The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection Page 7

  Ulla looked at him with a quizzical expression. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

  An unexpected and loud noise like a thunder flash filled the room from outside. What on earth!

  Evita crashed through the door, her head soaked in blood.

  CHAPTER 11

  Valencia, Spain

  1559 A.D.

  Spluttering candlelight caused his shadow to dance across the coldness of the thick stone walls. He clutched at his throbbing head. Red wine and birthday celebrations the night before were collecting their fee. Shaking his head from side to side, Francisco blew out a slow agonised breath. No matter how fragile he felt, the day’s work had to be prepared.

  His daily task was to organise the paints, grind up the pigments, and set out the brushes for his master and the other students. All this preparation had to be set out in long rows down the length of a very large table. He performed the daily routine in a rush. The part he enjoyed most was grinding up the pigments.

  Today, it didn’t feel so good.

  There was a difference between students and apprentices. The abilities of the apprentices exceeded those of the students and would one day be expected to surpass those of the master’s. Salvador Méndez had only two apprentices, Francisco and the newly appointed Greek boy, Kadmos. After last night’s revelries, he didn’t doubt that Kadmos would be feeling as unwell as he did. In two hours’ time, an interval that would pass in a flash, the day’s real work would begin.

  The entire operation, thought Francisco, reminded him of a monastery. The early morning starts with the washing, the daily duties, prayers, and then breakfast, all watched over by the unsmiling gaze of Salvador Méndez. It led him to wonder if his life would ever be his own. Francisco had been appointed to paint the Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe, holding a copy of the Alfonsine Astronomical Tables, which had recently been revised in Toledo. Francisco would get lost in the structure of the work, the juxtapositioning of objects, the subtle metaphors and symbolic meanings he could construe.

  But it bored him.

  Famous people from society, the arts, science, and political figures, were familiar visitors at Méndez’s paint-stained studio. He would perform the major features of the work and ask apprentices to execute certain other aspects to bring in their own ideas, colour, and brush work. He would supervise and contribute where required so the painting would have his stamp upon it.

  This was not what Francisco wanted to paint. Painting portraits is for career artists. There are greater things to paint. The emotional impact of the religious vision of his youth had faded but was not forgotten. The memory, although distant, continued to leave him awe-struck. It wasn’t often that a day passed when he didn’t think of it and suspect his future was connected to it.

  Something else was on his mind. Love. Her name was Paloma. If he had to do a last ever portrait, it would be of her. Tall, slender, olive skinned, with luminous intelligent hazel eyes that brimmed with vitality, she was the daughter of the studio’s materials supplier. Francisco was a frequent visitor, often sent to buy paints, pigments and canvases for Méndez.

  That evening, when the day’s work was over, and his hangover gone, he sat in the darkening studio and imagined her face; recalling the touch of her hand on his that morning—a touch that he thought was no accident. Was it his imagination that whenever he walked into the shop she would appear in a rush of laughter? When he left, did he also imagine her sadness as she whispered for him not to take too long before his next visit?

  There had to be a way they could meet without her father or his tutor knowing.

  Francisco’s dreamy thoughts broke when the door swung open and Salvador Méndez walked in. He had a serious expression. Francisco stood as studio etiquette required.

  “Sit back down.” Salvador, sounding solemn, seated himself opposite Francisco. “It is time for me to speak to you most seriously.”

  “Have I displeased you, Señor?”

  “Just the opposite, Francisco.” He stared hard. “I can say, without any doubt, you have been my best apprentice—ever. From you I have learnt things I would not have believed possible. The way you can construct a scene, capture the essence of somebody and their family ... the olive merchant, Sanchez and his wife, for example. You seemed to have caught his entire life with your colour and brushwork. It was quite extraordinary.”

  “But Señor...” Salvador’s look and the wave of his hand stopped his interruption.

  “You remember when I first met you at your father’s house. You were drawing a pair of hands, always difficult to get right. I was impressed. I didn’t arrive that day by accident, it was your father who invited me. I promised him not to have the conversation we are about to have until after your eighteenth birthday. That time has now arrived.”

  Salvador’s voice dropped to a loud whisper, and he turned his head left and right as if he expected someone to be there. “What I am about to say to you this night is secret and must never be revealed. You must promise never to make known what I’m about to tell you.”

  Francisco swallowed hard. “A secret? You want me to keep a secret?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Francisco ignored the butterflies that jumped inside his stomach, aware of an overwhelming need to know what his master had to reveal. “I promise.” His voice was loud and clear.

  Salvador looked relieved. He leant forward. “Your father and I have been colleagues for many years, and it was he who told me of the experience you had as a young boy in Toledo’s Cathedral.”

  “He told you that!” Francisco pretended not to know.

  “He was obliged to.”

  “Obliged! What on earth do you mean?”

  “The fresco of The Raising of Lazarus you were so moved by in the Cathedral, was painted by Juan de Borgoña. He was a mystic, deeply religious, and a member of our Order—as is your father, and his father, and his father before.”

  He paused, raising both hands again to cut off Francisco’s intended question. “I will explain as I go along.”

