by Amy Maroney
Brother Arros studied her expression for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.
17
Spring, 1505
San Juan de la Peña, Aragón
Elena
Their last night together, Brother Arros invited Elena to join him in the parlor, a room normally reserved for high-born visitors. She had only entered it once before.
He was already seated at the oak table, a trencher of walnuts and a pitcher of ale before him, his face illuminated by the guttering light of two stubby candles. Behind him a small fire burned in the hearth. The room smelled of woodsmoke and tallow.
Elena settled across from him and poured herself a cup of ale. He watched her in silence with a look that unsettled her. Each time he seemed on the verge of blurting something out, he swallowed his words again. Finally she could stand it no more.
“What is it, Brother Arros? Say what you will. I’ll not think worse of you.” She tossed a handful of walnuts in her mouth and chewed vigorously, eyeing him across the table.
“The saints above. What am I to do?” A leather pouch was slung across his shoulder. With his good hand he set it on the table between them. “I don’t know if I should say it, but God only knows what the future holds. And I would never forgive myself for not telling, should we never meet again.”
“Then say it, by the sun and stars!”
“Very well.” He leaned forward. “Mira is family to you, is she not?”
“Of course! As you are.”
“Well, Pelegrín is too. And Alejandro.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“It doesn’t matter how you see it.” He passed a hand over his face, closed his eyes for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
He sighed, his eyelids fluttering open. “Mira and Pelegrín and Alejandro are your niece and nephews. You are the baby girl who was cast out to die by the Baron of Oto and taken to the village of Arazas. The girl Maria found in a houseful of corpses.”
“Maria found me, yes. But I am no baron’s child. What has got into you, Brother Arros?”
Elena watched him cautiously, her annoyance giving way to genuine worry. Perhaps this odd illness had truly rattled his mind after all.
“No, no, it’s true.” He used his left hand to pull his right arm up and prop it on the table in front of him. “I have known since you were a girl. Maria told me. When she found you in Arazas, she discovered a gold chain around your neck strung with a medallion that bore the mark of the Otos.”
“I loved Maria,” Elena declared. “There was no better mother in the world. But she spun yarns with the skill of a muleteer. You know that as well as I.”
He unlatched the clasp of the pouch, drew out a glittering object, and placed it on the table between them.
“A circle within a circle, overlaid with a cross,” Elena said slowly, picking up the medallion. Her heart thumped insistently against her ribs.
He fished a folded rectangle of blue wool from the pouch and handed it to her. “The blanket your mother the baroness wrapped you in when she gave you up to the guard.”
Elena shook out the fabric and spread it on the table. Numbly she touched a finger to the fine stitches of red silk that adorned one corner. They formed the same design as the medallion. She picked it up again and weighed it in her palm.
“Maria gave me these things to keep them safe,” Brother Arros went on, studying her across the table. “She made me promise to tell you one day, when you were ready.” He shook his head sadly. “It seems to me you will never be ready. But I cannot put it off any longer. You are Ramón de Oto’s sister, Elena. You were that baby girl cast out in the woods to die, the one saved by a kind-hearted guard. That is the truth, and may God help you accept it.”
Elena stared at him, horrified, closing her fingers around the medallion. A tremor started somewhere deep inside her. She felt as if her spine had turned to liquid. Her mind raced, flitting back through memories of Castle Oto, of Ramón and Marguerite, of Mira and her brothers.
She took a long, ragged breath.
A memory pushed its way to the forefront of her mind—an image that had haunted her for twenty years. It was the moment she first caught sight of the Baroness of Oto tottering vacantly through the great hall of the castle, surrounded by servants and helpmates. Elena had developed an abiding scorn for the woman that day. Addicted to poppy milk, adorned with pearls and rubies, clad in silks and furs, the baroness glided around the castle like a ghost.
“Was I their only girl child?” she whispered into the silence.
“The only girl who lived.”
She dropped her head in shame, thinking of the contempt she had harbored for the woman who had given birth to her, whose baby daughters were torn from her breast no sooner than they were born.
Brother Arros gently took hold of Elena’s clenched fist, unfurled her fingers, and tugged the medallion from her grasp. She stared dully at her palm. An imprint of the Oto design was pressed into her flesh.
She raised her eyes to his.
All at once her hand began to throb.
18
Spring, 1505
Castle Oto, Aragón
Elena
Elena strained to hear the usual sounds of castle life. The creak of the gates opening, the clang of the blacksmith in his forge, the high voices of the laundry women singing as they worked. Nothing assailed her ears but the whisper of a cool wind flowing down from the north, sliding over the white peaks into the valleys below.
Rounding the corner to the tall wooden gates, she pulled on the mule’s reins and sat staring. No guards stood on the walls, no shouts of greeting floated out from the high parapets. All was silent.
She called out a greeting. After a few moments a familiar-looking guard peered out the door hole cut into one of the gates.
“You!” he said, surprised. “Back again, are you? After all this time?”
“Are you going to let me in, or aren’t you?”
He unbarred the door and stood aside.
