by Amy Maroney
A merchant couple and their entourage moved between Mira and the knights. She stood on tiptoe to get a better look, grateful for the barrier of flesh between herself and the men.
At that moment, she caught the eye of the tall knight at the center of the group. He had a short, pointed beard and a severe countenance. Seeing her, his face took on an expression of surprise. His pace flagged as he held her gaze.
Mira’s heart thudded against her ribcage.
The tall man spoke to his comrades. They all turned in her direction, hunting for her. Mira’s mouth grew dry. She backed away and slunk to the edge of the crowd. Slipping into a narrow passageway, she walked as quickly as she could to the next busy lane, her entire body trembling. Then she hastened to her employer’s home, making sure to stay on streets well-populated with pedestrians.
All that afternoon she was distracted. She had found a way to delay Lady de Moncada’s plan to lend her to Lady de Berral. It had been easy to do, in truth. After a few false starts with the prayer book illustrations, when Lady de Moncada found fault with various elements of her appearance in the small images that adorned each page, Mira had developed a habit of sketching a preliminary drawing on a piece of linen paper. After long-winded analysis of various aspects of the drawing (the drape of a sleeve, the curve of her waist, the size of her nose, the angle of her eyebrows) Lady de Moncada would give her approval and Mira would paint a copy of the edited drawing in the book. Today was no different. The drawing was based on one she had seen in several of Albrecht Rumbach’s other prayer books: Judith slaying Holofernes. But when Lady de Moncada’s eyes fell upon it, she drew in a sharp breath.
“A woman murdering a man! With a sword! Whatever possessed you to draw this?”
“It is all the rage, my lady. The bookmaker says in Barcelona, no woman commissioning such a book would think of omitting this image. Judith killed Holofernes to protect her people. She is no common murderess. Her loyalty and love, her courage are all on display here.”
Lady de Moncada looked doubtful. “That may be. But my husband would not tolerate the sight of me with a sword in my hand, about to lop off a man’s head.” She scrunched up her face, considering the matter. “I like the idea of it, I must admit. The leading ladies of Barcelona know what is fashionable, and I am nothing if not fashionable.” She gave Mira an appraising look. “Put your face on her. If you can stand being associated with a woman such as she. No matter her reasons, she is still, in my mind, a murderess.”
“I would be happy to do so,” Mira said smoothly.
If only her employer knew the truth: that she had killed not one, but two men.
As the afternoon wore on, Lady de Moncada chattered about the ladies of Barcelona, the fashions there, and her childhood in that city. Mira half-listened, caught on the memory of the tall knight’s dark eyes searching the crowd for her.
“So, what are your thoughts on the matter?”
Mira’s mind resurfaced.
“I...my thoughts?”
“Yes, on the matter of necklines. Square, or round? Which do you prefer?”
“To be truthful, my thoughts were with a strange and unsettling sight I saw on my way here today.”
“Oh?” A look of rapt attention came over her mistress’s face. “What was that?”
“A group of knights coming from the harbor. They were dressed in red leather armor. I have never seen such a sight, I confess.”
“A ship home from the war for Naples, I would wager,” Lady de Moncada said with confidence. “I had heard they might arrive one day. Covered in glory, having won back the kingdom of Naples for their queen. God rest her soul.”
Mira blinked. “Queen Isabella is dead?”
Lady de Moncada nodded. “Word came in the spring. In any event, the king still lives, and no doubt he shall find a new queen in due time. Now, as for the knights you saw. They will be coveted by our city’s merchant class as husbands for their daughters, so that their girls can be titled. Tell me, was one of the men finer dressed than the others? Did he walk at the center of the group?”
“Yes.” The tall knight had clearly been the leader.
“He was their captain, then. Mark my words. He is of noble blood, and he shall soon be snapped up by a leading family of this city as bridegroom for a daughter.”
Of course, Mira thought. The soldiers who fought in the battle for Naples would make their journeys across the sea, returning to Aragón. And her father and brother might one day be among them. Might have already come ashore.
A sick feeling took hold of her gut.
“Do you fear the walk home, with knights lately come from war roaming the streets?” Lady de Moncada asked, a look of concern on her face. “I see it in your eyes, my dear. I know I would. Let me dispatch two manservants to accompany you to your lodgings. It will put your mind at ease.”
6
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Arnaud
All the rest of the afternoon Arnaud chafed with impatience. The moment the harbormaster released him from work, he strode in the direction the men had gone and asked passersby if they had seen the group. He entered shops and taverns, quizzing workers about the men. Slowly he nosed his way along the path the knights had taken from the docks to an inn that was reputed to serve the best food in Perpignan’s merchant quarter, where the fabric-makers’ workshops were located.
He hesitated outside a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow again, and pulled a cap over his head. Then he entered the noisy inn.
The knights were seated at the best table in a small alcove that had its own fireplace. The wreckage of a meal lay before them, the table studded with tankards of ale and cups of wine.
Arnaud slid into a seat at a table in a shadowy corner that had just been vacated by a pair of tanners. When the ale wench came, he ordered a tankard of ale.
“That’s a fancy lot,” he remarked when she brought it, jerking his head toward the knights.
