by Amy Maroney
“Me, too.” Elena’s mood shifted at the prospect of departing. “I’m bound to return to Castle Oto, then leave for Basque country and my wedding.”
“What?” Arnaud sat up in surprise.
“I’m marrying Xabi, if he’s still alive—and if he’ll still have me. And I’ll live in a house with a red-tiled roof and listen to his siblings argue for the rest of my days.”
Arnaud chuckled quietly. Overhead the sky was brightening, the moon’s brilliance fading with each passing moment.
“What is funny?” she demanded.
“You, married? Living on a farm in Basque country? I’ll believe that when I see it,” he spluttered, unable to contain his laughter.
“Then see for yourself,” she challenged him. “Bring Mira and the baby to our wedding. But I must warn you that Pelegrín wishes to be there.”
Arnaud lay back again. “In that case, we’ll stay away, I’m afraid.”
“I spent the winter listening to the man moan about wanting to welcome his twin back to the family again. He doesn’t wish Mira ill, Arnaud. I worried about that for a long time, same as you, but now I’m convinced: he’s not the man his father was.”
“You are slow to trust,” he replied. “Slower than most, and for good reason. Yet you declare to me that you trust Pelegrín de Oto with Mira’s life?”
“Pelegrín wishes to give Mira the life she should have had as the daughter of barons.”
“But—”
“I know,” Elena cut him off. “She has no desire for that life, nor do you. And I’ve told him as much. What’s the harm in accepting gifts of gold and jewels from him, though? You could use it, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s truly his aim?” Arnaud’s tone was skeptical. “Simply to give her a piece of the Oto wealth?”
“That’s what he tells me.”
“Last summer he said nothing to me about welcoming her back into the family,” Arnaud countered. “He simply said he wanted to find her, to right an old wrong. That could mean any number of things.”
“Why would he tell you the truth?” she asked. “You never revealed who you were.”
“I want to trust the man,” Arnaud allowed. “He was nothing like I expected. But I still can’t risk putting Mira in his path. Not after everything that’s happened.”
Soon light would stream over the meadow, waking the people who just a few hours ago had trampled the grasses with their dancing, frightening the creatures of the night with revelry and song.
In silence they watched the golden crown of the sun slide up over the ridges in the east.
42
Summer, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
The merchant’s wife preened in her velvet-backed armchair. Her yellow hair was caught up in a gauzy headpiece studded with pearls and shot through with gold thread. Rings set with rubies ornamented her fingers. Her blue silk dress reflected the wealth her husband had amassed in the woad industry.
Mira’s portrait of the woman was slowly taking shape. The base layers of tinted gesso had gone on first. After they dried, she sketched out the underdrawings with her lead stylus. Now she was ready to begin the actual painting. There was only one problem: she did not have enough pigment, nor did she possess lapis lazuli or gold leaf. Without them, she would never achieve the rich, lustrous blue of the woman’s dress, nor the gleaming golden highlights on her jewelry and head covering.
She explained to the merchant’s wife that such materials were costly. Other patrons had paid for their purchase, she said. Would the merchant consider doing so? The woman asked her husband, but he refused. He would not pay Mira anything until the portrait was completed to his satisfaction.
So after work one day, she went to the shop of a bookmaker who hawked his wares at the market near the great cathedral. He was a gaunt man with bulging eyes. She had once thumbed through one of the prayer books in his market stall. He watched her disapprovingly all the while, thin lips pursed in distaste. As soon as she set down the book, he rushed over with a feather duster and whisked invisible grime from its cover.
Entering his shop today, she summoned all her courage. The space was cramped, lit with an assortment of stubby tallow candles that sent plumes of black smoke upward. It was difficult to take a breath in the stagnant air. The bookseller came out from behind a cabinet when she closed the door behind her.
“What is your business, madame?” he snapped. “We are about to close for the afternoon.”
She dipped her head at him. “Good sir, I have come to inquire about purchasing pigments.”
“What exactly are you after?”
“Lapis lazuli and gold leaf.”
He folded his arms over his soiled leather apron. “I’ve got both. But they’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
When he named his price, Mira blanched. That was nearly all the money in the bag of silver Arnaud had left for her.
“I could do a work exchange for the pigments,” she offered. “A barter, if you will. I worked as an illustrator for a bookmaker in Perpignan, a man called Albrecht Rumbach. I could do the same for you.”
“A woman artist?” he scoffed. “Ridiculous.”
“I can show you my work,” she went on, flushing. “Drawings and a painting. To prove myself.”
“No,” the man said curtly, jaw clenched. “I’ll not have a woman working in my shop.”
“But—” Mira began.
“There is no use arguing!” he said. “My shop, my rules. Now do you want to buy the pigments or not?”
Mira forced down an angry retort. “Not at this moment, sir, no,” she murmured. “Perhaps I shall return.”
He shrugged. “Good day to you, then.”
Mira stood outside in the lane, regaining her composure. She wished she were a man. She would stride back in there, a sword at her waist, and demand his respect.
