by Ken Fry
Brodie brandished his phone. “We owe him a progress call.” He paused. “Do we tell him or not?”
“Let’s not. If he had something to do with this, not hearing anything might make him nervous, and the nervous make mistakes.”
Brodie nodded. “I think you’re right. Let’s clear up first.”
§
Thirty-thousand feet above the Pyrenees, Lufthansa flight VIE441 gave a small dip in a swirl of turbulence. The Captain had warned them of it and seat-belts had been fastened.
Sir Maxwell Throgmorton, travelling first class, didn’t give it a second thought. His mind was full of a miraculous painting by Francisco Cortez. Regardless of how accurate that story was, his only thought was of how much money he could make out of it. Faith and money equated to power ... power he could have in so many spheres.
His cell phone vibrated, alerting him to a call. As usual, he disregarded airline regulations about their use.
He answered with muffled caution. “Yes?”
“They will begin in Toledo.”
“Then we are close?”
“If it exists, and once they search the records, it could be found.”
“Good. Very good. What do you need from me?”
“Just how far do we go with Ladro?”
“As far as Ladro and the woman are concerned, let them get on with it. Their next fee is never going to reach them, and should they find what I’m after, they are just as likely to disappear with it as tell me. It will do no harm for them to know they are being trailed. Is that okay?”
“Okay.” The phone switched off.
Throgmorton’s heart speeded up. He was about to get richer.
He gazed out at the mountains down below and the rolling expanses of massive clouds, lost in thought. The possibilities of the plot he had put into motion overwhelmed him.
Who’d want to be a judge?
CHAPTER 13
Overhead, a gathering thunderstorm wrapped the city of Toledo in a sweltering blanket of humidity. Ulla and Brodie stared at the magnificence of the medieval High Gothic built Primate Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo.
The rain began to hammer down.
“Where do we start?” Ulla asked, balancing a magazine on her head.
The facade stood close to the lofty one-hundred-and-forty-foot tower that had surveyed the city since the early Conquistadors. Brodie began climbing the steps towards the main doors. “Let’s go in the front entrance. The main façade has three named entrances: Forgiveness, The Last Judgement and Hell on the left. Take your pick.”
“I’m not quite ready for Hell, Brodie boy.” Ulla chose Forgiveness.
“And remember, sweetheart,” Brodie replied, “we’re not gawping tourists. We’re here to locate paintings that suggest healing miracles or even better, something by our mysterious Francisco Cortez. I’ve got the camera.” He thought not being allowed to take photographs was outrageous, especially when they were charging eight Euros admission fee. He tapped a concealed miniature camera fixed into the lapel of his jacket. “Much better than cell phone shots.”
Once inside, he could only gape at the astonishing demonstration of light emblazoned from windows, vaults, candles, and the staggering multi-foiled arches towering far overhead. It was a dazzling rich architectural display of lost craftsmanship that repeated itself throughout various chapels and cloisters.
“Oh wow! Just look at this.” Ulla spoke in hushed tones as she scanned the overhead riches, festooned in countless golden carvings.
Brodie refused to be overwhelmed. Unseen, he began taking the pictures he wanted. He took photographs of works by El Greco, Caravaggio, Luis de Morales, but not one by Cortez could be found.
Ulla began moving more quickly and Brodie followed her as she turned left from the ambulatory into the Chapterhouse, the Sala Capitular.
“Who are these by?” Ulla indicated a powerful array of frescoes that filled the walls around the structure.
“It says here,” said Brodie flicking through his guide book, “Juan de Borgoña.
“And at last, some miracle healing subjects. But no Cortez by the looks of it.”
“Look at this one.” Brodie pointed to a huge fresco, The Birth of the Virgin. “Astonishing colours and composition … how did he do that? Makes my efforts look a bit pitiful.”
Ulla hesitated. “I see what you mean, but they’re not my cup of tea. I prefer what you do, would you believe? C’mon, take your pictures. We’ve been here long enough. It’s time we left.”
Brodie turned to go. He needed to get back to the hotel to study the photographs. It was then he caught sight of two men staring straight at him from beyond a nearby pillar.
They ducked away. A little too obvious, he thought.
He pulled Ulla across the marbled floor and out towards the ambulatory. “We’re being watched.” There was nobody there. It had become devoid of tourists. They passed slumbering effigies of long dead cardinals and saints that flickered in an amber glow from the overhead lighting.
Ladro sensed danger.
“Ulla, we need to leave quicker than I thought. They’re following us.” Dragging her around a fat carved edifice, he prepared to exit into the downpour outside.
“Wait, Mr. Ladro.”
The voice spoke in toneless English.
Brodie and Ulla spun around.
From behind two other pillars, two male figures moved out but remained in the gloomy shadows of the columns and the paltry light of wall-mounted candles. Their features, shielded in shade, were unrecognisable. They stood in a dark line, their arms by their sides. Both stood motionless. His first impression was that he was in a Quentin Tarantino movie.
He whispered to Ulla. “Did you bring a gun?”
