“What do you think?” he asked Tyrel. “Is there a way to stick them on as decoration?”
“Oh sure. I’ve seen such things done with small metal prongs that grip the stone. First, you’ll want the stones polished and shaped.”
John thought about how that might be done, especially on such a small scale.
“I know a man,” Tyrel said. “Let me take a few of them.”
“Take them all. They’re no use to me in this bag.”
The morning started with good-sized crowds, but it seemed everyone was there for the entertainment, and although several people commented to John over the set of unusual boxes he had no buyers. Two different women had asked whether they could purchase only one box, but John decided it was early yet—he would try to hold out for selling them as a set. Even to himself he didn’t admit to the nagging thought that the good and evil needed to remain together, to balance one another. He had no idea whether the third box would have any such traits and, if so, which direction it might go.
Tyrel was waiting for John when he arrived at the market the next morning. He held out his hand. John couldn’t believe these were the same stones. Each was nicely rounded now and the colors showed through much more vividly. Tyrel pulled a bit of metal wire from his pocket.
“This is how we’ll attach them,” he said. “Show me that box again.”
With a few taps of his small hammer, he set four prongs into the wood and then gently bent them to grip the stone.
“I can do it more efficiently at my shop, where I can heat the metal to make it easier to work,” he said. “If I may take the boxes? I will have them done this afternoon.”
John felt a little trepidation. What if one of yesterday’s potential buyers came back? He looked at the mounted stone, his eye drawn to the beauty of it, away from the less-than-ideal finish on the wood. He handed over all three boxes to Tyrel and turned his own attention to setting up an attractive display of his other wares.
Tyrel returned shortly after the midday dinner hour, carrying the three boxes in a stack, smiling broadly.
“There were only enough stones for two of them,” he said. “But see—I’ve put them around the sides as well, not only on the top.”
Before he had set them down a woman stopped to admire them.
John’s moment of pride began to dim as the afternoon wore on. Heavy clouds had gathered and many of the festival-goers were now out of sight, probably taking to indoor activities as the threatening rain began to fall in a drizzle. He adjusted the tarpaulin to protect his wares but the effect was that they did not display nearly so well. He debated about leaving as his formerly ebullient mood dimmed to irritability. Topping it off, he spotted the old woman known only as Moira, the one whom half the town believed to be a witch.
She approached and stooped to pick up one of the carved boxes. Her unkempt gray hair fell like a veil across her face. His temper flared.
“Out of here, witch!” he yelled. “You’ll not be touchin’ my work.”
She looked up and gave him a steady stare, laying the spread fingers of both hands over the tops of the three boxes.
“Out!” he yelled again.
She stood slowly, looked straight into his eyes and began to speak. Her voice was low, a nearly musical tone. “Carver, you know not the depth of the power you hold here.”
With that, she slowly turned and walked away, vanishing around a corner. John felt the hair rise on his neck. What had she done? How could she know about the powers of the boxes unless she somehow had access to it?
“That’s an odd one, ain’t she?” A man’s voice startled John. “Moira. Some says she’s a witch, but I don’t believe it. Witch hunters has been to her place, ready to haul her out and put her to the stake more’n once. She’s never there and they say she uses magic to get away.”
The stranger lowered his voice. “My wife says it ain’t so. She’s cleaned the woman’s house before. Says there’s a false back in the cupboard. Whenever Moira knows they’re comin’ she jumps in there and hides. Laughs at ’em when they’re gone.”
The man laughed raucously and John forced a smile. What he said might be true, about Moira hiding, but it didn’t explain how she knew that the boxes had special powers. John endured a friendly fist to his shoulder as the man walked away, cackling over his story.
The rain increased to a torrent and a violent crack of lightning sent horizontal fingers of light sizzling above the stone buildings surrounding the market square. Then—as suddenly—it stopped. John had the eerie feeling he had just received a message of some kind.
* * *
Torches illuminated the market stalls as night fell. Puddles from the afternoon rain had largely dissipated, the water soaking into the ground, what part of it hadn’t been absorbed into people’s shoes and clothing. Vendors threw straw on the muddy earth to encourage longer stays at their booths and John was no exception. Tomorrow being the final day of the celebration, people realized they had to make their purchases soon.
John prayed that no one other than the man who’d told the silly story about Moira had witnessed the witch’s visit. No matter whether it was true or not, in the superstitious minds of the Irish an item being touched by a witch would forever carry bad luck. John could only hope the man had not spread the tale. Still, the incident had only further solidified his plan to be rid of all three boxes.
He polished the boxes with a cloth, stacking them to suggest their attractiveness as a set. Many of the citizens paused and looked at them, but when he quoted the price for the three they walked on. He looked anxiously at the size of the crowd; it was dissipating now as the evening grew later and those with youngsters began to leave.
“How much for this one?” said a man with an English accent.
John had never held any fondness for the English, but a buyer was a buyer. The man wore common clothing but his garments were in neat repair and not unduly worn. His beard was trimmed and he had most of his teeth. John quoted a price one-third the amount he had been asking for the set, allowing just enough hesitation into his voice to let the man know he might bargain with him.
