by Amy Maroney
Late one evening there came a pounding at the door. Mira and Arnaud looked at each other. No one had ever knocked for them before. They both sprang out of bed.
“Yes?” Arnaud called.
“Someone asks for you.” The landlord’s voice was gravelly with sleep. “Come at once.”
They scrambled in the dark to shove their feet into slippers and pull on their cloaks. Downstairs, in the guesthouse’s entryway, a woman lay on the floor curled on her side, a screaming baby in her arms.
The landlord nudged the woman with a toe. “They sent her from the inn. She asked for you there and they told her you’d come here. Walked in babbling, fell on the floor, and now she’s gone silent.”
Mira sank to her knees at the woman’s side. She drew back the hood of her cloak and took in a sharp breath. It was Deedit, the Cagot woman from the mountain village, the one whose husband lost a hand for drinking from the wrong holy water font. Mira glanced up at Arnaud, shocked.
“Poor thing,” she said when she finally found her voice. “She needs a bed.”
The landlord frowned. “She looks ill. The sweating sickness has taken hold in the eastern quarter of the city. I’ll not allow it in my property.”
Mira put a hand on Deedit’s forehead. “She has no sweating sickness.”
The landlord opened his mouth to protest.
“I nursed hundreds of pilgrims in a convent infirmary.” Mira said more forcefully. “I know what sweating sickness is, and this woman does not have it. She is hungry and exhausted, that is all. Please, let us take her to our rooms. We shall pay for her lodging.”
The landlord jerked his head at the sobbing baby.
“We’ll pay for hers as well,” Arnaud said, plucking the baby from her mother’s side and handing her to Mira. He slid his arms under Deedit’s slumped shape and scooped her up.
“Very well.” The landlord yawned. “On a temporary basis only, mind you. And bring me payment tomorrow, before you exit these doors. I’ll be waiting.”
Arnaud made a nest for Deedit and her baby in a corner of the sitting room. When Deedit awoke in the morning, Mira kneeled at her side, feeding her spoonfuls of broth and boiled millet. The baby was able to sit up on her own, and she reached for the spoon so many times Mira finally let her feed herself, though the mess was eye-popping.
“What happened?” Mira asked, nestling the baby at her mother’s side again.
“My husband got sicker and sicker. His stump never really healed. Nothing I did helped. One day he died.”
Deedit’s pale yellow hair was plastered to her head. She was so thin Mira could see her skull pressing through the scant flesh on her face. The day they first met, Mira had been struck by the woman’s cornflower-blue eyes, fierce with anger. Now they were bloodshot and dull, circled with dark shadows.
“My belly swelled. When my baby was born I was frightened. I had no husband, no one to feed us. The other Cagots gave me what they could, but they had so little themselves.” She shifted her position, stroked her baby’s head with a small, calloused hand. “I kept thinking on what you said. I decided the only way I could help my baby was to leave that place. So I tore the red badges off my sleeves and crept away. I thought we’d die on that first night. But I managed to find a place with the shell over the door just as you said. The monks were kind, and the prior remembered you. He told me where you planned to lodge in Toulouse. And then I followed the shells all the way here, sleeping and eating by the grace of nuns and monks.”
“And no one mistreated you?”
Deedit shook her head. “I told no one what I am.” She glanced around the room. “Do you make things here?”
“Arnaud makes tools for his work and supplies for my work.” Mira saw Deedit’s eyes rest on a stack of paintbrushes. “I am an artist,” she explained.
“What do you mean?”
“I paint portraits.”
“And you get paid for that?”
Mira nodded.
Deedit took that in silently. The baby squalled and she gathered the infant in her arms, putting her to a breast.
“She cries because my milk’s dried up some, from all the journeying.”
“We’ll soon put that to rights. And she is ready to wean. You saw her with that millet and broth.”
“But how will I pay you for the lodging? I’ve got no money.”
“Do not worry about that now. Rest, eat, and regain your strength.”
The wary look on Deedit’s face washed away. She settled back into her blankets.
“What is your baby’s name?” Mira asked.
For the first time, Deedit smiled. “Rose.”
They fell into a new routine. Deedit and Rose slept in the front room surrounded by painting supplies and tools. Once Deedit had regained her strength, she became a maid of sorts for them, attending to laundry, meal preparation, and marketing. She carried Rose in a wrap on her back.
Rose’s screams gave way to smiles as she gained weight and flourished under the attention of all three adults. Deedit was an accomplished seamstress and she began taking in work from the landlord and neighbors.
They strolled out together on market day, traipsing from stall to stall in the great square, observing all the craftspeople hawking their wares. They would buy warm buns from a bakery on the way, then wander at their leisure watching the crowds and the bustle of activity.
From time to time they caught sight of Cagots on these outings, identifiable from the red fabric badges sewn onto their sleeves. They were rarely in full sight, nor did they mingle with the market day crowds. Rather they crept along the side alleys, melting into shadows when they needed to, trying not to attract attention to themselves. Mira found herself staring unabashedly after them, trying to catch a glimpse of their faces to see if they all looked like Deedit and Rose, with cornflower-blue eyes and hair like straw.
