Secrets After Dark (5 page)

Mark, next to me, seems calm as usual. All this must be old hat to him. He’s read the report I emailed him late last night, the one that said that actually there is a likelihood of unknown Fra Angelicos being discovered. Mark already knows that only a few years ago, a pair of lost panels was found; they’d been hanging on the wall of a modest Oxford house since the sixties, when medieval art, even Florentine Renaissance masterpieces, was deeply out of fashion. It’s possible that there are other panels or copies of altarpieces in existence. And with Croatia so near to Italy, its trading and religious links entwined over the centuries, it’s not at all unlikely that something could turn up there. After all, it was ruled by the Venetian Republic for three hundred years.

I spent a few happy hours last night roaming through the catalogues of art collections around the world, getting my eye accustomed to the religious art of the fifteenth century, with one foot in the Gothic era, flat and gilt, and one in the early Renaissance, when perspective and naturalism began to appear. I soaked in the azure blues, vermilions, arsenic greens, carnation pinks and glittering golds of Fra Angelico’s glorious creations. With that God-given talent to create such beautiful art no wonder he became known as the Angelic Brother. I’m looking forward to seeing whatever these monks have uncovered.

We’re flying over blue crystal waters over the narrow channel of the Adriatic Sea. Islands sit green and grey in the bright water, and land stretches out before us, where Eastern Europe begins: Croatia before us, Serbia, Bosnia, Romania and Bulgaria beyond. Just names to me before but now approaching in massy reality – cities, hills, forests, mountains and roads.

‘That’s Split,’ announces the pilot, his voice tinny through the headphones.

Below, a beautiful golden city sits on the edge of a harbour, stretching its long fingers into the sea.

‘Nearly there.’ Mark’s voice comes into my ears.

‘Yes.’ It’s Dubrovski’s voice, even harsher through the microphone. I’m sitting directly behind him and can see the back of his head, the fine linen of the dark blue jacket he’s wearing. He’s ignored me totally since he first strode out over the lawn that morning to where the helicopter waited on its landing circle. Not that I’m complaining. He looks set and serious today, his expression bad-tempered. I can only imagine what it must be like when all that energy is turned to something vicious. ‘The monastery is in the hills. We’ll be there very soon.’

The light through the windscreen is dazzling and the city below glitters as the autumn sunshine is reflected off the pale stone. Mark points out at something ruined and grand below and says, ‘Diocletian’s Palace. The city of Split formed around it centuries ago.’

I’m breathless at the stunning view, and the beautiful ancient stones below. There’s so much of the world to see and know. As we sail above Split and beyond, I’m filled with determination to spread my wings and experience as much as I can. Life has thrown me this amazing opportunity and I want to make the most of it. Within a few minutes, we’re approaching a craggy hilltop rising out of the dark green forest below. The peak is entirely covered by an impressive stone building, a cross between a church and castle, that looks as if it’s formed organically as part of the rocky hill.

How on earth are we going to land? There isn’t an inch of space beyond the walls.

We soar upwards, over the turrets and crenulations, and I can see that we’re going to land on the top of one of the four towers that form the corners of the monastery. They have flat roofs and someone has painted a crude white cross on one – a landing pad – but I still find it hard to believe that our aircraft can fit in the narrow space between the battlements. I hold my breath as the pilot guides us in, hovering high above the roof and then slowly bringing us down, the nose tipping then straightening as we descend. Surely the blades will catch and jam against the stone, I think, already hearing the harsh squeal of them grinding on the walls, but they don’t. It’s been perfectly judged, and we’re sitting safely on the landing square, the blades slowing down and the noise of the engine dying away.

Safely? We’re on top of a monastery on top of a hill.        

At the thought, I want to laugh wildly, it sounds so crazy. Being here is exhilarating and a little daunting at the same time. The others are unbuckling their belts and hanging up their headphones, so I do the same. From the corner of my eye, I see a man in a black robe emerge from a door in the tower. Dubrovski jumps out and goes to meet him. Now that we’ve got our headphones off and can talk privately, Mark turns to me with a smile. ‘Are you okay? How was that?’

