The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (5 page)

BOOK: The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)
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In town, the market square was
bustling with activity earlier than usual. He parked his cart and gave a shout
to Tyrel when he spotted his friend.

“I want to show you something,”
he said.

He pulled out a small cloth pouch
and dumped out the stones. Clean, it turned out they did have a bit of color to
them, mostly red, green and blue. He picked up one of the wooden boxes and held
a stone to the top of it, letting it rest in the low center where the quilted
design formed an X. He placed more stones, selecting colors randomly, placing
them in the crisscrosses on the box.

“What do you think?” he asked
Tyrel. “Is there a way to stick them on as decoration?”

“Oh sure. I’ve seen such things
done with small metal prongs that grip the stone. First, you’ll want the stones
polished and shaped.”

John thought about how that might
be done, especially on such a small scale.

“I know a man,” Tyrel said. “Let
me take a few of them.”

“Take them all. They’re no use to
me in this bag.”

The morning started with
good-sized crowds, but it seemed everyone was there for the entertainment, and
although several people commented to John over the set of unusual boxes he had
no buyers. Two different women had asked whether they could purchase only one
box, but John decided it was early yet—he would try to hold out for selling
them as a set. Even to himself he didn’t admit to the nagging thought that the
good and evil needed to remain together, to balance one another. He had no idea
whether the third box would have any such traits and, if so, which direction it
might go.

Tyrel was waiting for John when
he arrived at the market the next morning. He held out his hand. John couldn’t
believe these were the same stones. Each was nicely rounded now and the colors
showed through much more vividly. Tyrel pulled a bit of metal wire from his
pocket.

“This is how we’ll attach them,”
he said. “Show me that box again.”

With a few taps of his small
hammer, he set four prongs into the wood and then gently bent them to grip the
stone.

“I can do it more efficiently at my
shop, where I can heat the metal to make it easier to work,” he said. “If I may
take the boxes? I will have them done this afternoon.”

John felt a little trepidation.
What if one of yesterday’s potential buyers came back? He looked at the mounted
stone, his eye drawn to the beauty of it, away from the less-than-ideal finish
on the wood. He handed over all three boxes to Tyrel and turned his own
attention to setting up an attractive display of his other wares.

Tyrel returned shortly after the
midday dinner hour, carrying the three boxes in a stack, smiling broadly.

“There were only enough stones
for two of them,” he said. “But see—I’ve put them around the sides as well, not
only on the top.”

Before he had set them down a
woman stopped to admire them.

John’s moment of pride began to
dim as the afternoon wore on. Heavy clouds had gathered and many of the
festival-goers were now out of sight, probably taking to indoor activities as
the threatening rain began to fall in a drizzle. He adjusted the tarpaulin to
protect his wares but the effect was that they did not display nearly so well.
He debated about leaving as his formerly ebullient mood dimmed to irritability.
Topping it off, he spotted the old woman known only as Moira, the one whom half
the town believed to be a witch.

She approached and stooped to
pick up one of the carved boxes. Her unkempt gray hair fell like a veil across
her face. His temper flared.

“Out of here, witch!” he yelled.
“You’ll not be
touchin
’ my work.”

She looked up and gave him a steady
stare, laying the spread fingers of both hands over the tops of the three
boxes.

“Out!” he yelled again.

She stood slowly, looked straight
into his eyes and began to speak. Her voice was low, a nearly musical tone.
“Carver, you know not the depth of the power you hold here.”

With that, she slowly turned and
walked away, vanishing around a corner. John felt the hair rise on his neck.
What had she done? How could she know about the powers of the boxes unless she
somehow had access to it?

“That’s an odd one, ain’t she?” A
man’s voice startled John. “Moira. Some says she’s a witch, but I don’t believe
it. Witch hunters has been to her place, ready to haul her out and put her to
the stake
more’n
once. She’s never there and they say
she uses magic to get away.”

The stranger lowered his voice.
“My wife says it ain’t so. She’s cleaned the woman’s house before. Says there’s
a false back in the cupboard. Whenever Moira knows they’re
comin

she jumps in there and hides. Laughs at ’em when they’re gone.”

