A Place in the World: The Miramonde Series, #3

By Amy Maroney

The secrets of the past are treacherous…and irresistible.

A Renaissance-era female artist and an American scholar. Linked by a centuries-old mystery…

2016: Scholar Zari seizes the chance to return to Europe as a consultant for an art dealer. Overwhelmed by her job, she has little time to hunt for clues about Mira. But when art experts embrace a theory that Mira's paintings are the work of a famous man, Zari must act. Racing against time, she travels to a windswept corner of Spain. What she discovers there solves the puzzle of Mira forever—and unlocks the secrets of Zari's own past. 

1505: Pregnant and reunited with the love of her life, artist Mira survives a harrowing journey to the city of her dreams. But Bayonne is nothing like she imagined. Navigating a dangerous world ruled by merchants and bishops, she struggles to reignite her painting career. When an old enemy rises from the shadows, Mira's life is thrown into chaos all over again—and she is faced with a shattering decision.

A thrilling tale of obsession, mystery, and intrigue, this mesmerizing saga will stay with you long after you read the last page.

"Luxuriantly detailed...addictive to the extreme." — The Coffee Pot Book Club

"I thoroughly enjoyed A Place in the World. The plot keeps the reader turning pages anxious to learn what happens next. The settings are beautifully drawn. I highly recommend all three books in the series for art and history lovers and anyone who wants a well-written, thoughtfully-crafted book." — Deborah Swift, author of The Poison Keeper

"In this last book, Maroney brings Mira and Zari's adventure to a satisfying close. Like the first two books, A Girl from Oto and Mira's Way, A Place in the World is fast-paced and the writing seems effortless. Maroney's Miramonde series is storytelling at its best." — Rose City Reader Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Maroney
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997521368

Book preview

Book I

Astra inclinant sed non obligant.

The stars incline us; they do not bind us.

1

Autumn, 1505

Lourdes, Béarn

Mira

Mira stood in the center of the entry hall, her head throbbing. The clatter of crockery rang out from the kitchens, but the innkeeper was nowhere in sight. Nor were any servants. In fact, the only sign of life was a tawny cat curled on its haunches by the doorway.

She and the cat stared at each other. Its eyes looked remarkably like her own. Gray-green, wide, slanted up at the corners. She took a deep breath, then regretted it. The stale air smelled of tallow and boiled cabbage.

Outside, a rooster crowed.

Mira went to the door and nudged it open, desperate for a distraction from the sour taste in her mouth. The cat slunk past her skirts and padded into the bright morning sunlight. It stopped for a moment, taking the measure of the courtyard, then sauntered toward three chickens pecking at grain near the stables. At its approach, they sidled nervously away.

Wise chickens, Mira thought. You never know what a cat will do.

Two merchants descended the stairs behind her, their boots heavy on the treads. Mira moved into the shadows as they strode through the entry hall and out the door. She had become adept at slipping through the world unnoticed since this journey began. The habit did not come naturally to her. But as a woman traveling alone, her life depended on it.

Madame? said a quiet voice at her elbow. Would you like a bit of breakfast?

It was the servant girl who had brought her a supper tray the night before. She was young, perhaps not yet twelve. But there was nothing childlike about her guarded, wary expression.

Mira shook her head. No, thank you. I just need my mule.

Sit, madame. The girl dragged an oak chair near the doorway. I’ll tell the stable boys.

Mira perched on the chair, watching the girl dart across the courtyard. The thought of another long day of travel filled her with dread.

It had been nearly a month since she witnessed Arnaud riding off in the company of her brother Pelegrín and his men. Nearly a month since she purchased a mule from the Abbey of Camon and turned its nose due west. Each morning since then, she had found the courage to climb into the mule’s saddle, to fall in with caravans of merchants and farmers traveling the pilgrim’s road. But her strength flagged with every passing night. She barely ate, and some nights she slept not at all. If Arnaud did not soon appear, if he never returned to her—

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Do not imagine sorrows that may never come to pass, she ordered herself. All that matters is this day. This moment. Now.

