by Amy Maroney
He responded with a question of his own. “What say you to striking a bargain? You take this book...” He picked up the silk-covered prayer book he had tried to sell to the merchant’s wife just a few moments before, opening it to the page with the bare rectangle. “Paint a miniature of yourself in this space. Bring it back to me here, next week on market day. If it is a fine likeness, expertly made, the stylus is yours. But even better, you will find yourself with a new business partner.”
“Who?”
“Me. I have no end of apprentices who can draw a bit of filigree and fill it in with paint or gold leaf. But I am the only one who can create a likeness that meets with the approval of a wealthy man or woman. And truth be told, even my skills fall short for the most discerning customers. Prayer books are reflections of their owners, the best ones sell for ridiculous amounts. You’d get a cut of that.”
“You would entrust me with a book this fine?”
His jovial expression darkened. “I know the streets of Perpignan as well as I know my wife’s face, and I know its people better. If you do not fulfill your end of the deal, I will find you within a day.”
2
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Mira
Mira soon learned that Lady de Moncada was a late riser, only interested in sitting for her portrait in the afternoons. Mornings, therefore, were spent in the bookmaker’s workshop, painting tiny portraits of merchants in prayer books. Each afternoon she marked the steps between her two employers by the chiming of church bells as she passed from the workshop through the quarter of the fabric merchants and finally to her mistress’s grand home. Her days passed in a blur of work.
They had found another convent with a shell carved above the door. Its cramped guesthouse overlooked a busy lane. The enterprising abbess, who had a kind gleam in her gray eyes, assigned a novice nun to care for Rose during the day in exchange for Arnaud’s labor on whatever needed fixing.
At night the three of them lay in one narrow bed, Mira and Arnaud silent and still until the baby fell asleep. Then they whispered back and forth over her head, sharing tidbits about the day until the cathedral in the square chimed midnight. Sometimes Mira complained to Arnaud of her exhaustion.
“At least you have work,” he would remind her.
He had no master’s recommendation for the cabinetmakers’ guild and no chance of entering it as a journeyman, though he visited a tavern frequented by members of the guild nearly every day in hopes of chancing on an opportunity. He had finally, reluctantly, turned his sights on the docks. There was usually carpentry work to be had in a river harbor, as well as an overabundance of disreputable characters. But, as he often told Mira, he could take care of himself.
Mira waited with Rose in the shadow of a half-timbered house across the square from the Consulate of the Sea. The sun glared down relentlessly. It hurt her eyes to look up at the cloudless blue sky, so she lowered her gaze to the crowded square before her. The citizens of Perpignan were not clad as richly as the people of Toulouse. The merchant classes were dominated by tanners and fabric makers. Artisans in leather aprons and dye-splattered smocks mingled with merchants’ wives. Shipmasters congregated in small groups outside the Consulate of the Sea, their heads bent together in conversation.
Mesmerized by the parade of people across the dark cobblestones, Rose was pliant in her arms. A servant woman carrying a basket of turnips slipped and lost her balance nearby; two turnips slid to the ground. She stooped to pick them up but a passing tradesman loaded down with squares of tanned leather stomped on the bigger of the turnips, squashing it into a white mass under the heel of his boot. Rose pointed at the mound of pulp, letting out a cry of amazement. The servant woman shook her head and tucked the remaining turnip back in her basket, then hurried on.
Mira gently blew on Rose’s long eyelashes, eliciting a giggle. Rose amused herself for a few moments by closing her eyes and waiting for the quick burst of air from Mira’s breath, then fluttering them open again. Soon enough, though, she began to squirm and fuss.
Arnaud had been inside that building for too long, Mira thought. His sole errand was to introduce himself to the harbor master and inquire about work repairing hulls, decking, and rigging—far less skilled work than he was capable of. But he had no other choice.
She thought longingly of their rented rooms above the quiet square in Toulouse. Here, they still lodged at the convent because they could not afford to rent rooms elsewhere. And for its access to women who would watch Rose for a morning or afternoon as needed. Now that they were responsible for a child everything revolved around her care.
Mira found herself wondering what their life would have been like had Deedit never found them. She tightened her arms around the baby and kissed the top of her head, ashamed at the thought. Rose was their child now, and she loved her.
The door burst open and Arnaud strode out into the bright sunshine. When he closed the distance between them, Mira saw relief on his face.
“The harbormaster said at first he had no use for my skills,” Arnaud said, nearly shouting over the indignant braying of a heavily laden donkey in the alleyway next to them. “But a shipmaster overheard us and he offered me work sprucing up the captain’s quarters on a craft anchored at Port-Vendres that just arrived from Venice. Then the harbormaster said if the shipmaster was pleased with my work, there’d be a job for me on the docks in the river harbor when I return.”
“Port-Vendres?”
“On the sea. I’ll have to journey there. It’s not far, I’ll just be gone a few days.”
Rose squirmed in Mira’s arms, watching the donkey retreat into the half-light of the alleyway. Arnaud reached out a hand to touch her cheek.
