residue from the land and flinging it upward. Mesmerized, he watched the dust disappear into the sapphire-blue sky.
His men ranged behind him, their horses’ hooves pounding on the sun-baked soil. It had been too long since they last found a stream to quench their mounts’ thirst. It must have been an exceptionally dry summer. The landscape was parched, a blur of dull browns and greys.
After a while they came to a dark seam of water that bubbled up from some mysterious underground source. On Pelegrín’s signal, the men dismounted and the horses crowded forward, eagerly lapping up the cool water.
“See those ridges?” Pelegrín called to his knights, pointing ahead. “When we reach them, we’ll be nearly there. By tomorrow afternoon we shall reach Oto.”
“You did not lie when you told us you came from a wilderness,” said one of the men, removing his helmet to expose a face shiny with sweat. “A more desolate place I have never seen.”
Another knight nodded in agreement. “I’ve heard tales of the beasts that prowl those mountains, and I do not wish to see one in the flesh.”
“You said you would follow me to the ends of the earth. You said you owed your life to me.” Pelegrín’s voice was low and measured. He looked at each man in turn. “All of you. On the battlefield, in the kingdom of Naples, you all swore fealty to me for saving your lives.”
The men shifted uncomfortably under his stare.
“Yes, my lord,” said the knight who had removed his helmet. “We did, and we’ll not forsake you.”
Pelegrín nodded curtly, but did not answer. He heaved himself into the saddle and turned his horse’s nose north.
Just as he had promised, at mid-afternoon the next day the castle of Oto was in their sights. It hulked on its low hill, bristling with turrets and towers, pressed against a chalky-white cliff. The horses were lathered, breathing hard, weary after their long journey from the sea.
At the base of the hill, Pelegrín noticed a fragment of red cloth caught in a beech tree’s lowest branch. He rode closer. It was a banner, he realized. Or a piece of one, anyway. Part of a sigil was visible on its torn edge. He tugged it free and tucked it in his boot, then spurred his tired horse onward.
There was no clatter of activity at their approach, no guards on the parapet peering down, no creak and groan of the great castle gates opening up for them. He heard only the clop of the horses’ hooves, the sharp cry of a circling hawk, the rustle of wind in the oaks.
Pelegrín grew uneasy. What awaited them inside those gates? What had become of his brother, Alejandro? Had the knights he sent to guard the boy all those months ago done their duty? A tremor of panic rippled through him. He leapt from his horse, hammering on the gates with the butt of his longsword.
“Let us in!” he roared. “It is I, Pelegrín, Baron of Oto!”
After a long pause, a voice called thickly from above, “Welcome home, my lord.”
A bareheaded guard wearing a dirty tunic peered down at them from the crenellated wall, rubbing his eyes.
“Where is your armor?” Pelegrín snapped. “Your helmet? Your sword?”
The man rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. We—we weren’t prepared for your arrival. I’ll come open the gates at once.”
It was an effort for him to get the words out. Pelegrín realized he was drunk. When the gates finally swung open, he suppressed the urge to strike the guard.
There would be time to discipline him later. For now, they needed to rest and eat. Pele
grín led his knights up the winding lane to the castle keep. He checked over his shoulder to ensure the guard barred the gate properly.
They stopped at the stables to leave the horses. Pelegrín was relieved to see there were still a few stable boys around, plus fresh hay and water for their mounts. He pulled off his helmet and gloves, longing for a bath.
When the horses were dealt with, the men trudged the short distance from the stables to the inner keep, too exhausted to talk. One of the heavy oak doors leading to the great hall opened at their approach. A small form slipped out, hurtling toward them. Pelegrín burst out laughing as Alejandro vaulted into his arms.
“I knew you would come. You promised.” The boy gripped Pelegrín around the neck, his eyes wet.
“Let me have a look at you, my brother.” Pelegrín settled Alejandro gently on the ground, examining him with care. “A bit thin, but tall and sturdy,” he said in satisfaction.
“Aunt Elena!” Alejandro called over his shoulder. “He’s here. He’s come back to me.”
A willowy woman dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, her long silver-and-black hair bound in a single braid, appeared in the doorway. She folded her arms across her chest.
“So I see,” Elena said flatly. “And he’s brought friends. They look hungry. I hope these men of yours are handy with a bow and a blade, Pelegrín. If not, they’ll find little to eat in our larder.”
“Of course they can hunt, Aunt Elena.” Alejandro turned and surveyed the men with wide, admiring eyes. “Look at their weapons.”
“Sword fighting is not the same as hunting,” she said, unmoved.
“Aunt Elena?” Pelegrín said, looking at her quizzically.
She stared back at him, stone-faced. Something was different about her, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“We were attacked by warriors!” Alejandro exclaimed. “The knights held them off. Frightened them away with flaming arrows and hot stones. I was inside the castle, but I could have fought alongside them. Look at my armor!” He pounded a fist on his leather breastplate.