In the courtyard, the merchants exchanged words with the stablehands. Mira thought she recognized their voices from last night. In the room next to hers, two men had been engaged in a heated, ale-fueled argument much of the evening. She lay awake staring into the darkness, one hand on her dagger, while their exchange reverberated through the wall. When silence finally descended, she dropped into a fitful slumber until a crowing rooster shattered the quiet.

The dry burn of fatigue was Mira’s constant companion on this journey. It clouded her mind, made her clumsy. Worse, it made her vulnerable. She longed for one good night of sleep. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.

There was one place where Mira would undoubtedly find the peace she craved—the home of Carlo Sacazar in Nay, a few days away. She had hoped to avoid stopping there, but she had no other choice now.

The chickens suddenly cackled in alarm, their wings beating the air. The commotion was accompanied by the clop of hooves on stone. Mira stiffened in her chair at the sound.

Water my mule, if you would, a man said, dismounting near the stables. His words were barely audible over the indignant squawking of the hens. There’s a coin in it for the first among you to do the task.

Mira rose to her feet, ready to vanish at the man’s approach. All the stable boys rushed toward the mule as one. The tallest boy reached the animal first, and his triumphant grin elicited groans from his two smaller comrades.

The rider stood with his back to her, watching the stable boy lead his mule to the fountain. He wore a patched and mud-stained cloak, though his fine black leather boots marked him as wealthy. Surely a man who can pay for such boots can afford a better cloak, Mira thought in surprise.

He turned then, the sun behind him, and made for the inn’s door.

There was something familiar in his confident stride.

Mira put a hand to her mouth. When he was a few paces away, she gasped.

Arnaud? She could hardly breathe.

Mira! He leapt over the threshold and gripped her by the shoulders. It’s truly you?

You live, she whispered, fighting off a sob. You found me.

Arnaud cupped her face in his hands. Thank the sun and stars you’re safe. But you’re so pale, Mira. His eyes came to rest on the curve of her belly, framed by the edges of her cloak. He looked up in surprise. Are you—

Before he could finish his question, one of the merchants in the courtyard began shouting.

I have two daggers under my cloak, he roared. And I won’t hesitate to use either one of them!

I’ve but the one, the other merchant retorted. It’s all I’ve ever needed, for my skill with a blade is unmatched.

I do not like this place, Mira said wearily. Nor do I like those men.

The innkeeper, roused by the commotion, sauntered down the stairs.

Can’t a man have a few moments’ peace at daybreak? he groused to no one in particular, his voice gravelly with sleep as he buttoned his vest.

Yawning, he ventured into the courtyard to mediate the dispute.

Arnaud retrieved Mira’s satchels. Let’s leave, he said. I’ve found what I came for.

He took her hand and they followed the innkeeper out the door.

Arnaud tossed coins to the stable boys and helped Mira into her saddle, then swung into his own. As they rode off, the merchants’ voices were overcut by the shriek of a baby from somewhere inside the inn.

Mira glanced back and saw the servant girl outlined in the doorway. For a moment, she wanted to stop, to give the girl a few coins.

But impulsive acts of help did not always result in happy outcomes. She knew this all too well.

Resolutely, Mira turned her head and fixed her gaze on the road.

For a long time they rode in silence. Mira was vaguely aware of songbirds trilling in the hawthorns lining the roadside, the morning sun warming her face, a single blue dragonfly careening past her mule’s ears.

Though she made a habit of noticing such details to take her mind off the discomfort of travel, nothing made a lasting impression today. Every sight, every sound, every scent was diminished and muted. All that mattered was her husband’s presence. The relief she felt at the sight of him made her almost giddy.

I stopped at each inn and farmhouse between the Abbey of Camon and here, searching for you, he said abruptly. There was reproach in his voice. I worried about you on these roads alone. If I had known you were with child—

Mira’s happiness began to evaporate. A feeling of defensiveness took its place.

I did what I could to travel in safety, she said. I rode with merchants. And farmers, and a group of pilgrims. Despite my condition, I was ready to defend myself. I am capable, as you well know. She noticed a welt in the flesh just above the line of his beard. What happened to your face?

