A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  She put aside two letters to read last, because they excited her most. It was rare to experience this kind of pleasure, and she rightly wanted to savor it.

  Finally her list was finished. She watched the ink dry for a moment. Then she carefully picked up the two letters and took them to the window. Standing in the sunshine, relaxing under its warmth, Amadina inhaled the scents of oiled oak and tanned leather that permeated her brother’s study.

  After a few moments of blissful silence, she cracked the seal of the first letter. It was a response to her own note sent to the cabinetmakers’ guild master in Bayonne last autumn, in which, posing as her brother’s assistant, she inquired after the well-being of the young man he had recommended to the guild. Quickly she scanned the words, then let out her breath in a thin stream. Arnaud de Luz was indeed employed as a cabinetmaker there. But he was gone on business to the mountains for a few seasons. The guild master was confident he would return, as his wife and son remained behind in Bayonne.

  Amadina’s heart pumped a little faster, reading this. Then she turned her attention to the next letter. Her mood darkened as she absorbed the words.

  Yet another Toulouse merchant had declined her offer of exquisite wool fabric at a below-market price. The reason? He had found a new supplier, the Abbey of Belarac, on the recommendation of his friend Lord de Vernier, the wealthiest and most powerful merchant in Toulouse.

  Amadina felt the color rising in her cheeks. She pressed her lips together, willing herself to stay rooted to the earth, to cool the current of rage that flooded her veins with peppery heat.

  Ever since Lord de Vernier had severed his ties to Amadina in favor of a contract with the Abbey of Belarac, she’d had no luck finding other partners in Toulouse. Now she wondered if this was no accident—if he was smearing her good name, whispering in the ears of all his merchant friends in that city.

  She groaned aloud. Mira de Oto and her husband were partly to blame. After all, the couple had blocked Amadina from regaining a foothold in the city when they rekindled a partnership between Lord de Vernier and the Abbey of Belarac last spring. God only knew what they had done to slander her reputation during their time in Toulouse.

  If only Amadina’s efforts to quash Mira’s interference hadn’t gone horribly awry. She silently cursed the sly-faced little man who’d botched the job and slaughtered that worthless Cagot woman instead of his intended target.

  The heady sense of power that had draped itself around Amadina like fine gossamer since her brother’s death ruptured ever so slightly in that moment. She could almost see it floating away from her, vanishing in the sunlight that streamed through the thick glass panes of the window.

  She reached out toward the light, grasping at something she could not see, her fingers slicing through air and scattering dust motes in their wake.

  No matter, she thought, putting a hand to her breast as if she could force her wild heartbeat to slow by applying pressure to flesh and bone. One day soon, fortune will not smile so favorably upon the Abbey of Belarac—nor upon Mira de Oto.

  40

  Summer, 1506

  Ronzal, Aragón

  Elena

  Elena rode up the steep trail away from the castle. Alejandro’s high, clear voice followed her through the trees. She turned in the saddle, craning for a glimpse of him, but all she saw were the castle’s granite towers jutting into the sky. She would miss the boy, there was no denying it. He had claimed a permanent place in her heart, next to the deep grooves reserved for Xabi, Mira, and the people of Ronzal.

  Sighing, she set her sights on the trail again. Travel through these mountains required a sharp mind. This was no time for sentimentality. And there was no need to worry, besides. With Pelegrín back, Alejandro was safe.

  The thudding of the horse’s hooves on the rocky trail made a soothing rhythm, a backdrop to the whisper and creak of the wind in the branches overhead. She had always loved this part of the trail, where the oaks gave way to beeches, where the sun filtered through the pale green leaves and dappled the earth with points of golden light. She exulted in the sweet aroma of wet earth and wild onions, the crunch of last autumn’s leaves splitting underfoot. Glancing over her shoulder again, she saw the castle had disappeared from view. And just like that, a weight lifted.

  For the first time in ages, Elena remembered what it felt like to be free.