Riding up the narrow alley to the keep, she felt unsettled. The stench was unbearable. Why was the alley clothed with so much filth? There were half as many faces as usual peering out from their doorways and windows. Some of the cottages were shuttered and dark.
In the courtyard of the castle keep, Elena dismounted, staring around with a growing sense of apprehension. She heard a voice. Tilting her head back, she saw a small head emerge from a window.
“Who are you?” It was the high, clear voice of a child. “What do you want?”
“Don’t you know me, Alejandro?”
“Elena!” The suspicion in the boy’s voice was replaced by joy. His head disappeared.
Within a few moments the great oak doors creaked open. A young woman Elena recognized as Marguerite’s maid stood hand in hand with Alejandro.
“What happened here?” Elena asked.
The woman shook her head, dropping her eyes. Alejandro stepped forward.
“Mother and father are dead,” he said. “Beltrán ran away. Pelegrín is gone.” His eyes were bright with tears. He hesitated, his lips trembling. “But he is coming back to me. He wrote a letter. My brother sails across the sea, back from war. In summer, he comes. Autumn, at the latest. That is what he promised.”
Elena sank to her knees and gathered Alejandro in her arms.
The maidservant who had opened the doors led Elena to the catacombs later that evening. In a shadowy cavern, two torches burned on either end of a stone tomb.
“She’s in there,” the woman said, pointing through the gloom. “Lady Marguerite. Beltrán’s men waited for him to return until autumn turned to winter. One morning they put on their armor and rode away. Most of the cooks disappeared too, because no one is left to hunt.”
“And now you act as
nursemaid to Alejandro?”
“There’s no one else. Four knights came as soon as the roads were clear in early spring, saying that Ramón de Oto was dead. They brought a letter from Pelegrín ordering them to watch over this place until his return. But many of the servants and guards had already left. Besides, those knights know nothing of hunting and fishing. They’re city folk, from Barcelona.”
“How do you eat?”
“Some of us have family in these mountains. They see to it that we’ll not starve.”
“You’ve taken it upon yourself to care for the boy. Why?”
“Lady Marguerite was kind to me.”
“The girl who came to paint Lady Marguerite’s portrait—when she disappeared, what was the kitchen gossip?”
“That Lady Marguerite helped her escape her fate, and died because of it.”
“What do you think?” Elena asked.
The woman stared back at her unblinking. “I think the artist looked like Lady Marguerite.”
A necklace dangled from the servant’s throat, a rough cream-colored shell strung on a leather cord.
“I recognize that.” Elena flicked her eyes to the shell.
The woman tucked the shell back into her bodice. “It was a gift.”
Elena nodded. “I know the giver.”
In Marguerite’s chamber, Elena stood on the red wool Moorish carpet, lost in memories. She remembered the hateful rattle of the balcony shutters the night Mira and Pelegrín were born, and her desperation to escape these walls instead of helping Marguerite de Oto through the agonizing labor. She recalled the horrible day Marguerite gave birth to Alejandro, alone, locked inside this chamber, determined to end her own life and that of her baby should the child be a girl. The sight of Ramón smashing his way through the door with a great axe, bellowing with fury.
Elena knew there was a false bottom in one of the storage chests. Inside it she found a pot of a foul-smelling concoction which she herself had made many years ago. Alongside it was a linen bag that held a set of keys. She smiled, rocking back on her heels. Lady Marguerite and her keys.
She went to the Tower of Blood and used one of the keys to enter Ramón’s chambers. Crossing to a window, she unlatched the shutter and flung it open to the spring air. A lone hawk circled outside. Snow still dusted the notched ridges that rose up across the valley. At the sight of the world beyond the castle walls, the uneasiness in her core diminished a bit.
Alejandro needed a protector, and it would have to be her. Not only because Elena was someone he knew and loved, but because he was her flesh and blood. She had no choice but to stay until Pelegrín returned. Xabi would worry, but there was nothing to be done about it. As soon as the new baron reclaimed his castle and set it to rights, she would leave this place and never come back.
She carefully latched the shutter again and cast a look around the room. On Ramón’s desk, sealed letters and parchment rolls sat stacked in an unruly pile.
For the first time in her life, Elena wished she could read.
19
Spring, 1505
Toulouse, France
Mira
They stood in the sun-drenched courtyard watching the mule carts roll in through the broad doorway from the lane. Mira clenched her hands to stop them trembling. Arnaud slipped his arm around her, loosening the tension in her shoulders. This was the moment of reckoning, and Mira held herself responsible for whatever unfolded here this afternoon. Would Lord de Vernier be pleased with what lay inside those carts? Would the fabric bear up to his scrutiny? Had Sister Agathe ensured that the quality of the weaving and dyeing was uniformly high?
Arnaud broke away from her to greet the drivers of the carts. The three men were natives of Ronzal who now lived in the village just outside Belarac’s gates.
“We’re lucky to be here, with our load, all in one piece!” declared one of the men.
“Why lucky?” Arnaud asked.
