Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
“Mira!” Nekane shouted from the door, where a young servant in black and white livery fidgeted in the hallway. “A gentleman calls for you, this boy says. A Master de Scolna.”
Mira hastened to Nekane’s side. “Send him up, right away,” she instructed the boy.
Turning back to survey their rooms, she grimaced. “We have little to offer him.”
“We have a bit of wine and a few apples, some cheese. I’ll put a cloth on the table.” Nekane looked Mira up and down. “You do whatever you must to keep your heart from jumping out of your mouth. Who on earth is this Master de Scolna?”
“He taught me to paint.” Mira rushed around the room, tidying up. She tripped over a stool and it clattered on the floor, waking Tristan. He began to fuss. Quickly she plucked him from the bed and smoothed down his black hair. He stared at her wide-eyed with a solemn, sleepy gaze.
Footsteps sounded on the stairway. Mira threw a glance at Nekane, who was slicing apples and placing them in a decrepit wooden trencher. She sighed. There was no way to disguise their shabby surroundings. This was how they lived. Master Sebastian would not think less of them for it.
Sweeping into the room, he pushed his cloak’s hood off his forehead. Mira was so used to his scarred face that she did not blink at his appearance, but Nekane was struck uncharacteristically dumb. She busied herself poking at the fire.
“Young Mira!” Sebastian cried in delight. “I’ve tracked you down, after all these years.”
In his arms he carried a canvas-wrapped parcel, which he thrust at Mira.
“Master Sebastian, it warms my heart to see you again.” Mira put the parcel on the table and took Sebastian’s hands in hers. “May I present my son, Tristan, and my friend Nekane?”
He nodded courteously at Nekane, who bobbed a curtsy. Then he turned his attention to Tristan.
“He is a handsome boy. With eyes like yours, but little else of you. He favors his father, eh?”
She nodded.
“And where is Arnaud?” Sebastian looked around their rooms expectantly.
“He is returning from the mountains as we speak,” she explained. “He has been away since summer.”
Nekane apparently decided that Sebastian was not a threat, despite his horrifically disfigured face.
“Please, sir,” she said, waving a hand at the table. “Sit. Drink. Eat.”
Sebastian sank into a chair. “Ah, how I love a good apple,” he said cheerily as Nekane poured wine into a ceramic cup for him. “And a cup of wine is just what I’ve been craving.”
Mira sat opposite him, handing a piece of apple to Tristan, who gummed it with enthusiasm.
“I am grateful Carlo Sacazar wrote you about our plans to move here,” she said.
Sebastian smiled broadly. “As am I.”
Mira could tell from his response that he had not been informed about Carlo’s death.
“I must tell you some sad news,” she said. “Carlo died last autumn.”
His smile faded. “How did it happen?”
“We were told it was a brief illness, one that took him in the night.”
“This is a dreadful shock.” Sebastian put down his cup, shaking his head. “Our reunion would have given him much joy. Saints above, I wish he were still alive for many reasons—one of them is wrapped inside that parcel.”
Mira handed Tristan to Nekane and set about unwrapping the gift. Inside was a painting on an oak panel. She held it up at arm’s length, flabbergasted.
Nekane peered over her shoulder. “Is that you, Mira?”
Mira heard Nekane’s voice as if from a long distance. With great effort, she gathered herself.
“No, it is my mother,” she said unsteadily. “I painted this portrait just before she died.”
“She’s dressed as you are in your self-portrait,” Nekane observed, jiggling Tristan on her hip. “In that fancy red gown. Like a real high-born lady.”
Mira exchanged a glance with Sebastian. “Yes,” she said.
She had never told Nekane her full story, and did not wish to reveal it now.
Sebastian clearly understood. He quietly munched a few more slices of apple, ate a hunk of cheese, and drank from his cup, his eyes on Mira.
“What a beautiful frame you chose, Master Sebastian. And your repair work!” She bent closer to the painting, searching for imperfections. “It is almost impossible to see the damage.”
“It is the best I could do, under the circumstances.” He smiled. “I worked for many days to repair that hole.”
“I thought it was lost forever,” she said, turning to him with wet eyes. “How can I repay you?”
“You owe me nothing,” he assured her. “It was my pleasure. I only regret that I cannot share the news with Carlo Sacazar.” He quieted, then brightened again. “Still, here I am. And I intend to stay for some time. I’ve rented rooms. I’ve the idea of taking a carriage to the seashore and sketching the waves over a number of days. Would you consider joining me?”
“I would love nothing more, but I am obliged to complete a portrait for a patron.” She glanced at Nekane and Tristan, longing for a private conversation with Sebastian. “Perhaps we can walk to the cathedral square together this afternoon and continue visiting, and then when I finish the portrait we can sketch together.”
“A fine plan. Let us take some air. I’ve had my fill of refreshment.” He stood and bowed to Nekane. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madame.”
She smiled at him for the first time. “The pleasure was mine, sir,” she said politely.
“Goodbye, little man,” Sebastian said to Tristan.
The baby plucked the apple slice from his mouth and held it out to Sebastian like an offering, grinning.
Sebastian laughed. “Children are a balm for the soul,” he declared, and pulled his hood low over his forehead again.
During their walk, Mira told Sebastian of her struggles to establish herself as an artist in Bayonne, and the difficult situation she now found herself in, erasing the bruises and scars of an abused wife.
“The husband claims that he has no choice but to beat her, because she is a madwoman and attacks him in the night.”
“Do you believe that?” Sebastian asked.
Mira thought about the maids’ gossip in the courtyard. About the merchant’s plaintive explanation for his wife’s injuries. About the bruises under her cheekbones, the dark impressions left by his fingers on her throat. The raw anguish she sometimes witnessed in the woman’s eyes.
“I do not,” she said vehemently, surprising herself. “I believe he spins a web of lies. I wish I never had to return to his household. But I have no alternative. My future as an artist here depends upon him.”
Sebastian considered her words, strolling with measured steps over the cobblestones. They entered the square. Two seagulls circled the bell tower of the cathedral, shrieking. Mira had yet to enter its doors, for Nekane was suspicious of priests and she herself was loathe to bring Tristan into a space crowded with unwashed bodies for fear he would contract some illness. Arnaud, for his part, had not set foot in a church in his life, and had no intention of doing so in Bayonne. The people of Ronzal still worshipped the mountain gods, though they kept that to themselves.
“A wife has no recourse when her husband beats her,” Sebastian finally said. “She is his property, after all. I advise you to stay silent, as much as it pains you, and finish the work. An artist is seen by his employer as little more than a servant, Mira. Never forget that. In my case, I’ve become wealthy enough to rise in the estimation of the merchant class, and I’ve been careful to befriend the priests and bishops in Flanders by gifting the church many portraits. This has afforded me a bit of power. Still, I am always aware of the fact that my patrons hold my future in their hands. If I ever offended or insulted one of them, my livelihood could be destroyed.” He looked at her sideways. “You would be wise to remember this. As difficult as it sometimes is to hold your tongue, you must think of your future. Of your family’s future.”
Mira nodded. A sick feeling took hold of her stomach. Her impulsive nature could ruin more lives than her own, she had already seen proof of that. She must tread cautiously and remain humble in manner—even in the face of egregious injustice.
For all their sakes.