The man laughed raucously and
John forced a smile. What he said might be true, about Moira hiding, but it
didn’t explain how she knew that the boxes had special powers. John endured a
friendly fist to his shoulder as the man walked away, cackling over his story.

The rain increased to a torrent
and a violent crack of lightning sent horizontal fingers of light sizzling
above the stone buildings surrounding the market square. Then—as suddenly—it
stopped. John had the eerie feeling he had just received a message of some
kind.

 

*
* *

 

Torches illuminated the market
stalls as night fell. Puddles from the afternoon rain had largely dissipated,
the water soaking into the ground, what part of it hadn’t been absorbed into
people’s shoes and clothing. Vendors threw straw on the muddy earth to
encourage longer stays at their booths and John was no exception. Tomorrow
being the final day of the celebration, people realized they had to make their
purchases soon.

John prayed that no one other
than the man who’d told the silly story about Moira had witnessed the witch’s
visit. No matter whether it was true or not, in the superstitious minds of the
Irish an item being touched by a witch would forever carry bad luck. John could
only hope the man had not spread the tale. Still, the incident had only further
solidified his plan to be rid of all three boxes.

He polished the boxes with a
cloth, stacking them to suggest their attractiveness as a set. Many of the
citizens paused and looked at them, but when he quoted the price for the three they
walked on. He looked anxiously at the size of the crowd; it was dissipating now
as the evening grew later and those with youngsters began to leave.

“How much for this one?” said a
man with an English accent.

John had never held any fondness
for the English, but a buyer was a buyer. The man wore common clothing but his
garments were in neat repair and not unduly worn. His beard was trimmed and he
had most of his teeth. John quoted a price one-third the amount he had been
asking for the set, allowing just enough hesitation into his voice to let the
man know he might bargain with him.

“Eight pence?”

“I could go to seven,” John said,
wishing he didn’t sound so eager. It was Virtu, the box with the healing power,
although it was the least attractive of the lot.

The Englishman set it down and
touched the third box. “And this one?” The one of unknown power. He had carved
the name Manichee, meaning the middle path, inside the lid of this one.

“Eight, as well.”

The man debated and his show of
interest attracted another man to stop. John recognized this one as the local
bishop, known for his penny-pinching ways. He didn’t want the bishop to witness
as he sold one of the boxes cheaply or the churchman would insist upon getting
an even better deal for himself—in the name of God, of course.

The Englishman had picked up the
first box again. “Seven it is,” he said, reaching into his sleeve and coming up
with a small pouch. He counted out the coins and took the box called Virtu.

The bishop remained, examining the
two remaining boxes closely, muttering something about a good size for storage
of candles. While he debated, a man of obvious wealth approached. He wore
clothes of fine cloth and an ornamental chain of gold across his vest. The
merchant class, John thought, they always showed off a bit more than others.

“Ah, what interesting wood
carvings,” the wealthy merchant said heartily. “My wife loves this sort of
thing and I’m in need of a gift when I return home. Although I think the stones
make nice ornamentation, she prefers a plainer look. I’ll take that one.”

He pointed to the box called
Manichee and asked John to wrap it in a piece of cloth for travel. Leaving his
servant to handle the transaction, he sauntered on to the next vendor. When
John finished the matter, he noticed that the bishop’s interest had quickened.

“Last one,” he told the man. “It
won’t be here long.”

The bishop eyed a woman who was
walking toward them at a clip. “All right. Seven pence?”

“Eight.”

The woman was only a few feet
away. The bishop grumbled and pulled out his purse. He counted out eight pence
as if God were nearly out of money and the extra cost would starve some angel
in heaven. John ignored the attitude and thanked the bishop for the purchase.
Surely the Church would not be affected by the negative power of Facinor.

As the robed man walked away,
John stared around the marketplace. The Englishman was strolling toward the
narrow street that led to the docks; the wealthy merchant was browsing bolts of
cloth across the way, his servant laden with his purchases; the bishop had
tucked the remaining jeweled box into his robe and was making his way toward
the high doors of the church.

