The Miracles of Prato (19 page)

The Sixteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

More than a week passed with no word from Florence or Rome. Lucrezia and Spinetta slept and woke together in the monk's bedroom, and each day they wrapped some bread and cheese for his lunch before he went off to work on the frescoes at the
pieve
.

Rosina's mother was sick and the girl stayed away, but Paolo ran small errands for them in the afternoon, and after breakfast the two walked to the water pump and carried fresh water back in the monk's heavy wooden buckets. Alone in the house, the sisters swept the corners of the rooms and prayed, or stitched a proper dress for Lucrezia from the silk and linen scraps they'd found in the storage chest. They kept their hands and minds occupied, but it was a time of great anxiety. Spinetta continued to pray that her sister would relent and return to the convent, while Lucrezia prayed her monthly bleeding would come, and worried when she saw her face filling and her cheeks softening. Yet, in her heart, Lucrezia was also joyful. She looked forward to the painter's return every evening, and he never failed to bring home a small gift: one day a comb for her hair, another day a sack of oranges. Only this morning she'd put on a new
reta
to cover her head.

Between chores and the ritual of liturgical prayers that Spinetta insisted they keep, Lucrezia spent hours studying the paintings and sketches the monk had stored and stacked in every corner of his
bot
tega
. She didn't dare move things too far from their places, but she tidied the shelves and straightened the panels, and as she did so she found a dozen small studies of the Mother and Child, and a large collection of drawings for the
Annunciation
he'd painted as a gift for the church of San Lorenzo in Florence. Seeing how many years Fra Filippo had spent working for God's glory only made it more wondrous to her that she was here with him now, and that he said he loved her. She prayed that word from Rome would come quickly, and that it would be favorable.

 

I
n the
cappella maggiore
of Santo Stefano, where his assistants were busy grinding azurite and malachite, Fra Filippo stood in a doorway with the procurator. The men leaned against the limestone wall, a font of holy water between them.

“My love for her is sincere,” the painter said in a strained whisper. “Every day she lives without word from Rome is a torment to her, I can see it. I can't bear to have her suffer, and I can't wait any longer to hear what the pope will say.”

Fra Piero studied his friend's face.

“They say Pope Callistus is gravely ill,” said the procurator. “But he's never been a friend to the Medici, nor a patron of the arts. It's doubtful he'll grant what you've asked.”

“I know,” Fra Filippo said solemnly. “But I've been reading about matrimony, and there may be an alternative, Piero.”

The monk walked to his worktable and retrieved the book he'd been studying all week. It was blue, with a title engraved in gold,
Concerning the Sacraments of the Christian Religion.
He opened to the page he'd marked, and held it out for his friend to read.

“In the time of Pope Innocent III a simple sentence was enough,
it says it right here.” Fra Filippo indicated the page he'd noted. “See, one only needs to say, ‘I receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband,' and it's done.”

The book specified that it was the act of sexual union that consummated the marriage and made it binding according to law, but the painter was silent on this subject.

“What do you think, Piero?” He laid a hand on the procurator's sleeve.

Fra Piero was a practical man. He'd made the best of life by utilizing all the Church could offer, and finding ways to compensate for what Rome would neither abide nor provide. He knew his friend was permitted an even wider berth around the rules, as long as his work remained in favor. But it was a lot to put on a man's God-given talents, and the procurator was hesitant to be an accessory to what Rome might consider a grave affront.

“Why do it at all, Filippo? Saviano's gone, no one's bothering you. Why not let things stay as they are, or let the girl return to the convent?”

Fra Filippo glanced over at the far wall of the chapel where Young Marco was adding shadows to the face of the young Saint Stephen. The apprentice was barely past puberty, and had the sweet, dark looks and deep eyes of a young Roman.

“It's not enough,” Fra Filippo said. “I don't want to trick her, or keep her with me as a concubine. I want to be her husband. I want to offer her as much protection as I can.”

