by Amy Maroney
“Are you still going to marry Xabi?” Alejandro asked after a time, yawning. Any moment now he would fall asleep and tumble off his horse, Elena was sure.
“I’ll answer that when he’s safely back from sea,” she replied.
“How much longer will the journey take?”
“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. “There are pilgrims’ trails all over these hills. We’ll follow them west and see where we come out.”
“The ends of the earth, that’s where,” one of the knights grumped.
“And won’t we be lucky to see the rivers pour into the sea,” Elena retorted. “There aren’t many who get to witness that.”
“Sea monsters,” Alejandro said, perking up. “Will we see any?”
“I’d say so. That’s where they live, isn’t it?”
“They have teeth and wings and fins,” he said, twisting in his saddle to face the knights. “They can pull a ship down into the sea and spit it out on shore!”
The knights feigned interest in Alejandro’s words, but Elena knew they were too tired and hungry to care about sea monsters. An uneasy thought struck her. She had promised the men safe haven in Basque country—and failed them.
For the first time on their journey, she wondered just how loyal Pelegrín’s men were to the house of Oto.
60
Autumn, 1506
Near Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira finished her portrait of the tall merchant’s wife with grim determination. She did exactly what the merchant had requested, erasing the scratches from his wife’s flesh, eliminating the bruises and shadows from her skin. The portrait showed a serene and wealthy woman with mild eyes, her lips curving upward to hint at a satisfied smile.
In short, Mira painted a lie.
Though she flushed with anger to recall it, the whole sordid experience was over—and her coin purse was all the heavier for it. She smiled at Sebastian from her perch on a velvet cushion. He had paid a merchant richly for the use of an enclosed carriage and footmen during his time in Bayonne. And now they were finally doing what he had promised. They were riding to the sea to observe the waves together, to sketch with charcoal on linen paper, to breathe the salty air.
The four horses trotted steadily north on the muddy road, urged on by the driver’s flicking black whip. When they arrived at their destination, an overlook on a cliff above a lonely stretch of beach, a footman helped Mira and Sebastian disembark from the carriage. They walked through a grassy field to the cliff’s edge, trailed by another footman who carried their supplies.
Mira stood shading her eyes with her hand, mesmerized by the cream-colored sand on the beach below, the bright shimmer of sunlight on the waves.
Not far from the cliff an enormous rock broke the surface of the water. A series of waves rolled in, sending torrents of spray over the rock and unleashing thunderous booms when they crashed against the cliff below.
Sebastian cried out, pointing at a black dolphin that leapt from the waves beyond the rock. Several more dolphins appeared. The animals plunged forward in a loose band, heading north. Three black-and-white birds with long, delicate wings vaulted from the rock and took flight, following the path of the dolphins.
“This is the sea I longed to visit as a child,” Mira told Sebastian. “Brother Arros described its violence and beauty, the wild creatures that live in the waves. When I lived in Perpignan and saw the Mediterranean Sea, I was disappointed. I thought Brother Arros had invented the tales to amuse me. But he told the truth. I did not understand what I do now—that the two seas are nothing alike.”
“We shall lose ourselves in the sights and sounds of the sea all day,” Sebastian said in satisfaction as the footman set up their easels. “What a luxury it will be.”
Mira could not believe her luck. “I will savor every moment.”
They sketched all afternoon. Sebastian pulled a seemingly endless supply of fine linen paper from a leather box. In addition to vine charcoal, he had brought a set of chalk pastels. Mira followed his lead, sketching first with the charcoal and then adding flashes of white and red with the pastels.
“The light is constantly changing, and the world with it,” she observed. “Each time I look at the water, something is different. The wind carves shapes into the waves, forcing them this way and that.”
“We could not have picked a better day.” Sebastian beamed.
“I know what I will do,” Mira said, smiling back at him. “I will create a seascape background for my self-portrait. I shall do it as you taught me, sparing no detail.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “As Bermejo taught me. And so it goes, round and round, from artist to artist.”
Mira stopped sketching. “Yes, I learned his techniques from you. As do your apprentices. But we also learn your ways, which are equally valuable.”
“I suppose I impart a bit of my own style along with those of my teachers into the work my apprentices produce.” Sebastian jabbed at his paper with the charcoal. “As you will someday with your own apprentices.”
“You think I will have apprentices of my own?” Mira asked, stunned.
“If you continue on this path, I see no other outcome,” he said with assurance. “You have the talent. What you lack are patrons.”
A whale spouted near the jagged rock.
“Look!” Mira cried.
The whale breached, plowed through a foaming wave, and disappeared again.
“Somehow that one slipped past the whale hunters,” Sebastian remarked. “Speaking of whales,” he added, staring hopefully at the spot where it had vanished, “I’ve secured an invitation to the tribute feast, and I would like you to be my guest.”
“But Nekane told me the tribute feast is for the clergy,” Mira said.
“The clergy invite some of Bayonne’s leading citizens to share in the feast, for a price.”