He looked away, shrugging. It’s nothing. Healing nicely.

Does it have to do with my brother?

That’s a story for another time, he said.

Surely you can tell me if Pelegrín lives or not, Mira insisted.

He lives.

But where did he take you? What did you do—

Arnaud grew quiet again. He fiddled with his saddle, making a tiny adjustment to a buckle.

Mira seethed. Did he truly expect her to be content with silence, with no explanation of where he had gone after she watched him ride away from her so long ago?

What about those boots? she asked suspiciously. They look like the boots of a knight.

They are. One of Pelegrín’s men gave them to me.

So you are my brother’s friend now?

He shrugged.

You tantalize me with scraps, she complained.

Arnaud tipped his head back and watched a crow glide into the high branches of an oak.

Why didn’t you tell me? he asked. About the baby?

Perhaps I’ll save the story for another time, Mira replied.

He shot her a hard look.

The nuns advised me to rest apart from you when they discovered I was with child, she confessed after a moment. I—I thought it was a good idea, that I should wait a bit to tell you, to regain my strength first. It was difficult to imagine another baby so soon after Rose died. I did not know what to feel. How to feel. She wavered, the words stuck in her throat.

I understand. Arnaud’s expression was sober, but his tone was full of sympathy.

To think I was almost to Nay, ready to throw myself on the mercy of Carlo Sacazar once again, she went on. But now, praise the saints, we can continue directly on to Bayonne.

You can’t ride all that way, Arnaud said decisively. We need a wagon.

I have been cautious with our silver, but a wagon is not within our reach, she argued. I am a strong rider. We will be safely lodged in Bayonne before the first snows of winter fall.

No. I’ll not travel farther than Nay without a wagon. Arnaud’s voice was like flint. On this I won’t budge.

Mira remembered the vow she had made after Rose’s death to amend her headstrong ways for Arnaud’s sake.

She dipped her head in defeat. As you wish.

2

Autumn, 1505

Oto, Aragón

Elena

A hard rain fell for two days and two nights. Dark seams of water appeared in the cracked stone walls of the castle. A damp chill hung in the air, penetrating Elena’s very bones.

Like a wild thing trapped in a gilded cage, she stalked around dispensing orders to the remaining servants. Certain jobs that had been Lady Marguerite’s pet concerns she saved for herself. The dead baroness’s iron key ring jangled gently at her waist, giving her comfort as she strode down the dim corridors with only flickering torchlight for company.

By the end of the second day of the downpour, Alejandro grew increasingly restless. At supper that evening, he begged Elena to let the knights take him into the valley of Arazas to hunt.

Hunt for what? she asked. Nothing is afield in weather like this. Animals are wise. They hole up in bad weather. As we should.

But we need food, he countered.

That we do. Still, there’s enough to hold us over for a while.

The kitchen was stocked with dried meats, with wheels of cheese that had been carried down from mountain villages on the backs of mules, with ceramic vessels full of oil, with enough wheat berries to keep the castle in bread for months. Whatever happened, even if Pelegrín did not return as he had promised, they would survive the winter ahead.

This was no accident. Elena had spent every spare moment since her arrival here rebuilding the strange world within the castle walls, beginning with its larder. She often slipped away to do her own foraging and hunting, and sent a few trustworthy servants into villages high in the mountains, where they exchanged Oto gold for food and goods. She made a child-sized version of the leather armor worn by the knights Pelegrín had sent here all those months ago. Alejandro wore it all the time, indoors or out, like a second skin.

Elena liked the knights, on balance. They seemed loyal to Pelegrín. And they had survived the battlefields in Naples. That had to mean something. Either they were just lucky, or they were skilled in the ways of war.

She preferred to believe the latter.

On the third day, the rain stopped. The day after that, Elena promised Alejandro they would ride into the valley of Arazas and hunt for the afternoon. All morning he whistled cheerily, sitting down to his lessons without complaint, rubbing his leather armor with oil, organizing the knights, dispatching the stable boys to saddle the horses.