  “Borgoña had the self-same vision with a similar painting, as you had, before he painted that fresco. He had a disease and it was cured. Part of that experience revealed to him that whoever had a similar vision, would be compelled to paint a picture so miraculous that whoever gazed upon it with complete faith … would be healed. That has yet to happen. Your father and I believe that you are the person Borgoña has chosen. We know of no others who have had that experience after him. That task has fallen to you, Francisco. His fresco will someday vanish or be destroyed as have all other paintings linked to the original painting of the Lazarus miracle. Yours will replace it.”

  The colour drained from Francisco’s face. He felt giddy, as if he were losing his mind. He had difficulty breathing. He bent forward and clutched at his stomach. His voice quaked when he finally spoke.

  “My father, an Order … what does this mean?” He slumped back into his chair and felt the comfort of Salvador’s arm around his shoulders.

  “Your father Diego, as I am, is a lay member, a follower of the monastic Order of the Knights of the Risen Lazarus. Our emblem is the Black Cross of Christ. Our knights have fought in every Crusade since they began. But the Order’s main work is to heal, not to kill or injure. We nurse the sick and the lepers of this sad world both in body and mind.”

  Francisco leant into Salvador’s shoulder. At the same time, he could feel tears in his eyes and rushing blood as his heart began to pound. He struggled to speak. “What has this got to do with me?”

  “That, you alone must decide. We suspect you were chosen that day. Borgoña said there would be few to be so blessed, that the next one would be creative and pure in heart. We have not known of any. You are the first. Your father recognised what had happened and informed me, especially when he saw the scenes of Christ’s miracles that you painted with such fervour. When you left, your father gave you his ring. It was not given lightly. That action reveals what he wan
ts from you—to accept and join our Order. But you must make your choice, not now, and only when you feel ready. You are free to say no. The vows required are obedience, chastity, piety, and poverty. You, I suspect, have a God-given power, for the benefit of all. Latent it may be, but it is waiting to blossom.”

  Francisco lifted his head and stared with a blank expression up at the ceiling. Méndez’s words had mesmerised him.

  His destiny had become clear. Any doubts fell away like a crumbling wall.

  He stood, bowed his head to Méndez, turned, and walked from the room.

  §

  Toledo, Spain

  The present day…

  Her expression contorted as pain slid through the thousand nerve endings of a body that grew more emaciated, unnoticeable on a daily basis, but striking to those who saw her infrequently.

  In her private chapel designed as a smaller version of the Medici family’s at the Church of Santa Croce in Florence, a chapel she had greatly admired, the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo struggled with her mental Litany to Saint Peregrine.

  O good Saint Peregrine, patron of those suffering from cancer and incurable diseases, I beseech you, relief from my suffering...

  She repeated this over and over until her devotions obstructed every other thought.

  The one thing that wasn’t blocked out—pain.

  Morphine had become the saint who interceded on her behalf. Its usage, she knew, was the ultimate death-dealing helter-skelter. She thought Satan lurked behind its deceitful respite.

  Doctors had been unable to cure her and neither had the other therapies and weird techniques she had championed. In desperation, she had placed all remaining hope, but with reservations, on Sir Maxwell Throgmorton. High Court judge he may have been, but there was something worthless about him. How on earth Ruth Overberg married him, she didn’t understand.

  She no longer had the luxury of choice. Her standards and beliefs were coming apart like wet tissues.

  From another room, she heard the phone ring. She didn’t need to be told who it was. Her maid tapped the door and opened it. She was holding the telephone.

  “Thank you, Donna.” She stretched out her hand and took the phone from her. “I know who it is.”

  “Sir Maxwell.”

  “My Lady Maria.”

  She detected a tone of mockery in his voice. “You have news for me?”

  “Early days yet, Maria.”

  She winced at his descent into the familiar.

  “My researchers are following several possibilities and are in Spain as we speak. I hope to hear from them soon with positive news.”

  She tried to read behind his words for something to grab hold of. “Is there nothing else?”

  “I’m afraid not, but believe me, if there is anything to be found, which I think there is, my researchers would be the only people capable of finding it.”

  “You truly believe that?” Her guard dropped, and the icy tone melted a fraction.

  “Maria, if I didn’t believe so, I wouldn’t have undertaken this project.”

  “Who can tell?” She resurrected her cynicism. A sharp blaze of pain in her lower stomach cut off thoughts of what else she intended to say.

  “Relax, Condesa. I’ll call within seven days and should have news for you.”

  She switched off the phone and sunk onto a fat cushion placed on a pew, hugging her arms around her abdomen. Intuition whispered that she had less time than the doctors had predicted.

  God, come to my assistance.

  O Lord, make haste to help me!

  She looked up at the prismatic array of colours; blues, reds, yellows and a dozen flickering hues streamed through the window’s stained glass. It caused her to take a deep breath and realize that her life hung on to the one small vestige of hope available, and the crook who had just put the phone down.

  CHAPTER 12

  Evita let out a low moan and crashed to the floor.

  Ulla rushed to reach her, followed by Raúl. Brodie sprinted out of the door and down the few steps towards the main reception entrance.

