Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira bent forward, reaching out an arm to adjust the woman’s veil. If it were just drawn back a bit—
The merchant’s wife flinched and pulled away.
“I apologize, my lady,” Mira said. “Your veil hides your face.”
“I am a modest woman,” came the cool response. “I do not wish to be portrayed as anything other than I am.”
“Yes, of course,” Mira murmured, silently cursing her luck.
This woman was not as easy a subject as the fat merchant’s wife, nor as pleasant. Clothed in a blue silk dress with black velvet sleeves, she looked uncomfortable in her chair, as if she were not in the right seat, not in the right room, perhaps not in the right life. The sound of children playing in the courtyard rippled through the room, a welcome respite from the quiet. But the merchant’s wife seemed not to hear. She stared at the wall beyond Mira’s shoulder, caught up in her own thoughts.
“Your children are happy here,” Mira observed, unable to repress a smile at a particularly boisterous squeal of laughter.
“Children are happy anywhere, if they’ve food in their bellies and a warm bed to sleep in at night.” The woman’s eyes never strayed from the wall.
“It must be lovely for your family to be reunited after all this time,” Mira said. “I know how difficult it is to be separated from one’s husband.”
“I prefer Toulouse,” the woman said curtly, turning her head so the edge of her veil obstructed the entire line of her jaw.
Mira sighed. She had to see a face from all angles to understand how the flesh and bone fit together. Otherwise she could never recreate it on the panel.
The tall merchant strode into the room. Mira stiffened at the sight of him. She had hardly anything of note on the panel. The underdrawings, of course, that she had painstakingly set down with her lead stylus over a period of days. But the first feathery layers of paint were barely visible. She wiped more away with her linen rag than she put on the panel, frustrated by her inability to see the woman’s entire face.
“Ah! Let me view the progress.” The merchant’s tone was coolly polite, as it always was when he addressed her.
Mira bowed in his direction. “Of course, my lord. We are in the early stages. I wish I could show you more. Sometimes it is difficult with a veil or a long headdress to study the face properly.”
He stood with arms crossed, staring at the portrait.
“I prefer you without the veil,” he said, turning to his wife.
She shook her head, a look of panic on her face.
He closed the distance between them in a few steps. Towering over her, he said something inaudible. Mira saw the woman’s hands ball into fists. The merchant’s shoulders rose and fell, he spoke again, and in the next instant his hand snaked out and tore the veil from his wife’s head. It slithered to the red wool rug, pooled in a glimmering heap.
“There.” He turned to Mira again. “Now you shall see her face from every angle. And mind you, paint her as I wish to see her. In a flattering light.”
Mira studied him, confused. “As you wish, sir,” she said slowly. “I shall do my best.”
He stalked from the room without another glance at his wife.
Mira now had an unobstructed view of the woman’s face. Her forehead was high, her nose long, her lips red as beet juice. Her eyes were a clear gray. But the most remarkable thing about her appearance was the purplish bruise along one cheekbone. Below that, three red scratch marks marred the delicate skin of her throat.
The woman’s eyes burned. “Do not stand and gawk at me. Get on with it.”
Mira tore her gaze away from the marks of abuse. “I—how stupid of me to speak of your veil. Forgive me.”
The merchant’s wife stayed quiet, staring defiantly at the wall.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the afternoon.
Mira came to dread visiting the couple’s home. No sooner did the bruise fade on the woman’s cheek than another bloomed in its place. One day her chest was livid with angry red scratch marks; another day dried blood beaded on her ear. The man was beating his wife on a daily basis, it seemed.
The veil was for protection, Mira came to understand. Not a show of modesty. It kept the children from seeing marks of violence on their mother’s body. It kept the servants from gossiping.
But in this room, sitting across from Mira, with her eyes fixed on the wall, the woman had no choice but to bare her face, throat, and chest—to let her body tell its story. And it was Mira’s job to conceal the truth from the world. In this portrait, not only would the merchant’s wife have skin that glowed with luminous perfection, but her face would hold an expression of peaceful contentment. Her eyes would shine serenely, her lips would hint at a smile.
