Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I lay on my bed, staring up at the dirty, white ceiling, my thoughts racing as they always did when the workday ended.
Roelle had been a good friend of Aaron’s, close enough to be in a painting with him. Aaron may not have acted alone. Felipe Grenaldi had requested updates from Roelle on my progress. What had inspired his interest?
The fire torches lit up around the arena had proven that someone else had been there that night, probably the same man who let the bull loose in the ring. The bullfight that had killed my brother had been rigged.
Three men.
The coldest shiver slithered down my spine.
Italy beckoned, my father’s homeland. I resisted the urge to bolt.
Time spent in Rome would rekindle my Italian.
I’d pass myself off as a merchant. If assumed dead, freedom would be possible.
As my plan came together, my mood lifted, and for the first time, I felt hope.
With my decision made, it wouldn’t be easy to stay any longer than was necessary.
My room felt less stifling. Staring out of the window, my gaze followed puffs of clouds gliding over a half-moon, caressing its grayish orb.
Sleep did not visit me that night.
Before sunrise, I took up my new chores working with Miguel, a fifty-year-old seasoned horse breeder.
His tanned, lined face reflected a lifetime of labor carried out under a scorching sun – his dedicated skills in caring for the livestock, an inspiration.
And he hated bullfighting with a passion. We agreed on that, at least.
Had my thoughts not been on greater matters, I may have paid more attention to what he strived to teach me. The livestock duties he assigned ensured me time to think.
To scheme.
That same afternoon, Roelle had taken one of his regular visits out of town. With him away, there seemed a palpable sense of relief amongst the staff.
As the sun beat down, I found some pleasure in working an untamed horse in the paddock.
Nearby, two stable hands discussed Roelle’s dinner party planned for that night, and I eavesdropped, hearing that Felipe Grenaldi would be guest of honor.
Felipe had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps and become a senator.
I also gleaned from their conversation that Felipe had found favor with royalty.
Over the years, Felipe had occasionally visited Roelle. During his social calls, I found myself confined to the servants’ quarters.
And now I suspected why.
From the kitchen, I gathered leftover portions of bread and cheese and wrapped them in a small sack, stashing the stolen items under my pillow, ready for the following afternoon when I’d make my escape.
In Roelle’s study, I found a few loose coins in the bottom drawer of his writing desk, enough doubloons to get me to the port.
I buried the money under the root of one of the garden’s oak trees and marked the spot with three stones.
In the library, I searched out a book of maps and tore out one of the pages. The chart would guide me out of Spain.
Having organized Roelle’s bedroom closet, and taken care of his clothes for years, I knew he wouldn’t miss a jacket.
I removed one and held it up to myself, checking how it would fit.
Smarter attire would arouse less suspicion.
A well-dressed man is more likely to be offered assistance and can quickly gain respect.
The jacket was slightly short in the sleeves, but it would do.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Roelle lingered in the doorway.
I slid the suit back, resisting the urge to bite my lip. “Senor, your suit needs tailoring.”
“I’m told that you’re doing well.” Roelle entered the room. “My staff have grown fond of you, apparently.”
My sheepish grin proved this was true.
“Miguel tells me that sleeping with the animals earns their trust.”
I glanced out of the window and saw Miguel in the paddock, training a skittish horse. His patience was paying off.
Roelle approached me and followed my gaze. “We think it would be good for you to sleep in the stables for now.”
I struggled to control my reaction.
“I haven’t decided for how long yet,” he said.
Dusty earth sprayed up around the horse.
“Do you want that jacket?” he asked.
Miguel had subdued the horse in record time.
I’d read in one of Senor Machon’s books that an artist of extraordinary talent, who resided in Italy, had found favor with the Roman Catholic Church.
“Daumia?” Roelle’s voice seemed far away.
If the artist, Giovanni Bellini, agreed to hire me as his assistant, he might take me with him to the Vatican, and there I could receive an audience with the Pope and my sins would be absolved. My mother would have found solace in that.
Roelle sighed.
Miguel caressed the horse’s muzzle, lulling him.
Roelle brushed past me and sat on the bed. “The good news is that you won’t be alone anymore. Your sister’s joining us.”
I turned to look at him.
She was alive.
“I’ve accepted her as one of my housemaids,” he said.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“I’m sure we’ll find many things for her to do.” He smiled at me.
Before me sat the man whose authority had been the benchmark by which I’d measured all things. His morality had shaped my own. Roelle had allowed me in and provided full access, and such was my advantage.
Until this moment.
Bringing my sister here would erase any hope I had of leaving – unless I could persuade her to go with me.