‘Fantastic,’ I say, smiling back.

‘Good. Now the work begins.’ A worried expression crosses his face. ‘Dubrovski is in a very bad mood. I’ve no idea why. It’s not going to make things any easier. Up here, there’s nowhere for him to release it, except on his nearest companions. Still, if we stay calm and focused, we should be all right.’

‘You make him sound really terrifying,’ I say, worried myself by Mark’s evident discomposure. ‘Have you ever seen him lose it?’

Mark looks awkward and glances out to where Dubrovski is already shaking hands with the black-robed man, his hair ruffled by the strong wind. ‘Come on,’ he says without answering me, ‘we’d better get a shift on.’

Outside, the wind buffets us. I can hardly hear what anyone is saying but follow Mark as we are led through the wooden door and into the tower. The instant quiet within is disconcerting after the hours of engine noise. It’s dark inside, the cool stone interior lit by small electric lights tucked at intervals just beneath the ceiling, linked by loops of black wires, and our footsteps echo as we start to descend the spiral staircase.

It’s atmospheric all right. I feel like I’ve just walked into a horror film.
The chill prickles my skin despite the jacket I’m wearing. Ahead of me, the men are descending, talking in English but the booming echo means it’s not easy to understand what they’re saying. We go down, down and down, until at last the man at the front opens a door and we’re stepping out into daylight. I’d almost forgotten it was still daytime outside, with the creepy nocturnal feel inside the tower. Now we’re out, in a flagged corridor with white-painted plaster walls. It’s lined with wooden doors with iron handles, and iron sconces holding candle-style electric bulbs tilt from the walls every few feet. But there’s still something odd about the atmosphere. My skin is still tingling and my breath seems to be coming a little shorter.

Maybe the atmosphere is thinner up here. Goodness knows how high we are.

Mark lingers until we are walking side by side, and then bends down to mutter to me as we go. ‘You see how that monk is wearing a black robe over the white? That’s why they were known as Black Friars in England. They’re Dominicans, named for the order founded by St Dominic.’

My heart plummets and I can’t stop a gasp coming to my lips. The word echoes through my mind and, without meaning to, I say weakly, ‘Dominic?’

‘Yes. A man who believed in charity and self-denial, and...’ Mark smiles a little ‘...mortification of the flesh. The spiritual benefits of physical discomfort of all kinds, including flagellation.’

A vivid picture flashes into my mind. It is Dominic stretched before me, his naked back open to me, his hands gripping the frame of the leather seat. I’m holding a flogger, a cat o’ nine tails, its soft leather strings ready to bite into his flesh. Then, against every instinct, I’m drawing back my arm and driving forward with all my force, striking him over and over, making the skin on his back redden, weep and finally bleed. I don’t want this. I long to run my hands over his body, caress him, kiss him and be tender with him, but he’s telling me to go on, to go harder. I know it’s because he needs the redemption my blows are giving him. They’re cleansing him of the sin he couldn’t escape – the sin of hurting me.

‘Are you all right, Beth?’ Mark looks at me closely, puzzled.

I can’t speak. I’m feeling dizzy. I manage to nod, and Mark seems satisfied that I’m okay.

I have to get control
.
I can’t fall apart here, not now. But the vivid vision of Dominic is both wonderful and agonising.

The monk in front opens another larger door. Dubrovski goes inside and Mark and I follow. We are in a huge refectory lined with trestle-tables.

‘Oh good,’ Mark says with satisfaction. ‘Lunch.’