  She rode into Ronzal a day before the full moon. The entire village buzzed with excitement about the meeting of the mountain people, the annual summer celebration in a high-country meadow.

  Thérèse de Luz was the first villager to spot Elena. She let out a whoop and ran to meet her. Several other village women followed, pulling Elena off her horse and smothering her with embraces. She was shocked to feel tears burn her eyes. How she had missed the love and camaraderie of women she trusted, the comforting presence of friends.

  Castle Oto was a world of men. The few female servants who remained lurked in the shadows, still haunted by the memory of Ramón’s harshness and the steward Beltrán’s rapacious habits. In Xabi’s home in Basque country, Elena had been surrounded by women who thought of her as an interloper. Since she could barely speak their language, they mostly ignored her.

  “Elena!” Thérèse held her by the shoulders and examined her. “You look different. I don’t know why.”

  “It’s obvious,” Elena retorted. “I’m older. More lines on my face, more silver in my hair.”

  Thérèse shook her head. “No, no. Time has been kind to you, my dear friend. It’s something else.”

  Elena put a hand to her throat. The medallion. She’d forgotten to remove it.

  Thérèse’s eyes fell to it, wide with recognition.

  But before she could say anything, a deep male voice cried out, “Elena! By the sun and stars, woman! Where did you come from?”

  Elena hastily stuffed the medallion down the front of her blouse. Jorge de Luz lumbered forward, arms outstretched. She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him. Her old friend was broader in the gut, his rosy cheeks rounder, his beard shot through with white, but his eyes shone with the same warmth as always. She leaned into him, pressing her cheek against his chest.

  “It’s good to be back,” she murmured, letting herself rest in his arms a moment.

  “Just in time for the celebration!” He stepped back to survey her. “And won’t you be happy when you see who else has arrived for the summer meeting. He got back just a few days ago, with so many stories to tell I wish we could keep him here for another season at least.”

  Elena saw a young man striding toward them, beaming. His bearded face was familiar and dear, if a bit leaner, a bit hollower under the eyes than she recalled.

  “Arnaud?” she breathed. “But how...?”

  “Elena!” He kissed both her cheeks. “Mira sends her love.”

  “Mira? So she’s not here? But she’s well—all is well with her?” Elena’s voice faltered.

  “She’s right as rain,” Arnaud assured her. “So’s our son. A healthy boy, born this winter in Bayonne.”

  “Pelegrín said there was a daughter, too. I’m sorry, Arnaud.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “So you’ve seen him. Yes, we miss our Rose.”

  “Much has happened,” she said, squeezing his hands tight. “Both sorrow and joy, all bound up together as they always are.”

  Thérèse gently disentangled the two of them. “You take care of Elena’s horse while I take care of her,” she told Arnaud.

  He nodded, grinning. “As you wish, Mama.”

  A few days later the Ronzal villagers climbed to the summer meeting site. Inhabitants of adjoining valleys were setting up camps near the gnarled oak tree where the council of leaders met. Once all the leaders arrived, they took their places on boulders under the branches of the oak as they had done for generations, sharing news, rep
orting crimes, meting out justice. Arnaud joined the council meeting to share what he had learned in his travels about trade, and war, and foreign lands.

  For her part, Elena joined Thérèse and the other women, telling stories under the bright sun. They stretched out in the sweet meadow grasses, listening to the happy shrieks of children constructing an enormous pile of branches for the bonfire to come later that evening. A hawk sailed overhead, keening at the intruders. Elena breathed in the scent of crushed grass and oak, her fingers busily constructing a crown of wild daisies.

  “So are you getting married, or aren’t you?” Thérèse rolled on her side and propped her head on her hand.

  “I miss Xabi dearly. And I can’t stay at Castle Oto much longer. I’ll go mad if I do.” Elena reached over and placed the daisy crown on Thérèse’s head. “Though I’ve been gone so long from Basque Country that Xabi may think I’m dead by now. Perhaps he’s found another bride.”