“Suffered a broken wheel halfway down the road from Belarac to here,” he said.
“It split clean in half, cleaved itself somehow,” one of his companions cut in.
Arnaud examined the cart’s wheels. “All looks as it should. You brought a replacement?”
The first man nodded. “Always carry one. Adds weight, but it’s worth the hassle. Turned out the wheel was the least of our worries. The real problem was bandits. Three men—they sprung upon us from the forest.”
“It was their bad luck they picked us to ambush!” cried one of his companions.
“Evenly matched, we were,” said the third man.
While the men talked, Mira dashed to the nearest cart and pushed through its canvas curtains into the interior. Bolts of cloth wrapped in canvas were piled in neat stacks on the cart floor, secured with flax ropes. She tugged a wrapper off the nearest bolt, desperate to see the quality of the fabric. Underneath, the blue wool glowed bright as a jewel against the dull gray of the canvas. She stroked it with a fingertip.
“Well?” Arnaud asked, poking his head through the opening of the curtains.
“This small corner of fabric is perfect. I pray the rest of it is too.”
Her employer’s voice floated in from the courtyard. Arnaud and Mira hurried back and stood alongside the cart drivers, watching an entourage of servants follow the merchant into their midst. Two footmen carried a table, which was deposited at Lord de Vernier’s side.
One by one, he had servants pull bolts of cloth at random from the carts and spread the fabric on the table for his inspection. He was silent throughout the proceedings.
Mira bit her lip, watching Lord de Vernier’s face. His expression betrayed nothing. He occasionally murmured to his assistant, who then dipped his quill in a pot of ink and scratched notes in a parchment book that lay on the table.
Beyond the merchant Mira could see through the doorway that led to the lane. A figure stood there motionless, watching the proceedings from afar, his face shrouded by the hood of his long black cloak. It was only when the sound of an approaching mule cart rattled down the lane that the figure moved out of sight to make way.
“Excellent!”
Lord de Vernier’s voice pulled Mira back to the scene at hand.
“This wool is as promised. The colors, the quality, the amount. All is as we agreed.”
He turned to Arnaud and Mira. “You are indeed as good as your word, and I’ve got the proof twice over, it seems.”
“My lord?” Mira asked.
“Prior Johan Arros of San Juan de la Peña got my letter, and sent me one of his own. He vouched for the both of you, even promised wool from his own flocks as collateral in case there was a mishap with this shipment. But clearly there is no need for such an arrangement.”
“We are pleased that you approve,” Arnaud said.
“I hope you are confident now that the abbey will never fail you,” Mira said.
The merchant let out a short laugh. “I am confident that this wool is as promised. And I hope the abbey will never fail me, but the future is always a mystery, is it not?” He glanced at the cart drivers, who were supervising the stablehands as they unhitched the mules.
“Tell the men to go to the kitchens when they are finished with their duties. I am sure they are famished. As for the two of you—please be so good as to accompany me to my sitting room. My wife has requested you join us for wine and cake. A celebration of sorts, she says, for the success of our partnership and the happiness of our daughters with their new governess. And for another venture that I believe you will find to your liking.”
In Lord de Vernier’s private study waited Lady de Vernier and the notary who had witnessed their signatures on the agreement they had forged with Lord de Vernier last summer. His record book lay open on the polished oak table. Next to it, in an elaborately gilded wooden frame, sat the portrait Mira had painted of Lady de Vern
ier.
Lord de Vernier picked it up and held it at arms’ length, his eyes passing from the image on the wooden panel to his wife standing before him.
“This is as fine a portrait as I’ve seen in this city,” he said, his voice tinged with admiration. “I have been to Flanders. I saw no portrait there that strikes me as better-wrought than your work.”
Mira ducked her head, closing her eyes a moment.
“Thank you,” she finally managed to say.
The nobleman’s serious, sharp-angled face softened a bit. “My notary awaits your mark on this page. Read the agreement, of course, but know that we simply desire you to complete two more paintings: one of me, and one of us with our children.”
Mira glanced at Arnaud. She could tell he knew her thoughts.
He shook his head, smiling a little. “We’ve already delayed this long. What’s another month or two? Bayonne will still be there. Go ahead, Mira.”
She advanced toward the book, bending to read the lines. The notary dipped a quill in an ink pot and held it out to her. Before she could write her name, Lady de Vernier interrupted.
“I know you share the name of your husband. But as a woman of the house of Oto, you should make the mark of your own family.”
Mira straightened. A glistening drop of ink formed at the point of the quill. “I beg your pardon?”
“I advise you to do so with your future in mind,” Lady de Vernier continued. “When you are finished with our commissions, you will be inundated with offers from other merchants.”
Before Mira could speak, she raised a hand. “Yes, you have obligations to keep in Bayonne. But this is about your future, and it applies to any city where you may seek commissions. As a woman, you will be paid a scant amount compared to a male artist. If you are known to be of noble birth, you will command a much higher price for your work.”
“My wife speaks the truth,” Lord de Vernier said. “You would be wise to listen.”