But you are not a man, Mira, she reminded herself. You are a woman living in a man’s world.
She returned to the lodging house. Nekane had moved herself and her belongings into their space as soon as Abarran left for the whale hunt. Arnaud had been right; it was better for them all to live together. Despite Nekane’s big personality, Mira respected the woman and never doubted her love for the baby.
Inside their rooms, she lit up at the sight of little Tristan sitting on a square of woven rushes, playing with a wooden sheep Arnaud had whittled for him during the winter. He grinned at her and waved the toy over his head. Nekane looked up from her task of chopping vegetables at the table.
“Nekane,” Mira scolded gently, “you left the door unbarred again.”
She removed her shawl and boots and tucked them away.
“So I did.” Nekane rubbed her forehead with the back of a hand. “This little man is so distracting I often leave things half done, or undone as the case may be.”
“I know,” Mira said, nodding.
She had so often forgotten things, lost track of what she had meant to do...all because of the baby.
Tristan squealed and held out his arms to Mira. She scooped him up and nuzzled his soft skin.
“How I missed you today, my love!” she cooed.
He smiled again, exposing deep dimples in his cheeks.
“Aren’t many babies sweeter than he is,” Nekane observed. “Of course, my own children were just as sweet at his age.”
“He couldn’t have a more loving grandmother than you, Nekane. Even if you’re not his flesh and blood.”
“Love cares little for flesh and blood,” said Nekane. “Love is love, that’s all there is to it.” She swept the chopped vegetables into the iron pot with a cupped hand. “How was your work today?”
Mira rooted in a cupboard for a heel of bread, handed it to the baby, and set him down on the mat again.
“What are you going to do now?” Nekane asked, pouring a thin stream of oil and another of red wine into the pot.
“Sell the only thing I have of value—my mother’s ivory shell pendant.” Mira put a hand to her neck. She had strung it on a leather cord after selling the gold chain in Pau. “Arnaud left me just enough silver to live on until he returns, plus a little extra. I cannot use it all for pigment.”
“The shell was your mother’s!” Nekane said. “You keep it. It’s a piece of her.”
“What else can I do?” Mira went to the fire and added a log, then nudged the embers with the long iron poker.
“I have some silver tucked away. Abarran gave it to me when he set sail. In case he...” Nekane’s voice trailed off.
Mira glanced at her in sympathy. As much as she feared for Arnaud’s safety, his journey across the mountains and back was not nearly as dangerous as Abarran’s. From the sea crossing to the whale hunt, there were endless catastrophes that could take Abarran’s life. Only the promise of twelve barrels of whale oil had convinced him to take on the risk. If he returned safe and sound, he and Nekane could go back to Basque country and live out their days on the earnings from those precious barrels.
“Those coins are meant to safeguard your future, Nekane,” Mira said softly. “I would never take them from you.”
“Who said anything about taking them? It’s a loan. Borrow some from me, use some of what Arnaud left you.” Nekane picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the concoction in the pot, then lugged it to the hearth. “When you get your fee for the portrait, then you can repay me.”
Mira hesitated. Her instinct was to refuse, but what choice did she have? If she did not get the pigments she needed, the portrait would be lackluster and the merchant would not pay her. Worse, she would have no way forward. Word would spread amongst the city’s merchants that she was a talentless woman, not worth hiring. This was her one chance. She had to dazzle her patron...she had to use every means in her power to tip the scales in her favor.
“Yes,” she finally said. “Thank you, Nekane. I will not forget this kindness.”
Bent over the fire, Nekane waved a hand over her shoulder. “It’s only because I’ve seen what you can do that I’m confident I’ll get my silver back. Your portrait, the one you painted of yourself—” she turned and looked Mira squarely in the eyes. “It is beautiful. You’ve a talent with the brush. I don’t know how you do it, don’t understand it one bit. But there is something powerful in what you do.” She jabbed the spoon in the air for emphasis. “The whole world should know about it.”
Mira smiled, flooded with gratitude. “I wish the bookmaker thought so, too.”
“Don’t buy a thing from him, then,” Nekane said. “He doesn’t deserve your silver or mine.”
“Where else am I going to find lapis and gold leaf?”
The other woman shrugged, turning back to her soup.
“I shall try the cabinetmakers’ guild,” Mira said, answering her own question. “They sometimes have to repair gilded and painted furniture, Arnaud told me.”
“Or the apothecaries,” Nekane suggested. “They sell strange concoctions, don’t they? Maybe they have what you need.”
Mira nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I shall see about that in the morning, and if I am turned away I will go back to the bookmaker. Though I would prefer to never set eyes upon the toad again.”
“Toad, eh? You talk like a fine lady—except when you don’t.”
“If you saw the man you would agree,” Mira protested. “It is not an insult but truly an apt description of his face.”
She demonstrated, opening her eyes wide and clamping her lips together in a disapproving scowl.
Nekane snorted with laughter.