One day on her way home from work, Mira cut through a narrow alleyway to avoid a mule cart with a broken wheel that blocked the lane. A dark-haired man about her height approached from the opposite direction. His eyes were downcast and he walked with quick, scurrying steps. His clothes were patched and worn, and there was something red on his sleeve—the distinctive badge of a Cagot.
The next morning she mentioned the encounter to Deedit.
“He looked nothing like you,” she remarked.
“Why should he?”
“You are both Cagots.”
“We don’t all look the same.”
“The red badges are the only way to tell, then?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“It’s the way things have always been for us.”
“I do not see a difference between you and any other woman.” Mira leaned forward, plucked Rose from the floor, and settled the girl on her knee. “It makes no sense.”
A shadow crossed Deedit’s face. “I feel deceitful, knowing I’m one of them who’s meant to walk in the shadows and keep my eyes down. I pretend to be like you, but in my heart I know what I truly am. It makes me ashamed.”
Mira reached out and took her hand. “What you truly are is a fine mother and exceptional seamstress.”
Arnaud emerged from the bedchamber, buttoning his vest. “Who’s ready for market day?”
Rose screeched in excitement at the sight of him, raising her arms. He swung her up and twirled around, eliciting a stream of laughter.
“You’ll be a good father one day, sir,” Deedit said, her face creased in a rare smile.
“Call me Arnaud.”
“As you wish, sir.”
He winked at Rose, who let out a squeal of glee.
Mira felt a queer sort of yearning in her chest. She imagined Arnaud with another baby in his arms. Their baby. It wasn’t for lack of trying that she was not yet with child. A tingle of desire took hold
of her at the thought of Arnaud’s body next to her in the dark, his hands exploring her most intimate places, his mouth claiming her, possessing her. It was the only time she felt truly at ease in Toulouse. All the worries of the day, of the future, dropped away in those moments.
“Mira?”
Arnaud drew close, looking at her with the smile that she treasured the way other women treasured pearls. It had been his gift to her since they were eleven years old.
“Tonight?” he whispered.
The sly look on his face told her he knew exactly where her mind had been.
11
Winter, 1505
Toulouse, France
Deedit
Deedit walked through the streets, head up, her small feet in their new shoes of soft tanned leather silent on the cobblestones. She wore a thick brown wool cloak and matching mittens, gifts from Mira. In her basket was a pile of linens to be embroidered and returned to customers by the end of the week.
It had not been difficult to find work. People they encountered on the way to the market complimented the intricate embroidery along the hem of little Rose’s skirt and on the sleeves of her blouse. Deedit quickly gained a reputation as a fine seamstress who could make a plain garment look like something of quality with the addition of decorative stitching. Her earnings helped with rent and food, but Mira always insisted she keep a few coins for herself.
Each evening after Rose was asleep, Deedit lit two tallow candles and sat in silence, pushing a needle and thread through linen and flax, thinking of nothing but the desire to make fine, careful stitches. The murmurings of Mira and Arnaud behind their chamber door were a reminder that she was safe here in Toulouse, under the care of kind people. Those were the only moments of the day when she was free of the worries that churned constantly in her mind. She treasured them.
Just ahead was the small square where their lodgings were located. It was a fairly quiet place, though the fountain sometimes attracted servants fetching water for laundry or workers washing off after a day’s toiling in the trades. As Deedit passed into the square she noticed two boys in a narrow alleyway standing over a prone body on the ground. They were jeering and shouting. The only intelligible word she heard was ‘Cagot.’
Instantly she stopped.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the fountain, she willed her feet to move, to continue home. Yet she could not get the image of her deceased husband out of her mind. His poor, dear body bleeding on the slick cobblestones while villagers stood by, taunting him. Now here she was walking through the streets of Toulouse as if she were a true citizen, wearing fine clothing, working at a trade, living in a safe and warm dwelling.
What has she done in her life to deserve such a fate? What made her any better than the Cagots who were doomed to creep in the shadows, shuffle past the citizens of the city, always in fear of being noticed? And when they were noticed, the outcome was always the same: ridicule, torment, abuse.
She wheeled and approached the alleyway.
“Leave the poor thing alone!” she shouted.
The boys turned and appraised her. They must not have been much older than twelve, poor themselves, if their stained clothing and dirty faces were any evidence. Yet because they were not Cagots, she knew they still felt superior to the man trembling behind them.
Slowly he rose, shivering in the cold. The red badge on his sleeve was florid, a vulgar flash of color on his timeworn shirt. Perhaps it had been white once, that shirt, but now it was the faded gray that poverty bestowed upon the clothing of the destitute. She noticed a ragged hole on the other sleeve, and wished she could mend it for him.
Instead of heeding her words, the boys laughed. One of them, the taller of the two, with hair the color of silt and eyes that were hooded like an old man’s, reached out and yanked her basket so it fell on the ground, spilling out its contents.
