Winter, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Arnaud stared at Mira and the baby, worry in his eyes. He had moved them into these rooms yesterday, in a lodging house close to the cabinetmakers’ guild. The building was on a small square with a fountain at its center, much like the place where they had lodged in Toulouse last winter. Their rooms featured the twin luxuries of a hearth and glass-paned windows.
“I don’t feel right leaving the two of you,” he said. “What about the fire? Do you even have the strength to tend it?”
He strode to the hearth and threw another log on the flames.
“I am not an invalid,” Mira said firmly. “All will be well.”
“You’re just saying that so I’ll not worry,” he grumbled. “What if you need something? What if one of you falls ill? There are no nuns to help you here.”
“The couple downstairs said yesterday I could call upon them for aid.”
He looked doubtful. “But we’ve only just met them. Perhaps they’re not trustworthy. Why won’t you let me hire a maid?”
“Why would we trust a maid any more than our neighbors? I will hire one, in time. For now, we just need quiet. Quiet and rest.”
Tristan squalled briefly, then grew still. His lips were like two pink rose petals. Mira kissed his soft cheeks, smoothed the sparse black hair on the crown of his head. He was starting to plump up, she noted with relief.
“Go,” she urged. “You will be late to work.”
Arnaud’s expression hardened. Mira knew he was terrified of his son’s fragility. When he held the boy, Tristan’s body was nearly swallowed up in Arnaud’s broad hands.
Mira mustered a breezy voice. “The peace here will do us good. I will see to it that Tristan thrives even when you are not watching.”
Arnaud kissed her, put a hand on the baby’s head, and reluctantly turned away.
“Bar this door!” he called from the hallway. “Do not open it for anyone.”
She sighed. “As you wish, my love.”
Making her way slowly to the door with the baby in the crook of one arm, she felt a rush of lightheadedness. Mira was not as strong as she claimed. Not yet.
Her gaze fell on the desk by the window. Pale winter light seeped through the windowpanes and illuminated the fresh sheets of linen paper that lay ready on its surface. A feeling of industry welled up in her. She had several letters to write, after all.
Mira carefully laid Tristan on the bed. He immediately erupted in shaky screams. She crawled back under the blanket to comfort him, fully intending to complete her task when he fell asleep. Instead, she drifted off when he quieted.
When she awoke the fire was cold in the hearth.
She yawned, inwardly berating herself. Lighting the fire again seemed like an enormous task.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” she called from the bed, her heart skittering under her ribs.
“It’s Nekane from downstairs. I’ve a tray of food for you. Just something for you to nibble on until your husband gets home.”
“My thanks to you, Nekane.” Relief flooded Mira’s body. “I will not forget this kindness.”
“It’s nothing. I know how tired you must be. It will get better soon,” Nekane promised. Even muffled by the door, her voice was rich and throaty, the voice of a woman who had lived well and long. “Have you need of anything?”
Surely it was not a risk to invite the woman inside, especially given that she had brought food.
“Yes,” Mira said, extricating herself from the sleeping baby and walking unsteadily across the room. She unbarred the door and opened it. “My husband will scold me for this, but I have let the fire go out and I have no strength to build another.”
“Say no more.” Nekane swept into the room with a tray and plonked it down on the table. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and surveyed the room. Her dark hair was mostly hidden under a cream-colored linen cap, and a long flax apron covered her blouse and skirt. “You settle in again with your babe. When your husband returns, he’ll not be the wiser. He’ll think you kept the fire burning brightly all the day long.”
Mira shuffled back to bed, first picking up a hunk of cheese from the tray Nekane had brought.
“You are an angel,” she said, taking a bite. It was a creamy sheep’s cheese that reminded her of the rounds made by the shepherds of Ronzal.
“Tell that to my husband,” Nekane said, rummaging in the kindling basket by the hearth. “He calls me all sorts of things. Never so sweet as that, though.”
Within a few moments the fire was crackling again. Mira watched Nekane move around the room collecting the candles and lighting them one by one.
“You’ll warm up in no time,” she declared, depositing a candlestick on the table next to the bed. Her hands were raw and chapped, smudged with ash. “You don’t have enough blankets!” She leveled an accusing glare at Mira. “Where are the rest?”
“We have no others,” Mira admitted.
“It’s wintertime and you’ve a new baby,” Nekane spluttered, nostrils flaring. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”
With that, Nekane bustled out of the room. In a few moments she returned carrying a rough hand-loomed brown wool blanket.
“This is a homely thing, but warm.” She spread it over Mira and the baby. Her hands were clean now, Mira noticed. The faint scent of lavender emanated from her.
“Your little one needs changing,” she said, flapping a hand in front of her nose. “I’ll do it. Where are your linens?”
Mira pointed at the opposite wall, where a wooden bucket stood. “You are too kind, but—”
“Why on earth shouldn’t I change your baby?” Nekane hauled the bucket to the bedside. “I could do it in my sleep. I’ve had five babies of my own.”
She leaned over the bed and unswaddled Tristan. He began to cry. Mira’s stomach lurched.
“Perhaps we should have let him sleep,” she remarked, feeling spectacularly useless.
“It’s good to wake him,” Nekane said. “Too much sleeping when the sun’s out makes a baby howl at the moon come nightfall.”
Nekane deftly cleaned and changed Tristan, deposited the soiled cloth in the bucket, and swaddled him again. Then she thrust him at Mira.
“Now give him what he wants. I’ll take this bucket and wash your linens for you.”
On the way out, she gaped at Mira’s painting supplies heaped in the spare room, her face scrunched up in bewilderment. At this distance she looked youthful. But when she had leaned over the bed Mira saw deep lines on either side of her mouth, dark shadows under her golden-brown eyes.
“Why in heaven’s name hasn’t your husband hired you a nurse or a maid?” Nekane demanded. “You can afford it, if you can rent two rooms.”
“I am an artist.”
The words floated in the air between them like a puff of smoke. Nekane looked astounded. Frankly, the idea that Mira could seriously claim to be anything but a leaking, weepy, bedraggled mess did seem absurd.
“Painters need space to work,” she elaborated.
“Painting and nursing a baby don’t go together,” Nekane informed her. “I could ask around, find you a wet-nurse.”
“No!” Mira tightened her hold on the baby. “Tristan needs my milk. I have plenty to give him.”
Nekane’s lips twitched. Whether she was repressing a smile or a frown, Mira could not tell.
“Suit yourself,” she said, moving to the door. “But the kind of work you speak of doesn’t get done with a babe in arms. You’ll learn that soon enough.”