Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Mira
Mira stood in front of the oak door, hand poised over the polished iron knocker. She sighed, imagining her patron’s face, the greasy pomade that made it glisten, the lips darkened with beet juice, the brows plucked and redrawn with charcoal. And the stream of prattle discharging from her mouth without cease, fueled by copious helpings of wine.
The portrait was nearly done, she reminded herself. And Lady de Moncada had offered to pay Mira handsomely to undertake a special job which she was to lay out in detail this afternoon. Reluctantly, Mira lifted the knocker and let it fall against the door with a resounding thump.
“May the saints above take note of this achievement,” crooned Lady de Moncada, standing before the portrait with a cup of wine in hand. “You have done justice to my shining hair and my almond-shaped eyes. I chose my dress well too. The red velvet looks soft enough to touch, and the way you arranged the silver plate on the table and the mirror behind me complements my figure quite nicely. What’s more, the light coming from the window truly makes my skin glow.”
Mira bowed her head in thanks.
“I have been giving much thought to a scheme that I believe you will find amusing and even exciting. My friend Lady de Berral, you know of whom I speak...”
Mira nodded. All Lady de Moncada wished to do was gossip endlessly about this rival who spent much of her life a few days’ journey to the west, in a valley studded with lavender fields near a crumbling palace built by long-dead kings.
“As you know, Lady de Berral has in her employ an artist whose skills she claims to be unsurpassed, who works in the style of the great Flemish masters, which is a rare thing indeed in these parts.” She took a gulp of wine. “Apparently the woman can no longer work at all. She is simply waiting to die. What say you to traveling to my friend’s home and finishing the portraits that her own artist cannot complete?”
Mira corked a jar of pigment and wiped a brush dry, not wanting to reveal the interest in her eyes. “I have never met another artist who is a woman,” she admitted.
Lady de Moncada nodded enthusiastically. “I imagine you would have much to discuss with her. I could write at once and tell my friend you are coming. Just as a loan, of course, because I want you to return to me when the summer is done and stay for at least two seasons more...there are a number of other portraits you can paint for my family, and then perhaps I will parcel you out to other leading families of Perpignan.”
Mira’s employer has the unfortunate habit of speaking about her as if she were property. Lady de Vernier had never spoken thus. And neither had Carlo Sacazar. The only person she had ever worked for who truly made her feel inferior was Amadina Sacazar.
“I shall discuss the matter with my husband,” she said.
“If you were to undertake the journey, I would provide you with my own fine wagon and a team of swift horses, and you would pass through the most beautiful lavender fields in the region. Imagine that—a lavender-scented journey in a comfortable wagon, during which all you would be required to do is stare in wonder at the snowy peaks of the mountains in the south. It would be more of a lark than anything else, I swear to you.”
Mira rolled up her brushes in their canvas case.
“My friend Lady de Berral, for all of her faults, is a very generous woman,” said Lady de Moncada, leaning close. “I know she would compensate you in a fashion you would find more than adequate. And if you agree, I shall gift you a dozen jars of those salted anchovies you so love.”
Lady de Moncada frequently offered Mira tastes of the foods she snacked on during their painting sessions. The small, tangy fish, rinsed and soaked in olive oil, had proved particularly delicious.
“I thank you,” Mira said, straightening up and looking Lady de Moncada in the eyes. “But I have my husband and daughter to think of, and we only lately arrived here in Perpignan. A journey is more difficult for a little one.”
“Let me assure you, the wagon is covered—and there are soft cushions for her to rest upon. She would find the journey much more pleasant than what she will encounter here. I know you suffer from the heat and dampness, and believe me, this is only the beginning. In high summer it is absolutely stifling within these walls. Though the sea lies nearby, not a shred of breeze can be felt in these streets. That is why so many of our finer citizens leave the city of a summer and go to the countryside. And I would not dream of allowing you to make the journey without an escort of my finest footmen. The road is not dangerous in the least, but I know how a mother worries.”
“Clearly you have thought of every possible impediment to the scheme and put them all to rest.”
“Well? What say you?”
Mira hesitated. Rejecting this carefully constructed proposal with its attendant arguments would not sit well with the woman. In fact, saying no at this juncture, when Lady de Moncada was so invested in the plan, would possibly jeopardize Mira’s employment.
But she hated feeling like a commodity to be passed from one noblewoman to another. It made her feel powerless, and that was something she could not abide.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I cannot agree to the plan, not now. But I vow to you that I will broach the matter with my husband and give it the consideration it deserves.”
She dropped into a curtsy.
Lady de Moncada’s lips twitched. Disappointment was plain on her face. But instead of protesting, she abruptly changed the subject.
“I have decided on a new project which you can begin this very day,” she said crisply. “I wish to have a prayer book made for me by that fellow who hawks such things at the market. His illustrations are very poor indeed. Vulgar, in my view. But I’ve heard that recently he has employed some new artisan whose skills are far superior.”
Mira suppressed a smile.
“At any rate, I want you to make the illustrations. And I want my image to adorn every one of them.”
“Even the Virgin Mary? She is to have your face as well?”
The tiniest hint of consternation showed in Lady de Moncada’s eyes. But only for a fleeting instant.
“Of course. Though a younger version of my face. Imagine me when I was your age, fresh as a rose.” Lady de Moncada reached into the sack that hung at her waist and withdrew a few coins. “Take these to the bookmaker to buy your supplies and tell him I want the finest calf’s leather for the cover, not that gauzy fabric he sells to the merchants’ wives. In this damp heat, a silk cover will not last more than a few years.”
Mira pocketed the coins and bowed her head, praying that her employer would drop the matter of lending her out to Lady de Berral entirely. But it was not to be.
“Do not forget,” Lady de Moncada reminded her. “Discuss the other matter with your husband. I am quite eager to know his thoughts. I will begin composing a letter to Lady de Berral tonight, proposing the idea.”
“It is too soon for that, my lady,” Mira protested.
“Nonsense. The best ideas benefit from good planning.” Lady de Moncada blinked several times in quick succession and waved Mira toward the door. “Now, run along. The bookmaker awaits.”