“Eight pence?”
“I could go to seven,” John said, wishing he didn’t sound so eager. It was Virtu, the box with the healing power, although it was the least attractive of the lot.
The Englishman set it down and touched the third box. “And this one?” The one of unknown power. He had carved the name Manichee, meaning the middle path, inside the lid of this one.
“Eight, as well.”
The man debated and his show of interest attracted another man to stop. John recognized this one as the local bishop, known for his penny-pinching ways. He didn’t want the bishop to witness as he sold one of the boxes cheaply or the churchman would insist upon getting an even better deal for himself—in the name of God, of course.
The Englishman had picked up the first box again. “Seven it is,” he said, reaching into his sleeve and coming up with a small pouch. He counted out the coins and took the box called Virtu.
The bishop remained, examining the two remaining boxes closely, muttering something about a good size for storage of candles. While he debated, a man of obvious wealth approached. He wore clothes of fine cloth and an ornamental chain of gold across his vest. The merchant class, John thought, they always showed off a bit more than others.
“Ah, what interesting wood carvings,” the wealthy merchant said heartily. “My wife loves this sort of thing and I’m in need of a gift when I return home. Although I think the stones make nice ornamentation, she prefers a plainer look. I’ll take that one.”
He pointed to the box called Manichee and asked John to wrap it in a piece of cloth for travel. Leaving his servant to handle the transaction, he sauntered on to the next vendor. When John finished the matter, he noticed that the bishop’s interest had quickened.
“Last one,” he told the man. “It won’t be here long.”
The bishop eyed a woman who w
as walking toward them at a clip. “All right. Seven pence?”
“Eight.”
The woman was only a few feet away. The bishop grumbled and pulled out his purse. He counted out eight pence as if God were nearly out of money and the extra cost would starve some angel in heaven. John ignored the attitude and thanked the bishop for the purchase. Surely the Church would not be affected by the negative power of Facinor.
As the robed man walked away, John stared around the marketplace. The Englishman was strolling toward the narrow street that led to the docks; the wealthy merchant was browsing bolts of cloth across the way, his servant laden with his purchases; the bishop had tucked the remaining jeweled box into his robe and was making his way toward the high doors of the church.
What would become of the three boxes? John Carver wondered. Perhaps more importantly, what would happen to the people who came in contact with them? Would the pieces continue to have the power to heal or deny healing? Would they remain nearby or, as with the one in the hands of the merchant, end up in a foreign land?
The voice of a woman wanting to purchase some wooden spoons only drew his partial attention. His gaze grew distant as he contemplated the future.
Chapter 2
Flames Dance
Sophia Vermejo polished the surface of an ornate wood cabinet, keeping one ear toward the adjoining room, attuned to her father’s work. Young Simón Borega squirmed in his chair during his sittings, so greatly that it was all Abran Vermejo could do to keep his subject posed in the stiff ruffled collar and small, scratchy suit, much less mix the paints and adjust for the changing light.
The rooms assigned to them at the large Borega home in Sevilla were not ideal for the task, but they were provided gratis in deference to the artist’s reputation. In return, Sophia performed tasks of light housekeeping.
“All right,” said the voice of Abran from the next room. “A respite for you, lad. Until tomorrow.”
Sophia heard the door to the hallway close, followed by a long sigh from her father. She peered into the long room that had been converted to a temporary art studio. Abran had set aside his palette and was standing at the side table where dozens of small bottles contained the pigments and oils he used to mix his paints. She loved the smell of his work area.
“Children! Why did I ever agree to accept this commission?” he fumed, as he reached for the cadmium yellow.
“Because we needed the money,” Sophia reminded gently. And because living under the roof of one of the city’s most reputable families offers some degree of protection. The arch in her eyebrow as she met her father’s stare conveyed the meaning; it was a subject of which they dared not speak.
“Don’t worry, Papá. You’ve finished three of them already. Simón is only a normal little boy for his age.”
She swore that a low growl came from her father’s throat.
He picked up a palette knife and deposited a large swath of umber on the palette, smearing it with yellow and small touches of blue and red, blending until he had the shade he wanted. He set to work, filling the background around the outline of the child’s feet and legs. The face was looking quite good and details of hands and clothing would come later, in the moments when he could get the squirmy eight-year-old to be still.
“I love your new style of painting, Papá.” Sophia stood behind his left shoulder, watching the adept brush strokes. “The details in the face remind me of that Italian, Botticelli. Remember when we saw his work on display?”
“Ah, if only I were painting important pieces. They say Botticelli is currently working on depictions of the Graces and Venus. Instead … family portraits for me.”
Sophia stretched an arm around his shoulder. “Your work is beautiful and I will not have you listen to anyone who says otherwise.”
Abran winced. “I must stop for the day. My body aches. Perhaps tonight you could prepare one of your warm soups for our supper?”