“You’re a foreigner, though,” she objected.
“A rich one.” He chuckled. “And I’ve offered to gift them portraits of saints.”
“Have you begun the work?”
“It is already done. I brought the paintings with me.” Sebastian rubbed his brow with the back of a hand, leaving a stripe of charcoal dust across his forehead. “I want you at my side, for every wealthy merchant in the city will be in attendance. With my recommendation they will be much more likely to entertain the idea of a commission for you.”
Mira dropped her charcoal in the grass, regarding him with amazement. “You would do that for me?”
“I would and I will.” He retrieved the charcoal and handed it to her again.
“But I cannot possibly repay the favor,” she protested, resigning herself to the fact that she was weeping.
He tilted his head, looking at her tenderly.
“You already have. You nursed me back from the dead when you were just a child, gave me more years on this earth than I deserve. It is I who can never repay you, I fear.” He waited while she regained her composure. “Now, something we have never discussed is the matter of your name. You are the daughter of barons, after all. Your mother’s portrait is the proof.”
She opened her mouth to speak and he held up a hand.
“Wealthy merchants—especially those lacking titles themselves—are impressed by the nobility,” he said. “You shall profit from that if you so choose. May I introduce you as Lady Mira de Oto at the feast?”
Mira squirmed at the thought. “I do not think that is wise.”
“Use your title,” he urged. “It is your birthright.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “You are the first to believe that. The truth is far uglier.”
“No matter what happened in the past, your family can help you now,” Sebastian insisted. “Use their name to build a better life for yourself, a life in which you can pick and choose your patrons, and Go
d willing, never find yourself again in the predicament you just escaped, working for a man you detest.”
Mira turned his words over in her mind. The high keening of a seabird floated up from the water.
“Will you call me ‘Miramonde,’ not ‘Mira,’ when you introduce me?” she asked.
“Why?”
“It means ‘one who sees the world.’ My mother chose the name. My father was away at battle when I was born. Pelegrín, my twin, was the boy he expected. As far as Ramón de Oto knew, he never fathered a girl at all, and that is why I am still alive. My mother hoped I would lead a very different life than most noblewomen—and I have. I wish to honor her by using the name she gave me.”
Sebastian’s face went very still.
“I will be delighted to introduce you as ‘Miramonde,’” he said gently.
“Look!” one of the footmen shouted. “Ships!”
Mira and Sebastian wheeled around. It was true. Two ships approached from the open sea, their white sails billowing in the wind. Swiftly they cut through the foaming water, angling toward the coast. Dolphins kept pace with the ships, their sleek bodies dark against the whitecaps.
“The whalers have returned,” Sebastian said. “God willing, their holds are full of oil, of tongues salted and packed in barrels. The feast shall be sooner than I imagined. What luck for us, Mira.” He hesitated. “I mean to say, Lady Miramonde de Oto.”
Mira recoiled at the words. In her heart, she knew she was no lady, despite her lineage. But she would heed Sebastian’s advice all the same if it meant more patrons.
Besides, she liked the way he had put it: Use their name to build a better life for yourself.
61
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira hurried behind Nekane to the river harbor, the baby clinging to her neck. Tristan was getting so big. Arnaud would barely recognize him when he returned. Nekane jogged heavily over the cobblestones, her cloak flapping behind her. She was rarely silent, but from time to time her nerves rendered her unable to speak. This was one of those occasions.
They reached the harbor, panting. The sun glared at them from a cloudless sky. A crowd had gathered on the river’s edge, waiting to see if the whale hunt was successful, if the sailors had all survived. Several sleek chalupas glided through the river, laden with barrels and men. The ships themselves were anchored at sea, for the river was too shallow for a fully loaded whaling vessel to navigate.
Nekane pushed her way to the front of the crowd, Mira following in her wake. A few men protested, grumbling at their rudeness.
“My husband’s a whaler,” Nekane cried. “A harpooner. Let me pass!”
People moved aside, regarding her somberly. They had seen these dramas before. In the next few moments, the course of Nekane’s life would change forever. Whether joy or tragedy awaited her was an open question. Everyone knew the dangers of whaling. Harpoon slinging was the riskiest job of all.
A hush fell over the crowd as the chalupas arrived at the docks and men began to clamber out.
Nekane shaded her eyes with her hands. “Abarran!” she shrieked, oblivious to the throng pressing in around her. “Abarran!”
One of the men on the dock slowly turned, scanning the faces onshore. He raised an arm in greeting. Nekane shouted in joy, waving her hands wildly above her head, then dissolved in tears. Mira threw an arm around her.
“He’s alive,” Nekane sobbed, burying her face in Mira’s shoulder. “He’s alive. I don’t care if he has a spoonful of whale oil to his name. I’m just glad he’s not at the bottom of the sea.”
Tristan stared mystified at them both. Finally he decided they were playacting and let out a screech of delight, his wide smile showing the beginnings of a tooth coming in. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
The tense mood lightened in the space of an instant.
