by Amy Maroney
Arnaud bowed deeply in return. “I am honored.” When he straightened, a bloom of fresh blood showed on the fabric of his blouse.
“The saints and stars above, you are injured!” cried Carlo. “Allow my servants to tend to you at once.” He clapped his hands and several servants came running.
“Would you be in possession of butterwort salve to stop any infection?” Mira asked him.
“I am sure I possess everything under the sun that can cure a man,” he assured her. “We have accumulated an arsenal of potions and herbs for every conceivable ill.”
Mira murmured her thanks, watching Arnaud disappear from the room.
“They will have him in fine form again within the hour,” pronounced Carlo. “Let me offer you refreshment. All I ask in return is the favor of a story.”
“A story?”
“Yes, the tale of your predicament. Whatever course of events led you to my doorstep. I shall be quite mesmerized by it, I imagine.”
“But first let me inquire after the health of your wife and daughters,” Mira said.
He waved her into a leather-backed oak armchair and poured a thin stream of red liquid from a pitcher into a tiny silver glass, which he placed on a polished wooden table at her elbow.
“My Flora is a rose always in bloom. And our girls have their mother’s constitution, praise God. They are all three ensconced in our summer residence near Zaragoza.” He poured himself a cup as well.
“And your sister?”
“She, too, is in good health. Off on her annual wool-buying trip along the pilgrim’s route. It is her summer custom. Keeps her apprised of the competition.”
Mira felt the fear in her gut begin to unknot itself.
Carlo sank into the chair opposite hers and fixed her with an encouraging smile. “I must tell you,” he confided. “I was quite worried when you disappeared from Nay. As were others in the town who had hoped for works as fine as this one on their walls...”
He gestured at the portrait that hung over an oak sideboard. Mira glanced at it, then dropped her eyes.
“It was a family matter that took me away from here. I had no choice but to leave.” She broke off, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Oh, dear.” He held up a hand. “You grow distressed. Let us speak of other things. Such as the adventure that led you to my doorstep once again. I only mean to say how delighted and relieved I am to see you well. Please, begin.”
By the time Arnaud joined them again, Carlo had downed several cups of wine. Two spots of color adorned his plump cheeks, and his dark eyes glistened as he ushered Arnaud into a chair and offered him a drink.
“Your wife has told me the most astounding tale,” he said. “I assure you, when I rose today I had no inkling what excitement was in store for me.”
Arnaud raised his cup. “To your health, Lord Sacazar, with my gratitude.”
They all drank.
“It seems you find yourselves in a quandary,” Carlo said. He set his cup down and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. “All in the name of helping the Abbey of Belarac. I feel a tug of sympathy in my heart, for I greatly admired Mother Béatrice. I often said she had the soul of an angel and the mind of a merchant. There aren’t many women like her. She took in so many widows, so many orphans. And her end came far too quickly. There was much more she could have done.” He smiled sadly, gazing at the cherubs carved in stone that frolicked over the massive hearth. Then he fixed his eyes on Arnaud.
“I hear the bandits made off with the chair you spent all winter carving?”
“Yes.” Arnaud put his cup down. “I planned to take it to the cabinetmakers’ guild in Bayonne when we arrive in hopes of finding a place in their ranks.”
“But now you are diverted to Toulouse instead.”
“Yes, but only briefly. Once we conduct our business there, we leave for Bayonne.”
“Ah. The loss of the chair is of course a disappointment. But the accepted practice these days when approaching a guild is to present a letter of recommendation vouching for one’s talents. It’s near impossible to gain admittance otherwise. How does this strike you: I’ll write such a letter to the cabinetmaker’s guild of Bayonne, send it off, and by the time you reach the city it will be in the hands of the guild master.”
“I would be much obliged,” Arnaud said gratefully.
“It will be an easy letter to write.” Carlo shifted in his seat. “But I wish you would reconsider the offer I made you last year to work here in Nay. There is an endless supply of quality wood in these mountains, and I now have a furniture making workshop to complement my other businesses. Few possess skills like yours. I could use you here, and pay you handsomely.”
Arnaud dipped his head in thanks. “I am flattered, Lord Sacazar. My wife and I have made up our minds, though. Bayonne is where we’ll seek our fortune. We’re bound to help Ronzal with a new venture to pole-barge oak down the river Pau to the harbor there.”
“Indeed? Yes, a hunger for good oak grows in the north. Word is they’ve cut down all the forests in those lands.”
Arnaud nodded. “Others in the mountains already do this, at great profit.”
“And great peril,” Carlo said. “Felling oaks, carting them to the river—that is not easy work.” He stared at Arnaud thoughtfully. “Why not build up your wool business instead? There is no end to the demand for fine merino fabric.”
Arnaud glanced at Mira. “Our Ronzal flocks are bound to overwinter at Belarac, it’s written in the ancient agreements. But if there’s not enough fodder for them under this new abbess, we’ll be lucky to hang on to the animals we have. Building up our flocks would be impossible. No, it’s better to try something new.”