Elena watched them mount their steeds in the sun-drenched courtyard, unable to repress a laugh at the sight of Alejandro in his miniature suit of armor alongside the knights with their longswords and helmets.

We’re a matched set! he yelled at Elena, gesturing at the men on either side of him.

So you are, she agreed, struck again by a fit of laughter.

What is funny? he asked, aggrieved.

I’m happy, that’s all, she said.

Oh. He waved at her. We shall be back with supper.

I’d like to request a young boar, on the runty side.

As you wish, my lady, Alejandro said solemnly.

He turned his horse’s nose in the direction of the lane, the knights following behind him.

Elena returned inside, unable to stop smiling. Alejandro had certainly burrowed into her heart. Striding across the great hall, she slowed her pace. A thought rankled at her mind, some nagging memory of a task she had meant to do. What was it? Oh, yes. There were parchment scrolls in Ramón’s chambers in the Tower of Blood that contained maps. Alejandro had asked to study them tomorrow. She would fetch them and have them ready for him in the morning.

In the tower, she ascended the steps rapidly, winded by the time she reached Ramón’s door. She selected a key from the chain around her waist and fitted it into the lock. Inside, she gazed around in disbelief. That she, a mountain woman, would carry the key to a baron’s door, was nearly as incredible as the fact that she was the baron’s sister. If not for a quirk of fate, Elena would have known the life of a noblewoman. As quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it.

The quirk of fate was that you survived at all, she reminded herself. If this family had its way, your life would have been snuffed out by a pack of wolves before you were a day old.

Elena went to the slender window that faced south, toward the valley of Broto, and peered out. Though the view never failed to fill her with awe, on this afternoon it made her heart leap into her throat.

Far down the valley, the tiny dark figures of men on horseback advanced along the river like so many determined ants. There was no telling who they were or what they wanted. Perhaps it was Pelegrín returning at last. But perhaps it was some neighboring lord and his men intent on a raid. Whatever their origin, they could not come upon Alejandro outside the castle walls.

She burst through a small exterior doorway that led to the parapet. Elena had posted two guards in a tower half a league away with instructions to start a signal fire if any threat approached from the south. Shading her eyes with a hand, she searched for evidence of the fire. But a brisk northern wind was blowing. Above her head the Oto banner on top of the tower writhed and snapped under the force of it.

If the guards had followed her orders, the wind had blown all evidence of the signal fire far, far away.

Elena descended the tower steps in haste and ran all the way to the gates.

Open the gates again, she shouted at the blinking guard. Now!

Slowly he moved to do her bidding.

She pushed past him and stood with her hands cupping her mouth.

Alejandro! she shouted. Return at once! At once!

Alejandro and the men were nearly down the hill, about to cross the meadow to the woods.

What is it? one of the knights called back to her.

A group of riders comes this way. I saw them from the tower.

The men turned their horses, closed ranks around Alejandro, and hurried back inside the castle walls. One of them leapt from the saddle to help the guard bar the gates.

No hunting today, I’m afraid, he said to Alejandro.

What do they want with us? the boy asked. Do they wish to fight us? He sounded half-hopeful, half-frightened. I have my armor now and we practice our swordplay each day. I am ready to fight.

The knight chuckled. I know you are, my boy. But I’m sure we will not need your aid this day. Go along now. He glanced at Elena. Bring everyone within the castle walls to the great hall and bar the doors.

You know where everything is, she told him. If you have need of it.

Elena had shown the knights Ramón’s weaponry and defensive supplies. She regularly inventoried all of it and entrusted the men with keys to the armory, to be used in case of attack.

The knight’s voice interrupted her thoughts. How many men were there?

At least a dozen.

He nodded. Take the boy now. Keep him safe.

3

Autumn, 1505

Nay, Béarn

Mira

The mules ambled to the bridge and began to cross it, their hooves clopping brightly on the stone. Dark water seethed in the river, carrying a flotilla of autumn leaves west toward the distant sea. Rocks along the riverbanks were tinged blue and pink from the effluent spewed by dye-houses each day.