She followed his gaze. “Indeed. A lord and his men. Returned from the battle for Naples. We got another lot of ’em a fortnight ago, full of talk about their dead queen and their empty coin purses.”
“Dead queen?”
The girl nodded. “That’s what they said. ’Course, the king still lives. But...” She glanced around, lowering her voice. “They complained that they’ve not been paid. If it weren’t for the Great Captain sharing his war spoils with his favorites, they’d be poor as mice.”
She turned away, distracted by a roar of laughter rising up from the group of knights.
Arnaud covertly raked his eyes over the men at the large table. Which one was the baron? He leaned forward, craning for a better view, and saw something gold flash on a man’s finger. Were any of the others wearing jewels? Not that he could see. The man was large-framed, with lanky limbs. His hair was dark, his beard short and pointed, his face dominated by wide, jutting cheekbones. His eyes continually roamed the room, occasionally flitting back to settle on a companion’s face as he spoke, then darting away again.
Arnaud caught snatches of the conversation. Talk of Naples, of battles, of pay owed them by the crown. Talk of homecomings.
There was a commotion at the door. An impeccably dressed merchant and three servants swept into the room and made for the knights’ table. Chairs scraped the floor as the group stood and made their introductions. The merchant made a long speech. The knights all seemed to lose interest after the first few sentences, except for the tall man with the ring, whom the merchant seemed to be addressing. The merchant hovered, warming to his monologue, apparently intent on receiving some assurance from the man. When he eventually got it, he bowed and made a quick exit, followed by his servants.
As soon as they were gone, several of the knights burst out laughing.
“He wishes to be your father-in-law, my lord?” one said. “I pr
ay his daughter talks only half as much as him, for your sake.”
“Shows you know nothing of women,” another said, shaking with laughter at his own wit. “She’ll talk twice as much as him, I wager.”
The tall man smiled. “At least I’ll have fine lodging while we await the ship’s repairs.”
Arnaud leaned forward, listening intently. One of the knights asked a question he couldn’t hear.
Then the man with the ring said something unintelligible, followed by: “Our parents are dead. Alejandro needs looking after.”
Arnaud stiffened. He tightened his fingers around his tankard.
Another muffled question was asked.
“Oto,” the man said, nodding. “Yes, home to Oto.”
Arnaud kept his eyes trained on his hands, concentrating on steadying his breath. So Ramón de Oto was dead. And sitting not a stone’s throw from him was Pelegrín, the new Baron of Oto. Mira’s twin brother.
Somehow fate had conspired to bring them both to the same city, to breathe the same humid air, to tread the same worn cobblestone streets. He thanked the sun and stars that Mira had told no one here she was an Oto. As far as anyone knew, she was Madame de Luz.
For now, she was safe.
7
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Mira
That evening, Mira said nothing to Arnaud of what she had seen. The knights, the tall bearded man at the center of their group whose dark eyes sought hers. Each time she recalled him a panicked feeling took hold of her chest.
Arnaud seemed even more drained than usual. The work on the docks was wearing on him. He had to be on his guard all the time, she knew, for the disreputable characters who frequented the harbor made a habit of preying on the carpenters who worked there. Anything of value was fair game to them: the odd iron nail, a plank of finely planed oak. And whatever was stolen, Arnaud was responsible for replacing. The harbormaster cared not for excuses. A missing nail was a missing nail, he said. Arnaud was armed, but what was a dagger against a thieving gang? She hated thinking of it.
In the gathering twilight, Rose fell asleep on Arnaud’s shoulder. Mira looked at the two of them from her perch on the chair next to the bed. Rose’s face was flushed, her mouth open. Her little chest rose and fell so rapidly, with the quick, fluttery breaths of a songbird.
“Stay away from the harbor gates,” Arnaud whispered to Mira. “There is a sweating sickness in the quarter. The people are shut up in their homes, afraid to go abroad. No one’s about but wharf rats and thieves.”
Mira looked at him. She knew that was untrue, since the streets were as crowded as ever in the square that led to the harbor gates today. It was unlike Arnaud to fabricate a tale. In fact, she had never known him to do it.
“The quarter bustles in its usual fashion, Arnaud,” she said in a low voice. “I was there today myself.”
“What?”
“I saw something there.” She hesitated. “A group of knights.”
He extricated himself from Rose and stood up, running a hand through his hair. “What did they do?”
“Nothing. They just looked...fearsome, I suppose.” She recalled the tall knight’s gaze, the look of recognition in his eyes. “And one of them seemed to know me.”
“He saw you?” There was a hard edge in Arnaud’s voice.
“He seemed to recognize me, though I had never seen him before. I slipped away before they could approach.”
“Thank the sun and stars.”
“What do you mean? Why are you worried?”
He sighed, wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve. “That man was your brother. Pelegrín de Oto.”
Mira felt cold, despite the sweltering air.
“I saw them disembark from their ship,” he went on. “After work I followed them to a tavern and gleaned what I could. Your father is dead. Pelegrín is returned from Naples, on his way back to Oto. He stays here in the company of a merchant who seeks a groom for his daughter, awaiting repairs on his ship.”
