by Amy Maroney
“West. All the way to the sea, if the fates allow.”
“The pilgrim’s route would be safest for you, then. There’s an abbey called Camon about a week’s journey from here, near a market town named Mirepoix. That’s where the road connects with the pilgrim’s way. Your wife will find sanctuary with the nuns there until she’s well enough to make the journey to the sea.”
“You’re very kind.” Arnaud’s voice faltered. He swallowed, ducked his head at the man in thanks, and reached for Mira. “It’s time to go.”
Mira stared vacantly at the dark clods of fresh earth Arnaud had dug from the ground, at the neat stack of stones on the tiny grave. Arnaud squeezed her hand.
“May God watch over you both,” Cornelia’s husband said.
He trudged back through the field to his house.
That afternoon they rested in a copse of juniper trees near a stream just off the roadside. Arnaud settled Mira in the shade and rolled up his cloak for a pillow.
A passing farmer driving an oxcart full of hay paused at the sight of them.
“Will this road take us to the pilgrim’s route west?” Arnaud asked him.
“Aye, it’s several days’ journey from here.”
“And there’s a convent along the way?”
“Aye.” He peered at Mira’s prone form. “If you’re in need of shelter, the farmers hereabouts will put up a couple like you, if you’ve a few coins to offer for their troubles.”
He drove off.
“See?” Arnaud said, his voice soothing in her ear as the sway-backed oxen pulled their load away. “Soon we’ll find shelter. Once you’re recovered, we’ll follow the pilgrim’s route west to the river Pau and find a barge to float us to Bayonne.”
He held her hand until she fell asleep.
Mira woke a little later feeling flushed and agitated.
“Stay back.” She rolled away from Arnaud.
He shook his head. “Never. I’m not afraid of a fever.”
“You should be.” Her tongue felt thick and mossy. “It struck Rose down in one night.”
“A child that small is a fragile thing. She couldn’t fight it off.”
Mira felt tears coming again. “What will become of us, Arnaud?”
“We’re going to Bayonne, just as we planned,” he said firmly. “We’ve lost our Rose. Now we’ve nothing to stop us.”
A bluejay screeched in a branch overhead. Mira caught sight of its shiny dark eyes. It cocked its head at her and rasped, the scratchy timbre of its call burrowing into her brain.
She covered her ears with her hands and wept.
20
Summer, 1505
Valley of Maury, France
Pelegrín
Pelegrín and his men cantered along the road, making good time. The oppressive summer heat had waned. It was a perfect day to travel.
When they got to the first farm in the valley, Pelegrín sent one of the men to the farmhouse to make inquiries. It seemed the house they sought was half a league farther along the road. They resumed their journey, the horses sending fine yellow dust into the air as they pounded through low, rolling hills that were all planted in lavender.
Finally they saw it: a sand-colored stone house near a village, set back from the road along a narrow lane. And beyond it, on a stubby hill, the ruins of a castle.
Inside, Pelegrín asked the housekeeper to fetch Mira. At her blank look, he pulled the prayer book from his vest and opened it to the miniature image of his sister. The woman shrank away and refused to speak, telling another servant to run upstairs and fetch their master. Soon the lord of the manor descended the stairs. He made an elaborate show of introductions and said he was loathe to stand and discuss anything. He invited Pelegrín to the sitting room and ordered refreshments.
Pelegrín fought off his impatience. He sat and waited while his host settled himself in the chair opposite.
“Now, what is the urgent matter you have come to inquire about?”
“This woman.” Pelegrín held up the prayer book, opened to the page with Mira’s likeness. “Mira. I heard she was in your employ.”
“Ah, yes, indeed.” Lord de Berral sucked in his breath and tut-tutted. “What a sad story. She was sent to us by another family as a portrait artist. Our own artist is infirm and cannot go on painting.” He pointed to the image on the page. “This young woman proved to be an equal in talent. Or perhaps superior. But do not mention that to my wife if she appears.”
He gestured at a portrait of himself and his wife that hung on the wall.
“Young Madame de Luz completed the work you see there. I would have had her paint another portrait or two for us, but it was not to be. Their daughter fell ill with a sweating sickness. She died, poor thing. Of course, we had no choice but to turn the couple out of our home.” He leaned forward and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “My wife is quite nervous about the sweating sickness.”
“And where did they go?” Pelegrín’s voice was dangerously low.
“West. I know not where. Though once she said she painted for a patron called Sacazar in a market town in Béarn...what was its name?” Lord de Berral drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Ah, yes—Nay. Perhaps that is where they went off to. I was surprised at the direction they chose, in truth, for I thought they would return to Perpignan.”
A tingle of anger crawled up Pelegrín’s neck. “When did this happen?”
“Not a fortnight ago. The father dug the girl’s grave himself.” Lord de Berral crossed one silk-clad leg over the other. “Sad business all around, I must say.”
“De Luz is their family name. But what does Mira’s husband call himself?”
The man snapped his fingers at a servant. “What was the name of the young artist’s husband?”
