by Amy Maroney
But the two men had changed topics from the indigo plant to the trade in wool. Now this was something Arnaud knew intimately. He sighed. No more news would be gleaned from this conversation.
“I am owed six dozen bags of washed merino wool—I paid for it two summers ago, and it never arrived,” the smaller man complained. “I had a good source, a reliable source, that came over the mountains through the Col du Somport.”
Arnaud’s ears pricked up again.
“One of the Jaca sheepbreeders? A monastery?” asked the other.
“No, no. A nobleman. God knows I thought him a man of his word. Ramón de Oto was his name. I paid in advance every summer for ten years. And now his shipments have ceased altogether. I can find no word of him, no explanation for this.”
“Did you write to him?”
“Of course. But it is nearly winter—nothing crosses the mountains until the spring thaw. I must resign myself to the loss and find a new supplier.”
Arnaud stood, tanker in hand, and crossed to the two men.
“Good sirs, I couldn’t help but overhear. I know the man of whom you speak.”
“Who are you, then?” The red-vested man kept one hand wrapped around his tanker of ale but the other fell to the hilt of his short sword.
“Arnaud de Luz of Ronzal.”
“I know your mark,” said the man, relaxing his grip. He pointed at the stool next to him. “You sell your wool at the market in Nay, do you not?”
Arnaud sat. “Yes—or I did. I am a cabinetmaker now.” He saluted them with his tanker, and they returned the gesture.
“I heard that Ramón de Oto crossed the sea to fight at the battle of Naples,” he said.
“Foreign wars!” said the heavy-set man in disgust. “A waste of lives and money.”
“But what the king wants, the king gets,” his companion said. He fixed his gaze on Arnaud. “I paid in advance. I suppose I’ll never get my wool now.”
Arnaud shrugged. “Could be he’s back now, as the war’s over. In the meantime, I know another source of washed merino wool. The Abbey of Belarac near the pilgrim’s route, just south of Nay.”
The man’s expression brightened. “Merino wool from Béarn? That’s a rarity.”
Arnaud nodded. “No tariffs to pay. Plus, I can vouch for its quality. You won’t find better wool.”
“Why did you come to Toulouse?” the large man asked.
“To oversee a business affair for the wool trade. But my skills lie more in making furniture.”
The smaller man regarded Arnaud thoughtfully. “Member of the guild, are you?”
Arnaud shook his head. “I lack the proper credentials. Though there seems to be work aplenty.”
“I have some carpentry that needs doing,” said the red-vested man. “It’s not fancy, but if you work quickly and your craftsmanship is fine, I might keep you on for better work.”
Arnaud knew the unspoken implication. If he worked for the merchant on the sly, the man would not have to pay fees to the guild. The repercussions if the arrangement was discovered would be severe, but he had no other choice.
The man’s companion scoffed. “Why would he do the work of a Cagot?”
Arnaud shook his head. “I’m not too proud to do honest work.” He gulped from his mug. “Are there many Cagots in this city?”
“Their settlements are outside the city walls. They keep to themselves,” said the large man. “Stick to the side alleys and the shadows, they do. Sniffing out the work in their weaselly way.”
A round of rough laughter went up from the guards’ table.
Arnaud drained his ale and stood, his eyes on the man in the red vest. “Thanks for the offer. Where can I find you?”
“Come to the main square on market day at first light.” The man set his tanker down. “I’ll be at the wool stalls.”
6
Autumn, 1504
San Juan de la Peña, Aragón
Brother Arros
The final days of autumn were upon them. There was so much to do. Yet try as he might, Brother Arros could not keep his thoughts straight today. His mind felt wrapped by moss. A headache plagued him, pounding fiercely in his temples, as if some creature had burrowed into his skull and was now attempting to force its way out with fury.
The end of autumn meant harvesting the last of the vegetables, pressing the olives, drying the beans, stacking the fodder. It meant preparing the winter enclosures for the flocks of sheep that would soon wend their way down from the summer grazing pastures in the high valleys. For Brother Arros, it meant corralling and organizing the monks and the servants to carry out all of their jobs.
Then there were the cycles of prayer, chapter meetings, care for the ill in the infirmary, ministering to the travelers in the guesthouse. Since he was the prior, he was ultimately responsible for all of it.
Brother Arros patted the pocket where a letter lay crinkled between the folds of his brown homespun robe. He tugged the paper out and held it aloft, his back to the sun, squinting at the darkly inked letters, tracing the embossed design of Lord de Vernier’s wax seal with a stubby finger. The letter had languished in his pocket for days. There had not been a moment to spare, let alone the substantial allotment of time writing a letter required. Even if he neglected all his responsibilities and wrote a response today, he had no way to send it. He had got word yesterday that the pass of Somport had been sealed shut by a blizzard.
A strong breeze blew in from the north just then, tugging the letter loose from his grasp.