“And if you're thrown in jail? How will you protect her then?”

“The Medici won't let it happen, not with so much riding on the triptych, not as long as I'm in the good graces of Ser Francesco Cantansanti.”

Fra Piero groaned. “Did you have to fall in love?”

“Do you think I had a choice?” Fra Filippo retorted. Again, he held up the blue book. “It says here that a union sealed by mutual consent and the blessings of a priest are enough to turn it into a sacrament. Plenty of others have married far from Rome but with the righteous knowledge of Jesus Christ. You know it's true, Piero. My God, even Piccolomini has two bastard children, and he's the Cardinal of Siena.”

Fra Piero's sharp eyes wavered.

“As long as Prior General Saviano is alive, she can't go back to Santa Margherita, you know that.” The painter lowered his voice. “At least I can offer her the protection of my name.”

“If you've figured everything out, why do you need me at all?”

“As our confessor, and as a witness. If anything happens to me, you can step forward and profess that she's my wife, bound to me by vows of love.”

Fra Piero shrugged and shook his head.

“Does it really mean anything?” he asked. But even as he looked at his friend's face, filled with determination, the procurator knew the answer.

“It means something to me,” the painter said. “And it will mean everything to her.”

“It will only afford you as much protection as your work affords, you know that, Filippo.”

“Then thank God for the work,” the painter said. “And pray that it's good.”

 

A
lthough only the pope can grant you and Fra Filippo dispensation to marry, I can bless the union of your souls privately, so that you may have peace and live as man and wife in the eyes of the Lord.”

Lucrezia was alone with the procurator in the kitchen, and her head was reeling.

In her hands she held a copy of the blue book, its title stamped in gold.

“Fra Filippo's name means a great deal throughout Florence and the surrounding regions,” the procurator said. He put a palm on her forehead. “You've put aside your wimple; you haven't taken the vows that make you a bride of Christ. It's unusual, Lucrezia, but I believe there is merit in such a union. If it's what you want.”

“I want to be with him. I want to be his wife, if you say it's possible.”

“Then let it be so,” Fra Piero said.

Lucrezia knelt and began the confession that would prepare her for the sacrament of matrimony. In halting words she spoke of the prior general's violation, and of her own shame and guilt. It was the first time that Fra Piero was told, directly, what the prior general had done, and in his outrage the procurator vowed silently that he would do everything he could to ensure Lucrezia's future safety and happiness.

“I'm not only angry at the prior general,” she whispered. “I'm angry at God, and at the Church. And at myself,” she said. “I was looking for a mirror when I spilled the paint. My vanity is what destroyed the convent robe. If not for that, he wouldn't have found me in my
panni di gamba
and then…” She faltered. “And then maybe none of this would have happened.”

“Perhaps,” Fra Piero said gently. “But we can't guess at God's will, Lucrezia. We can only bend to it.”

 

When Lucrezia and the procurator parted the curtain that separated the monk's quarters from the
bottega,
they found Fra Filippo had
just finished covering his large worktable with a clean white cloth. A candle burned next to a silver chalice filled with deep red wine. Spinetta stood near the front window fingering her prayer beads. She refused to meet her sister's eyes.

“I know this isn't the wedding day you imagined,” Fra Filippo said as he came to stand beside Lucrezia. She could smell the fresh soap he'd used to wash his hands, mingling with the sharp smell of paint.

“There's no contract to sign, no
sponsalia,
no procession, no feast,” the painter said. “I can't give you those things, although I wish I could. But I wish to marry you and to offer you all I have. We will be one, and no harm will come to you ever again.”

Lucrezia closed her eyes.

“Are you ready, Lucrezia?” The painter touched her elbow. She opened her eyes. They were still and deep.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm ready.”

Holding up the blue book, Fra Piero began.

“All things are possible with the blessing of the Lord,” he said, nodding at the two standing side by side, the painter a half
braccia
taller and several stones heavier than the young woman. Lucrezia kept her eyes on the procurator and avoided looking toward Spinetta, who stood reciting the rosary, her lips moving silently.