“I know not, my lord.”
“And the little girl?” Pelegrín asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Do you know her name?”
The servant nodded. “Everyone knew Rose.”
Before they left, Pelegrín walked to the site of the grave. The soil was dark where it had been overturned and patted down again, and it was mounded with a layer of stones. There was a rose bush twining along the low wall that surrounded the small house near the field. He plucked a handful of blooms from it and laid them on the grave.
Closing his eyes, he said a prayer for the girl’s soul. Rose. His niece. Buried with no ceremony, nothing to memorialize her passing. A slow burn crept up his neck into his cheeks. For a moment he was overcome with rage. He longed to turn and enter the manor home again and run its master through with his longsword.
A faint breeze bathed his face with cool air. He gathered himself, breathing deeply, his lips moving as he resumed his prayers.
Mira and her husband had only one mule between them—they could not have gotten far. He and his men would track them down quickly. And then he would do what his father could not: welcome Mira into the family. If he could persuade her and her husband to return to Castle Oto with him, so much the better.
As he turned to go he saw a shadow move in a window of the little house. He shaded his eyes with a hand, trying to make out what it was.
But nothing revealed itself.
21
Summer, 1505
River Arazas, Aragón
Elena
With a basket of mushrooms hooked over her elbow, Elena took Alejandro’s hand and followed the men along the stream that twisted through the narrow valley. The dry crack of a branch rang out. Elena shook her head, frowning. The knights took no care where they stepped. But then they had never learned the ways of the mountain folk—they were city men, born and bred. What did they know of wilderness? The clanking weapons, high black boots, red leather armor—it all looked absurdly out of place here.
Further on, a wide meadow populated wi
th ancient oaks spread out before them. Crumbling stone cottages rose up from the grass near the silty waters of the stream. Elena headed toward a tree whose branches drooped nearly to the ground, digging stick in hand. After a lifetime of foraging, she read the signs that nature provided as well as any scholar read Latin.
Sunlight broke through the wispy clouds overhead. Two great shadows moved across the grass. Elena squinted, peering up.
Griffon vultures. Guardians of kings. They ruled this canyon, their flat black eyes raking the forest and grass for movement, for any sign of illness or death. They circled endlessly, waiting to swoop down and strip a carcass to the bone, leave it bleaching in the sun. Elena had witnessed what they could do to a body. For that reason she always vowed that if she were injured in the mountains, she would drag herself under cover of the deepest woods, into the hollow of snarled tree roots or the lee of a boulder. She would rather take her chances with a bear or a wolf than these silently gliding agents of death making their bleak rounds in the sky.
She watched Alejandro and the knights explore the ruins in the sunlight. Arazas was a village of ghosts now. Elena had no memories of it, had left this place when she was a girl old enough to walk but not old enough to talk. Here in the shadow of a mountain, the village was returning to the earth stone by stone.
“Why does no one live here anymore?” Alejandro shouted, standing in the doorway of a half-ruined structure.
“The plague, my boy. It destroyed all but one in the town.”
“Who was the one?”
“Me.”
Alejandro fell silent, intrigued. He came to her side, watched her poke the stick into the soft soil. She rooted around briefly, felt resistance, and pried out a dense black truffle.
“How did you stop the plague from taking you?”
She shrugged. “The gods were smiling on me that day, I suppose. Keeping me on this earth for another purpose.”
“What was that?”
“To take care of you.” She smiled.
The boy looked doubtful. “What about all the other things you did before you came back here? Maybe you were kept on earth to do them.”
“That’s true. I’ve done quite a lot in my life. Traveled these mountains too many times to count.”
A snow finch trilled a warning at them from the top of the oak.
“You’ve told me of all your adventures.” Alejandro spread his legs wide, dug his heels into the earth. “I missed your stories when you went away. I used to tell mother I wished you lived with us always.”
The corners of his mouth trembled and she knew he was holding back tears at the thought of his mother. He kicked a stone and watched it roll.
“What was your favorite adventure?” He looked up at her again. “The best of all?”
“The best of all? Now, that takes some thought.” She pretended to mull it over. “I believe it was my summers with your sister Mira, at Belarac.”
He looked confused. “I have no sister.”
She squatted down so their eyes were level. “You do. She lived at the Abbey of Belarac as a child. Grew up without your mother at her side. But I did my best to love her as a mother would. Each summer, I tried.”
“Will I ever see her?”
“You have seen her.”
“When?”
“Remember the artist who came to paint your mother’s portrait?”
“Yes.”
“That’s her.”
He stared at her, astonished.
“What is her name?”
Elena picked up a glossy brown oak leaf and twirled it in her fingertips. “Miramonde. One who sees the world.”
He was quiet a moment, his forehead puckered in a frown.
“Where is the portrait?”
“Mira has it.” Elena had no idea if that was true. She hoped Mira and Arnaud were safely ensconced in some city dwelling, the portrait of Marguerite repaired and hanging on a wall in their home.