As it turns out, we don’t eat in the refectory. It’s obvious that we’re being given very special treatment, no doubt to butter Dubrovski up nicely and prime him for viewing the painting. Perhaps they don’t realise that he isn’t a man who is used to being kept waiting. Glancing at Dubrovski discreetly as we are seated at a polished wooden table in a private room with the abbot at the head, I can tell that his impatience is growing. He’s practically boiling with suppressed energy, and his blue eyes are glowering. Now that I’ve got the chance, I observe him properly without being noticed. I wonder how old he is – in his late thirties or early forties? He’s good-looking, not smoothly handsome like Dominic, but in a battered, experienced way. His skin is tanned and he has deep lines running down beside his mouth and cross-hatching his forehead that make him look weather-beaten and tough. His mouth is broad and generally unsmiling, with a jutting lower lip that gives him an obstinate air. His nose is too large to be classically handsome but it suits him, as does his strong chin. It’s an interesting face, I think, a face you could look at for a long time. Today he’s wearing a white shirt and a dark jacket that his shoulders fill out with muscle and a kind of simmering strength. I get a mental image of a young Dubrovski setting about his business rivals, using his fists in a back alley to win ascendency in his world. The thought makes me shiver lightly.

The abbot is droning on as two black-robed monks glide around the table, laying out a meal. Dubrovski is twitching, obviously hardly listening to our host. Mark is watching him carefully, poised as if to follow in whatever he does. At last, plates of rice and a spiced meat stew are placed in front of us, but just as we are about to eat, the abbot clasps his hands, closes his eyes and begins to intone a long grace in a language I don’t understand. I dip my gaze politely, and notice that Dubrovski hasn’t waited. He’s shovelling his stew into his mouth with almost indecent haste. The abbot looks startled as he opens his eyes and realises that his guest has started, but says only, ‘Good appetite to you, sir.’

I take a few mouthfuls of the stew. It’s delicious and I suddenly realise I’m ravenous. I eat hungrily. It must be the mountain air that’s stimulating my appetite like this – and I also have a feeling we won’t be getting long to eat.

I’m not at all surprised when a few moments later, Dubrovski pushes his half-empty plate away, stands up and announces, ‘Right! Enough waiting. Now we see the painting.’

Even though no one else is close to finishing – the abbot has barely started – we obey, leaving our lunch and standing up.

When he says jump, we jump.
Mark and I exchange glances. Our moment is almost here.

We’re led by the monk who greeted us on our arrival, following him out of the private room and down another corridor. He opens yet another wooden door and takes us into a small chapel. It’s beautiful, with frescos on every wall. I want to stop and examine them, but instead we approach the small bare altar where a board covered with a cloth awaits us. My breath is speeding up, butterflies fluttering anxiously in my stomach. I don’t know whether to hope that we are about to see a lost masterpiece or not.

The monk is smiling, pleased and proud as he gestures to the hidden treasure. The abbot tucks his hands into his sleeves and looks on.  We are all staring, tense with anticipation, but Dubrovski is the most on edge. I think he is actually holding his breath. This really matters to him. How amazing to have such passion and to be able to indulge it, I think. I realise that I’m looking at him instead of at the sight about to be revealed.

He really is magnetic.

Then he glances up and locks me in that powerful blue beam. A strong surge like an electric current passes through me: is it fear? Should I not look at him? For a moment I think he’s going to shout at me, but then, to my astonishment, his gaze softens and a smile curves his broad mouth. The relief that drenches me is almost sweet and, without thinking, I smile back. For a second, it’s as though we are in a tiny conspiracy of excitement about the painting. As though he’s saying to me,
Let’s pretend we don’t care as much as we do.
Then he looks back at the altar and our connection is broken.

The monk takes hold of the cloth and says, ‘Sir, I’m proud to reveal to you a lost masterpiece by the sainted brother of our order who was endowed by God with supreme talent.’ He swipes the covering like a magician revealing his best conjuring trick.

The cloth ripples away. I gasp. A painted wooden panel is revealed, a gentle arched shape on which is a stunning depiction of the Madonna and Child, with a gathering of saints and Dominican monks around them. The Madonna, a pale, golden-haired beauty, her perfect face serene and lovely, sits on an ornate golden throne while the plump baby on her lap kicks and gazes skyward, lifting one hand in the air as if reaching up to his Heavenly Father. The throne is placed in a grove and surrounded by trees and flowers, with an Italian city rising gently in the landscape behind. The colours are vibrant and gorgeous, but wonderfully subtle too, and the details are exquisite, from the folds of the Madonna’s cloak to the roses and lilies that flower around her.