by Amy Maroney
The priest suggested tithing generously to the church, which would elevate her in the eyes of God and give meaning to her life. What was more, he added, it would earn her an invitation to the bishop’s feast—an event reserved for the most elite members of Bayonne society. She could mingle with others of her status, meet new friends. She could find meaning in her life again. Perhaps a pew bearing her family crest would be dedicated to her in this very cathedral. Amadina perked up considerably upon hearing his advice. Drying her eyes, she thanked the priest for his wise counsel.
When she exited the confessional, Amadina went straight to the cleric’s office and knocked on the door, one hand gripping a heavy purse filled with gold coins.
Stepping out of the office a few minutes later, she felt energy rippling in her veins. The smoothness, the simplicity of her actions—it all unfolded as if directed by God himself.
Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you, she recited silently, padding over the cold stone pavers of the cathedral as if she were a nimble girl in the flower of her youth instead of a plump, flat-footed woman of middle age.
Her next agenda item was to locate Mira, which proved shockingly easy. She went to the cabinetmakers’ guild and told the guild master she had heard an Aragónese craftsman worked there. As a newcomer to Bayonne from Aragón, she wished to consign some furniture built in the style of her homeland. When she was informed Arnaud had left the city, she murmured forlornly that she had hoped to speak her native tongue with him. The guild master, taking pity on her, confided that Arnaud’s wife was still in Bayonne—perhaps they could converse about the old country together. The family lived near the guild, he believed, in a lodging house overlooking a small square.
Amadina thanked him effusively for the information.
Back in her chamber at the inn, she poured the remaining coins from her purse into the iron-and-wood chest, locked it, and tucked it under a pile of linens in the wardrobe, which she locked as well. She had insisted on that when she paid the innkeeper. Not only did she want the best room at the inn, she required exclusive access to a secure container for her things. He had complied with her demands, of course, his eyes on the gold in her palm.
Atop her soft feather bed, she watched rain patter against the diamond-paned windows and marveled at her good fortune, at the ease of her transition into life here on the edge of the sea.
Then she cautioned herself not to preen. She still had much to do, and quickly, before Arnaud appeared in the city.
63
January, 2017
Geneva, Switzerland
Zari
Zari bought a coffee at a cafe in the airport, then found a chair at the gate, still reliving the time she spent yesterday wandering the streets of Geneva lost in conversation with Wil. They had giddily mapped out a plan for a life together in Amsterdam, and Wil promised to join Zari on her next trip home to California so he could meet her family and friends. The thought of Wil and Gus in the same room made her glow with happiness. The two men in the world she loved most, finally meeting each other—it was nearly too much to contemplate.
She pulled out her laptop, intent on catching up with e-mails and the day’s news. Art News Weekly appeared at the top of her inbox. Scrolling through the headlines, she drew in a sharp breath when she saw the title “Long-lost Bermejo Portrait Headed to Auction.”
Zari sat still as a stone, scanning the article, overcome with panic.
‘ “This is a tremendous find,” ’ Dotie Butterfield-Swinton was quoted as saying. ‘ “It has classic hallmarks of Bermejo, such as the fantastically detailed background, the etched underdrawings, the masterful use of Flemish oil painting techniques. And our analysis revealed the artist’s name under the layers of paint, which, along with the impeccable provenance, made attribution possible.” ’
Quickly she tapped out a text to Andreas. Did you see the news about Dotie’s painting going to auction in London next month?
Yes, came the response.
She took a deep breath, trying to still her shaking hands. No matter how much evidence I find of her in the historical record, she wrote, no matter how many clues she left for us in her portraits, Dotie will choose to ignore it all. Because Bermejo is his golden ticket.
You understand the larger context, correct? Andreas responded. Putting aside academic ladder climbing, I mean?
What context?
If this attribution holds, Bermejo scholars will consider the ADL mark on the back of any portrait as a hallmark of Bermejo.
Oh, no, Zari typed, flooded with icy dread. What can we do?
The gate agent announced the flight departure and invited the first group of passengers forward. All around Zari, people began to gather up their belongings and assemble near the gate. Zari stayed seated, staring at the device in her hands, overcome with a leaden feeling of despair.
Andreas’s response came at last. There is nothing we can do. Your only choice is to keep searching for more evidence of Mira that connects her to those paintings. Keep building scholarship about her. It’s early days yet. Don’t forget, Bermejo has a five-hundred-year head start.
The gate attendant announced the next boarding group. Mechanically, Zari stood and joined the queue, her anxious thoughts interspersed with shards of rage.
Her mobile buzzed again.
That happens to be a big week for art auctions in London, Andreas wrote. I’ll be there myself—Darius has his eye on a few paintings and I’m going as his representative. When you wrap up your work in Belgium, get yourself to London. And make sure to attend the auction preview beforehand at the dealer’s gallery. You’ll be able to examine Dotie’s painting up close one more time.
