Summer, 1504
Pyrenees Mountains, Béarn
Mira
At dawn, Mira and Arnaud walked shivering in their sodden clothes back to the site of their capture. They retraced the stream’s route through the woods, struggling through the dense groves of willows along the banks. Fresh signs of mules and men led them up a winding smuggler’s path into a narrow valley.
It was not long before they spotted the mules across a small meadow that was bracketed with birch groves. A short distance away, a smudge of smoke curled up from a rudimentary camp. Mira and Arnaud slunk around the birches toward the mules.
In the distance one of the men bent over the fire, poking it with a stick.
The mules’ ears pricked up when they heard Mira and Arnaud approach. They began to shift restlessly. Mira and Arnaud took hold of the ropes that bound the animals to a birch tree and quietly worked at the knots.
One of the mules stepped on a dry branch, startling the other into a high-pitched whinny.
The man tending to the fire stood up.
“What’s spooked you?” he shouted, moving across the meadow. His companions were slow to rouse themselves. One propped himself up on an elbow, rubbing his eyes.
Mira slipped her dagger from its sheath and slashed the ropes. Arnaud held out a hand to help her into the saddle.
But the man was moving quickly now, closing the distance between them. He yelled hoarsely for his companions, a blade in his hand.
Arnaud stepped in front of Mira, evaded a thrust of the man’s dagger, and felled him with a swift kick. The man got hold of his ankle and yanked him off balance. The dagger tumbled to the ground, but the bandit snatched it up again.
One of the mules bolted across the meadow to escape the fray.
Another man was crashing through the underbrush toward them, fully awake now, a short sword in his hand. Mira’s fingers closed around her dagger. She stepped behind a tree trunk, into the shadows. The man lunged past her toward Arnaud, who still grappled with the other bandit.
Mira stuck out a foot and tripped the man as he raced past. He rolled, seized one of her legs in his hand, and gave it a sharp tug. As she fell, she saw the flash of his blade in his free hand. With a desperate yank she wrested her leg from his grasp, sprang up, and turned on her heels. He caught hold of her skirts and dragged her back toward him. She twisted and arched, straining to get away. But it was no use. The dark shape of his arm rose up over her head, the blade glinting in his grasp. Just before he brought it down on her, she jammed her dagger into the side of his neck.
He grunted in surprise, fell heavily to his knees. Blood spurted from the wound, splattering the earth with dark, glistening stains.
She threw a glance at Arnaud. His dagger was buried in the other man’s ribs.
They both stood panting, shoulders heaving, watching the life drain out of their attackers.
The third man had stopped halfway across the meadow. For a moment he stood unmoving, his eyes on the forms of his fallen companions. Then he sidled backward and fled to the mule that now stood nonchalantly grazing the lush green grass. He pulled it up by the reins and leapt on its back, digging his boots into its belly and urging it forward into the woods.
“After him!” Mira cried, rushing forward.
“No,” Arnaud said, putting out an arm to stop her.
“But he has our things.” She frantically searched through the goods strapped to the remaining mule. “The painting is not here. Nor the pieces of your chair. Just the fabric samples and our satchels.”
She listened to the trampling of the mule as it ascended the smuggler’s trail. The sounds faded with each passing moment.
“Arnaud!” she beseeched him.
He stood his ground.
“What good will it do us to chase him? We’ve only the one mule between us, and look at its burdens. We’re lucky to be alive. Let’s get back on the road north and finish the job we’ve been tasked with.”
Mira knew he was right.
“But the painting.” Her voice was small.
It was the only record she had of her mother’s image, of their fleeting time together. She could not bear the thought of parting from it.
“Don’t despair, Mira,” Arnaud said, drawing her close. “There’s always a chance that it will come back to you.”
He winced, putting his palm to his side. Mira stared at him in alarm.
“You’re bleeding!”
She pulled his vest and blouse up. His opponent’s dagger had made a long, thin gash in the flesh over two of his ribs. Thankfully, the wound was not deep. But it bled profusely.
“Sit!” she ordered.
Yanking up her skirt, she ripped a length of flax cloth from her shift. She folded it in a square and pressed it against his wound.
He grimaced. “Don’t make it worse, now.”
Mira shushed him. “It bleeds too much. We shall have to turn back to the monastery.”
Arnaud shook his head. “We’re closer to Nay than we are to the monastery. Let’s call upon Carlo Sacazar for aid.”
Mira stared at him, biting her lip.
“Carlo Sacazar has always been a man of honor in his dealings with us and with the abbey,” Arnaud reminded her.
“But his sister—”
“He can’t help being bound to her. But he’s nothing like her. You know it’s true!”
She took a breath to argue.
Arnaud went on before she could speak. “Even if we return to the monastery, what can they do for us other than offer me a healing salve or two? We have only one mule now. We’ve lost everything of value save that wool fabric. There are many days of travel ahead to Toulouse. Who knows if we’ll be ambushed again? The road crawls with bandits, bears, and wolves. Look at me, Mira.” He gingerly lifted the blood-soaked padding and eyed his wound. “Nay is our best hope.”
A bluejay landed in a branch overhead and shrilled a warning at them.
Mira swallowed her words, the fire dying within her at the sight of his blood.
Her own fears, whether they were warranted or not, would have to be put aside.