The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (8 page)

Over the city, bells from the
cathedral tower rang out, calling the faithful to vespers. There was the
reason—the entire family, plus servants and guests, would be in attendance.
Benedict turned away from the door. He made quick steps toward the high spires
that rose above the other nearby buildings.

Inside the cool, dim interior
sounds of the liturgy and the parishioners’ responses echoed from the massive
central pillars and surrounding stone walls. He took a place near the font of
holy water, scanning the altar area for a sign of the bishop. He caught sight
of white robes but at this distance could not be certain that it was Andreas.
He would prefer not to cross the other man’s path until he had implemented his
plan. Fewer questions that way.

The final prayer ended and
Benedict made his way to the tall, carved doors through which the parishioners
would pass as they left. He smiled benignly at each family, taking note that
Miguel and Maria Borega were walking slowly through the nave and would soon
reach the doors. He edged slightly to the right, making sure that among the
several clergy he would be the one to speak with them.

“Good evening Señor, Señora,” he
said, making eye contact and giving his most practiced, benevolent smile.

“We’ve not seen you in our home
in several days,” Maria said. “A small supper will be prepared by the time we
arrive. Would you care to join us?”

The conversation was almost an
exact replica of the one they exchanged each fortnight. He filled his dialogue
in the scene with a gracious acceptance. Miguel Borega gave a small salute as
he donned his soft hat and Maria preened a little as others around them noticed
the favorable attention bestowed upon their family.

An hour later, Benedict arrived
once more at their front door and this time was escorted into the large hall
and offered wine. He sipped it, surreptitiously eyeing the staircase and
considering what pretense he might use to wander into the artist’s studio on
the second floor.

Outside, the tower clock chimed eleven.

The meal took far longer than he
would have liked. He observed the various household members—the children who
were sent to bed early, the artist who seemed distracted for some reason, the
man’s daughter who spooned up small pieces of fruit and studiously avoided
talking to him. He kept up a lively discourse, telling stories on some of the
parishioners who had participated in the recent
Semana
Santa
observations, how the man charged with carrying the crucifix
along the parade route had nearly dropped it. The tale drew polite laughter,
nothing more.

Twice, someone else at the table
had excused himself in the delicate manner that suggested he was visiting the
outdoor privy. It seemed as good a reason as any to go away alone for a few
minutes. He said the appropriate words and left the dining hall, turning in the
direction he had seen others take. Once out of sight of the doorway, he slipped
up the stairs and took quiet steps along the wooden floor. If he remembered
correctly, the studio was the third door at the right. A cautious peek—yes.
Moonlight streamed in through the windows where no one had closed the shutters
yet. He let his eyes adjust to the gray-toned interior until he could make out
objects on the man’s work table. The box sat near some jars of ground pigments.

The clock struck once, a signal
of the half hour. He visualized the bishop’s face as he had ordered Benedict to
meet him at midnight. He must hurry—carefully.

He picked up the box and
something inside it rattled as it shifted. Lifting the lid, he saw small lumps
of rock. Carrying those along would not do; the slightest sound would give away
the fact that he’d hidden something inside his robe. He turned the box to its
side, letting the rocks slide onto the table top.

Out in the corridor he heard
footsteps. With the stealth of a cat he tucked the box into one of the inner
folds of his robe. The steps passed by the studio and a door down the hall
opened and closed.

He eased the studio door open and
peered both directions into the corridor. No one in sight. He edged out and
hurried toward the stairs. He had been gone too long already.

Voices rose from the large hall
below and he had almost reached the stairs.

“Father Benedict?” It was Miguel
Borega and the man obviously wondered how the priest had gone so far off the
track to his stated goal.

“Ah, Señor, I so admired this
tapestry at the top of the stairs. I had to come up to examine it more
closely.”

Maria Borega appeared at her
husband’s side. “It has been in our family for six generations,” she said with
a smile.

“It is lovely,” Benedict said,
descending the stairs and sending up a small prayer of hope that the shape of
the box was not visible under his robe. He offered quick goodbyes, saying that
he was needed at the monastery for midnight prayers. It wasn’t until he stepped
out into the fresh air and walked around a corner from the Borega home that he
breathed slightly easier.

The cathedral came into sight as
the bells chimed their first long, full note. Then came a second. Benedict
gripped the box through the fabric of his robe and began to run. Two blocks to
go.

Two more chimes.

He dashed into the nave, looked
around for the bishop but saw only a handful of priests and novices in prayer
near the front.

Another chime.

He quickly passed down the side
aisle and exited by the door to the cloisters. Three more chimes had sounded.

The covered walkway had never
seemed so long but soon he was within sight of the bishop’s door. He tapped on
it as the twelfth bell rang.

“I am glad you did not disappoint
me,” said Andreas as Benedict fumbled through the pouch of the robe and
withdrew the box.

*
* *

Sophia knew, the moment she
walked into her father’s studio, that the items on the table had been touched. The
box—it was missing. A cry rose in her throat.

She lit two more candles and
pawed through the items on the table. The lumps of pigment stone lay in a pile.
All of Abran’s other supplies seemed to be in place. Had her father taken it to
one of their bedrooms? She extinguished the extra candles and rushed up the
narrow steps to the third floor. A light showed under her father’s door and she
knocked before entering.

“No,
hija
, I have not seen it,” he
said, drying his face at the washbasin. “I did not return to the studio after
dinner.”

Dinner. The priest had excused
himself shortly before everyone else left the table. Had he come upstairs?
Sophia had passed through the great hall as the man was leaving and she
distinctly remembered that his hands were empty as she bade goodnight to the
Boregas. Tomorrow as she cleaned the rooms she would conduct a search, but she
couldn’t let go of the feeling that the priest had somehow stolen it.