Mira slept little that night. She was consumed with worries. So much depended on everything going perfectly. Using the silver set aside for the unimaginable, for a future without their husbands—it was a huge risk. The sense of responsibility she already bore for Tristan was compounded by the knowledge that now Nekane’s future balanced on the same knifepoint as her own. The realization settled like a lump of stone in her chest.
Somehow she would have to muster the confidence to achieve what she had promised and turn out a masterful portrait, to secure all their futures in case the worst happened.
In case their men vanished without a trace.
43
Autumn, 1506
Béarn
Arnaud
“Feels like the eyes of every woodland beast are upon us,” Arnaud’s seatmate complained, looking around warily. “Roads make you a target.”
Ahead of them, dust rose from the hooves of mules plodding in a long train toward the gates at the pass of Somport, their leather panniers loaded with grain.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Arnaud conceded. “But we’ve no choice.” He glanced at the bow strung over the other man’s shoulder. “You’ve a blade on you, too?”
The man patted his waist. “Never been happier to carry one.”
“Let’s hope you won’t need it.” Arnaud pulled on the reins, slowing the mules to a halt, as they took their place in the line of travelers waiting to pass from Aragón to Béarn.
Icy gusts swept down from the high peaks and buffeted the black pines edging the road. Arnaud huddled in his cloak, trying to ignore the groan of the wind barreling through the tree branches. At least the sun shone overhead. He felt uneasy, trapped. They all did. None of the Ronzal villagers were accustomed to road travel—these men plied the mountains on animal tracks and shadowy trails, slipping quietly through the wilderness as it suited them.
There was no other way to haul their cargo over the mountains, though. Oak was the heaviest wood in the forest. Two carts carried the entire load, but the mules could barely pull such weight. The solution was to bring three carts with smaller loads evenly distributed among them, which had required additional men. It took much longer than Arnaud anticipated to build another cart, locate and recruit extra men, and deal with the myriad small problems of launching a new venture.
Next time, he hoped, it would all go more smoothly.
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the hawthorn tree at the narrow road that forked east toward the Abbey of Belarac.
“We might as well stay here,” Arnaud told the men. “The abbey can stable and feed our mules. We can lodge here, too. If any of you have relatives in the village outside the convent walls, you can visit with them.”
The men liked the idea. They turned the mule carts in the direction of the abbey.
When they arrived, Arnaud was pleased to see Gaston’s familiar, ruddy-cheeked face at the stable door.
“Arnaud de Luz!” the man exclaimed, removing his cap and running a meaty hand through his disheveled hair. “Never thought I’d see you again. They said you and young Mira—I mean, Madame de Luz—moved to Toulouse. How is she, your wife?”
“She’s fine,” Arnaud said heartily, though he had no idea if that were true. He swallowed, forcing down the fear constricting his throat. “Can you stable our mules for the night? And find us a clean corner where we might roll out our sleeping mats?”
“I’d be happy to. Anything for the shepherds of Ronzal.” He lumbered forward, eyeing the carts. “What is it you’re hauling?”
Arnaud swung down from the bench. His muscles were sore after days of sitting on the hard seat, absorbing the jolts of the rutted road.
“Oak,” he said.
Gaston’s mouth fell open. “Why on earth would you haul the heaviest wood in these mountains all this way?”
“Because it’s worth something to foreign merchants.”
Gaston looked dubious. Then his face brightened. “You can ride with the wool!”
“What do you mean?”
“The wool fabric is going to Toulouse, to the merchant Lord de Vernier. Some of the village men are making preparations. They asked me to ready the oxcart.”
Arnaud smiled. “The luck of that! We’ll travel with them as far as Pau.”
Gaston began unhitching the mules. He led one into the stables.
“Where’s your stableman?” Arnaud called out.
“Ran off a long time ago,” came the muffled response. “No one knows what became of him.”
Arnaud led another mule inside. He grabbed a pitchfork and began loading forkfuls of fresh hay into a stall.
“You must miss the help,” he said.
Gaston’s expression soured. “What help? The fellow was useless. Always disappearing just when I needed him.” He went outside again.
Arnaud considered Gaston’s words. When he and Mira had stayed here two summers ago, the stableman had been an odd sort, with darting eyes and an irritating habit of slinking up out of nowhere, appearing silently at one’s elbow. He had a low, sullen voice, a vacantness in his gaze.
“He was a bad seed,” Gaston went on, reappearing with another mule in tow. “I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Why’s that?” Arnaud asked.
“One time he got ahold of some wine and drank himself sick right there.” Gaston pointed at a vacant stall. “I found him mumbling and moaning. He said it wasn’t his fault, he’d done as she told him, couldn’t be helped that his blade slipped at the last minute.”
Arnaud stopped spreading hay. “She?”
Gaston scratched at his beard, tilting his head up as he retrieved the memory. “Death, he spoke of. Death had paid him in gold once for a job well done, he told me. But now he’d botched another job, one she’d promised him double the gold for. So he got no gold, just a beating.” He looked quizzically at Arnaud. “But I always thought Death was a man. My father used to tell me King Death was winged, and wore a crown of gold.”