What would become of the three
boxes? John Carver wondered. Perhaps more importantly, what would happen to the
people who came in contact with them? Would the pieces continue to have the
power to heal or deny healing? Would they remain nearby or, as with the one in
the hands of the merchant, end up in a foreign land?

The voice of a woman wanting to
purchase some wooden spoons only drew his partial attention. His gaze grew
distant as he contemplated the future.

 
 

Chapter
2

Flames
Dance

 

Sophia Vermejo polished the
surface of an ornate wood cabinet, keeping one ear toward the adjoining room,
attuned to her father’s work. Young Simón Borega squirmed in his chair during
his sittings, so greatly that it was all Abran Vermejo could do to keep his
subject posed in the stiff ruffled collar and small, scratchy suit, much less
mix the paints and adjust for the changing light.

The rooms assigned to them at the
large Borega home in Sevilla were not ideal for the task, but they were
provided gratis in deference to the artist’s reputation. In return, Sophia
performed tasks of light housekeeping.

“All right,” said the voice of
Abran from the next room. “A respite for you, lad. Until tomorrow.”

Sophia heard the door to the
hallway close, followed by a long sigh from her father. She peered into the
long room that had been converted to a temporary art studio. Abran had set aside
his palette and was standing at the side table where dozens of small bottles
contained the pigments and oils he used to mix his paints. She loved the smell
of his work area.

“Children! Why did I ever agree
to accept this commission?” he fumed, as he reached for the cadmium yellow.

“Because we needed the money,”
Sophia reminded gently.
And because
living under the roof of one of the city’s most reputable families offers some
degree of protection.
The arch in her eyebrow as she met her father’s stare
conveyed the meaning; it was a subject of which they dared not speak.

“Don’t worry, Papá. You’ve
finished three of them already. Simón is only a normal little boy for his age.”

She swore that a low growl came
from her father’s throat.

He picked up a palette knife and
deposited a large swath of umber on the palette, smearing it with yellow and
small touches of blue and red, blending until he had the shade he wanted. He
set to work, filling the background around the outline of the child’s feet and
legs. The face was looking quite good and details of hands and clothing would
come later, in the moments when he could get the squirmy eight-year-old to be
still.

“I love your new style of
painting, Papá.” Sophia stood behind his left shoulder, watching the adept
brush strokes. “The details in the face remind me of that Italian, Botticelli.
Remember when we saw his work on display?”

“Ah, if only I were painting
important pieces. They say Botticelli is currently working on depictions of the
Graces and Venus. Instead … family portraits for me.”

Sophia stretched an arm around
his shoulder. “Your work is beautiful and I will not have you listen to anyone
who says otherwise.”

Abran winced. “I must stop for
the day. My body aches. Perhaps tonight you could prepare one of your warm
soups for our supper?”

“For you, Papá, of course.” She
kissed his cheek. “Put your things away and go up to your room. I’ve three more
rooms to clean on this hall and I shall be along after your nap.”

She watched as he began to pick
up his brushes but realized that she must move along to her own duties.
La
señora’s
small sitting room looked tidy enough, Sophia decided, and she moved to the
next. Señora Borega’s bedchamber was cool and quiet this time of day with the
family typically away from the house. Soon, however, they would return from
their day’s activities and the lady would be ready for a short rest before
dressing for dinner. Sophia left the door to the corridor standing open as she
set about neatening the items on the dressing table and wiping at near-invisible
flecks of dust with her cloth. She’d never lived amid such cleanliness, always
barely staying ahead of the clutter in a man’s art studio.

Her father had cared for her the
best he knew how and her mother was barely a memory. Girls her age had married
and now had their own families. Sophia didn’t suppose she would ever marry.
None of the young men in their old
barrio
showed an interest in the girl whose time was spent trailing along in the wake
of an artist. When commissions were scarce, they moved back to their Toledo
neighborhood where moneylenders carried on as secretively as possible under the
watchful eye of the Church, and rumors kept everyone running scared. Sophia had
hinted to her father that he should work a bit slower here in Sevilla,
extending their time under the roof of such an influential family where
protection was implied more than actual. If Torquemada’s men wanted to question
you, they did—no matter where you lived.