Mira cast a glance overhead. The sky was leaden and dull, the air heavy with moisture. It had rained lightly all morning but now the weather was changing, the clouds gathering in preparation for a storm.

A lone titmouse skimmed over the river’s surface and disappeared into the branches of a willow. Mira wished for a pair of wings herself, for the hollow bones of a bird, the freedom to glide weightlessly in any direction she chose. How much easier things would be if she could fly all the way to Bayonne.

Despite her hesitation to return, she was a bit relieved to see Nay’s familiar cobbled lanes. Her mood lifted at the idea of taking refreshment in Carlo Sacazar’s opulent home, where she had lodged for a time when she was employed by the family a few years back, painting their portraits. She knew Carlo would take pity on them when he saw her condition. He would likely gift them a wagon, wave away their offer of payment. She could curl up under a blanket in the wagon’s bed and close her eyes as they marked off the leagues to Bayonne.

Mira was fairly certain Carlo would even offer to trade their weary mules for two of his own. If he did, she would accept his generosity with gratitude. After all, Carlo had promised aid to Mira more than once. She knew him to be a man of his word. Yes, a visit with Carlo Sacazar would be a good thing, she decided. As long as it did not include an encounter with his sister Amadina.

Perhaps the abbess was off on another of her journeys north, cultivating relationships with merchants interested in buying her convent’s fine merino wool cloth or lace. In any event, if they did happen to cross paths, it would be nothing like the last time Mira saw Amadina. Several summers ago, Mira had painted the abbess’s portrait while the rest of the Sacazar family was away in Aragón. One particularly sweltering afternoon, Amadina’s tongue was loosened by too many cups of wine. She dissected Mira’s dubious origins, seizing on local gossip about a baby girl left in the woods by noble parents who wished her dead, and then gleefully concocted a theory that Abbess Béatrice of Belarac had been murdered. Her spite-laced monologue shook Mira to the core.

Today, no such thing could happen. Mira would have Arnaud by her side at all times. At worst, she would have to briefly endure Amadina’s presence, perhaps exchange a few pleasantries with the woman. A few moments’ discomfort was a small price to pay for a wagon. Mira had survived far worse.

Now the mules were entering the square where the Sacazar home stood. It was market day, but the stalls had closed. Merchants and artisans were cleaning up the day’s mess, packing the wares they had not managed to sell. The cobblestones were littered with canvas sacks, woven baskets, and leather satchels half-filled with goods.

A rumble of thunder drifted down from the granite peaks in the south. As if responding to a signal, the air began to swirl and gust. A long wisp of cream-colored wool sailed on the breeze, coming to rest on Mira’s cloak. She reached down to flick it away.

Mira, Arnaud said in a low, tense voice.

She looked up, startled, and followed his gaze across the square. The Sacazars’ home was draped with lengths of black fabric.

Mourning cloth, she thought.

It felt as if a lump of granite had lodged in her chest.

An artisan across the square was loading decorative hardware into panniers on the flanks of a swaybacked mule.

That’s the iron forger, Arnaud said. My father considers him a friend. He’ll know what’s happened.

Arnaud dismounted, tossed Mira his reins, and strode quickly across the cobblestones. After a hurried exchange with the man, he returned to her side, a haunted look in his eyes.

Carlo Sacazar is dead. His voice cracked. He died in the last days of summer. Gossip is some illness took him quickly. His wife and daughters have returned to Aragón.

And his sister? Mira could barely push the words out.

Arnaud glanced at the Sacazar home before he answered. Amadina is managing the family’s affairs now.

4

Autumn, 1505

Nay, Béarn

Mira

Mira tilted her head back, transfixed. One of the lengths of black cloth draped over the home’s facade caught on a gust of wind and fluttered high into the air. She watched it flap against the glinting windows Carlo took such pride in, fitted with tiny diamond-shaped panes of glass he had imported from Venice.

His face materialized in her mind, his round cheeks and warm brown eyes, his ready smile and rich laugh. It was inconceivable that a man so full of life could be dead, could simply vanish from the earth.

