by Ken Fry
Haven’t I remained faithful to the order? The Abbot has declared me as Artista del Monasterio, and I have dutifully carried out the tasks asked of me.
He remembered his painting of the Abbot, completed before he became a monk. Since then, he had brought with him several of his other works. All of them portrayed various miracles performed by Christ. He had also completed a fresco for the church entrance, a triptych to surround the altar, and was now working on plans to complete the new ideas for the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. Yet, within, Francisco had become aware of something missing from his life. It lacked fulfilment. Something was deficient, that in a mysterious way was connected to his art … his vision as a twelve-year-old boy in Toledo’s Cathedral.
Lazarus.
He’d encouraged a repeat of the experience many times. Each time, it eluded him. He thought it beyond him and came to realise the futility of grasping for that which was not his to have. Only Christ could permit this. And Christ had withdrawn from him.
Punishment.
So, why was I shown this ... for what reason? It was a question he had asked himself many times before.
His thoughts were broken by a sharp knock on the door.
In front of him stood Abbot Covas and Lay Brother Salvador Méndez, his art master. Their expressions were unhappy.
For several seconds, Francisco stared at them without speaking. He heard the wind blowing, the sounds of birdsong through the open window. But something was not right.
All three made the sign of the cross.
“I am honoured, Brothers. Please take a seat.” Francisco gestured to the rough wooden bench in the corner. He sat on his bed. He noticed that the Abbot and Méndez looked quickly at each other.
Méndez spoke. “Brother Francis, I must congratulate you on your work of our Abbot at his devotions. It exceeds my highest expectations of you. It is masterly.”
“Thank you,” Francisco replied, with as much humility as he could muster.
Abbot Covas held up his hand to speak. “Brother Méndez has given me some worrying information. He will wait outside whilst we discuss this.” Méndez nodded, stood, and walked from the room.
Once the Abbot was certain Méndez was out of earshot, he spoke with a slow and serious voice. “Brother Méndez tells me the Blessed Virgin in my painting has the face of your art supplier’s daughter. Is that true?”
Francisco lowered his head and whispered, “That is true, Father.”
“Why did you use a shopkeeper’s daughter?”
“I knew no other and she had the same innocent quality as our Beloved Virgin. It seemed right to capture that.”
Francisco saw the Abbot lean forward, and for a man of his years, a surprising hawk-like glint emanated from his eyes. His next question took Francisco by surprise.
“Have you ever dreamed or fantasised about her in an inappropriate way?”
Francisco stared back into the Abbot’s questioning eyes. He hesitated, lowered his head and spoke in a whisper, “Yes I did.”
“What was her name?”
“Paloma.”
“Did you lust after her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you lie with her in a carnal way?”
A hot flush made Francisco’s face burn. His voice descended lower. “Yes.”
“You have not confessed this before. Brother Francis, it is a serious mortal sin you have committed.”
“Forgive me father…”
Abbot Covas cut him short. “If Brother Méndez had not informed me of this girl, I would not have known, although God does. You are to be punished for this deliberate and serious omission, in more ways than one. The girl no longer suffers. God have mercy on her soul.” Standing as tall as he was able, he made the sign of the cross twice. The second was over Brother Francis. “Because of that, you are saved from ex-communication. Seven days from this moment, you will be taken out to the desert. There you will spend forty days and nights as did our Blessed Lord. You shall not eat, but only drink. You will also be supplied with appropriate means to chastise yourself three times daily. Deo Gratias.”
The rest of the Abbot’s words were lost, as Francisco, in cold horror, understood what his Abbot had said.
A descending sensation swept through him as the colour drained from his face. His stomach knotted, causing him to cry out. “Paloma! Please, Father, what’s happened to Paloma?” he implored the Abbot.
He looked into a face that had the expression of a tombstone.
“For her sins, she was taken by God some weeks back. She was pregnant and died giving birth. She left a bastard boy, which I suspect was yours. That is all you need to know. You will remain in your cell until you are ready to be taken from here. Time enough to start your penance.” Covas turned, and without a sound, left the cell.
Francisco knew the child must have been his. That thought caused him to shake uncontrollably. With it came the crushing burden of horrifying guilt, shame, and remorse. He passed from shock into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 25
“Extraordinary,” Ladro whispered under his breath. In front of him on the massive library desk lay a collection of sixteenth-century diaries and manuscripts written from around 1550 and covering a twenty-year period to sometime in the 1570s. They seemed to recount how the vineyard developed during that time, but of major interest were the year-on-year recollections and written entries by their subject, Francisco Cortez.
The script was in Early Spanish. The letters had long tapering strokes and words with elongated letters with added flourishes and swirls.
“Ulla, listen to this.”
August 9, 1550
Today is my ninth birthday and it makes me happy. I have given thanks to God. My papa says I will go to University when I am older and become a lawyer. I want to be a painter…
“He’s even done a small sketch of himself. It’s called, ‘Me.’
Ulla looked at it. It showed a boyish face, yet with a mature and serious expression, almost as if he knew something you didn’t.
