The Miracles of Prato (3 page)

Tuesday of the Fourth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

Dropping her feet onto the cool stone floor, Lucrezia bent to the basin and splashed water onto her face. The bell was calling her to worship, but beyond the convent walls the city of Prato was dark and silent. She squeezed a few drops from a fresh lemon and rinsed the film from her teeth, fumbled for her robe, and pulled it over her silk undergarment. Then she braided and wrapped her hair and put on her wimple.

Lucrezia found Spinetta waiting in the dark hallway, and hugged her. Hushed footsteps and the light of a single candle approached as a small line of nuns moved silently toward them. The sisters followed the others into the underground passage that led to the chapel sacristy. Before entering the church Spinetta paused to pull a circle of pink quartz beads from her pocket. The prayer beads had been a gift from her mother on the occasion of her confirmation, and they were Spinetta's most prized possession.

“I couldn't bear to part with them yesterday,” Spinetta whispered, pressing the carved crucifix to her lips.

Knowing what comfort even the smallest token from home could provide, Lucrezia quickly snatched up the beads.

“Don't give them up,” she said, slipping them into her tunic where they slid safely into the folds of her
panni di gamba
. “I'll keep them for you.”

In the church, illuminated by flickering candlelight, Lucrezia and Spinetta took their places on the rough floor beside young Sister Bernadetta, and bowed their heads.

Facing one another in two rows, on their knees, the sixteen women of Convent Santa Margherita welcomed the dawn with the chanting of Lauds, followed by a reading from the Gospels which the prioress spoke in a hushed voice. When they'd finished, and filed out of the church, a thin red line broke on the horizon and a rooster crowed.

 

At a long table in the refectory, set with wooden plates and cups of water tinged with wine, each nun took a honey-colored bun still warm from the oven. Surprised by the ferocity of her appetite, Lucrezia forced herself to eat slowly as she gazed around the room. The nuns looked as she'd feared, with dull features, loose chins, and moles sprouting hairs. Only a few had a light in their eyes; the others were gray and worn.

“Chapter three.” The prioress stood and began to read from her worn leather book. “The Rule of Saint Augustine.”

As her voice droned through the refectory, Lucrezia snuck a sideways glance at her sister. Spinetta appeared content, but then, she'd always known that she would someday live a monastic life.

“Develop your soul and your mind, Spinetta,” their mother had said gently, year after year. “You are from God, and you are for God.”

Even as a child, Spinetta had bowed to her fate. But Lucrezia had seen her three older sisters marry in splendor and believed she, too, would someday be the mistress of her own home. She'd been promised to a master weaver whose father expected to join his fortune to the silk business of Signor Lorenzo Buti, and since the age of
fifteen she'd watched her father's activities closely, preparing to someday share all she knew with her future husband. At her father's side Lucrezia had learned the artisans' methods of cultivating herbs and blending dyes; she'd seen the finished yards of
picciolato
covered with tiny flowers. She'd learned what was required to make the highest-quality silk, and how a disreputable merchant might try to bring second-quality silk to market with a false seal. In a city known for splendid costume and dress, Lucrezia Buti had understood the precious beauty of silk, and had set her future on its bounty.

Then her father died suddenly, and the troubles began. Representatives of the Arte della Seta, the powerful silk guild, falsely claimed that Buti's wares were below standard, and weeks of arguing and sifting through Lorenzo Buti's private account books had not satisfied the inspectors. In the end everything was seized, the silks and materials carted from the shop, the record books thrown in the back of a rough cart and taken away.

In black widow's clothing, Signora Buti had spoken alone to Lucrezia the following day.

“Everything your father promised for you is gone,” she'd said, a tray of cakes sitting untouched in front of them.

“But father saw to my dowry. Surely Antonio will offer me a brother's protection.”

“Figlia mia cara
,” her mother said. “My dear daughter, there is nothing left. You must go to Prato with Spinetta.” Her mother blinked away tears. “You must go to the Convent Santa Margherita.”