Mira’s throat felt as if it was closing up, all the moisture stripped from it.
“Did you know ships from Naples would anchor at Port-Vendres?”
He nodded. “The shipmaster said a few have come. I decided not to tell you because I did not want to upset you.”
“We never should have come here!” She sprang up and went to the window. “I felt it the day we arrived, when we walked through the city gates.”
“Calm yourself. Nothing bad has happened to us. As for Pelegrín, he does not know you. He will be out of the city soon, back to Oto.”
“True, he has never laid eyes upon me before, yet he did seem to know me. Why?”
Arnaud was silent, waiting for her to puzzle out the answer on her own.
“My mother. I look like her, enough so that the resemblance would not go unremarked. Our eyes, our hair. The shape of our faces. He saw me and was reminded of his mother, that was all.”
One of her knees began to tremble. She sank back down on the bed, twisting her hands in her skirts.
“My patron proposed a silly scheme to me that now I think might prove a wise course of action after all.” Mira looked up at Arnaud. “There are some portraits that were begun by another artist who has fallen ill and no longer has the strength to do the work. The place is a few days’ journey from here. What say you to traveling there so I can complete the work? By the time we return, my brother and his men will be gone.”
Arnaud folded his arms over his chest. “Nothing ties me to this place,” he said. “The harbormaster pays me day by day; I’ve no contract. I’d leave tomorrow if I could. But things are different for you. What of your contract with Lady de Moncada?”
“I wish I had never signed it.”
“Mira, have you ever considered what I wish for?” There was an unaccustomed coolness in his gaze.
She swallowed. “What do you wish for?”
“I wish to work as a cabinetmaker instead of fighting off wharf rats. I wish to go to Bayonne as we planned, to the life that awaits us there—to fulfill the obligation to my family in Ronzal. We told them we would send word as soon as we’d arranged barge transport for their oak. How much longer must they wait?”
“I have not forgotten,” she snapped. “I worry over it too! But what about Rose?”
“Where’s it written on her face that she’s a Cagot? Even if we return to lands where they’re plentiful, no one will know Rose is one of them.”
Mira shook her head. “She will be tiny like her mother. The Cagots are known for that, even if they do not all look alike. You cannot hide your size. Rose will not become the object of abuse, not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Are you telling me you wish to stay in Perpignan for the rest of your days?”
Mira glared at him. “Of course not. I shall tell Lady de Moncada that I agree to her scheme. We shall go west, I will complete the work at her rival’s estate, we will return here so I can finish out the contract with her. By then my brother and his men will be gone and we can devise a plan for returning to Bayonne.”
Arnaud slapped at a mosquito on his arm. “Yet one more delay. What will be the next one, Mira? I wonder.” There was a bitterness in his voice she had never heard before.
Mira stayed quiet, kept her eyes on Rose’s sleeping form. In silence, they took their places on either side of the baby. After a long while, Arnaud’s breathing became deep and regular, and she knew he was asleep. For her part, she stared into the darkness, ruminating, until the dawn sky brightened.
8
Summer, 1505
Valley of Maury, France
Mira
The clop of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed, dusty road rang out in a crisp rhythm. A breeze blew softly from the south, where the undulating waters of the Mediterranean glittered
in the sunlight. Rose was nestled on a pile of cushions on the floor of the wagon, and Mira and Arnaud sat on a bench behind her. Lady de Moncada had been true to her word: they rode in style, with two footmen accompanying them.
The childish dream that had guided Mira’s desire to visit the crashing waves of the sea and witness the rivers pouring off the ends of the earth—it no longer propelled her forward. It had been diverted, she realized, twisted up with the threads of other peoples’ stories, with mishaps and illnesses and death. Her eyes fell upon Rose’s tiny hands clutching Arnaud’s arm. And with love, she thought. Mostly with love.
“What are your thoughts?” Arnaud asked, glancing at her.
“The sea. Remember how I yearned to see it? Now I have, and it is not at all what I imagined.”
She shaded her eyes and peered between the flapping canvas curtains of the wagon at the shimmering blue horizon.
“This isn’t the same,” Arnaud said. “The sea near Bayonne is what Brother Arros described to you. It crashes and rages and flings creatures up on the sand.”
“And the sea monsters he spoke of?”
He nodded seriously. “The prows of ships are plastered over with monster bits from all the collisions.”
She doubled over laughing, relieved that his bitterness was gone, replaced by a lightness she had not seen in him for months. At the sound of laughter, Rose began to giggle. Even Arnaud allowed a smile at his own joke.
The house of Lord and Lady de Berral stood near a village, looking out over a valley planted with crops. A great field of lavender spread out before it, and in the distance, on the crown of a low hill, was a ruined castle.
Inside, a servant girl ushered the three travelers to their new quarters, a modest suite not far from the kitchens. The main room held a bed much bigger than any they had ever slept in before, a carved oak chest, a table, and two chairs. The adjoining room was much smaller, but had a bank of windows overlooking a courtyard planted in roses and lavender, the shutters flung open to allow fresh air and sunlight inside. A tiny bed had been made up there for Rose, and a wooden cart and horse sat upon it.
