The Miracles of Prato (15 page)

“As you wish,” the monk said. He instructed Paolo to take Lucrezia around the long way to his
bottega,
so she would not have to pass through the crowded piazza again, and bade them haste.

In their heated exchange, neither the painter nor the novitiate realized the nuns from Sant'Ippolito had clearly seen Fra Filippo—so unmistakable in his large white robes—stop Lucrezia and send her down a different winding street, in the opposite direction of
la pieve.

After Nones, Feast of the Sacred Belt, the Year of Our Lord 1456

Lucrezia sat in a sturdy wooden chair next to Fra Filippo's hearth, watching a girl in a ragged dress stirring the fire. Her arms were thin, but she poured water into an iron kettle effortlessly, raising the heavy pot shoulder height to hang it over the flames.

“I'm Rosina,” the girl said. Her hair was dark, her face plain and sweet. “I'm Paolo's sister.”

The sounds of the
festa
reverberated outside, but all was quiet in the painter's studio.

“Why aren't you at the
festa
?” Lucrezia asked.

“I come every morning to help Brother Filippo in the kitchen,” Rosina said. Dark eyelashes grazed the top of her cheeks. “I'll go to the
pieve
when my work here is done.”

The girl looked at Lucrezia's robe and wimple.

“Soon I'll be of age,” she added. “Then I will enter the Convent Santa Margherita.”

Rosina handed Lucrezia a heavy mug. As she drank the sweet wine, the novitiate felt fatigue settle into her body. She hadn't slept all night. It wouldn't hurt to rest, she thought as she set the cup on the floor and closed her eyes. She was safe here. Surely she'd feel better if she prayed for guidance and surrendered to the sleep that is the Lord's best medicine.

 

Lucrezia woke on soft bedding. The room was dark and silent and for a few confused seconds she thought she was home in Florence, in the walnut bed that she'd shared with Spinetta.

“Is anyone here?” she called out.

She lifted the blanket and sat up. Someone had removed her boots and stockings. Vaguely she remembered Rosina's small, strong hands. Lucrezia rubbed her eyes until they adjusted to the darkness, and looked around at a small bedroom of rough-hewn beams and uneven walls. The ceiling was made of a thatched straw that could barely be expected to keep out the spring rains. She strained to listen, but the
bottega
and streets beyond seemed quiet.

“Is anyone here?”

She was still wearing her robe, and her wimple was tangled. As she removed the head covering Lucrezia looked around the bedroom, peering through the darkness at the outline of the large wooden bed, a simple chest, and a small washbasin. Above the basin she could make out the thick lines of a cross. She wondered if the monk had returned from the
festa,
and if Rosina was still in the kitchen. But before she could rouse herself, Lucrezia fell back onto the bed. She was as far from the prior general as she could be, in the protection of Fra Filippo, chaplain of her convent.

 

Tiptoeing into the kitchen the following day, Lucrezia was grateful to see Rosina in a clean blue dress covered by a pale linen apron.

“Buongiorno.”
Rosina held a large wooden spoon, and her apron pockets were brimming with rags.

Taking a piece of bread from the girl, Lucrezia lifted the curtain that led to the monk's studio and peeked into the workshop. Morn
ing light filled the
bottega
and the monk turned from his easel, paintbrush in hand.

“You've slept a long time, Sister Lucrezia,” Fra Filippo said, his face brightening at the sight of her.

“I must leave here,” she exclaimed. “I must at least present myself at the Valenti palazzo, where I'm expected.”

“Don't worry.” Fra Filippo held a hand under his dripping paintbrush. “They've received word that you are detained.”

“But what reason did you give?”

“The note said you aren't feeling well.” The painter took in the tight lines of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Which seems to be true.”

“You told them I'm here?” She took a step backward, and realized her head was bare.

“The note was sent by our friend Fra Piero, the procurator,” the monk hurried to explain. “It doesn't say where you are, only that you won't be arriving for at least another night.”

“Then the procurator knows I'm here?” Lucrezia looked behind her, through the curtain that separated the
bottega
from the kitchen. She could see Rosina stoking the fire. She reached a hand up and grabbed the length of her hair, nervously twisting it into a knot. “I asked you to speak of this to no one.”