Mira was painting a lie.
She did not tell Nekane.
The days dragged. Mira was frustrated by the time it took to apply each thin layer of pigment and oil, miserable to be stuck in a room with a woman whose husband was beating the spirit out of her night after night. The merchant’s wife never spoke of her injuries, and if she saw Mira’s gaze directed at any of her wounds or bruises, her eyes clouded over with anger.
Pretend not to see, the woman’s expression told Mira. Help me salvage what remains of my dignity.
One morning when Mira arrived for work, she set up her supplies and waited in vain for the merchant’s wife to appear. She grew worried as the morning stretched on and there was no sign of her subject. Had the woman’s husband beaten her senseless?
The merchant poked his head through the door. “My apologies,” he said, coming to stand next to her. “My wife is unwell today. You can resume the work tomorrow.”
Mira felt her pulse begin to thud wildly. So it was just as she feared. The woman was incapacitated by his blows.
“I see,” she said, rolling her brushes up in their soft leather case with trembling hands. “How unfortunate.”
He approached and stood at her side, his eyes on the painting. “Just as I wished. You’ve spun straw into gold.”
“Straw?” She stepped away from him, struggled to keep her voice even.
The merchant saw her consternation. “It is not what it seems,” he protested. He hesitated, working the muscles in his jaw. Then he said, “My wife is a good woman, but she is possessed by an addled mind. At night, she flies into the most terrible rages. She flings plates and cups at me, comes at me with her talons extended like a falcon, beats me about the head. I could turn her out, of course, it is my right. But she is the mother of my children. So I defend myself against her attacks. And she bears a few bruises and scrapes as a result of it.”
Mira was flabbergasted. Were these falsehoods? The man looked genuinely contrite. She gathered her things, busying herself with her satchel.
“I did not realize,” she murmured. “Forgive me.”
He made a little bow in her direction. “Your discretion in this matter will be appreciated, naturally.”
“Of course,” she assured him. “I will speak of it to no one, sir.”
He accompanied her to the door and closed it gently behind her.
On the way out, she walked past the kitchens and into the courtyard where two maids were hanging out wash, talking in low voices. Unnoticed by them, she slipped through the rows of sodden linens toward the arched doorway that led out into the lane.
“Cook blames me for using so much salt in the washing,” one of the girls complained. “But salt’s the only thing that gets blood out. And there’s blood every morning on madame’s sheets.”
Mira slowed her steps, listening intently. She tightened her grip on her satchel.
“Her maid sleeps on the other side of the door,” said the other girl in a hushed tone. “Not once has she heard madame cry out when he beats her. She’s quiet as a mouse.”
“What would you do, scream and shout? She’s probably tried that, and got an even worse beating because of it. Better to play dead, I think. For my part, I praise God that he beats his wife and not his servants.”
Mira increased her pace, weaving through the lengths of wet linen as if they dripped poison instead of water, eyeing each one for evidence of bloodstains. But she saw none.
When she exited the door to the lane and heard the latch slip into place behind her, she was engulfed by an overwhelming sense of relief. More than anything, Mira wanted to tell the merchant she was leaving and never coming back, that she would not accept payment from a wife-beater, that what he was doing was wrong, that he had to stop.
But what would be the outcome? If Mira confronted him, perhaps the man would retaliate by lashing out even more violently at his wife. Or perhaps he would slander Mira’s reputation to the rest of Bayonne’s merchant class. Her career here would be over before it truly began.
No. She must put aside her outrage and finish the job she was tasked to do. She had used much of the money given her by the fat merchant to buy more expensive pigments for this job. If she walked away now, it would not only be a death blow to her career as an artist in Bayonne—it would push her little family to the brink of poverty. Everything would depend on Arnaud’s return.
A thought hammered at her, one that danced in the shadows of her mind day and night.
What if Arnaud never does return? What will you do then?
Mira was just as trapped as the merchant’s wife, held captive by the promise of gold.