  He saw the backs of two men running towards the car park. As Brodie rushed forward, one man stopped, turned, and pointed a gun at him. Brodie had no weapon and dived to the ground, shielding his head with his arms.

  There was no shot.

  By the time he leapt back to his feet, the car was speeding out of the car park, throwing up a dust storm. He didn’t even get a look at who it was. He thundered back into the building.

  Evita was sitting on the floor supported by Ulla and Raúl. Blood was being wiped from a gash on her forehead. The colour had drained from her face and her bottom lip quivered.

  “What happened?” Brodie asked out loud. “You okay, Evita?”

  Evita nodded but winced in shock. “I’ll survive. Two men. One asked for my father...”

  “Raúl’s your father?”

  “Si, Señor, ever since I was born.” She managed a weak smile.

  Raúl spoke, “Quick, I’ll call the police. What did they want? Do you know? Was it money?”

  “No, they only wanted to see you. I told them to leave and make an appointment as you were busy. He said that was unacceptable, pulled out a gun from under his jacket, and just hit me with it … twice. He fired a shot through the roof and that was when I collapsed through the door.”

  Brodie looked anxious. “Evita, you could have been killed. Did they say what they wanted?”

  “Only what I’ve told you.”

  “Throgmorton?” Ulla looked thoughtful.

  “Why would he jeopardise our work before it’s got under way?” He turned to Raúl who had the phone in his hands. “Not yet, Señor, please.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? A crude warning?” Ulla asked.

  “Too right.”

  Raúl looked perturbed. His arm was still around Evita who clutched her head. He rose to his feet. “Armed robbers. We’ve had them before.”

  Ulla looked at Brodie and shook her head just enough for him to notice. He nodded back. “Evita, do you want an ambulance?”

  “No, nor any policemen. They’re bad for business. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  “You’re going to just let this go?”

  Pressing a large tissue to her head, she glanced up enquiringly at Raúl.

  “I’ll get security guards starting tomorrow. Besides, police ask too many questions and put off customers.”

  “Do we still have a deal, Señor?”

  Cortez extended his hand. “We still have a deal. When do you wish to start?”

  “We already have. We shall be back later in the week to start going through your records. Is that okay?”

  “Si, Señor.”

  Ulla helped Evita to her feet, making sure she wasn’t going to have anything worse than a head bump and a minor gash. “You and your father have lived here all your lives. Do either of you know of a wealthy titled woman from these parts who writes religious self-help style books? She could be an important factor in what’s been happening here.”

  Raúl replied. “Spain has numerous nobles and they can live anywhere in the world these days, although Toledo has its fair share of them. The wealthiest belong to the House of Alba, headed by Cayetana Fitz-James Stuart. That line had something to do with your King James the Second. An illegitimate son, I believe, from whom she descends. She’s fantastically wealthy, owns much priceless art and properties, worth millions. I hear she’s selling furniture and art to help with the upkeep of it all. I don’t know whether she’s written books.” He turned to Evita. “You read a lot, Evita. Do you know if any of these titled aristocrats write books of any sort?”

  “Not that I know of. Ulla, I can send you a list of known dignitaries and titled people, and a small background of those who live within a twenty-mile radius of Toledo. Would that help?”

  “We need all the help we can get.” Ulla gave her a hug.

  §

  The drive back to th
e hotel was uneventful. Ulla scoured the roads, on the alert for any sign of the attackers. Brodie drove fast. She guessed his speed ran parallel to the anger he was suppressing.

  “If this has anything to do with Throgmorton, not only will he not get what we find, but he’s going to end up with some serious injury, I promise you.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

  “I agree. Let’s stop guessing and start making plans. We might even enjoy the process.” Beneath the surface, Ulla sensed an intense buzz of excitement.

  “I’ll check out Evita’s list when it arrives, and we’ll both visit Toledo’s Cathedral. I’ll then go to the Prado and you go on to Valencia. That way we cut down on time. After that, we start going through Cortez’s records. What d’you think?” Ulla was hoping her ideas would distract Brodie’s combustible rage.

  He said nothing. She knew then that he agreed.

  Thirty minutes later, they’d navigated the narrow, congested streets of Toledo, making their way back to the hotel.

  The owner, Miguel, greeted them. “Ah, there you are. You missed your friends by about thirty-minutes.”

  “Friends?” Brodie’s face looked quizzical and Ulla frowned. “Did they say who they were?”

  “No, Señor, but they said they may call again later.”

  “Thank you, Miguel.” He paused. “Ulla, I’ve nasty feeling about this.”

  “So, have I. Let’s get to our room.”

  Brodie unlocked the door to their room and pushed it open and saw all their things strewn around the room. “Shit, we’ve been ransacked.”

  “Holy God!” Ulla thumped her fist on the wall.

  A quick check through wardrobes, cupboards and drawers, revealed that nothing had been taken.

  Brodie shook down a discarded novel as if expecting some clue to fall out. “What on earth did they want? We have nothing.”

  “This has everything to do with our mission. Someone is trying to find out what we’ve achieved or where we are going next. It’s obvious, and they don’t care that we know it either.” Ulla began throwing items and clothing into piles, but not knowing why. “Throgmorton. It has to be him. He’s the only one who knows anything.”