“Of course,” she replied from the side of her mouth.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
The darkness concealed whether they had weapons.
“Who we are doesn’t matter, but there’s no need to be afraid,” the voice said. “Look upon us as your insurance policy, your protectors.”
“What do I need you for?”
Ulla, Brodie could see, had her hand behind her back, reaching for the pistol tucked into the back of her belt.
“Just to let you know that you and your delightful companion are not alone.”
The other man spoke, but this time with a Spanish accent. “You are here to discover the secret of Cortez. You may or may not find it. But if you do, we will ensure that what you find will not disappear or fall into the wrong hands. Do we make ourselves clear?”
“What do you mean ... wrong hands?”
The first man spoke again. “That is not your concern, Mr. Ladro. We make those decisions. Let’s just say we wouldn’t want you walking off with your prize somewhere. Am I making myself clear?”
“So, you think we are potential thieves?” Ulla blurted out.
There came a chuckle. “That’s a rich statement coming from you and you know it.”
Brodie stood in the dull glow of filtered light amongst the dead saints and marble columns and allowed his anger to rise.
He could hear the rain splattering outside and smell the incense wafting across from various altars.
Whoever these men were, it was dangerous that they knew more about Ulla and him than was safe. She had stopped reaching for her gun and now held on to his arm. He chanced a wild card.
“Who sent you? Throgmorton?”
Another chuckle. “Ladro, do you always give out names so easily? Let’s just say you have been warned.”
He signalled to his companion, and the two melted back into the shadows. Before Brodie and Ulla could move, they had vanished.
Brodie breathed hard. He was accustomed to risks, but this assignment had shifted to a different level. Being followed, then threatened, placed a new dimension on both him and Ulla. That was dangerous. It had never happened before, and whoever was behind it seemed to know a lot about them.
Breaking through
his apprehension, he could hear the choir and the priests going about their devotions.
Ulla interrupted. “You’re rattled and I know what you’re thinking. We’re not giving up. We’re pressing on. If that little demonstration is enough to deter you, then you are not the man I thought. Am I making myself clear?”
He didn’t know what was worse, the men or Ulla. He ignored her challenge. “Who d’you think they were?”
“Something to do with Throgmorton, I’m certain.”
“He doesn’t trust us.”
“Would you?”
Brodie opened a side door and stepped out into the rain, his gaze attempting to penetrate the downpour. “I can’t see anybody. Whoever they were, they’ve gone.”
“C’mon back to the hotel.”
Francisco Cortez was becoming an unsafe mystery.
§
They slumped back into bulky armchairs.
Ulla’s excitement didn’t abate. She’d always had a sense of rebellion, a desire for excitement. A love-hate feeling was how she would describe her reaction to it. Since she could remember, it had been part of her character. It had delivered her endless trouble, and at times, she hated herself for it. Apart from Brodie, she’d made a mess of her life.
But she had no time for regrets. She never really had— she was addicted to the buzz. That was her driver. She loved Brodie but would never marry him. He was too problematic. He’d asked her several times and her answer had always been no.
The way the relationship stood suited her just fine. Anything else could get too damn cosy. She wasn’t used to that, and it made her uncomfortable. Most of her younger years had been spent in an orphanage, and absconding had become a way of life. She’d never been shown love, and in place of that, she substituted high risk adventures and action to give herself a sense of worth. Brodie and Gordian Knots satisfied her aesthetic self, but the circle wasn’t complete. Burglary and all that went with it completed the loop.
She looked across at him and he was deep in thought. It was tough for him, she guessed. He was on the wobble, and more so of late. She didn’t want to get into a tug-of-war of will right now. She switched on the laptop to check for messages. There were two. She read them out aloud.
One from Evita gave a short list of known female aristocrats living in the Province of Toledo. She’d given five names.
The other email came from Throgmorton. Awaiting news. Please let me know. She looked up. Brodie didn’t react.
He stood and walked to the window. “Look down there.”
Ulla followed him and glanced out. Cars were crawling by in both directions along the narrow street. The rain had stopped, and the sun had begun to shine. Passers-by moving along the tight pavements revealed two men standing and looking at the hotel entrance.
“They followed us all the way back here.”
“Our friends from earlier?
“Who else?”
Something was not right.
Whoever these men were, how did they know so much? If it was Throgmorton, what was he doing sending emails asking for a progress report? What did threatening them achieve?
Ulla braced herself for what she expected he would say next. It was bag packing time.
But it wasn’t.
“Ulla, what happens to you is my concern. And no, I don’t want to quit. We’ve had narrow escapes, but this has gone up a few levels. Are you up to this and are sure you want to carry on?”
“And I thought you were about to split.” She held on to his arm. “You know me. I can’t wait to see where this is leading. What do we do now?”
“We stick to our plan and when we get back tomorrow, we go for the aristos and then on to Cortez’s archives.”
“What do I tell Throgmorton?”
“I’m certain he knows. I’d put money on it. Don’t tell him anything yet. Let him stew.”
CHAPTER 14
Monasterio de San Vicente de Valencia
1561 A.D.
Obedience, piety, poverty and chastity.