Zari trudged down the gangway to the airplane and sank into her seat. Her throat felt coated by sandpaper. She closed her eyes and silently repeated a soothing mantra, trying without success to regain her composure.
There was no way around it. Mira’s place in history had become more fragile than ever.
64
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Nekane and her husband left for Basque country soon after the ships returned to Bayonne. Now that they had their twelve barrels of whale oil, they were eager to go home and meet their new grandchild. Nekane declared to Mira that she hoped never to set foot in Bayonne again, though she wept when she kissed Tristan goodbye.
Xabi delayed his own departure. He took a room in the lodging house, told Mira he would only leave once Arnaud returned. She knew he was doing it to help her and Tristan with Nekane gone. Not that it really mattered. Mira had no work, no more commissions. There was nothing for her to do but care for Tristan and wait for her husband to return.
She was grateful for Xabi’s company, just the same. Each evening he sat Tristan on his knee after supper and asked Mira endless questions about her childhood summers with Elena. She, in turn, cajoled him for details about the last winter he spent with Elena, about their journey to his homestead in Basque country, about their plans to wed.
The morning of the tribute feast, a tailor’s apprentice appeared at the lodging house carrying a large item wrapped in canvas. Tristan squalled inconsolably on the bed as Mira opened the door to greet the man.
“From Master Sebastian de Scolna,” he said, thrusting the package at Mira and charging back down the stairs.
Dropping it on the table, she soothed and changed the baby, fed him the boiled millet he now ate daily for breakfast, and cleaned up the inevitable mess.
Finally she settled him on a fleece with his favorite teething ring and unwrapped the package.
Her eyes widened as she examined the contents. It contained a dress of burnished scarlet velvet with a low, square neckline and glittering garnets sewn into the bodice. A pair of sleeves made of black velvet and cream-colored silk la
y underneath the dress, along with a gossamer-thin black headpiece studded with tiny seed pearls. When she picked up the headpiece, a folded note on linen paper floated to the floor.
She scooped it up.
‘A lady artist must dress in a manner that befits her name,’ it read.
Mira put a hand to her mouth, her breath quickening. She had never worn clothes this fine. The thought of parading around the bishop’s residence in silk and velvet, posing as a noblewoman, was absurd.
No one knows you here, she told herself. There is nothing to fear.
The day passed in a blur. Xabi knocked just as the resonant chime of the cathedral’s great brass bells drifted through the windows, marking the hour that Sebastian had promised to fetch her. Tristan reached out eagerly for Xabi and settled in his arms without a fuss.
Mira smoothed the front of her bodice and adjusted her headpiece. She glanced one more time at her reflection in the piece of Venetian glass that Arnaud had transformed into a mirror last winter. Her mother’s sober face stared back at her.
Xabi and Tristan watched in silence as she tied on her cloak.
“I do not know when I shall return.” The words stuck in her throat.
“We’ll be fine,” Xabi assured her.
Tristan grasped Xabi by the beard, his solemn eyes never leaving his mother.
“He looks at me and sees a stranger,” Mira said, chagrined.
“You look like a noblewoman,” agreed Xabi. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Before she could answer, there was a rap on the door.
“Master Sebastian de Scolna awaits in the lane,” a muffled voice announced.
“Wish me good fortune,” she told Xabi shakily, and walked out the door.
In the parlor at the bishop’s residence, the furniture had been removed to make room for several tables all joined together and laid with white linen cloths. As the guests filed in, they dropped coins in a polished silver box held by a priest who stood at the door.
Sebastian pulled a handful of silver from his purse and let it fall in a glittering cascade when it was his turn, prolonging the moment so the clink of metal could be heard across the room. Mira followed him inside, praying she would not trip on the hem of her skirts. She handed her cloak to a servant and felt immediately overwhelmed with self-consciousness.
Nobles, merchants, bishops, and priests were gathered in small groups. Some of the clergy had traveled all the way from Bordeaux to attend the feast. Looking around the room, Mira tried to calm herself. She must act as if she belonged here, as if she wore lavish gowns every day.
Mira nearly curtsied, then remembered her status. She dipped her head in a nod instead. “Sir, madame...” she said.
“I declare I hardly recognize you,” the fat merchant said in wonder. “To what do we owe this delightful transformation?”
Sebastian trained his eye on the couple. “My dear friend Lady Miramonde de Oto agreed to accompany me to this fine event, and I could not ask for a brighter star at my side.”
The two of them blanched at the sight of his mangled face, as most people did when first confronted with him. The husband recovered first.
“And you are...?”
“Sebastian de Scolna at your service.” Sebastian gave a little bow. “Master painter of Flanders.”
“And of Bayonne,” the bishop cut in smoothly. “Master Sebastian has a studio here, and he has gifted the church several portraits of saints. A more welcome gift I cannot imagine.”
Mira glanced at the young priest by the door clutching the silver box heaped with coins.
Oh, I can think of one, she thought.
“Portraits of saints,” the merchant said, raising an eyebrow. “I should like to see them.”
