by Amy Maroney
“Please,” he finally rasped. “Don’t punish my sister for my failure. Punish me.”
Amadina blanched. “What is the point? Your blood leaks all over my floors as it is.” She surveyed him from head to toe. “If the bailiff of Pau comes sniffing around here, what will he say when he sees you?” She stepped back. “I have made up my mind. You will accompany me on a journey. We will go to Pau ourselves, and stop that man Arnaud de Luz before he tramples my reputation all over Béarn. If you follow my instructions to the letter and do not fail me again, your sister’s place here will be safe.”
She ordered him away and stood completely still, a roaring in her ears.
This was all Carlo’s fault.
Amadina stared at the hearth, at the dancing flames, recalling the day she pieced together Carlo’s plan for her. It was a warm day in early summer when the light seemed particularly bright, the air sweet. The entire family was planning to attend a funeral in Zaragoza. Amadina looked forward to the journey eagerly, for nothing excited her more than to return to the land of her birth.
Discussing their travel arrangements, Carlo’s wife Flora said that on the way over the mountains they would stop at a convent where the nuns made exquisite embroidery. Carlo had promised his wife that she could commission the nuns to create a length of the finest silk brocade stitched with the designs of her choosing. Flora added that she would be staying in Zaragoza for the entire summer with her daughters, so Carlo and Amadina would return north together. And on the way home, they would stop at the convent once more and retrieve Flora’s hand-stitched fabric.
Nothing about this scheme made sense to Amadina. Her brother owned every reputable fabric finishing and stitching outfit in the area. He hired the most talented seamstresses and even imported a few from Florence and Venice to teach his staff the art of embroidery. At a moment’s notice, he could clothe his wife from head to toe in the finest hand-embroidered fabrics. Carlo was pragmatic, a logical thinker. There was no logic in this idea.
She chewed her lip, considering all Flora had said.
“My brother has never expressed interest in visiting any Aragónese convents before, though we have passed many in our travels. And never have he and I journeyed together without you and your girls,” she replied carefully. “A strange idea, do you not agree?”
“I think it a lovely idea, and very thoughtful,” Flora said. She leaned forward, as if to tell Amadina a secret. “He told me the nuns there live in complete silence. They must sit in the shadows behind a grill when visitors come, so they are unseen. And while visitors might speak to them, they are not permitted to speak themselves.” She twirled her long rope of pearls between her fingers, smiling blandly. “Perhaps you will impose the same rule in your own convent when you return. How peaceful it must be.”
Amadina watched her with hooded eyes.
All the threats Carlo had made to Amadina the day he learned the extent of her meddling with Belarac flooded back to her in that instant. He discovered she had been responsible for the death of Béatrice of Belarac, that she was capable of not only hating her enemies, but destroying them. In response, he had vowed to take away her purse, her power, the freedoms she enjoyed. She had never seen him so inflamed with rage. But then his anger dissipated and he seemed to put the matter behind him.
A gutted feeling struck her as she listened to Flora’s words. Her heart fluttered under her breastbone, wriggling like a fish. Carlo had not forgotten his anger for a single moment. He fully intended to punish Amadina, and now she understood what her punishment would be.
He meant to silence her.
As soon as the sun went down, Amadina and a maid slipped through the quiet streets to the Sacazar mansion. Once inside her brother’s home, she wandered the rooms, running her fingertips over the polished oak chests, placing her palms on the carved faces of cherubs ornamenting the stone mantels. Then, somehow, she found herself in her sister-in-law’s bedchamber, rummaging in the wardrobe.
She removed a black brocade dress and laid it out on the bed with its matching black velvet sleeves and gauzy veil. Amadina knew it would fit. After all, both women loved sugared almonds, cream tarts, and anchovies soaked in olive oil with equal passion; their round faces and plump bodies were the evidence.
She smiled wistfully, remembering the days when her own wardrobe spilled over with lovely garments. Running a finger over the veil, luxuriating in the softness of the delicate fabric, Amadina wished she could cast aside her wimple and habit and slip into the layers of velvet and silk. Quickly she stuffed the items in a cloth sack. In all likelihood, Flora Sacazar would not return to Nay. What did it matter if Amadina pilfered some of her things?
With her maid carrying the sack of goods, Amadina left her brother’s home and crossed the main square, hastening through the dull gloom of twilight.
Though she had walked this route a thousand times, a sense of urgency propelled her through the darkening streets, a feeling that she was being pursued. But each time she turned around, she saw nothing but torchlight and shadows.
Home again, Amadina hurried up the staircase to her bedchamber and deposited the sack of clothing on her bed.
She sank to her knees, choking back a sob. Her brother was likely laughing at her from his grave, shaking his head at her weakness. Think, she admonished herself. Think. She looked frantically around the room, forced herself to take in several measured breaths.
What would Carlo do, faced with this predicament? She knew the answer at once. No matter the obstacle, he would smooth the way with gold.