“What’s that?” He examined a raised, red spot under her eye.
“This place swarms with insects. They feast on her by night.”
“She doesn’t seem bothered.”
“Not much bothers this little one. And I dab her with rosemary oil to ease the itch.”
Arnaud hoisted Rose out of Mira’s arms and swung her up on his shoulders. Her little hands latched onto his ears.
“Let’s be off,” he said, taking a few elaborate bouncing steps forward and back.
Rose let out a cascade of joyful squeals, causing various passers-by to smile in their direction.
Mira laughed at the pair of them. Perpignan might not have the most pleasant climate, nor the most desirable surroundings, nor the opportunities for skilled work that Arnaud needed. But Rose seemed to like it.
That was something.
3
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Mira
Mira stood in front of the oak door, hand poised over the polished iron knocker. She sighed, imagining her patron’s face, the greasy pomade that made it glisten, the lips darkened with beet juice, the brows plucked and redrawn with charcoal. And the stream of prattle discharging from her mouth without cease, fueled by copious helpings of wine.
The portrait was nearly done, she reminded herself. And Lady de Moncada had offered to pay Mira handsomely to undertake a special job which she was to lay out in detail this afternoon. Reluctantly, Mira lifted the knocker and let it fall against the door with a resounding thump.
“May the saints above take note of this achievement,” crooned Lady de Moncada, standing before the portrait with a cup of wine in hand. “You have done justice to my shining hair and my almond-shaped eyes. I chose my dress well too. The red velvet looks soft enough to touch, and the way you arranged the silver plate on the table and the mirror behind me complements my figure quite nicely. What’s more, the light coming from the window truly makes my skin glow.”
Mira bowed her head in thanks.
“I have been giving much thought to a scheme that I believe you will find amusing and even exciting. My friend Lady
de Berral, you know of whom I speak...”
Mira nodded. All Lady de Moncada wished to do was gossip endlessly about this rival who spent much of her life a few days’ journey to the west, in a valley studded with lavender fields near a crumbling palace built by long-dead kings.
“As you know, Lady de Berral has in her employ an artist whose skills she claims to be unsurpassed, who works in the style of the great Flemish masters, which is a rare thing indeed in these parts.” She took a gulp of wine. “Apparently the woman can no longer work at all. She is simply waiting to die. What say you to traveling to my friend’s home and finishing the portraits that her own artist cannot complete?”
Mira corked a jar of pigment and wiped a brush dry, not wanting to reveal the interest in her eyes. “I have never met another artist who is a woman,” she admitted.
Lady de Moncada nodded enthusiastically. “I imagine you would have much to discuss with her. I could write at once and tell my friend you are coming. Just as a loan, of course, because I want you to return to me when the summer is done and stay for at least two seasons more...there are a number of other portraits you can paint for my family, and then perhaps I will parcel you out to other leading families of Perpignan.”
Mira’s employer has the unfortunate habit of speaking about her as if she were property. Lady de Vernier had never spoken thus. And neither had Carlo Sacazar. The only person she had ever worked for who truly made her feel inferior was Amadina Sacazar.
“I shall discuss the matter with my husband,” she said.
“If you were to undertake the journey, I would provide you with my own fine wagon and a team of swift horses, and you would pass through the most beautiful lavender fields in the region. Imagine that—a lavender-scented journey in a comfortable wagon, during which all you would be required to do is stare in wonder at the snowy peaks of the mountains in the south. It would be more of a lark than anything else, I swear to you.”
Mira rolled up her brushes in their canvas case.
“My friend Lady de Berral, for all of her faults, is a very generous woman,” said Lady de Moncada, leaning close. “I know she would compensate you in a fashion you would find more than adequate. And if you agree, I shall gift you a dozen jars of those salted anchovies you so love.”
Lady de Moncada frequently offered Mira tastes of the foods she snacked on during their painting sessions. The small, tangy fish, rinsed and soaked in olive oil, had proved particularly delicious.
“I thank you,” Mira said, straightening up and looking Lady de Moncada in the eyes. “But I have my husband and daughter to think of, and we only lately arrived here in Perpignan. A journey is more difficult for a little one.”
“Let me assure you, the wagon is covered—and there are soft cushions for her to rest upon. She would find the journey much more pleasant than what she will encounter here. I know you suffer from the heat and dampness, and believe me, this is only the beginning. In high summer it is absolutely stifling within these walls. Though the sea lies nearby, not a shred of breeze can be felt in these streets. That is why so many of our finer citizens leave the city of a summer and go to the countryside. And I would not dream of allowing you to make the journey without an escort of my finest footmen. The road is not dangerous in the least, but I know how a mother worries.”
“Clearly you have thought of every possible impediment to the scheme and put them all to rest.”
“Well? What say you?”
Mira hesitated. Rejecting this carefully constructed proposal with its attendant arguments would not sit well with the woman. In fact, saying no at this juncture, when Lady de Moncada was so invested in the plan, would possibly jeopardize Mira’s employment.