And yet he had.

Someone who had been her ally and advocate was gone forever. He had been more than a patron. He had cared for her as a father or uncle might, offering her counsel and aid, expecting nothing in return. Because of him, a job awaited Arnaud with the cabinetmakers’ guild in Bayonne.

Sorrow drifted over Mira, settling upon her like a suffocating cloak. She felt a twinge of shame, too. She had not fully appreciated Carlo’s kindness while he was alive. Her thoughts were always poisoned with vitriol toward his sister, with mistrust that leaked into her imaginings about Carlo himself.

There is no point spending another moment here, she said to Arnaud. That is no longer the house of a friend.

Was it her imagination, or did a figure move in the window then? Behind the flapping black cloth, did a face peer out at the square?

Arnaud swung up into the saddle again. I have no quarrel with that. We’ll continue west. Maybe I’ll find a bit of work in Pau, enough to buy a wagon. I have to arrange the bargemen for Ronzal’s oak there anyway.

At that moment the wide doors in the shadowy arcade that fronted the Sacazar home opened. A broad-shouldered servant dressed all in black emerged and stumped across the square to them.

The Lady Abbess Amadina Sacazar bids you to come in and take refreshment with her, he said gruffly.

Mira and Arnaud exchanged a glance.

That is kind, Mira replied. But we cannot delay.

She insists. The servant directed his gaze at Mira. She has a gift for you from her brother.

His eyes were like two pools of ink. Mira stared into them, wrestling with her uncertainty. Perhaps it did make sense to accept the woman’s offer. If nothing else, their mules would be fed and watered. And there was the temptation of this gift from Carlo. Knowing him, it was likely to be a bag full of silver coins. Something they sorely needed.

She knew Arnaud had never harbored the worry about Amadina that she herself possessed. He had even scoffed at it on occasion. Was this not another opportunity to show her husband she was amending her selfish ways, was willing to look at the world through his eyes?

I see, she said finally.

The servant reached for her mule’s reins.

A light rain began to fall as he led them toward the house. The black banners rippled gently, lifted by a breeze, then stilled.

I don’t recall your face, Arnaud said, staring at the servant’s broad back. We visited Lord Sacazar not too long ago. Were you in his employ at that time?

I pass between Lord Sacazar’s household and Lady Abbess Amadina’s convent.

Mira’s gaze fell to the servant’s hand clutching her mule’s reins. It was meaty and broad, the skin marred by long, silvery scars.

She fought an urge to yank the reins from him and turn her mule’s nose west. But again, she tempered her worries, tried to expel her fears in a rush of breath.

A clatter of metal interrupted Mira’s thoughts. Across the square, the iron forger let out a shout. His mule’s panniers had slipped out of place, discharging their contents upon him, and he lay surrounded by his wares.

Amadina’s servant did not even turn his head. He continued forward as if he had heard nothing.

Wait! Arnaud slipped down from his saddle and sprang forward, grabbing Mira’s mule by the bridle. The iron forger is in need of aid.

It’s not my business, the servant replied.

Arnaud set his jaw. Do what you like, but my wife and I will help him now.

The servant did not relinquish Mira’s reins. He glanced into the Sacazar courtyard, where the decorative stonework on the floor glistened wetly.

She’s waited too long already. She’ll be displeased. There was a strange tightness in the man’s voice.

Mira saw Arnaud’s expression darken.

The displeasure of your mistress is no concern of ours, he snapped. Release the mule at once.

The man did not comply.

With a determined yank, Arnaud wrenched the reins away from him.

Mira’s heart skittered against her ribs. She watched the servant take one step toward Arnaud, then another. Though Arnaud was tall, his wiry body supple and strong, this man was much broader.

Pushing aside her fatigue and her grief, she reached a trembling hand to the sheath at her waist. As long as she was able to draw breath, Mira told herself, she could still wield a blade.

But when Arnaud led the mules away, the servant made no move to pursue them. Mira bowed her head, weak with relief.