Once the cargo was unloaded and securely stored, the sailors were deluged with relatives, friends, and well-wishers, eager to hear stories from their journey across the sea.
Nekane clung to Abarran, her eyes shining. “Look at you, so thin. Didn’t they feed you on that ship?”
“You get tired of the food on a ship,” he grumbled. “And sometimes you can’t keep down what you eat, anyway.”
He tousled Tristan’s hair. “I see this one hasn’t missed many meals while I’ve been gone.”
Mira smiled. “Thanks to your wife’s attentions. She’s bent on fattening him up.”
A look of pride appeared on Nekane’s face. “He could use a bit more meat on his bones, in my view. But he’ll do.”
Abarran looked over their shoulders at the docks. A tall, sinewy man with a luxuriant dark beard approached.
“Ah, here he comes. Xabi!” he called. “It was my good fortune to have my cousin along all these months at sea.”
Xabi dipped his head at them.
“Xabi?” Mira said, surprised. “That is a name I have heard many times.”
“From who?” he asked, his brown eyes trained on her with interest.
“My friend—well, she is more like a mother to me. She used to spend her winters with a Basque shepherd called Xabi.”
“You speak of Elena?” He was astonished.
Mira nodded.
“So you must be…”
“Mira,” she said. “Wife of Arnaud de Luz. I believe you are well acquainted with his family.”
Xabi swayed a little, blinking in the sunlight. His skin had gone from the color of burled walnut to the color of blanched barley.
Abarran shot him a worried look.
“Enough of this chitter chatter,” he said. “We’ve still got sea legs. It’s a shock to a body, standing on solid ground. We need baths, and dinner, and—” he glanced at his wife, waggling his eyebrows. “Rest,” he finished.
Nekane erupted in laughter. “Back home we go, then,” she declared, looping her arm through her husband’s.
Mira and Xabi followed them away from the river harbor. “There are rooms to let at our lodging house,” she told him. “You are welcome to share our meals as long as you stay in Bayonne.”
Xabi did not seem to hear. “Do you have news of Elena?” He searched her eyes, apprehensive.
“I have heard nothing from her since I left Aragón,” she admitted.
“Ah.” His disappointment was evident. “I’ve not had word from her either, not since she left my homestead in Basque country the spring before last.”
“I thought you and Elena lived in your hidden valley now,” she said. “The place where she wintered with you each year.”
“My sister died and I inherited the family homestead,” he explained. “Elena came west to live there with me. We were meant to be married last summer. But she went to care for a sick friend, the prior Johan Arros at San Juan de la Peña. And she never returned.”
Mira’s stomach twisted. She had always clung to the belief that Elena was well, that she was happily settled with Xabi in the little valley she loved, living a peaceful existence.
She cast a glance at him. Sorrow showed in the slump of his shoulders and his downcast eyes.
All at once, she knew what Xabi was too polite to say.
He feared Elena was dead.
62
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Amadina
Amadina waited impatiently while her servant climbed down from the cart bench to hand over some coins to the gate guard.
“Ask him to direct us to the best inn!” she called after him.
She was relieved to be finished with the bone-wrenching journey through fields shorn of their crops, tired of watching bedraggled crows whirring overhead in the rain, weary of the scent of manure clinging to her nostrils.
The cart rolled into the bustling city. She
smiled behind her mourning veil, thrilled to see half-timbered houses, cobblestone lanes, windows set with tiny panes of polished glass. Civilization at last.
As soon as she was settled in Bayonne’s finest inn, she would explore the streets, make a few discreet inquiries, determine how to navigate this new world.
But before they even reached the inn the gate guard had recommended, the cart came to a halt.
“Well, what is the delay?” she demanded of her driver.
“Some sort of procession, madame.”
She had instructed her servants to call her ‘madame’ instead of ‘lady abbess’ during this journey, and they had mostly remembered.
Amadina saw men in loose woolen leggings, heavy homespun shirts, and black caps pushing oak barrels through the streets. Someone in the group was beating out a slow rhythm on a drum to accompany the procession. Behind them tagged a curious group of onlookers.
A housewife standing in the lane glanced her way.
“The whale hunters have returned,” the woman explained.
“Those barrels are full of whale meat?” Amadina asked.
“Just the tongues. The best part, the delicacy. It goes to the church as tribute.”
“Ah. Reserved for the priests, then?”
“The priests and the rich. There’s a feast hosted by the bishop each year. The city’s wealthiest merchants and nobles are invited.”
Amadina considered the woman’s words, watching the men roll their barrels to the cathedral.
Her first order of business was clear: to secure an invitation to that feast.
On Sunday, Amadina went to mass at the cathedral. Afterward, she slipped into a confessional booth. She whispered to the priest, confiding that she was a devastated widow adrift after the death of her husband. Her great sin, she admitted through tears, was the desire to take her own life rather than continue living without him by her side. Only there was the matter of the large fortune she had inherited upon his death. She had no heirs.