“In goodness and with holy intentions, this man and woman come together to be united in the sacrament of matrimony on this twenty-fourth day of September,” said Fra Piero. “There can be no happiness without a wife, and no one should be judged wise, as Aristotle says, who spurns so great a good of nature, so great a pleasure of friendship, and the usefulness of so great a gift.”

From his pocket, the painter withdrew a small velvet pouch. With thumb and index finger he carefully removed a ring, and held it out
to Lucrezia. It was a thin gold band, polished to a warm shine, embedded with a small red stone.

“Red jasper, for love and fidelity,” he said.

Lucrezia's eyes grew moist as his large fingers slid the ring onto hers. The red jewel caught the light from the window, matching the color of the spiced wine.

“I take you to be my wedded wife and I espouse you; and I commit to you the fidelity and loyalty of my body and my possessions; and I will keep you in health and in any condition.”

Lucrezia recited the vows back to him. “I take you to be my wedded husband and I espouse you; and I commit to you the fidelity of my body and my possessions.”

Fra Piero made the sign of the cross over their bent heads.

“You are married in the eyes of the Lord. May He bless your union and protect your lives.”

The painter reached over and held up the chalice. He placed it tenderly against Lucrezia's lips and watched her drink from it. Then he kissed her sweet, moist mouth.

 

Spinetta was relieved when her sister came into the bedroom that evening, as she'd done every other night. Lucrezia took off her dress and slid under the blanket beside her, putting her cold feet against her sister's warm ones.

“Please try to understand, Spinetta,” Lucrezia whispered.

“It's done,” Spinetta said simply. “Now we must continue to pray for what is right.”

Hours later, lying in bed listening to Spinetta's deep breathing, Lucrezia could still feel the painter's lips on hers. She put her hand on the blue book from which Fra Piero had read their vows. By the
light of a dying candle, she found the words she sought and read them again, then again.

Slipping out of bed, she crept into the kitchen to Fra Filippo, who was lying on his pallet next to the hearthstones. With her chemise skimming the floor she knelt and touched his blanket.

“Fra Filippo,” she whispered. “Filippo,” she tried again, using only his Christian name.

Waking at the brush of her breath on his cheek, the painter sat up. The blanket fell to his waist, exposing his bare chest.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“I've read the book,” she whispered. “The blue book,
Concerning the Sacraments of the Christian Religion.
I saw the page you marked.”

His heart seemed to stop. Did she think their vows were insincere? Was she going to leave him even when he could still taste her kiss and smell the chamomile in her hair?

“I want to be your wife,” she said softly. She looked down at his bare chest and reached out her hand, almost touching his dark tuft of hair. She felt a longing that wasn't desire, but need.

“I read what it said, Filippo,” she continued. “We aren't yet truly man and wife. We haven't consummated our promise.”

The monk put a hand out and cupped her chin.

“Do you know what you're saying?”

She leaned forward, her head almost resting on his shoulder.

“Yes.” She touched the hand that held her chin, her palm smooth and delicate. “I want to be your wife. Tonight.”

“Lucrezia.” Her name filled his throat and he gently pressed his mouth to hers.

His lips were dry and cool but as they lingered, she felt them swell and grow moist. Eyes closed, she saw his face in her mind, his searching blue eyes, the protective largeness of his frame, the strong,
capable hands. She tried to calm her nerves, to trust that what came next would be no more frightening for her than it was for every new bride.

“Filippo,” she whispered. “Do you love me? Truly?”

“I love you, Lucrezia.”

Gently, the painter turned his body and lowered her onto the pallet next to him. He lifted the blanket, and pulled her under it with him. His chest was covered with soft, dark hair, and she buried her face against it. His lips roamed from her cheek, to her ears, down to her neck. He paused at the place where the prior general's hard grip had left a string of bruises, and kissed each one.