“For you, Papá, of course.” She kissed his cheek. “Put your things away and go up to your room. I’ve three more rooms to clean on this hall and I shall be along after your nap.”
She watched as he began to pick up his brushes but realized that she must move along to her own duties. La señora’s small sitting room looked tidy enough, Sophia decided, and she moved to the next. Señora Borega’s bedchamber was cool and quiet this time of day with the family typically away from the house. Soon, however, they would return from their day’s activities and the lady would be ready for a short rest before dressing for dinner. Sophia left the door to the corridor standing open as she set about neatening the items on the dressing table and wiping at near-invisible flecks of dust with her cloth. She’d never lived amid such cleanliness, always barely staying ahead of the clutter in a man’s art studio.
Her father had cared for her the best he knew how and her mother was barely a memory. Girls her age had married and now had their own families. Sophia didn’t suppose she would ever marry. None of the young men in their old barrio showed an interest in the girl whose time was spent trailing along in the wake of an artist. When commissions were scarce, they moved back to their Toledo neighborhood where moneylenders carried on as secretively as possible under the watchful eye of the Church, and rumors kept everyone running scared. Sophia had hinted to her father that he should work a bit slower here in Sevilla, extending their time under the roof of such an influential family where protection was implied more than actual. If Torquemada’s men wanted to question you, they did—no matter where you lived.
She arranged la señora’s perfumes on the dressing table and turned to the wide armoire which housed the collection of dresses that never failed to astound Sophia—fine linen chemises, over-gowns of fabrics such as silk with their hanging sleeves and bejeweled belts as ornamentation. Sophia opened the double doors on the cupboard and stared, more conscious than ever of her own brown homespun-cloth dress, apron and cap. If she were more adept at the household arts, she would probably have made a bit of lace or sewn a decorative design on her cap, but if she were more adept she would also probably have a husband by now. She sighed and flicked the exotic long feather duster across the shoulders of the garments.
An item on the shelf above the elaborate dresses caught her eye. A box, carved in a simple pattern of crisscrossing diagonal lines. Almost on its own, her hand reached for it.
The piece looked old and almost certainly had not originated in Spain. The style was nothing familiar to Sophia, even among the variety of artistic styles to which she’d been exposed in all her twenty years. The thought of an object that had come from another land excited her. An image came to her of the box inside a cabin on a ship, one with a round window and a table covered with intricate maps and unfamiliar instruments of brass. An odd, tingling feeling passed through her hands and up her arms.
“Sophia? What are you doing?”
The voice of Maria Borega startled her and Sophia almost dropped the box as she spun around.
“I am so sorry, señora. I meant no—”
“Let me see what you have there.” The voice was not unkind.
Sophia held the box forth.
“Oh, this.” Maria Borega handed it back and turned away, pulling the lace mantilla from her head.
“I was only dusting it—I shall put it exactly where I found it,” Sophia said, reaching for the shelf.
“Would you like to have it, Sophia? As your own?” She crossed to the dresser and removed her earrings.
“Oh, señora, I ... I couldn’t . . .”
“Certainly you may. If I wish to give it to you, it is my privilege.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean—”
“Sophia, it’s all right.” The mistress, who was probably only a few years older than Sophia herself, smiled indulgently. “I wish for you to have it. I think we have more in common than you would guess.”
Sophia stumbled through a hasty gracias, practically bowing as she backed out of the room, leaving the lady alone. A maid gave her a hard loo
k as she began the ascent to the third floor. Sophia met her gaze. She might only be the unmarried daughter of an artist, but she was still a step above an indentured maid.
She tapped very softly at her father’s door, then opened it. Abran snored softly from his bed, and Sophia closed the door quietly. In her own room, adjacent to his, she set the box on her bed. Each of these windowless, cell-like rooms contained only a narrow bed, a small table, a candlestick and a row of rough nails upon which to hang clothing. Nothing was private or sacred here. She lit her candle and sat on the bed, pulling her shawl more snugly around her shoulders to ward off the persistent chill.
A tap sounded at her bedroom door. “Time for prayers,” said a female voice. This happened often, whenever one of the local priests showed up to hear confessions and pray with the family in their home. And, Sophia suspected, to manage an invitation for dinner. Unfortunately, the religious ceremony was not optional.
On the other side of the wall she heard her father stir in response to the knock at his door. Ever since the decree by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Abran had grumbled quietly about the enforcement of these customs which felt so foreign to them. Gone were their Seders and holy days such as Rosh Hashanah; the family menorah was buried beneath the floor of their home in far-off Toledo. For Jews in Spain, the choices nowadays were to leave, to convert or to be subject to the Inquisition, with the great likelihood of being put to death.
* * *
Father Benedict sensed something secretive about that young woman, the daughter of the current artist in residence at the Borega home. He took his duties at the cathedral quite seriously, and that included not only looking after the spiritual condition of his flock but also keeping a diligent eye out for those who would seek to blaspheme or denigrate the sanctity of the one true faith. The Holy Father was correct—and reinforced by the King himself—Jews and Muslims had no place here.
The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 4