She fell asleep against a pillow
damp with tears of frustration, her dream of using the box’s power to help
others and to alleviate pain for them now dashed.

Gray dawn showed at the studio
windows when Sophia made her way there after a restless night. She had clung to
the half-hope that she had somehow been mistaken, but she could tell at a
glance that the box was truly gone. The hours crawled as the household slowly
rose and began to go about their day. By the time she began to tidy the rooms
she found herself tired from the effort of staying awake.

Neither Miguel’s nor Maria’s bedchambers
held any new items, as far as Sophia could tell, and although she looked
especially carefully among the children’s things she had not really expected to
find it there either. She went downstairs, offering to organize the cupboards
in the dining room and in the great hall. The señora had gone out but the
housekeeper seemed happy enough to have help from an unexpected source. The
woman was dressed in the cloak she always wore on market days and she
disappeared almost immediately.

Sophia gave the furniture a
cursory dusting, focusing instead on any cabinet with space where the box might
have been hidden. It was a hopeless quest almost from the start. The items in
the dining room were familiar to her—candlesticks, vases and serving dishes
used on an almost daily basis. The great hall contained everyday items as well.

The Boregas, she realized, were
successful but not wealthy to the point of owning a lot of silly fripperies.
She shoved a heavy wool blanket toward its place in a tall armoire but it
didn’t seem to fit as it had before. She pulled the blanket out, deciding to
refold it and try again. When her hand hit the rear of the cupboard, it
resonated with a hollow sound. She stopped dead. Hidden compartments almost
never meant anything good.

With a glance in each direction
to be sure she was not being observed, she ran her fingertips around the back
panel of the armoire. On the left edge of it, something loosened. The panel
came away, revealing a space behind it, a place about four inches deep and the full
width of the cabinet. But more startling than the fact the space existed was
what it contained—a golden menorah, some candles and a parchment scroll.

Sophia knew she had discovered a
very dangerous secret. She carefully slipped the wooden panel back in place and
laid the refolded blanket on the shelf exactly as she had found it.

She found her father in the
studio and suggested that they take a walk. Young Simón Borega wiggled off the
chair where he posed and gave a wide smile as Abran agreed to dismiss him for
the day.

“A walk? We do not often do such
together, you and I,” he said as he cleaned his brushes. “Ah, it is market day.
Perhaps you have something in mind you would like to purchase?”

“It’s not that, papá.” She picked
up his cloak and draped it over his shoulders, steering him toward the door.

Outside, spring had returned
giving them the perfect excuse for a walk along the river and away from the
market crowds.

“Did you know the Boregas are
Jewish?” she asked after telling him of the hidden items she had found.

He shook his head. “They are
conversos
, as are
many in this land now.”

“But their Spanish names . . .”

“As are ours,” he reminded.
“Changing my name from Abraham was not for my pleasure,
hija
, it was for my survival.”

It was true. Since the banishment
of all Jews and Muslims who did not convert to Catholicism, the stories had
become more frightening. Raids and arrests in one’s home, immediate
imprisonment until trial, a trial that sometimes did not happen for many
months. And after the trials—being burned at the stake was not an uncommon
sentence.

Two young men walked toward them
on the path and Abran squeezed Sophia’s arm, warning her to silence until they
passed.

“Do not speak of this,” he hissed
through clenched teeth. “Do not so much as entertain the thoughts. Anyone—any
person at all—can make an accusation and we will find ourselves before the
Inquisitor. Perhaps even Torquemada himself.”

“Surely we can trust the
Boregas.”

“No more than they can trust us.
You have no idea what a person will say under torture. Husbands have been known
to give up their wives, mothers their own children.” He turned to look behind,
in case someone might have come upon them. The pathway was clear. “Erase these
thoughts from your head. Now!”

“But—”

“Once I finish the portraits, we
shall find a way to leave. Perhaps get out of Spain to the north, over the
mountains into France. But until then, I will not be paid except in small
increments. We shall need all of our resources in order to make a journey of
that length.”

Sophia considered this. It was
more important than ever, she believed, to get the box back. With its power
they would have a much better chance of safe passage, and with its power she
could enter a new land with a skill that could help people. At a large copse of
fig trees they turned and walked back toward the city center. Sophia forced
herself to amble at the pace her father set, although in her heart and mind she
wanted to race back, to confront the priest and demand the return of the box.

Those thoughts turned to horror
as they saw a cloud of smoke from the center of the city. Nearing the market
square they caught the stench of burning flesh and she realized with revulsion
that the flames danced around tall stakes set in the ground, consuming the
clothing of some poor man and woman.

*
* *

Father Benedict smelled the
bishop before he saw the man. An odor of foul smoke wafted into the library
where the priest was meticulously drawing illuminations for a new biblical
codex. He looked up from his work when a shadow darkened the open doorway. His
nose must have wrinkled because the bishop spoke before Benedict said anything.

“Crypto-Jews. They were caught
secretly reading the Talmud. And after renouncing that blasphemy and being
baptized!”

Andreas came close to the table.
“This box?”

“Yes, eminence, I brought it
back, as you asked.”

The bishop eyed the object
suspiciously. “Did you not describe it as having brilliant stones on it? This
one is not the same.”

Benedict felt his facial muscles
freeze. He had not remembered mentioning the stones.

“Can this one perform miracles
also?” Andreas snatched the box and held it up, examining all of its sides. He
raised the lid and peered inside. “What are these traces of color?”

“I—I don’t know—”

Before he could think of a
response, the bishop had turned toward the open door. He gripped the box with
both hands, raising it toward the sun.

“Those gypsies have tricked you,
but I am not so easily fooled. I shall find them and they shall pay.” He
stepped out into the garden courtyard, lowered the box and looked inside it
again. In a moment he spoke. “I can see them!”