“One of them hangs just there.” The bishop waved a hand at the wall behind him.
The merchant and his wife tilted their heads back to inspect it. “How curious,” said the merchant. “It looks as if you might have painted it, madame.” He turned back to Mira.
“My lady, you meant to say,” Sebastian corrected him gently. “And yes, your eyes do not deceive you. I taught Lady de Oto to paint, so it is only natural that her work has an echo of my own.”
“But we had no idea of your noble lineage when you painted my wife’s portrait, my lady,” the merchant said, sounding slightly affronted. “Why did you conceal it from us?”
“I cannot work in a dress like this,” Mira said, forcing herself to smile. “It is best to comport myself as an artisan when I am painting. It simplifies everything.”
“But your husband is not a nobleman,” he pointed out. “He is a tradesman, if I recall correctly. A cabinetmaker.”
Mira’s stomach lurched. “My husband is the firstborn son of a prominent family in Aragón. He chose to become a craftsman because he loves his work.” She glanced at the bishop. “And because using the talent God gave him to create beautiful things shows his love for our Lord in heaven.”
How smoothly lies rolled off her tongue when she had need of them.
The bishop’s eyes lit up. He placed his fingers together and rested his hands against his chest, as if the very mention of God prompted him to unconsciously assume a position of prayer.
Beyond him, Mira saw the tall merchant and his wife make their offering of coins to the priest at the door. She felt her knees go weak. Must she repeat the same words of explanation to them, all the while trying not to stare at the wife’s face for new evidence of abuse? But Sebastian saved her, offering his arm.
“Let us take a turn around the room, my lady,” he suggested. “I see an acquaintance I very much want you to meet.”
She smiled at him gratefully.
Seated at the side of a cod merchant whom Sebastian had identified as the richest man in Bayonne, Mira speared a sliver of whale tongue with her knife and brought it to her mouth. The chewy texture was strange, and she swallowed it quickly, washing it down with a sip of wine.
On the other side of the cod merchant, Sebastian extolled her virtues to all within earshot.
“Lady Miramonde de Oto has painted for nobles and merchants alike, in Aragón, France, and Béarn,” he was saying. “She is skilled in the Flanders style, and while I can take some of the credit for that as her teacher, I truly have never met a student with her degree of talent. She is a rare thing. A master who is also a woman. I believed women were inferior artists all my life, until I encountered Lady de Oto. I must admit she has entirely changed my mind.”
The cod merchant eyed her, his silver goblet in hand. “Have you any patrons in Bayonne, my lady?”
She nodded. “I have lately made two portraits for merchants who are here today, the men who financed the venture that brought in these whale tongues.”
Mira gestured at the silver platters on the table, laden with glistening meat.
The man sipped his wine. “I shall have to call upon these gentlemen and see your work for myself.”
“Please do,” she said. “I would be honored.”
“And come visit us in my studio,” Sebastian added, leaning closer to the merchant. “You can see more evidence of Lady de Oto’s talents there.”
At the far end of the table Mira noticed a heavy-set woman dressed in mourning clothes, her face obscured by a gauzy black veil. The woman was seated next to the bishop of Bayonne himself.
“Who is that woman by the bishop?” Mira asked the cod merchant, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“A wealthy widow,” he replied. “The priests told me her generosity tonight was unrivaled.”
“Ah,” Mira murmured. She felt a stab of sympathy for the poor lady. Trading a handful of coins for a fine meal and a few hours’ respite from her loneliness.
One day, she realized, that could be her. Even now, at this very moment, Mira could be a widow. For all she knew, Arna
ud was dead on a mountain ridge, bludgeoned by a bandit along the roadside, his body ravaged to the bone by griffon vultures.
A creeping panic ran up her spine. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to shut out the terrible image and focus her attention on the river of words pouring from the cod merchant’s mouth.
65
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Amadina
The day after the tribute feast, Amadina went to the innkeeper and inquired about purveyors of art supplies. He told her such a thing did not exist in Bayonne, as far as he knew, but there was a bookmaker who probably had such materials on his premises. Following his directions through the streets, Amadina found the shop in a dismal lane that stank of rotten vegetables and urine.
She entered the shop. Every surface was coated in dust. A black cat lay curled on a table near a window in a pool of light, regarding her with eyes the color of emeralds.
Amadina sniffed. She hated cats.
The proprietor came out from behind a tall cabinet filled with leather-bound books and eyed her with suspicion.
“What can I help you with, madame?” he asked, wiping his hands on his greasy apron.
“I am in need of pigments,” she said through the veil.
He snorted. “Not another woman painter?”
“I do not know what you mean, sir.”
“There was another woman in here not long ago, talking about buying my pigments. Claimed she was an artist. But she never came back.” He frowned. “My whole life I’ve not heard of a woman painter, and now I have two darken my door within the space of a season. Life is strange.”
“Was she young, with pale gray-green eyes?”
“How am I to know what color her eyes were?” he retorted. “She was young, I do recall that.”