“Bayonne it is, then, if I cannot persuade you otherwise.” Carlo looked at Mira again. “I know the terror that roadside bandits can inspire, and I wish I could allay your fears. The least I can do is send you on your way with another mule so that your journey progresses with haste.” He held his hand up to ward off their protests. “No, no, I insist. And I also give you my assurance that what we’ve spoken of today shall remain a private matter.”
With that he stood. “May I offer you a room for the night? I shall call for my notary and have him write up the letter of recommendation in the morning.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I do not wish to offend you, Señor de Luz, but can you write your own signature?”
Arnaud nodded. “No offense taken, my lord. I read and write.”
“In several languages,” Mira added a trifle hotly.
A broad smile creased Carlo’s face. “My apologies. I know your father is learned, so I might have assumed the son was as well. But I also know that assumptions are often wrong.”
Mira was instantly contrite. “We are in your debt, Lord Sacazar.”
He shook his head. “It is I who is indebted to you, Mira—pardon me, Señora de Luz. The portraits you painted are priceless to me. They bring me joy every day. I am glad you came to me for aid. If you ever need my assistance in the future, you have only to ask. And should you ever require a recommendation from a patron, please think of me first.”
Mira searched his eyes and found only kindness. It was true, he had always been a man of his word. He had been a friend to Mother Béatrice and had helped the shepherds of Ronzal sell their wool in Nay. Why, then, did the sight of him set her pulse racing? It was his sister Amadina whom she did not trust, after all. Not him.
As she and Arnaud left the parlor and followed a servant up the curving staircase to their chamber, she worried over a thought that had long tormented her.
How could one Sacazar be so good-hearted and the other so cruel?
19
Summer, 1504
Nay, Béarn
Carlo
Carlo stared at the door long after Mira and Arnaud had left the room, his arms fold
ed across his chest. He gazed unseeing at the polished oak panels, the ironwork spiraling out from the door’s massive hinges, his mind sorting through a lifetime’s worth of memories and coming to rest, as it often did, on his sister Amadina. His brain churned so intensely that he failed to hear the crackle of wood in the hearth, the coo of a dove on the windowsill. The entire world dropped away as he riffled through the past.
Something had happened last summer between Amadina and Mira, he was sure of it. He and his family left Nay expecting Mira to be in her chamber at their home when they returned that autumn. She had a full schedule of portraits to paint, after all: two for Amadina and several for Nay’s other leading families. And yet, when they returned from Zaragoza, Mira was gone, leaving her contracts unfulfilled. The town gossips said she ran off with a shepherd. There was no point dispatching servants to investigate, for winter soon sealed off the passage through the mountains to Aragón.
He had questioned Amadina, but she fluttered her eyelashes at him the way she always did when she was being evasive, claiming ignorance of the entire matter. Carlo had listened with his customary skepticism. He knew his sister too well, better than he even knew himself. He had spent a lifetime studying her, trying to discover what made her happy. It had taken far too long for him to realize that happiness was out of Amadina’s reach. For her veins flowed with as much bitterness as blood.
He had tried since they were children to mollify her, to ease her anger. Yet as soon as she was soothed, another eruption bubbled forth. She thrived on rage.
In his campaign to appease Amadina, Carlo had developed a habit of placating her with money and gifts and contraptions for her growing industries. There was no end to the stream of widows and fallen women who made their way to her doorstep. No sooner had Carlo delivered another loom to Amadina than it was put to use in her workshop. Lately she was consumed with lace-making and sat for hours overseeing the nuns who worked their threads of silk into lace by candlelight.
She had taken an intense interest in Mira, had grasped onto the rumor bandied about by muleteers that the girl was a child of the barons of Oto. Carlo tried his best to dissuade her from spreading such gossip, though in his heart he believed it was true. After all, he had spent enough time with Marguerite de Oto to see how much Mira resembled her. It was mostly in their pale gray-green eyes, as watchful and wide as the eyes of a cat.
He had wondered last summer if Amadina frightened Mira away from Nay with some cruel trick of the tongue. And it was obvious just now, when Mira asked about Amadina, that something troubled her. There had been a shadow on her face—not fear, exactly, but apprehension.
Carlo sighed.
Whatever the truth regarding Mira’s origins, Carlo had no desire to dig into the matter. He despised gossip. His wife Flora’s interest in salacious stories was the one thing about her that he disliked, and he was quite stern with her when she indulged in such talk.
But since Béatrice of Belarac died he had been plagued by an irksome feeling of responsibility toward Mira. It had settled into his bones and become another burden to carry around. So he was heartily relieved when she appeared healthy and whole on his doorstep today—and yet he fretted anew, imagining the dangers she faced in the world outside the abbey’s gates. Surely Béatrice would have wanted Carlo to intervene in some way, to help the girl and her husband find security in their new life together.
Slowly he turned and regarded the portrait that hung on the opposite wall. He in his fur-trimmed cloak and matching cap, his fingers adorned with gold. Flora and their two young daughters, dressed in identical red gowns. The whimsical background with its balcony, its twining vines, the snow-covered mountains in the distance. He had brought the portrait to Zaragoza years ago, but at Flora’s insistence he had returned it to their Nay residence last autumn. She had argued, rightly, that since they spent so little time in Zaragoza, it made no sense to keep their most treasured possession there.