A week later Lucrezia had entered the convent, and left everything behind. Now she missed her mother's smile, and her shrewd father who'd always smelled of leather and mulberry. She missed the cool glide of silk against her skin, and the brisk feel of her golden hair being brushed by Beatrice, the maid. She missed the air of excitement
and the drumbeats of the young boys on
festa
days, when the streets of Florence were crowded with people in the grips of merriment. She missed the easy joy she'd believed would always be hers.

 

A tiny pinch from Spinetta drew Lucrezia back to the present. She straightened, said the final
amen
with the others, and made the sign of the cross. As the nuns filed out of the refectory, Sister Pureza came up alongside Lucrezia, and greeted her kindly.

“Dear Sister Lucrezia,” the old nun said. “It's my duty to tend the herb garden and the infirmary, and I am in need of someone to assist me. My bones grow old, and I don't have the stamina I once had. Each novitiate is put under the instruction of an elder here at Santa Margherita, and I think perhaps you might be suited to this work.”

Lucrezia was taller than Sister Pureza. As she looked down into the woman's old face, she saw it was full of soft wisdom.

“Sister Camilla cares for our small library and sees to the convent's correspondence,” the nun said. “Her duties require an educated mind, and she's also asked for someone to assist her. You may feel more drawn to this task. Yet I see that your sister is delicate, while you have the upright carriage of one who might be able to take on greater physical demands.”

Lucrezia answered slowly.

“I was often by my father's side in the silk shop,” she said. “From the time I was very small I spent my mornings in the garden, looking over the plants with my father. But of course, you won't be growing herbs for silk dyes here. Perhaps it's best if my sister is given the chance to take in the air as much as possible.”

Sister Pureza smiled.

“Here at Santa Margherita we have the honor of providing herbs to a master painter for his pigments,” she said. “This new duty has taxed my reserves, and if you have such knowledge then perhaps it's the Lord's will that brought you to me.”

“So my sister is correct.” Lucrezia felt a faint stir of pleasure. “There is a painter in Prato.”

“Yes, my child. Fra Filippo Lippi is here with us, working on a series of frescoes in
la pieve,
” said Sister Pureza. “He's recently begun serving as our chaplain at Santa Margherita.”

Sister Pureza gave a small laugh at Lucrezia's confused expression.

“Fra Filippo is a painter as well as a monk, in a most benevolent bestowing of gifts by Our Father,” said the old woman. “He lives in a small house on the edge of the piazza, where he's been granted special permission to live
in seculum
so that he may maintain an artist's workshop and be closer to the church where he labors.”

Taking Lucrezia by the elbow, Sister Pureza turned toward a door at the back of the church.

“Even here, in such modest surroundings, you'll find great beauty,” she said as they stepped into a narrow chapel.

Lucrezia stood in darkness until the old woman pulled back a wooden shutter. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the chapel's smooth wooden beams, and Lucrezia found herself facing a small altar. Behind the altar was a beautiful painting framed by two narrow panels.

“The Coronation of the Virgin,”
Sister Pureza said, her voice soft as she lit two candles. “The altarpiece was a gift to the convent from Fra Filippo.”

Lucrezia stepped closer to study the tumult of angels crowding around a bearded Christ as he placed a shimmering gold crown on a demure young Virgin.

“I've never seen a painting so fine, except in the great cathedrals of Florence,” Lucrezia said. “Is this the work of our chaplain?”

“It is.” Sister Pureza was pleased at Lucrezia's delight, and pushed away thoughts of the unpleasant rumors she'd heard about Fra Filippo's coarser instincts. “I'm told he's known throughout Naples and Milan, as well as in Florence.”

Lucrezia leaned forward to have a better look at the Blessed Virgin's robe and the sweet-faced angels who hovered around her in Heaven, playing harps and trumpets. She had never seen such iridescent silks, with colors that seemed to change with each movement of her eyes. Indeed, the fluid figures in the painting were charged with a graceful, dancelike energy. She could almost hear the notes of the tiny violins and horns, the chorus of joyous angels.