She arranged
la
señora’s
perfumes on the dressing
table and turned to the wide armoire which housed the collection of dresses
that never failed to astound Sophia—fine linen chemises, over-gowns of fabrics
such as silk with their hanging sleeves and bejeweled belts as ornamentation.
Sophia opened the double doors on the cupboard and stared, more conscious than
ever of her own brown homespun-cloth dress, apron and cap. If she were more
adept at the household arts, she would probably have made a bit of lace or sewn
a decorative design on her cap, but if she were more adept she would also
probably have a husband by now. She sighed and flicked the exotic long feather
duster across the shoulders of the garments.

An item on the shelf above the
elaborate dresses caught her eye. A box, carved in a simple pattern of
crisscrossing diagonal lines. Almost on its own, her hand reached for it.

The piece looked old and almost
certainly had not originated in Spain. The style was nothing familiar to
Sophia, even among the variety of artistic styles to which she’d been exposed
in all her twenty years. The thought of an object that had come from another
land excited her. An image came to her of the box inside a cabin on a ship, one
with a round window and a table covered with intricate maps and unfamiliar
instruments of brass. An odd, tingling feeling passed through her hands and up
her arms.

 
“Sophia? What are you doing?”

The voice of Maria Borega
startled her and Sophia almost dropped the box as she spun around.

“I am so sorry, señora. I meant
no—”

“Let me see what you have there.”
The voice was not unkind.

Sophia held the box forth.

“Oh, this.” Maria Borega handed
it back and turned away, pulling the lace mantilla from her head.

“I was only dusting it—I shall
put it exactly where I found it,” Sophia said, reaching for the shelf.

“Would you like to have it,
Sophia? As your own?” She crossed to the dresser and removed her earrings.

“Oh, señora, I ... I couldn’t . .
.”

“Certainly you may. If I wish to
give it to you, it is my privilege.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean—”

“Sophia, it’s all right.” The
mistress, who was probably only a few years older than Sophia herself, smiled
indulgently. “I wish for you to have it. I think we have more in common than
you would guess.”

Sophia stumbled through a hasty
gracias
, practically bowing as she
backed out of the room, leaving the lady alone. A maid gave her a hard look as
she began the ascent to the third floor. Sophia met her gaze. She might only be
the unmarried daughter of an artist, but she was still a step above an
indentured maid.

She tapped very softly at her
father’s door, then opened it. Abran snored softly from his bed, and Sophia
closed the door quietly. In her own room, adjacent to his, she set the box on
her bed. Each of these windowless, cell-like rooms contained only a narrow bed,
a small table, a candlestick and a row of rough nails upon which to hang
clothing. Nothing was private or sacred here. She lit her candle and sat on the
bed, pulling her shawl more snugly around her shoulders to ward off the
persistent chill.

A tap sounded at her bedroom door.
“Time for prayers,” said a female voice. This happened often, whenever one of
the local priests showed up to hear confessions and pray with the family in
their home. And, Sophia suspected, to manage an invitation for dinner.
Unfortunately, the religious ceremony was not optional.

On the other side of the wall she
heard her father stir in response to the knock at his door. Ever since the
decree by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Abran had grumbled quietly about
the enforcement of these customs which felt so foreign to them. Gone were their
Seders and holy days such as Rosh Hashanah; the family menorah was buried
beneath the floor of their home in far-off Toledo. For Jews in Spain, the
choices nowadays were to leave, to convert or to be subject to the Inquisition,
with the great likelihood of being put to death.

 

*
* *

 

Father Benedict sensed something
secretive about that young woman, the daughter of the current artist in
residence at the Borega home. He took his duties at the cathedral quite
seriously, and that included not only looking after the spiritual condition of
his flock but also keeping a diligent eye out for those who would seek to
blaspheme or denigrate the sanctity of the one true faith. The Holy Father was
correct—and reinforced by the King himself—Jews and Muslims had no place here.