Are you hurt? Arnaud asked the iron forger as they drew alongside him.

I didn’t see any other way to stop you. He got to his feet and brushed off his shirt.

What do you mean? Arnaud asked.

You didn’t tell me you meant to go inside. You could have saved me all this mess. The iron forger stooped to retrieve a nail that lay on the ground. That Abbess Sacazar is not to be trusted. Her brother Carlo, now he was a fine man. A good man. But her? No. He straightened up, staring at the stately house across the square. She shuts herself up in those fine rooms, plays with her brother’s piles of gold. Her servants are paid well, but she treats them worse than beasts. There are stories... He fell silent, glancing at Mira.

She flinched, remembering the silvery scars on the servant’s hand. She cast a glance behind her, but the man had vanished. The great oak doors leading to the Sacazars’ courtyard were shut now.

The drizzle turned to a pelting rain as they gathered the rest of the iron forger’s wares and retreated under the cover of the stone arcade to help him repack his panniers. All around them lay the traces of market day chaos: smashed turnips, feathery carrot tops, the papery skins of onions.

Where are you headed? the iron forger asked.

West, Arnaud said firmly.

The man glanced at the sky. You’re welcome to stay the night with me. My son and his wife went to Arudy for a few days. You can sleep in their bed.

Riding away through the rain, Mira stole a glance at the Sacazar residence one more time. A bright flash in one of the windows caught her eye. Through the glass, she spied a ruddy, round face framed by a white wimple.

It was Amadina Sacazar.

5

Autumn, 1505

Nay, Béarn

Amadina

Amadina pressed her face against the glass, watching Mira and Arnaud ride away. She kept her eyes trained upon them until they disappeared. The iron forger was clearly to blame for this turn of events. Like most of the other citizens in Nay, he smeared her good reputation at every turn.

She had never curried favor from anyone in this shabby little town, had never bothered making good with the merchants who strode through its twisting alleyways with their polished boots, garbed in clothing made of the finest wool, trimmed with exquisite lace.

Her wool.

Her lace.

But did they value her for that? Thank her? Oh, no. It was her brother they credited with everything the Sacazars had brought to Nay. Carlo Sacazar would be a saint if the people of Nay had their way. The more schooled among them had probably written to the pope himself, asking for her dearly departed brother to be anointed with a sainthood.

Amadina drew back from the window. Saint Sacazar. She rolled the words around on her tongue. Her hand went to the heavy silver cross that dangled upon her ample bosom.

She had studied the lives of the saints closely over the years. There seemed to be a saint for everything. There was even a saint for the common cold, a woman in the Kingdom of Naples who had cured legions of cold sufferers. Amadina had often imagined a sainthood for herself. But saint of what? Just when she thought she had hit on the perfect theme, another idea would seize her, and she would begin to waver again.

Now, though, Carlo’s death had changed everything. She had little time to ruminate over dreams, over secret ambitions. The idea of mortality weighed heavily on her mind these days. Who knew when her own life would be taken from her?

A gust of wind seized hold of the black cloth draped outside. It fluttered against the window like the dark wing of a crow, drawing her eyes to the square where a few moments ago Mira de Oto had appeared on the back of a mule and then just as quickly melted away again.

Amadina sighed.

All she had wanted was to question the girl, after all. She wasn’t a fool. She wouldn’t invite travelers into her brother’s home and inflict harm upon them. No, Amadina was simply curious. Curious about the path the girl had taken since Toulouse, the plans she had for the future. The plans she had for the Abbey of Belarac. For it was obvious that Mira and her husband were headed there again.

At the thought of Belarac, Amadina sat down heavily in Carlo’s favorite leather-backed chair. Despite her best efforts, the abbey in the mountains was enjoying a resurgence of activity. The wool fabric sold by Belarac’s nuns in Nay’s market equaled that produced by her own convent. Worse, Belarac had developed a line of fabric dyed blue with woad, earmarked for the very merchant in Toulouse who had cancelled his own contract with Amadina years ago. And who had coaxed the embers of Belarac’s wool business back