He bent to pick it up, but a curious thing happened. His fingers would not close around the paper. He tried again. No, his fingers did not heed the call of his mind. They just dangled weakly at the end of his arm. He reached for a stone that lay near the letter. But it was no use. Experimentally, he flexed the fingers of his other hand and was relieved to discover that it worked as it always had. He reached for the letter with that hand, then wished he hadn’t.
His head pounded anew. A wave of bile rose in his throat. Slowly he sank to his knees.
The last thing Brother Arros remembered before losing consciousness was the soft kiss of the north wind on his cheeks, and the sight of the letter skittering away from him in the dust.
7
November, 2015
Pau, France
Zari
Laurence opened the door to her apartment and ushered Zari through.
“Tea?” she asked. “You prefer Irish breakfast, yes?”
Zari nodded, slipping off her boots.
Laurence headed into the kitchen. “Meet me in my office,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Zari padded down a long, narrow hallway covered with Moroccan rugs.
In the living room, a recessed series of shelves held a collection of carved stone sculptures. The ceilings were high and the wooden parquet floors were at least a century old, though they appeared to have been refinished recently with a honey-colored stain. Three tall windows looked out over the city. A dark, billowing cloud moved rapidly north, pushed by a brisk wind coming off the mountains. While Zari watched, two more clouds materialized behind it. Rain was sure to follow.
She entered the office, which was connected by two glass-paned doors to the living room. One wall was lined with shelves, each stuffed with books. The wall opposite, lit from above with bright directional lights, was hung with artwork. At its center was the portrait of the merchant family.
Zari gasped, put a hand to her mouth. Then she slowly approached the portrait.
The round-faced man and his equally plump wife stood in front of a balcony, their two daughters standing between them. The father, wearing a short black fur-trimmed cloak and matching cap, had a warm expression in his dark eyes, the barest hint of a smile on his full lips. The mother held herself regally. Her dress wa
s a deep scarlet, her throat and fingers laden with jewels, her hair covered with a pearl-encrusted veil. The girls, also clad in red dresses, were miniature versions of their mother, their dark hair braided and pulled back from their heart-shaped faces.
Zari stared into the eyes of each family member, mesmerized. They seemed to watch her as much as she watched them.
Laurence came to her side. “How do you like my painting?”
“They seem so alive,” Zari said. “They know they are seen—and they look back. That effect is missing from all the Cornelia van der Zee portraits I saw in person—all except the one at Fontbroke College.”
The background of the portrait showed a low balcony of stone covered with lush, twining vines. Beyond it were pale green hills studded with rocks. Various species of trees—Zari picked out oak, pine, and beech among them—were depicted on the slopes, and flocks of sheep grazed on the lush grass. In the far distance towered snow-capped mountains.
The level of detail in the background was what bolstered Dotie Butterfield-Swinton’s theory that Bartolomé Bermejo had painted it. Unlike his contemporaries, the painter had zeroed in on real-world details in his backgrounds to an astonishing degree. One of Bermejo’s works had been found to contain nearly two dozen different species of clearly identifiable animals and plants.
“The conservators believe this background is the southern Pyrenees, in Spain,” Laurence said. She gave Zari a searching look. “And—I’m sorry, Zari. But Dotie contacted me yesterday. He told me he is collaborating with a scholar from Spain, an expert on Bermejo.”
Zari stared at her in apprehension.
“At the moment, a Bermejo painting is being analyzed at the Prado Museum in Madrid. Dotie said the underdrawings are quite similar to those in this painting and in the Fontbroke College portrait.”
Zari took several steps backward and sank onto a low couch upholstered in soft mocha-colored fabric.
“Oh, no.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
Laurence perched next to her, eyes full of sympathy.
Zari put her hands over her face for a moment. If the underdrawings had been markedly different, Dotie’s theory would look even shakier than it already was. Instead, he’d scored a coup, and Mira’s ascension to the pages of history was rendered more fragile.
“There’s so little known about Bermejo that Dotie can just fill in the blanks about him,” she said bitterly. “But the few facts that exist about Bermejo don’t support Dotie’s theory, and I keep coming back to those. Bermejo disappeared from the face of the earth in 1495, and much of his work was created far earlier than that. This painting and the Fontbroke College portrait date to 1500 at the earliest. The dates don’t add up.”
“Carbon dating is not precise enough to tell us that this panel is from the year 1500 exactly,” Laurence reminded her. “It might be a bit older.”
“I know. I wish there was more evidence about the origin of the wood he painted on. Bermejo’s work was sometimes on pine, sometimes on oak. But we don’t know where the wood he used came from, although I found one source that showed a patron ordered him to use ‘Flanders oak.’”
“He painted like a Flemish master. He must have lived for a time in Flanders,” Laurence said. “How else could he have learned those techniques? No one else in Spain at that time painted like he did.”
Zari shrugged. “Maybe some of the Flemish masters traveled around dispensing wisdom and one made it all the way to Spain. All of the documents referring to Bermejo during his lifetime—plus all of his known works—originated in Spain. There’s no evidence he ever spent time in Flanders or France or anywhere else.”
She sprang up and scowled at the portrait, arms crossed over her chest.