“Even from that you can see his talent shining through.”
“True, but what would be better is, if we could find clues to the so-called miraculous painting supposedly in Toledo’s Cathedral.” Ladro picked up another volume. “It might take a while.”
An hour later, and Ladro was still turning pages with care, reading closely but anxious not to damage or tear the delicate paper which crackled on occasions like a box of cereals. Many of the entries were mundane and what he regarded as domestic trivia.
And then, a passage caught his attention. It was what he looking was for.
The language was simple, that of a young Francisco Cortez. Every entry opened up a vista into medieval Spain. The pages were decorated with illuminated drawings and sketches of buildings; the countryside, animals, plants and flowers, and people’s faces with their names written besides them. Ladro could sense himself being drawn in as he began reading.
He called Ulla over. “We’ve got something here.”
March 19, 1553
The Feast of Saint Joseph
My parents are too busy today to journey with me to Toledo. So, I have to walk alone. I want to speak to God, to ask him to let me become an artist. I washed myself more than usual and put on fresh clothes and sandals. I had to look clean and pray with dignity, or he might refuse my request.
It is hot today and (Cortez’s writing here is indistinct and words are crossed out.)
There are men and women with carts and mules. Many have fruit and vegetables. Others have chickens or pigs. They are going to the market. Most of them I know as they buy wine from papá.
I can see the tower from here. It looks grand.
I hope God is not too busy today.
Ulla pointed at the script. “It looks as if the writing has been interrupted, and the remaining entry written later that day. The ink colours are different.”
“Not only has the ink colours changed, but the whole tone. Why?”
Crowds were around, but I was alone. People were speaking, but it was silent. The bells chimed, but no sound came from them. I knew where I had to be. I walked through the cloisters and turned into the Chapterhouse, the Sala Capitular… incense. Around me are the religious frescos by Juan de Borgoña, I’ve been told. I knew I should be here for God has told me so. I was compelled. I have been led here. For the first time in my life, I prostrated myself three times and then knelt in prayer and contemplation. I beseeched God to allow my talents to benefit mankind. How long, I have no idea. Time did not exist. I had a feeling I never had before. I felt the breath of God.
I opened my eyes and saw the fresco of Christ raising Lazarus. The shroud moved, and Lazarus sat up. Jesus turned and looked straight at me with rays of golden light coming from his eyes. I heard his voice in my head. He called me by name … FRANCISCO CORTEZ! I think I fainted.
When I awoke, I knew.
I knew I was to paint the next resurrection of Lazarus to benefit all men and penitents. I could tell no one. For in each period, man would destroy that which he could not understand, as they had destroyed him.
Why me? What am I to do? Who can I tell? Who will understand? Perhaps papá? I shall praise God forever. This is a miracle, a true miracle!
LAUDÁTE DÓMINUM!
“Praise be to God, indeed.” Ladro’s voice was louder than he intended. “Result!
Ulla clapped him on the back. “Hey, Brodie boy, now it looks as if we have something to work on.”
He paused and rubbed at his chin. “It asks more questions than it answers.”
“Let me guess.” Ulla pulled at the gold chain around her neck. “Did he ever paint it and if he did, where is it?”
“Right, if he did, was it destroyed and have there been others? The fresco by Juan de Borgoña he mentions is not where Francisco says it was. I’ve been all over the Chapterhouse and it’s full of the Virgin Mary and scenes from the life of Christ, but there is no work showing Lazarus. There have been plenty of wars and uprisings, including the late Civil War. Has it been destroyed like the others that went before it?”
“If he did paint the event and it hasn’t been destroyed, my bet is that it’s in a church or a monastery around here. It has to be. The Condesa lives on the ruins of a disused monastery and the codex refers to two other monasteries, one in Segovia and the other in Valencia. If we can locate their vicinities, we might be able to find where those figures are pointing to in Raúl’s paintings.”
“They’re clues of some sort. Doesn’t it strike you also that one of his paintings is lodged in Valencia’s Cathedral where the alleged Holy Chalice is kept?”
“You’ve been reading too many Templar novels, Brodie.”
“I don’t think so. Why don’t we spend a few days in the Valencia area? Then, we can both check out the Valencia painting and try to locate those monasteries.”
“Of course, and we let Evita know about this Lazarus connection?”
“Naturally.”
§
Throgmorton’s visit to England would be a day trip, and besides, prisons never failed to depress him. Long Cross was no different.
He drove through the massive open steel double doors bristling with security guards. A double entry system resembling a giant airlock allowed him to drive in before an equally mammoth set of doors opened up at the other end, as those behind him hummed to a menacing close.
I’ve sent scores of men to this place. He couldn’t help thinking as he drove out to the secure parking area. I hope De Witt’s in a forgiving mood.