But she hated feeling like a commodity to be passed from one noblewoman to another. It made her feel powerless, and that was something she could not abide.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I cannot agree to the plan, not now. But I vow to you that I will broach the matter with my husband and give it the consideration it deserves.”
She dropped into a curtsy.
Lady de Moncada’s lips twitched. Disappointment was plain on her face. But instead of protesting, she abruptly changed the subject.
“I have decided on a new project which you can begin this very day,” she said crisply. “I wish to have a prayer book made for me by that fellow who hawks such things at the market. His illustrations are very poor indeed. Vulgar, in my view. But I’ve heard that recently he has employed some new artisan whose skills are far superior.”
Mira suppressed a smile.
“At any rate, I want you to make the illustrations. And I want my image to adorn every one of them.”
“Even the Virgin Mary? She is to have your face as well?”
The tiniest hint of consternation showed in Lady de Moncada’s eyes. But only for a fleeting instant.
“Of course. Though a younger version of my face. Imagine me when I was your age, fresh as a rose.” Lady de Moncada reached into the sack that hung at her waist and withdrew a few coins. “Take these to the bookmaker to buy your supplies and tell him I want the finest calf’s leather for the cover, not that gauzy fabric he sells to the merchants’ wives. In this damp heat, a silk cover will not last more than a few years.”
Mira pocketed the coins and bowed her head, praying that her employer would drop the matter of lending her out to Lady de Berral entirely. But it was not to be.
“Do not forget,” Lady de Moncada reminded her. “Discuss the other matter with your husband. I am quite eager to know his thoughts. I will begin composing a letter to Lady de Berral tonight, proposing the idea.”
“It is too soon for that, my lady,” Mira protested.
“Nonsense. The best ideas benefit from good planning.” Lady de Moncada blinked several times in quick succession and waved Mira toward the door. “Now, run along. The bookmaker awaits.”
4
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Arnaud
Arnaud wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. The sun blazed at him from a stark blue sky. The docks stretched out before him, strewn with trunks, parcels, and ropes. He spied another rotting board on the gangway he’d been tasked to repair and pried out several rusty nails with a hammer. Quickly he selected an oak plank from the cart at his side and laid it into place.
He had been relieved when the harbormaster hired him. But he hated sweating in the squalid air, breathing the fetid odors of rot and piss and vomit that lurked on the quays. Mostly he hated being on guard. Ravaged-looking, hollow-eyed men materialized at his side from time to time, entreating him for money or food. When he refused, they sometimes resorted to violence. He was never without his dagger, and he kept his tools strapped to a leather belt around his waist.
A group of wharf rats—young boys who hung around the docks—trotted by and congregated at the river’s edge, pointing at something in the distance. He stood and shaded his eyes with his hand, staring at the wide, meandering river. Ah—there they were. More boats bound for these docks, carrying men and cargo from some great ship anchored at Port-Vendres on the nearby coast. Once the cargo was unloaded, the crew would disperse into the streets of Perpignan, swallowed up by its seedy quarters until it was time to board again. The ships were usually in dire need of repair, which was good for Arnaud. He sometimes traveled with a crew of carpenters downriver to the sea harbor, supplying wood and tools to the captains and making repairs as needed. It was backbreaking work, but he was grateful. It got him away from the river harbor.
Arnaud knelt and began hammering the board into place.
When he finished his task, the boats had docked at the far end of the harbor. His curiosity got the better of him. He followed another group of wharf rats to the easternmost dock and hung back in the shadows. The boats were in fair shape from what Arnaud could see. They flew the flag of Aragón
and also another flag, made of blue and red fabric. He watched the passengers disembark. First came a ragtag group of soldiers, some of them limping, some supporting one another as they made their slow passage along the dock.
Then a group of knights emerged. They wore red leather armor. Longswords clanked at their sides. Their shields bore a herald that Arnaud had seen before. When he recognized it, he stepped into the shade of a tall stack of canvas sails.
The knights walked by, some of them staggering as their bodies adjusted to flat terrain after weeks of sailing. Two of them argued about the order in which the group should achieve its goals of wine, women, and food. The rest were silent. Arnaud scrutinized each face as they passed. Without thinking, he stepped out into the light and took a few steps in their direction.
“You!” a voice shouted. “Where d’you think you’re going?” The harbormaster waved his arms at Arnaud from down the quay. “The work’s not finished yet!”
Arnaud felt irritation rise in his chest. The knights disappeared up the gangway.
The harbormaster spread his legs wide, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”
There was nothing to do but turn and walk back to the docks.
5
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Mira
Mira trudged across the dusty cobblestones from the bookmaker’s workshop through a humid cauldron of stagnant air, following the sound of the cathedral bells that echoed over the fabric merchants’ quarter.
As she crossed a square that led in the direction of the river harbor, Mira spied an approaching group of knights. They wore red leather armor and longswords dangled at their sides. Two of them carried rectangular shields. One was taller than the rest and walked at the center of the group.
She slowed her pace, curious. A group of knights in armor was a sight she rarely saw.