Amadina went to a heavy oak chest, fumbling with the keys at her waist. Quickly she inserted the correct key and heard the dull click of the lock opening. Inside the chest she wrestled with the latches on the false bottom. Finally she found what she sought: piles of gold coins, glinting dully in the candlelight. She filled a small iron-and-oak box with as many coins as it would allow, locked it, and strung the key around her neck on the chain she always wore tucked into her habit.
She made up her mind. As soon as she left Nay, she would assume the role of a grief-stricken widow. She would no longer be an abbess, but a broken-down woman in mourning, journeying west, seeking a quiet place to live out her days in peace.
Once she tracked down Arnaud de Luz, it would be easy enough for her men to dispatch him. There would be no mishaps this time. Even if she had to carry out the deed herself.
Little by little, Amadina felt the savage tide of blood in her veins recede.
52
January, 2017
Getaria, Spain
Zari
Zari stood in the narrow cobbled lane, pelted by rain. She stared at the faded green paint on the door in front of her, willing it to open. This is stupid, she berated herself. She had returned to Getaria for one more night, obsessed with the idea of a portrait by Mira de Oto inside this shabby little house. And now she stood here pretending some magical force would descend and unlock the door. But what other choice did she have?
Feeling foolish, she reached out a tentative arm and knocked. As she expected, nothing happened.
Two seagulls careened overhead, their mournful cries amplifying her own despair. She glanced up at the brooding gray sky. The Atlantic was steps away, roaring as it spewed up the last swells of a winter storm.
Zari drew in a deep breath. Standing here getting soaked while her face and fingers grew numb was not going to help. Slowly she turned and trudged up the street in the direction of the restaurant where she had eaten on her first night here. It seemed as good a destination as any. Even though she normally made it a point not to drink during the day, all she could think about was a ruby-red glass of wine. That would take the edge off this feeling of dazed ineptitude.
The restaurant was nearly empty. The atmosphere was subdued, likely an effect of the relentless rain and gloom. The same bartender was at the counter. She hung her drip
ping jacket from a hook underneath the bar, sat down, and kneaded her hands together while the feeling returned to her cheeks and lips.
The bartender regarded her with interest. She noticed his skin was beginning to crease around the eyes and mouth, evidence of long days spent outdoors.
“Hello again,” he said. “White wine?”
She shook her head. “Red. Please.”
When he returned with her wine, he also set down a ceramic bowl of potato chips.
“Pintxos?” he asked.
She surveyed the platters of food on the bar. Everything looked appealing, but she needed something hot.
“Do you have any soup?”
He nodded. “Cod stew.”
“Perfect.”
When he set the stew down before her a few moments later, the wine was already warming her belly. She smiled her thanks and picked up her spoon.
He cocked his head at her. “Why come to Getaria at this time of year? It’s miserable.” Before she could respond, he went on. “You’re not a tourist. You must know someone here.”
She swallowed a mouthful of stew. “This is delicious,” she said. “Exactly what I needed.”
“The Basques have been making cod stew forever,” he replied, shrugging. “It’s what we do.”
Zari sipped her wine again. The despair was leaching out of her system now. By the time her bowl and cup were empty, maybe it would vanish entirely. She looked up at the bartender, who hadn’t moved. Apparently he was waiting for her response to his question.
“It’s complicated,” she warned him.
He glanced around at the empty seats on either side of her. “I’m not busy, as you can see.”
“Fine.” In her slow, measured Spanish, she launched into the story of Miramonde de Oto and finished with the clue that had led her to the house with the green door. “Everything depends on the portrait inside that house,” she finished, her brain fatigued from the laborious process of choosing and assembling the correct Spanish words. “But no one can get inside. So I’m here for nothing, in the end.”
He leaned his elbows on the counter behind the bar. “Not for nothing.” His lips twitched as if he were holding back a laugh.
She drained her glass of wine, feeling a little insulted. “You think my story is funny?”
“Only the part about the librarian.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he asserted.
“She doesn’t?” Zari asked. “How do you know?”
He refilled her glass with wine before he answered. “Because her family is from over the hill. You saw those big houses over the hill on your way into town?”
“Yes.”
“Those people don’t know the villagers, not really. Her mother isn’t friends with Señora Perez.”
“She’s not?” Zari couldn’t hide the bafflement in her voice.
He laughed shortly. “Once a year, that lady, the librarian’s mother, invites all the village women to her house for a party. That’s not being ‘friends.’ It’s just making sure you keep up on all the gossip.”
“Oh.” Zari stared into her wine for a moment. “So who is friends with Señora Perez, then?”
He reached for her empty stew bowl. “My mother. And she has the key.”
Zari felt a wave of heat rise from her chest to her throat. She spluttered, unable to emit an intelligible word. The bartender deposited her bowl somewhere under the counter, and stood up again, grinning.
“I have seen that portrait a dozen times,” he said. “I go in there to check on the place sometimes, so my mother doesn’t have to.”
“But the librarian said...”
He cut her off with a pointed look. “I never thought much of that portrait, to be honest. An old painting of a woman who died a long time ago. But now, hearing your story, I want to see it again.”