“If she is my sister, why did she never live with us?”
“The true answer to your question would take too long, and the knights come this way. When your brother Pelegrín returns, we will ask him to explain.”
“Is he coming back soon?”
“It’s my great hope. I know he would never forsake you.”
A smile broke out on Alejandro’s face. He stepped forward, his arms outstretched as if to embrace her, but at the sound of the knights’ footsteps behind him, he let his arms fall back at his sides.
Elena felt a strange rush of tenderness and despair collide in her chest and squeeze her heart until it ached. The thin chain of the Oto necklace pressed into the flesh beneath her undergarments, each link of gold leaving an imprint on her skin. She was bound to this family, carried the same blood in her veins. There was no other choice but to wait by Alejandro’s side for Pelegrín to reappear and assume the role of baron. She could only hope that he would show more kindness to those under his thumb than his father ever had.
The full moon of high summer had come and gone. She had missed her own wedding. Sadness tugged at her with every thought of Xabi, but it was eclipsed by the profound relief she felt at being extricated from his clamorous, gossiping family. The thought of being forced to live within their walls for the rest of her days—it made her shudder. Brother Arros had often remarked to her that she had more in common with the wild creatures of the mountains than with her own kind. It was true. There was a wildness in her that would never be tamed.
The thin wavering cry of a wolf pierced the air. It floated into the valley on a northerly breeze.
“Wolves,” Alejandro said, his eyes wide.
“Don’t fret, my boy. There’s nothing for them here.”
Overhead a griffon vulture circled lower, its wings dark against the blue sky. Elena could feel its sharp gaze upon them. The dry oak leaves around them rustled in the wind, sounding like a thousand whispering voices. Uneasy, she slipped an arm around Alejandro’s shoulders and drew him close.
The guards were nearly upon them now.
22
May, 2016
Bordeaux, France
Zari
Zari sighed, flipped over on her stomach, shut her eyes. Sleep was elusive tonight. She had never dreaded a presentation with such intensity, and now here she was, twelve hours before showtime, wide awake when she should have been recharging her brain and body with healing sleep. The rock-hard couch probably had something to do with her uneasiness, too. The door to the bedroom was shut; Laurence at least was getting some rest.
When Zari had reserved this place a few months ago, a one-bedroom was exactly what she wanted. Wil was her intended companion for the space. But several days ago, he had called her from Croatia. Filip had developed an infection from a cut on his leg that had gone unnoticed for too long. He had been sent to a Croatian hospital to get intravenous antibiotics. Wil would stay at Filip’s side and see him safely home to Amsterdam when he was ready to travel again. Zari could not fault him for that. It was the right thing to do.
Still, there was a hollow feeling in her chest. Wil’s presence at the conference was something she had banked on. The idea of his slate-blue eyes gazing steadily at her from the audience made the whole thing seem a little more palatable. But now she would have to steel herself and forge ahead without him. Besides, she had Laurence. She was lucky to have a supporter in Bordeaux, no matter who it was.
Zari got up and padded into the kitchen. She had heard nothing from Wil in two days, but his last text reported that Filip was getting the antibiotics he needed to kick the infection. Though it was late, Wil was probably killing time in a hospital waiting room, bored out of his skull. She impulsively decided to call him. His mobile rang twice, then a woman answered in Dutch.
“Hello?” Zari said hesitantly, confused. “I’m calling for Wil.”
; The woman switched to unaccented English. “This is Hana. Filip’s sister.”
There was a short silence while Hana’s words sunk in.
“Hello, Hana. How are you?” Zari stumbled over the words, feeling idiotic.
“Not good,” Hana snapped. “My brother’s life is in danger.”
“What?” Zari’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
“He told me it was you who gave him the idea to do this trip.” Hana’s voice was like ice.
Zari sank onto a bar stool, stunned. She heard the muted voice of a man speaking Dutch in the background and Hana’s sharp retort.
“Zari?” Wil’s familiar voice filled her ear.
“Wil!”
“Why are you calling so late?” His tone was tight and distant.
“I...I thought you might be bored and needing a chat.”
“Bored? Filip is in crisis. It’s crazy here.”
Zari felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her lungs.
“Wil, I had no idea how bad things are. Your text said...”
“Things have changed,” he interrupted. “Filip isn’t responding to the antibiotics.”
She heard him talking in Dutch again, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. A woman—it must have been Hana—replied, her voice rising, the words coming faster and faster.
“Look, Zari, I’ll call you later.” His voice was curt, formal, the voice of a stranger. “Hana’s mobile died and she’s using mine to text with her family. Filip’s parents will arrive tonight but until then Hana and I are watching over him.”
“Of course, Wil. I’m so sorry and I’ll be thinking of Filip every minute. Please...”
Before she could finish, Wil ended the call.
Did Wil think Filip’s infection was her fault, too? Tears began to gather in Zari’s eyes.
Oh, God. She dropped the mobile on the kitchen counter, staring at it in horror. What have I done?