“Here is Saint Catherine.” The old nun directed Lucrezia's gaze to a side panel adorned with a woman holding a book and looking toward the heavens. “She, too, preserved her virginity in honor of the Lord.”

Seeing the saint's radiant face, Lucrezia was reminded of all that was expected of her.

“There's more, my dear,” Sister Pureza said. “Perhaps you're aware that the Virgin's Holy Belt is kept in the Church of Santo Stefano, where it helps shield us from evils that abound in the world.”

Lucrezia nodded. She'd known the legend of the
Sacra Cintola
of the Blessed Madonna since she was a small girl, and once had fashioned her own sash of green silk, tied it about her waist on the feast day of the Sacred Belt, and pranced about in the garden pretending she was the Holy Mother. This drama had greatly amused her father.

“You'll find many small miracles in Prato,” Sister Pureza said gently. “Surely the Lord has put something here that will please you.”

 

F
ra Filippo was late as usual. His mind was on the unfinished Madonna and Child for Ottavio de' Valenti, and he barely saw the cobbled street in front of him as he hurried along Via Santa Margherita toward the convent. The painter hated to leave his workshop to attend his clerical duties, but the post as chaplain was one he could ill afford to lose. Only last week he'd received a missive from Prior General Saviano reminding him of debts owed for his meager sustenance, not to mention the price demanded by a neighbor who claimed Fra Filippo's rooster had entered his henhouse and spoiled two days' worth of eggs with his banter.

The prior general had written in his terse penmanship:

Pausing at the heavy gate, Fra Filippo took the key from his belt and entered the convent feeling parched and irritated. Not only was he late, but he'd left his breviary in the chapel and had to retrieve it before he could begin the day's reading.

To his surprise, the small chapel door stood open, and someone was kneeling at the altar. The unfamiliar figure wore the blue stripe of the novitiate on her scapular, and as he drew closer the
monk saw that she was gazing at the altarpiece he'd painted.

At the sound of his step in the doorway, Lucrezia turned. Expecting to see Sister Pureza, she was startled to see a monk's white robes. His figure was large, his silhouette blocking the single shaft of light from the window.

“Excuse me,” Fra Filippo said.

The candles on the mantel illuminated Lucrezia's face, and the monk was taken by the young woman's beauty. Even her swollen eyes and reddened nose didn't distract from the perfection of her features, which she hid as he stepped forward and took his prayer book from the altar.

Searching for something to say, Fra Filippo straightened. He lingered a moment longer, inhaling a distinct whiff of chamomile before the bell summoning the nuns began to ring.

 

Breviary tucked under his arm, the monk joined the nuns in the chapter house garden, near the well. Taking his place at the head of the small gathering, Fra Filippo saw the novitiate from the chapel slip into the group beside a second, unfamiliar young woman. The nuns bowed their heads and the bell, rung by Sister Camilla, ceased.

“Greetings from Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” Fra Filippo said, looking over his breviary. “Today, we have a reading from Psalm 66: ‘Make a joyful noise unto God, all the earth. Sing forth the Glory of His name…'”

As the nuns joined him in chanting the midmorning psalms, Fra Filippo allowed his eyes to wander over the group. As usual, Sisters Bernadetta and Antonia swayed in rhythm, Sister Isotta whispered her words in a lisp, and Sister Pureza held her hands clasped high in front of her face. The unfamiliar novitiates kept their heads bowed, but when the cycle of intonation ended, the two lifted their chins and
Fra Filippo saw that both were fair, with faces that had been protected from the wind and sun. The smaller one, whom he'd seen in the chapel, was even more beautiful than the candlelight had revealed.

 

“Chaplain, God has blessed our convent with two new arrivals,” Mother Bartolommea announced after the others had filed out of the garden. “Allow me to introduce Sister Lucrezia and Sister Spinetta, sent to us from Florence.”