Zari looked at her hands resting on the bar’s polished wood surface. They were trembling. She cupped them around her wine glass and looked back up at the bartender.
“Tonight?” she blurted, gripped by pure desperate need.
He was silent for a beat. Then he said, “I can meet you there in an hour.”
53
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira bent forward, reaching out an arm to adjust the woman’s veil. If it were just drawn back a bit—
The merchant’s wife flinched and pulled away.
“I apologize, my lady,” Mira said. “Your veil hides your face.”
“I am a modest woman,” came the cool response. “I do not wish to be portrayed as anything other than I am.”
“Yes, of course,” Mira murmured, silently cursing her luck.
This woman was not as easy a subject as the fat merchant’s wife, nor as pleasant. Clothed in a blue silk dress with black velvet sleeves, she looked uncomfortable in her chair, as if she were not in the right seat, not in the right room, perhaps not in the right life. The sound of children playing in the courtyard rippled through the room, a welcome respite from the quiet. But the merchant’s wife seemed not to hear. She stared at the wall beyond Mira’s shoulder, caught up in her own thoughts.
“Your children are happy here,” Mira observed, unable to repress a smile at a particularly boisterous squeal of laughter.
“Children are happy anywhere, if they’ve food in their bellies and a warm bed to sleep in at night.” The woman’s eyes never strayed from the wall.
“It must be lovely for your family to be reunited after all this time,” Mira said. “I know how difficult it is to be separated from one’s husband.”
“I prefer Toulouse,” the woman said curtly, turning her head so the edge of her veil obstructed the entire line of her jaw.
Mira sighed. She had to see a face from all angles to understand how the flesh and bone fit together. Otherwise she could never recreate it on the panel.
The tall merchant strode into the room. Mira stiffened at the sight of him. She had hardly anything of note on the panel. The underdrawings, of course, that she had painstakingly set down with her lead stylus over a period of days. But the first feathery layers of paint were barely visible. She wiped more away with her linen rag than she put on the panel, frustrated by her inability to see the woman’s entire face.
“Ah! Let me view the progress.” The merchant’s tone was coolly polite, as it always was when he addressed her.
Mira bowed in his direction. “Of course, my lord. We are in the early stages. I wish I could show you more. Sometimes it is difficult with a veil or a long headdress to study the face properly.”
He stood with arms crossed, staring at the portrait.
“I prefer you without the veil,” he said, turning to his wife.
She shook her head, a look of panic on her face.
He closed the distance between them in a few steps. Towering over her, he said something inaudible. Mira saw the woman’s hands ball into fists. The merchant’s shoulders rose and fell, he spoke again, and in the next instant his hand snaked out and tore the veil from his wife’s head. It slithered to the red wool rug, pooled in a glimmering heap.
“There.” He turned to Mira again. “Now you shall see her face from every angle. And mind you, paint her as I wish to see her. In a flattering light.”
Mira studied him, confused. “As you wish, sir,” she said slowly. “I shall do my best.”
He stalked from the room without another glance at his wife.
Mira now had an unobstructed view of the woman’s face. Her forehead was high, her nose long, her lips red as beet juice. Her eyes were a clear gray. But the most remarkable thing about her appearance was the purplish bruise along one cheekbone. Below that, three red scratch marks marred the delicate skin of her throat.
The w
oman’s eyes burned. “Do not stand and gawk at me. Get on with it.”
Mira tore her gaze away from the marks of abuse. “I—how stupid of me to speak of your veil. Forgive me.”
The merchant’s wife stayed quiet, staring defiantly at the wall.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the afternoon.
Mira came to dread visiting the couple’s home. No sooner did the bruise fade on the woman’s cheek than another bloomed in its place. One day her chest was livid with angry red scratch marks; another day dried blood beaded on her ear. The man was beating his wife on a daily basis, it seemed.
The veil was for protection, Mira came to understand. Not a show of modesty. It kept the children from seeing marks of violence on their mother’s body. It kept the servants from gossiping.
But in this room, sitting across from Mira, with her eyes fixed on the wall, the woman had no choice but to bare her face, throat, and chest—to let her body tell its story. And it was Mira’s job to conceal the truth from the world. In this portrait, not only would the merchant’s wife have skin that glowed with luminous perfection, but her face would hold an expression of peaceful contentment. Her eyes would shine serenely, her lips would hint at a smile.
Mira was painting a lie.
She did not tell Nekane.
The days dragged. Mira was frustrated by the time it took to apply each thin layer of pigment and oil, miserable to be stuck in a room with a woman whose husband was beating the spirit out of her night after night. The merchant’s wife never spoke of her injuries, and if she saw Mira’s gaze directed at any of her wounds or bruises, her eyes clouded over with anger.
Pretend not to see, the woman’s expression told Mira. Help me salvage what remains of my dignity.
One morning when Mira arrived for work, she set up her supplies and waited in vain for the merchant’s wife to appear. She grew worried as the morning stretched on and there was no sign of her subject. Had the woman’s husband beaten her senseless?