“The provenance of this painting is clear: all the owners have been from this area, not from Spain. So if Bermejo painted it in Spain, wouldn’t the first owner have been from there as well?”
“It could have been a commission from someone on this side of the Pyrenees.”
“Am I the only one who’s noticed that Bermejo’s existing works are mainly large religious pieces painted for church altars?” Zari asked. “The few smaller pieces attributed to him are also religious subjects. Sometimes his patrons were depicted in those scenes, but never with this level of skill. He may have been a master at detail, but he wasn’t exceptional at painting human figures. And then there’s the huge red flag that not one portrait like this exists among his works.”
Before Laurence could parry, she held up a hand.
“I know, I know. There could have been portraits. A lot goes missing over the course of five hundred years.”
Zari returned to the couch and sat down again, aware that two spots of color burned on her cheeks.
“Have courage, Zari,” Laurence said gently.
“I’ve contacted every owner of a painting by the man,” Zari said, a tremor in her voice. “None of Bermejo’s works have Arnaud’s mark on the back. That’s got to mean something, right?”
“I hope so.” Laurence reached out and squeezed Zari’s hand. “It’s time for some tea.”
She got up and went to the kitchen.
Zari stared hungrily at the painting. What had she missed? What was hiding in plain sight? She stepped closer and closer, until her face was just inches from the panel.
Outside, the shifting clouds partially obscured the sun. The room grew dim.
Laurence reappeared and handed Zari a ceramic mug of steaming tea. “Milk, no sugar, yes?”
Zari smiled her thanks. Someone in France knew what kind of tea she preferred, and how she liked it. Whatever happened, she was grateful for that. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away impatiently. How could gratitude make her cry?
She gestured at the painting. “Who is this family? If we can learn that, we’re getting somewhere. Find them, and they could lead us to the artist. Paintings of this era always held clues or symbols that were meaningful to the subjects. Like the wife’s ruby necklace. And this ring on the merchant’s finger.”
The gold ring on the man’s finger had a square face that bore a swirling design made of some dark material. Enamel, perhaps. A buzz of excitement crept up Zari’s spine. The ring had to be significant.
“Discovering their identity will be very difficult,” Laurence said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Zari, but it is probably impossible.”
The storm clouds swelled, sucking what was left of the sunlight into their dark embrace. Everything in the room fell into shadow except the artwork on the wall.
Brightly lit from above, the merchant family gazed steadily out into the gloom. Their luminous eyes flickered with stories untold, with long-buried secrets, with memories sealed in a forgotten past.
“That’s perfect,” Zari said softly. “Impossible is turning out to be my specialty.”
8
November, 2015
Toulouse, France
Zari
The pink brick buildings and tall church spires of Toulouse gleamed on the horizon. A stiff wind careened across the plains, buffeting the Renault with eerie unpredictability. Miniature cyclones of dust rose up on the road ahead.
Laurence’s posture was tense. When she picked up Zari that morning, her eyes showed evidence of a sleepless night, and her navy blue blouse had an uncharacteristic wrinkle down the front. Most of Zari’s attempts at conversation had fallen flat. And the brooding, preoccupied expression on Laurence’s face seemed to deepen as their journey progressed.
“The wind comes from all directions and does not know which way to go,” she complained now, slowing the car as they came to a toll crossing.
Zari produced some change and Laurence tossed it in a metal basket that emptied into a machine. The coins rattled as they slipped into the mechanism.
“Gum, please.” Laurence jerked her head at her handbag.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The city archives were housed in a nineteenth-century former water reservoir that had been modified twenty years ago to store municipal documents.
Inside, an artificially blond, middle-aged archivist examined them with cold blue eyes, explaining tersely that she—and only she—would be turning the pages. Laurence and Zari agreed to her terms, flanking her at a narrow metal table.
The notary’s record book was not nearly as ornate as the prayer book they had examined in Perpignan. The thin cover was bound with rust-red paper painted to resemble marble. The yellowing pages were fragile, their brittle edges flaking away. Each page was filled with the notary Jean Aubrey’s slanted script, the ink a faded brown. Under each description of a transaction or agreement was his mark, a complicated and whimsical design that resembled a coat of arms with long feathering tails shooting off in four directions. The other parties’ signatures appeared below or alongside his, if they appeared at all.
When they got to the entry that Zari had flagged, Laurence had a whispered consultation with the woman. Reluctantly, the archivist peeled off her magnifying visor and handed it to Zari.
“Tenez,” she said gruffly.
“Oh! Merci,” Zari said in gratitude, slipping the contraption over her head. She stood and awkwardly leaned past the archivist’s shoulder to get a better look.
Her eyes were drawn immediately to the signatures. The notary, Jean Aubrey, had made his flamboyant mark below the lines of script. To the left of that, three names were listed. First, another swirling concoction of self-promotion that was the signature of Lord Esteven de Vernier, one of the governing leaders of Renaissance-era Toulouse. And under that, in simple, faded letters, Arnaud de Luz and Miramonde de Luz had inked their own signatures.