  “What other bride could compare to you?” Thérèse asked indignantly. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “I love him,” Elena said. “But I don’t love his kin. Nor do they love me.”

  “They’ll grow to love you.”

  “Not likely. Basque is nothing like Aragónese or the mountain dialects. Xabi tries to teach me, but I’m slow to catch on. Or maybe I don’t want to.”

  Thérèse gave her a questioning look.

  “What I can understand makes me want to shout at them. They argue about stupid things. Who stole a pig, who’s better at finding honey, whose walnut-shell dye is the blackest, whose cream tarts are the smoothest. I don’t wish to talk about such things. If I spoke their language, I’d have to.”

  “That’s true. But you’d also find a friend or two, I warrant, if you could just talk to them,” Thérèse pointed out.

  Elena shrugged, not wanting to admit her friend was right. “Anyway, that’s not my biggest worry. What I really don’t like is the fact that the baron of Oto wishes to accompany me to my own wedding.”

  “What? Pelegrín?” Thérèse stared at her in astonishment.

  “He’s a fair master, nothing like his father, I’ll give him that,” Elena admitted. “I feared that his time at war would harden him, strip away the kindness I saw in him as a child. But he has a good heart. He saw Mira in Perpignan last summer and followed her west. He says he meant to welcome her to the family, to beg forgiveness for their father’s cruelty.”

  Thérèse’s expression tensed. “Arnaud told us what happened, how he led Pelegrín and those men away from her.”

  “He was right to do it. He had no reason to trust Pelegrín, and every reason to be wary. But I’ve been living with the man for months, and I believe all he wants is to reconcile with Mira.”

  “Did you tell him where she is?” Thérèse asked anxiously.

  “No.” Elena put her hands over her face and closed her eyes. “I can’t seem to make Pelegrín understand that the best thing for Mira is to be left alone. The more I get tangled up with that family...” She broke off.

  Elena had not told Thérèse or Jorge that she was in fact Pelegrín’s own aunt. Would there ever be a good moment to divulge that she was born a noblewoman, the sister of Ramón de Oto, a man who had been feared and hated by all the mountain folk? Such news would instantly make her an outsider, and where but with these people was she accepted and loved without question? No. She could never give up her place in their world.

  She ripped a handful of grass from the earth and held it to her face. “This is the smell of summer, isn’t it? Fresh green grass, steeped in sunshine.”

  Thérèse looked at her levelly. “Why do you wear that necklace? It bears their mark.”

  Elena shrugged. “Keeping it safe for Mira, is all. She’s one of them. She should have it.”

  A cheer rang out from the assembled leaders under the tree.

  “Time to get the feast ready.” Thérèse brushed the grass off her skirts and stood. “And then the bonfire, and the dancing. This is the best night of the year...what a gift to share it with you.”

  Elena rose and took Thérèse’s hands in hers.

  “I’ve never been more grateful for your friendship than I am at this moment,” she said fiercely.

  There were more questions crowding her friend’s mind—she could see them in Thérèse’s eyes—but the time for talk had passed. They turned and walked arm in arm to the gathered mountain folk.

  A single damselfly glided ahead of them, its silvery wings shimmering in the sunlight.

  41

  Summer, 1506

  Ronzal, Aragón

  Elena

  It was the hour before dawn. The revelers were sprawled near the smoldering ruins of the bonfire, sleeping. The golden dogs lay silent and watchful nearby, alert to the sounds and scents that only animals perceive. Elena and Arnaud lay under a blanket made of several fleeces stitched together. They stared up at the moon while Arnaud spoke in a low voice, telling the story of what had happened since they last met.

  Elena took it all in silently. After a while, Arnaud’s voice trailed off. She wondered if he was asleep. Glancing at him, she saw moonlight glinting off his eyes, the sweep of his dark lashes when he blinked.