“Fra Piero is a trusted friend,
mia cara,
and he agrees we must protect you from the prior general. When Saviano leaves the Valenti home, of course you will go there.”

Lucrezia looked away, wrapping the knot of her hair more tightly.

“The prior general misunderstood,” the monk began. He faulted himself for allowing Saviano to bully his way into the
bottega
and then
leave with wrongful assumptions. “He saw the painting of the
Adoring Madonna,
and the robes you wore while I worked, and he misunderstood.”

“I'm ashamed.” Lucrezia dropped her voice. “He thinks I've given away my purity. Please, Fratello, you have to tell him it's not so.”

“I told him quite insistently, Sister Lucrezia. But he's not a man who listens to reason.” From where he stood, Fra Filippo could see the vellum on which he'd drawn her face, the studies he'd made for her likeness on the Medici panel. His pen, he saw, did her justice. “In time, the work which you've helped me create will be finished, God willing. When the altarpiece is received and praised in Naples, the prior general will understand his error.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, you're under the protection of the procurator. A note signed by him gives full sway over any instruction you have from the prioress.”

“It isn't proper,” Lucrezia insisted quietly. “You know I can't be here alone with you.”

Fra Filippo's face darkened.

“Of course I've taken this into consideration,” he said. “Rosina will stay until Spinetta can come. It's only for a day or two, until the prior general is gone.”

“Under what claim will you send for my sister?”

“The procurator has already sent for her. He wrote to Prioress Bartolommea, asking that Spinetta be permitted to join you at the de' Valenti palazzo. But of course he will see that she is brought here, where the two of you will stay under my protection. I'm the chaplain of the convent, and there's room enough in my small home for us to keep separate quarters. Everything is completely proper.”

“So much deception,” Lucrezia said. “It's sinful.”

“The first sin comes from the prior general,” the painter said. “When he's gone, you will carry on with your business, and none will be the wiser. What else can you do, Sister Lucrezia, given his reprehensible behavior? Here, no one will know where you are, and you will be safe.”

Lucrezia gave a small nod. It seemed the monk knew what must be done, and had taken charge of everything.

“As long as Spinetta is coming soon,” she said. “As long as I'm not here alone with you, Fra Filippo.”

The monk nodded brusquely. Above all, he wanted Lucrezia to know he would protect her honor. He moved to the panel with the figure of the kneeling Madonna, and pretended to study it.

“I'll need to work while you're here, of course.” From the corner of his eye he saw Lucrezia's gaze roaming the studio, her hands pulling at her knotted hair. “Please, Sister Lucrezia, cover your head and you'll feel more comfortable.”

 

Alone in the bedchamber, Lucrezia used the painter's basin to rinse her face. Checking the door, she removed her robe and stood in the silken
panni di gamba,
washing quickly with a rag and remembering how kind Sister Pureza had been to let her keep the undergarments. Slipping her robe back on, she combed her hair with her fingers, and wound it back under her wimple, securing it carefully. Her boots were not in the chamber, and so she went back into the kitchen, bare feet padding against the straw scattered across the floor.

“Sorella
,
I've just cleaned your boots, let me get them for you,” Rosina exclaimed. She ducked through the door of the kitchen and returned with the boots. When Lucrezia returned to the
bottega
her wimple was in place, all of her lovely yellow hair tucked away, and the
painter was at his table looking at a small sketch. He spoke without looking up at her.

“Do you know the story of Saint Stephen's life?” he asked. “It was fraught with suffering and doubt, but it was a colorful life, and an exciting one.”

The painter pointed to his sketch as he described the scenes he was re-creating in the chapel frescoes.

“There's the stoning of the saint,” he said, indicating the group of men with their arms in the air, the cowering figure of the saint in a corner of the sketch. “And there's his funeral, with his disciples kneeling by his corpse.”

Lucrezia had shown great interest in his work, and a fine understanding of art and beauty. As long as she was here, Fra Filippo wanted to share his knowledge with her.

“When I paint the funeral I have to think of all the sad things I've known in my life,” he explained. “I have to pour every sorrow and every moment of lost faith into the piece. It's the only way to show the humanity of the saint's life.”