The same vows applied to the Lay Brotherhood as to full members of The Knights of the Risen Lazarus.
Francisco Cortez loved God as much as any man alive. With Salvador Méndez’s permission, he had become a lay brother of the Order. He longed to be a full member, a monk. For three evenings each week, he would devote the time to helping administer supplies for the monastery and the knights, plus small duties managing finance. He was also about to commence painting a picture of Abbot Covas. Before picking up a brush, he would lose himself in prayers and contemplation. He would thank God for his life, his parents, his sponsors, and his artistic gift.
He often thought of the fresco of Lazarus by Borgoña and had been to see it in Toledo several times. Its magnetic force always caused him to gasp.
But he could never bring himself to dare paint something of the same episode. The thought overwhelmed him and rendered him powerless.
I am unworthy.
There were moments while meditating when he became suffused by an inner light and thoughts of monastic life would surface.
There was a difficulty … Francisco’s other love, Paloma.
I love her more than ever.
§
Before setting out for the studio, ready for the day’s work, Francisco, amidst the aromas of paints, pigments, chalks and charcoal, knelt in silent prayer. He prayed that his hand would be steady and his eye true, and what he produced would be for the greater glory of God.
Today, like many others of late, his prayers would be distracted by visions of Paloma. He could see her beauty, feel the softness of her skin, the lustre of her eyes, and smell the sweetness of her eau de cologne. What meetings they had were in secret. They would meet on the hillside woods, in a hidden bower away from her father’s beady eye, and the seminarians of the monastery.
There they learnt the ways of love. Shy kisses and lingering caresses evolved into fleshy breathlessness. Fingers touched buttons, hooks, and farthingales undone. They became one and their union completed.
§
The Abbot arrived earlier that morning for his sitting. He was a small man with pale but kindly features. His age caused his limbs to creak with aches and pains. Forty years of monastic life and never venturing beyond the walls of the monastery had given his skin the texture of ancient parchment.
He would not be easy to flatter in paint.
Francisco studied him with an impersonal gaze. Did he look better in sunlight or half-light, and what angle best hinted at or revealed the Abbot’s humanity?
Francisco then made a bold decision. He would break with convention and paint the Abbot kneeling in prayer. This would add reverence to his subject and give Francisco the opportunity to work on the Abbot’s hands—Francisco’s forte. Abbot Covas, his face close-up and in detail, would be gazing upwards. His eyes would be imploring and his features exuding veneration and humility. His hands would be in prayer and directed at the figure of Mary, the Blessed Virgin, and in her arms, the infant Jesus.
Mary would be painted swathed in white and blue robes, bedecked with lilies symbolic of the Virgin. Jesus would be wrapped from the waist down in white, gazing up at his mother.
With rays of light radiating from her and enveloped in an ethereal luminosity, Mary would have the likeness of Paloma.
Abbot Covas was an excellent subject. He could keep still and silent for hours. For him, this was not difficult, stillness and silence had long been part of his life. After two hours, Francisco gave him a break. He had enough material to know how to capture the sanctity of the Abbot.
The Abbot spoke to him, the creases around his lips shifting. His voice was clear and soft as warmed oil.
“Brother Francisco, I’m certain that what you are painting will be, as usual, excellent. I don’t want to see it until it’s finished. You’ve given us many examples of your work for our beloved building. For that we are grateful. What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to you.”
Francisco loo
ked wary. He’s found out about Paloma.
“You’ve been coming here for two years now. You are diligent and there can be no doubt that you love God. He has also given you a rare talent. Have you considered becoming a full monk? I have spoken with your father and with Señor Méndez. There is no disagreement. You would, of course, have special dispensations for your art. Don’t rush your decision. Take a week or two and let me know what you think when you are ready.”
Francisco had known this day would come. It had arrived sooner than he wished. He grasped the Abbot’s outstretched hand and knelt before him. “Father, I am honoured, but I am unworthy.”
“There isn’t a monk here, and we have forty, who hasn’t said that.”
“Forgive me, Father. There is much to consider. Part of me would like nothing more and part of me has to consider how I wish to live the remainder of my life.”
How could I possibly tell Paloma and leave her?
“It is wise that you consider all aspects, Francisco. We will not talk of this again unless you ask me. Agreed?”
“Agreed, Father.”
Abbot Covas turned to leave, but before he did, he made the Sign of the Cross and bestowed his blessing on the still kneeling Francisco.
Outside could be heard the mealtime refectory bell summoning the monks to eat. Francisco wasn’t hungry. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind.
§
The winter passed.
Torn between his two loves, Francisco had yet to give his reply to Abbot Covas, whose frailty had become more defined, for all to see.
He told Paloma of his predicament and sensed her anxieties that he would choose God and not her. They continued making love and he found that hard to resist. It was passionate and overwhelming for them as they struggled with uncertainties. Neither her father nor Abbot Covas knew of their relationship. Her rival was ever present — the memory of a twelve-year-old boy and a mystical event, as paint and colour transmuted, but just for a moment, into living flesh.