“Seamstress, are you?” he said, eyeing her closely. “You’re dressed fine.” He bent down and picked up one of the blouses that had fallen out of the basket. “I’m in need of something new myself. This looks like a good fit.”
His companion pawed through the other items. He had a broad face and wide, thin lips. Squatting there before her on his spindly haunches, he put her in mind of a toad.
“Cagot women are the best seamstresses, they say.” He squinted up at her. “Ain’t that so?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Get off my things!”
The one clutching the blouse stepped closer. “You’re small. Like a child, you are. Cagots are like that. Look at him!” He jerked his head back toward the slight man, who had pressed himself against the wall of the alley, his eyes round with fear. “Only a Cagot would defend one of their own. Show us your sleeve!”
“Thief!” she screamed as loudly as she could. “Thief!”
Her voice floated out over the square, high and insistent.
A merchant woman and her servants stopped by the fountain, observing the scene.
“Are those boys abusing you, madame?” the merchant woman called.
Deedit locked eyes with the boy who had the blouse crumpled in his fist.
“Are you?” she hissed. “Do you wish to feel the sting of the bailiff’s whip?”
He flung the blouse at her. His companion sprang back and the two of them melted into the shadows. From the darkness came the tall boy’s mocking voice again: “Cagot.”
Hands trembling, she stuffed her linens back in the basket. When she looked up, the Cagot man was gone.
She quickly returned to their lodgings and said nothing of the encounter to Mira or Arnaud. But now she would have to be on her guard, watching for those taunting, ragged boys, each time she passed through the square. The familiar, sickening sensation of anxiety and fear returned, pressing down on her even when she took up needle and thread and stitched her patterns.
For Rose’s sake, Deedit knew she would never come to the defense of a Cagot again.
12
Winter, 1505
Toulouse, France
Mira
Mira gathered her skirts in her hands and took the steps two at a time. Lady de Vernier desired her presence at once. Heloise had delivered the news breathlessly, an eager light in her eyes, as soon as Mira entered the kitchens that morning.
“I wonder what you’ve done,” she added as Mira hurried away, loud enough for all the kitchen servants to hear. “I’d brace for the worst if I were you.”
Striding along the red wool carpets past polished oak chests, displays of silver plate, and gleaming beeswax candles, Mira prayed her error was something forgivable.
When she entered the chamber door her mistress was standing at the window, staring up at the soaring brick tower across the courtyard. As usual Lady de Vernier was dressed entirely in blue, her bodice encrusted with tiny white pearls.
“Mira,” she said, turning. “Approach. I have something to discuss with you.”
She spoke in Aragónese, in a soft, pleasant voice. This was a good sign, surely.
“I have studied the completed portrait to my satisfaction,” she said, “and I have arrived at my conclusion. Your work is exquisite, my dear. It rivals anything executed by the artists other families import from Flanders and Florence. I could not be happier.” She smiled broadly.
Mira was overcome with relief. Her knees felt weak.
“Oh, my lady,” she said. “I am honored to hear this.”
“Tell me how you learned your craft.”
“I studied under a master painter called Sebastian de Scolna. He was from Flanders and happened upon our convent after a grave injury. I helped nurse him back to health. After his recovery he stayed on at the convent and painted the frescoes in an old chapel that had fallen into disrepair. He offered to teach me to paint proper portraits in the Flemish style.”
“But surely it must have taken years for
you to develop these skills.”
“The truth is I began to draw as a small child,” Mira admitted. “I had a basket of charcoal and when I could steal a few moments I would go to the old well in the kitchen garden where there was a marble step that served as my drawing surface. When the mother abbess saw what I could do, she put me to work illustrating manuscripts in the library. In that way I learned to use a brush and pigment, although my first and best skill was drawing. The master Sebastian taught me to use my drawing skills to aid my painting. Do you recall how I used that lead stylus to make underdrawings before I even put a drop of paint on the panel?”
“Yes.”
“The underdrawings are the foundation for the portrait, then I add layers of paint on top of them. Master Sebastian taught me the tricks of light and shading that make a portrait come to life.”
She gestured to the painting. Lady de Vernier was depicted from the waist up and wore a blue silk dress with a square neckline. A double strand of glowing pearls was wrapped around her neck. Upon her dark hair lay a gossamer-thin veil stitched with the finest gold thread. In the background, visible through an open window, was the pink brick tower that every other merchant in Toulouse envied.
“Does your master still live?” Lady de Vernier joined her in front of the panel.
“I know not,” Mira said. “He returned to Flanders when the scars from his injuries had healed. I pray for him each day. He is a kind man, and patient. He taught me how to wield a brush with more skill than I knew I possessed.”
“My husband has not seen this yet, but I know that when he does he will invite you to make more portraits of our family. Once that is accomplished I imagine he will share the news of your skill with other merchants in Toulouse. You could have a long career painting here, for this city bursts with wealthy merchants who want their portraits painted in the Flemish style. And yours is the best I have seen. Believe me, I have seen many.”