The novitiate turned to him, her face registering surprise.

“When have you lost faith, Brother Filippo?”

“There are dark moments in every life, Sister Lucrezia. You're still young, but in time you'll understand.”

“I'm not as young as you might believe,” she said. “Since losing my father, I've aged a great deal. At least, that's how I feel.”

She made a gesture with her arm, and the sleeve of her robe lifted to reveal the bruises. The monk put a hand out as if to touch her, but she pulled away.

“Tell me about the life of Saint Stephen,” she said quickly. “Please.”

Fra Filippo cleared his throat and found the voice that he used during worship, speaking in a tone that was both warm and commanding.

“He was the first martyr,” the monk said quietly. “But after his death he saw the Father and the Son. That was his reward for suffering in good faith.”

He brought Saint Stephen's life into clear relief, culling facts and stories from his many hours of study. He recounted the saint's trial for blasphemy, his public stoning, the scene of his magnificent funeral. When he'd clarified for himself the images that he wanted to capture, Fra Filippo shuffled through his parchments and spread the largest one across his oak table. He anchored it in place and silently, almost with his eyes closed, sketched the general outlines of the scenes and indicated in his rough handwriting what he would place within each frame.

Lucrezia sat on a stool and watched his fluid movements, the way he fell into the dream of his work and seemed to forget everything: the sounds of activity in the piazza beyond the curtained window, even her very presence in the studio. Her father had been the same, capable of submerging himself in a book of figures, or drawings and colors, emerging hours later as if he had been in a distant place that was closed to her. But in the
bottega,
she didn't feel far from the painter. Somehow she felt she understood what he was doing as his hand flew across the parchment, making deft strokes and scribbling notes on the margins.

With a few final marks he'd completed two new figures, their heads perfect ovals, their robes flowing in sinuous arabesques. Then Fra Filippo stood, propping the large parchment against the wall, and stepped away to study what he'd done.

“Bene,”
he noted with satisfaction. He drank from the ceramic jug and held the wine out to her. She shook her head.

“I remember, in the confessional, how you gave me permission to seek beauty,” Lucrezia said, forcing out the words she'd been rehears
ing in her head. “I can't tell you how that lightened my heart. I'm very grateful to you, Fratello.”

The monk smiled and they looked at each other until Lucrezia turned away.

“And of course, I am most grateful for your protection,” she said.

 

I
n the de' Valenti palazzo, Prior General Saviano woke from a long night of celebratory eating and drinking and joined Ottavio in his dining chamber. They took a leisurely meal together, and the prior general asked the merchant about his position concerning the politics in Rome, the illness that was reportedly consuming Pope Callistus III, and whom he supported as the next pope.

“I favor the Archbishop of Rouen,” said Saviano. “I do not believe the Medici should control all of Florence and the seat of Rome as well.”

“But think of Piccolomini's diplomatic skills,” argued de' Valenti. “Certainly the Bishop of Siena will do more for us than d'Estouteville can, coming from Rouen.”

Prior General Saviano frowned and de' Valenti, ever the gracious host, offered his guest more wine, and then changed the subject.

“I pray, Your Grace, you might visit my son in his chambers,” the merchant said. “A final blessing, before you return to Florence?”

Agreeing, Prior General Saviano followed his host through the
piano nobile,
up the main stairway graced with tapestries and frescoes depicting scenes from the Old Testament. Ottavio greeted his wife's many attendants with a gracious air of indulgence, and they parted to let him pass. At the entrance to her birthing chamber, the merchant paused in front of the portrait he had commissioned for his wife, and gestured to Fra Filippo's painting. But it was unnecessary. The Virgin's face had already caught the prior general's eye.

“Ottavio, can you explain this?” Saviano asked in a low rumble. “This is the novitiate from the convent.”

De' Valenti nodded, and rested his hands on his full belly.

“I've only seen the novitiate once, Your Grace, but I can tell you the picture barely does her beauty justice.” Ottavio clapped a silk-covered arm around the shoulder of his guest. “Teresa claims the painting has holy powers. She believes it is the girl herself who kept her alive on the night my son was born. Everyone in my house is calling this piece our
Miraculous Madonna.
”