Stefan De Witt, of Dutch origin, had about two weeks to go out of a seven-year stretch, before early release for good behaviour. De Witt was a master forger. His crime was passing off fake paintings into the salerooms and to dealers who knew, or otherwise. His works had an added stamp of authenticity. He’d constructed elaborate provenances that had been almost impossible to disentangle. His speciality was medieval works. He’d maintained that his signature artist was El Greco. After his conviction, his bank account had been sequestered and two million pounds had been repaid to a handful of anonymous victims. At one point, the Russian Mafia had threatened to execute him if he revealed what paintings he had faked. Nobody, especially criminals, wants to admit to the mistake of buying a fake.
At his trial, he had demonstrated his skills by painting, from the dock, an El Greco work in less than an hour.
Experts had found it almost impossible to decipher it from an original.
Throgmorton, as the sentencing judge, remembered being impressed and somewhat amused by De Witt’s uncanny talent.
Walking down the green and cream painted corridor, he approached the visiting area with a sense of caution. He knew enough about the system to know that he’d be targeted unless he remained undetected. He did not want his presence to be general knowledge. De Witt knew he was on his way, but a message had been sent to him to keep his mouth shut or he might end up the loser. Throgmorton needed De Witt’s cooperation to put his plans into motion and extract a fortune from the idiotic Condesa. Afterwards, he planned to vanish from the world into a life of luxury.
Being a criminal had undeniable attractions.
Once in the main area, he did a quick survey and saw De Witt sitting alone at a corner table. Two warders stood back at a discreet but watchful distance. A few years in jail hadn’t changed him. He looked unassuming. A squat man in his mid-forties with white hair cut in an abrupt but vigorous one-inch crew cut. There was a suppressed nervousness about him. It was a condition he intended to maintain between them.
Mr. De Witt,” Throgmorton extended his hand.
De Witt remained seated and ignored it. “Judge Throgmorton, this is hard to believe. What do you want to see me for? I don’t think it’s to offer friendly advice.” His top lip curled.
The judge knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. “You’re right on that point, De Witt. You’re not getting friendly advice. I’m not wasting time on small talk, so I’ll get to the point. When you get out of here, you’ll have nothing. You’ve been cleaned out. You’re broke. The best you can hope for is living in a halfway house and you’ll barely able to afford a piss at Waterloo station. Looking forward to that, are you?
“You haven’t come all this way to tell me what I already know.”
“True. We may be able to help each other.”
“How’s that?”
Throgmorton saw his eyes narrow. Once a villain always a villain. From his case, he pulled out the three enlarged photographs of Francisco Cortez’s known paintings and pushed them across to him.
De Witt scrutinised them. “I didn’t do these.” His face glowered.
Throgmorton couldn’t resist a smirk. “I know you didn’t. Two are in the El Prado and the other is in Valencia Cathedral. The artist was Francisco Cortez, a little-known sixteenth-century painter. Experts rate him more highly than your pet baby, El Greco. What do you think?” He handed him a magnifying lens.
De Witt picked up each one and subjected them to an in-depth examination. He then sat back, took a deep breath and lifted his chin. “Masterly, without a doubt. Whether they are better than Greco is a matter of opinion. Why are you showing me these?
Throgmorton paused. Raúl’s recent information had been most useful. “He painted religious scenes, mainly, as you can see from these examples, the miracles of Christ. If asked, would it be possible, for example, to do a sixteenth-century Cortez showing Christ raising Lazarus from the dead?”
The prisoner leaned forward. “If asked, the answer would be yes.”
“I’m asking.”
“I’d need to see originals, make sketches and notes, plus photographs. There is one other important factor to consider.”
“Let me guess. Price?”
“Exactly. An authentic work is not cheap.”
Criminals never learned. Even after experiencing imprisonment, this man was willing to walk down the same path
that had sent him here in the first place. For the same reason. Money.
“Five grand.”
“Ten.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“You’re on. Where do we go from here?”
“The day you are released, you will be met outside the gates and from there you’ll be taken to Heathrow with a ticket to Madrid. When you arrive, someone will meet you and you will get full instructions. Okay?”
“No tricks?”
“No tricks. I promise.”
CHAPTER 26
Travelling by air, he found boring. The flight back to Madrid was no different although it gave Throgmorton time for reflection. Gazing out into the tumbling cumulus, he thought about his life. He’d gone a long way in five years from the safe and respected world of the legal profession. Under a dark and heavy cloud, he’d only just avoided the fate of criminals like De Witt. He’d travelled into a world of shadows. They were now to be his home and he had no illusions. It was as if he had been born to it. The thrill and excitement it created amazed him. It was a million miles away from the dreariness of the Inns of Court. He rationalised that if he could have his life all over again, this would be his chosen path.
Murder, violence, robbery and extortion, he’d begun to know them well, like long lost friends.
The vibration of his mobile caused him to check. It was López. He’d paid him, together with his accomplice, Copin, to follow Ladro and Stuart and report back to him on their movements.
“They are on their way to Valencia.”
“Stay with them and report back,” he said, and switched off the phone. Interesting. Valencia Cathedral without a doubt. Cortez’s painting in the Chapel has to be on their visit list. Why? He thought De Witt was the key. Ladro and his woman’s fate would be determined by what he could produce.