He approached the panel and reached out a finger, stroking the gilt-covered frame with satisfaction. Yes, Mira had created a masterful image of his family. He would cherish it until the day he died.
Carlo went to his desk and removed a sheet of linen paper, his pot of ink, and a quill from a drawer. The letter to the cabinetmakers’ guild would wait until tomorrow when his notary could be present, but another note was already taking form in his mind. He would write to the man who taught Mira to wield a paintbrush with masterful skill—and see if there was something he could do to nurture her fledgling career as an artist.
He glanced at the portrait again, working the muscles in his jaw. Had Amadina done something to frighten Mira off last summer? Carlo frowned. One thing was certain—he would never get the truth out of his sister.
Overcome by a growing sense of urgency, he dipped his quill in the ink and began to write.
Book II
Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito.
Yield not to misfortunes, but advance all the more boldly against them.
—Virgil
1
October, 2015
Pau, France
Zari
In her subconscious mind, Wil’s face appeared in the dim light, his unruly hair a soft halo around his head. He found the pulse point in her neck with his lips, then turned his attention to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her eyelids fluttered, and she breathed in deeply, letting out her breath in a long exhalation of contentment. His lips traced a path down her body, his ministrations to her most secret and sensitive spots made in silence. In a moment, startled by her own cry of pleasure, Zari felt herself surfacing from sleep.
Wil’s deep, languid laugh sounded in response. She sat up in bed, her body tingling with luxurious aftershocks. He rolled back, one hand propped under his head, one hand on her naked thigh.
“Not a bad way to wake up,” he said, grinning.
“I’ll say.” She pulled him up next to her and settled into the crook of his arm. “I had no idea you were so schooled in the art of surprises.”
“I said I would be late getting in, you left me a key, the rest is history.”
He drew a circle around her belly button with a finger.
“How long do we have?” she asked.
“More than forty-eight hours.”
“That’s something to celebrate. I think I’ll start by giving you a taste of your own medicine.”
She kissed him with a ferocity and tenderness she never knew she possessed until Wil entered her life. Zari had never been in love before, had resigned herself to the idea that she simply wasn’t built for it. And then one winter night in Amsterdam, this tall, wild-haired, bespectacled Dutchman had knocked her off her feet. Literally.
It had been her fault. As he was quick to point out that night, she committed a typical tourist error: walking in a bike lane. She smiled, remembering the terrible first impression she’d had of Wil. He seemed superior and dismissive, blaming her for the accident. Her temper flared and she stalked away. Concerned that she was really hurt, he insisted on walking her back to her hotel. Then, out of nowhere, came his rollicking laughter. Its infectious warmth and richness seemed completely at odds with his stern demeanor. And she knew in that moment with utter certainty that she had to hear him laugh again.
The next morning dawned gloriously crisp and bright. They rented bicycles, rode to an outdoor market, and filled their baskets with cheese, bread, fruit, and wine. Pedaling along a narrow lane through fields that bordered a winding river, they watched amber-colored leaves spiral down to the ground, shorn from tree branches by a strong breeze. The white peaks of the Pyrenees loomed over the hills to the south.
When they found the perfect place for a picnic on the riverbank, they spread out their jackets and unwrapped their market goods. Wil’s keychain sported a multitool with a tiny corkscrew. He made a dramatic show of popping the cork out, offering Zari the first swig.
“French people would never drink out of the bottle,” she remarked.
“Everyone drinks out of the bottle if they have to,” Wil said sagely. He cut a slice of goat cheese and handed it to her with a chunk of baguette.
“What was your favorite kind of adventure, back when your whole life revolved around travel?” she asked.
“The cold-weather trips are bad memories now, because of what happened to Filip,” he said after a moment. “I always loved water adventures. Sailing, kayaking. I love the sea. Our sailboat became a tiny world. And I’m a bit obsessed with maps and charts. Tying rope knots, too. Filip and I used to spend hours figuring out these complicated knots.” He smiled, caught in a memory. “We met an Irishman in a harbor once, I think in Greece, who had a ring that looked like a rope knot. It was actually three or four rings that were twisted together.”
Zari nodded. “Puzzle rings. I’ve seen them at art fairs in California.” She remembered his neatly packed backpack on their summer trek along the Camino. “You’re so organized. That’s probably why you love the miniature world of a boat.”
He caught her hand in hers. “Speaking of boats, thank you, Zari.”
“For what?”
“For making the connection with Filip and your brother’s friend.”
“Did they make contact?”
“Yes. Filip’s been invited to join the sailing trip in Croatia next May.”
“Do you think he’ll go?”
A swallow glided past them and swooped to the water line, skimmed something from the surface of the river, and winged away.
Wil propped his head on his hand and followed the movement of the swallow with his eyes. “His family is worried about him. They don’t think he’s ready for a trip like that.”