  She sighed. “In the space of a year, you and Mira have survived more than most people do in a lifetime.”

  “And I haven’t told you everything,” Arnaud said, lacing his fingers under his head. “Only the most important bits.”

  “I can’t make sense of those Sacazars. Carlo proved his worth to you many times over, but what of his sister, the Abbess Amadina?”

  Arnaud hesitated. “Mira’s never trusted the woman, you know that much. Amadina Sacazar is known for her foul temper, harsh to her servants and the nuns in her convent, but I never put much stock in Mira’s fears—I suppose because Carlo was such a good man. How could two siblings be opposite sides of the same coin? One bent on kindness, the other on cruelty?”

  Elena smiled into the darkness. If only you knew, she thought. It is all too easy for siblings to be nothing alike.

  “I used to say ‘blood does tell,’ but life has taught me otherwise,” she replied. “I’m wiser now.”

  An owl hooted somewhere in the forest near the meadow.

  “There’s many in Nay who fear Amadina Sacazar now that she’s got control of her brother’s fortune and his businesses,” Arnaud went on. “Carlo, he never abused his power. By all accounts, his sister relishes doing so.”

  “Does Belarac still sell its wool in Nay?”

  “Yes, there’s nothing Amadina can do to stop that, though she sees Belarac as a rival,” he said. “She sends her spies to inquire about Belarac’s wool prices at the summer markets, marks hers down lower, and then has her servants hawk her goods outside Belarac’s stall.”

  “That’s rude, but she’s not the first to use such tactics,” Elena pointed out.

  “True. What I did see with my own eyes, though, was worse. When Mira and I went to help at Belarac last summer, the looms were broken—and not because of wear and tear or faulty construction.”

  “You built those looms, if I remember rightly.”

  “All but one,” he said. “When I inspected them, I saw someone had pried off the batten adjusters with force. And the nuns who were charged with cleaning and oiling them were women sent there by Amadina Sacazar from her own convent when Mother Béatrice first started her wool business. They’d expressly asked for the task.”

  “That’s worrisome,” Elena declared.

  “I thought the same, so I looked into the matter a bit. I learned that Amadina Sacazar once held a contract with a wool merchant in Toulouse—the same man Béatrice signed an agreement with not long before she died. It was Lord de Vernier, the one Mira worked for as governess last winter. Turns out he broke his contract with Amadina to make one with Béatrice.”

&
nbsp; “Then maybe this is more than rivalry for her,” Elena reasoned. “Maybe she wants revenge on Belarac.”

  She turned to face Arnaud again. His face was ghostly pale in the moonlight.

  “Mira’s not alone with the baby, is she?”

  “We’ve befriended a Basque couple, Nekane and Abarran. The husband is a cod fisherman and whale hunter. The wife took Mira under her wing as soon as we moved into the building where we all lodge. When Abarran went to sea, Nekane stayed with Mira to keep her and the baby company—and to save us all silver.”

  “And what of art? Is Mira at work again?” Elena yawned. Sleep was coming for her, but she pushed it away.

  “She’s tried. Gone to the doorsteps of merchants, looking for patrons, too many times to count.” Arnaud sighed. “But no one knows her in Bayonne. She’s got no recommendation in hand, not like I had from Carlo Sacazar.”

  “She’ll find something,” Elena said with conviction. “She won’t give up.”

  “It’s hard with the baby, and now with me gone—she doesn’t like to leave him. Nor do I like her leaving him.”

  “But this Nekane—you trust her?”

  “We do. Still, how much trust do you put in someone you’ve only known a season?”

  There was a tremor of anxiety in his voice. Elena realized how difficult it had been for him to leave Mira and the baby.

  “The sooner I get back there, the sooner we can all settle into our life, and Mira can find work again,” he said. “I spoke my piece at the meeting yesterday, and all the elders are in agreement about our plan for shipping oak west to Bayonne down the River Pau. I’ve done what I came to do. I’ll leave in a few days.”