He peered out through the lashes
of his closed eyes, gauging the mood of the family and their staff while the
words of prayer came out by rote. Did the girl seem restless and inattentive?
And her father—was that a hint of derision on his face? They didn’t
look
like Jews or Muslims, but one
never knew.

Already Maria Borega had insisted
that he stay after the prayers, to share some wine with the family and partake of
the evening’s repast. He would remain observant of these newcomers. It was,
after all, his duty to report to the head Inquisitor if he noticed suspicious
activity anywhere in the city. He gave the final blessing and the bowed heads
looked up.

Señora Borega rose first,
followed by the three children who were old enough to attend prayers. The baby
must be off with its nursemaid, elsewhere in the house.

“Mamá,
mamá
. . .” Young Simón was tugging at his mother’s sleeve.

Benedict waited to see what
discipline might be inflicted for such rudeness, but the woman allowed their
conversation to be interrupted as she turned to her son.

“Can Father Benedict see the
painting?” the child begged.

“We should ask Señor Vermejo.
Perhaps later.” She turned her attention back to the priest.

From the corner of his eye, he
could see that the boy had approached the artist, posing his question once
again.

“The paint is wet,” the artist
responded, looking toward
la señora
to help him out of the predicament.

“Oh, we shall not move it,” she
replied with an indulgent smile. “Let’s take Father Benedict up to the
studio—for a quick look before dinner.”

“It isn’t finish—” But Abran
Vermejo’s words were lost in the bustle as eight people took to the stairway.

A more famous artist would never
stand for such disregard, the priest thought as he followed behind the mistress
of the house and her exuberant child. He’d heard of the temperamental
dispositions of the great ones, the stories of men who stormed from a room or
slashed a canvas when their wishes were not followed. Clearly, this one was not
a successful man.

The room set aside for the
portraits was at the end of a second corridor, a former drawing room chosen, no
doubt, for the fact that two large windows faced north. In the last of the
daylight outside, the high spires of the cathedral glowed with golden light.

“See? It’s me,” the young lad was
saying to his mother as he pointed to the canvas on the artist’s easel.

Maria Borega patted his blond
curls indulgently. The two daughters, ten-year-old twins, shared a quick
glance. Señor Borega seemed distracted, no doubt by thoughts of the mistress he
kept in another part of the city. Father Benedict prided himself on his keen
observational skills.

He admired the half-done painting
for an appropriate length of time. The details on the child’s face were quite
good, especially the way in which the curls of blond hair were depicted in
exacting detail. No doubt the man would impart the same elements to the
clothing and background. If Vermejo had been a young artist, beginning a
career, he might become well known.

“We have already commissioned a
frame for the portrait of the girls,” Maria was saying. “Once the individual
portraits are finished, our maestro here has agreed to paint one of the family as
a group.”

“Ah, how nice.” Benedict turned
toward the thin old man to offer congratulations.

The artist, he noticed, seemed
nervous, eyes darting between the painting on the easel and the clutter of
materials on his nearby work table. The young woman—the artist’s daughter—she
also seemed particularly edgy this evening. Perhaps they were simply worried
that one of the children might touch the paints.

Benedict’s gaze fell to the
tabletop. Bottles, brushes, a jar of liquid with two brush handles protruding from
the top, a carved wooden box. His breath caught.

The box. He had seen a very
similar one.

A year ago. Holy Week. Here in
this city. As the pious gathered for the solemn procession depicting Christ’s
passion, a band of
gitanos
had begun loud singing, that discordant wail so horribly Muslim in its tone.
The very thing that Pope and King and Church had worked so diligently to
eradicate, the gypsy sounds and dances that were abhorrent to civilized life.
Father Benedict had stood among the Church leaders on the steps of the
cathedral, with a view over the heads of the parishioners.

There they had gathered, merely
one street away. The women with their wild, loose hair which they refused to
wear tucked inside a cap or wimple, the bright colors of their clothing, the
unshaven men in peasant garb. They were rowdy at the best of times, but in that
place—it was sacrilege to show up during those holiest of days! He had turned
to Bishop Andreas and saw that his superior’s face was livid, his jaw clenched
tight.

BOOK: The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)
7.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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