The Miracles of Prato (7 page)

The large table was laden with roasted fowl, fresh fruits, artichokes, cheeses, and bowls of thick bread soup. The monk joined the men as they ate, drank wine far richer than any Fra Filippo could secure for himself, and spoke of business in Florence and Rome.

“All the world waits to see who will take the place of Pope Callistus III, now that the depths of his illness have become apparent,” de' Valenti said, eyeing Cantansanti. He poured more wine for the emissary.

“In Florence, the Medici family is grooming Enea Silvio Piccolomini, Bishop of Siena, for the seat,” Cantansanti said easily, raising the wine to his lips. “They're expecting Piccolomini's detractors will propose the Archbishop of Rouen, but d'Estouteville is a weak candidate.”

Fra Filippo listened closely to the discussion of papal politics. Whoever held the power in Rome also held the church's ample purse strings. It was well known that the sitting pope, Callistus III, had no great interest in art. But a pope with the Medici's backing would surely favor the family's beloved painters, and Fra Filippo counted himself among them.

“And you, Brother Filippo, what do you hear from the Carmelites?” Cantansanti looked across the table in a pleasant manner, and Fra Filippo answered in a way that could offend no one.

“I hear nothing but the prattle of the prioress, I'm afraid,” he responded, tucking his belt up under his full belly as he spoke. “I hear only the worries of the nuns, which are the petty concerns and small jealousies of women everywhere. Vanity follows them into the convent, my friends, never believe otherwise.”

The men chuckled.

“Of course, I also hear the daily groans of the provost,” Fra Filippo said, rolling his eyes. He knew Inghirami irritated de' Valenti, and that Cantansanti had little admiration for the skulking man, either. “He's forever complaining that the parishioners aren't generous enough, my work on the frescoes not quick enough, and of course his preparations for the Festival of the Holy Belt are more demanding than ever before.”

“The man is a genuine pox,” de' Valenti exclaimed, and the men at the table laughed heartily.

Sensing the mood was right, Fra Filippo seized this moment to bring his business to Ser Francesco. He spoke quickly of the altarpiece for King Alfonso, describing in detail his vision for the Madonna kneeling in the forest, and the face that would complete that vision.

“Yes.” Cantansanti nodded thoughtfully as the painter spoke. “Yes, this is what must be delivered to the King of Naples.”

Emboldened, the monk described the face of a woman now living in the Convent Santa Margherita whose beauty surpassed even the finest paintings ever done.

“So there you have it, friends,” Fra Filippo said when he was finished. “A pure young woman cloistered in Santa Margherita. Is there anything more fitting for the representation of the Madonna? Only a few things stand between us and this glory for His Excellency, Cosimo de' Medici, may the Lord Jesus Christ grant him strength and continued good health.”

“There are many things of value in the city of Prato,” Cantansanti said, raising his glass to Fra Filippo. “I'm certain we'll convince the prioress to do what's best for all.”

 

S
ister Camilla, sipping a cup of thin broth after Nones two days later, was sure she'd misheard the prioress. It couldn't be right. Perhaps the steam from the hot soup had garbled her words.

“Beg pardon, Mother, but I didn't hear you.”

“I said,” Mother Bartolommea repeated. “The novitiate Lucrezia will sit for Fra Filippo's altarpiece, an important work of great consequence which has been commissioned by the Medici. Under normal circumstances I would never allow it.” She leaned closer to Sister Camilla. “But since he's a man of the Church, our very own chaplain, it's not the compromise it might seem at first. After all, his workshop is nearly, by extension, a part of our convent.”

As Sister Camilla stared silently, the prioress continued in a whisper.

“For our trouble and generosity we'll have the
Sacra Cintola
here, at the convent, under my secret protection. Think of it!” she exclaimed. “With the Holy Belt in our possession, imagine what favors might be bestowed upon us from the Blessed Mother.”

The prioress looked at Sister Camilla, waiting for her response. She leaned forward, and repeated herself.

“I said, Sister Camilla, that we shall have the Holy Belt, sacred relic of the Virgin Mary, here in our convent. Of course, it will be solely in my possession and no one will know but the two of us.”

Sister Camilla put down her cup and stared at the prioress. She assumed the good mother was making some kind of joke.

“I'm only telling you in case something should happen,” the prioress said. “But with the belt here, what harm could possibly come to us?”

Sister Camilla wasn't sure how to respond. She was sought out for her quiet wisdom, and wasn't one to make rash remarks.

“There's more.” The prioress puffed out her chest. “I've also arranged for a beautiful new altarpiece to be commissioned for Santa
Margherita. The painting will depict the Madonna at the moment when she passes the
Sacra Cintola
to Saint Thomas. I shall be included in this painting as a patron kneeling before the Holy Virgin.”

The prioress let out her breath, her figure seeming to shrink as she exhaled.

“I shouldn't be so boastful,” she muttered, straightening her wimple. “It's against our Rule.”

Despite her disclaimer, the prioress was deeply flattered by the notion of appearing for all of eternity in one of Fra Filippo Lippi's paintings. Like the famed Medici, the powerful Milanese Sforza family, and the lauded saints whose likenesses graced the churches of the land, Prioress Bartolommea de' Bovacchiesi's face would be painted and preserved for posterity, her special intimacy with the realm of the blessed on display for all to see and her entry into heaven virtually assured by this single indulgence.

“I'm sure you've thought this over with great deliberation and consulted the heavens for guidance,” Sister Camilla said gingerly. “Lucrezia is under the guidance of good Sister Pureza, who will see to it that she doesn't neglect her duties or her obligations as novitiate.”

“Indeed, Sister Camilla, I've done well, don't you agree?” The prioress nodded in great satisfaction. “Lucrezia will go to the painter's workshop only on Tuesdays and Thursdays after Sext, returning before Vespers. She'll be accompanied by a chaperone and will always bring a book of prayer and the Rule of the Order to study and meditate upon during her sitting. I've thought this all out carefully. The words of Saint Augustine will help the novitiate remain in the cloister in mind and spirit, if not in body.”

Sister Camilla nodded.

“How long will this take?” the secretary asked weakly.

“We'll have the blessed relic here only until the Festival of the
Holy Belt. You see, in a way, the treasure of the Holy Mother is put in our protection as a matter of exchange. The belt here, and Sister Lucrezia at the painter's
bottega
. Nothing at all can befall us,” she said again.

“Yes,” Sister Camilla said, again lifting her cup. “Nothing at all can befall us.”

“I've decided that
you
will be the girl's chaperone, Sister Camilla.”

Sister Camilla furrowed her brows and sputtered, but the prioress held up her hand demurely.

“There's no need to thank me, Sister, truly,” Mother Bartolommea said, lowering her eyes and achieving what she felt was the proper tone of modesty, at last.

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

A uniformed Medici messenger entered the convent courtyard on Tuesday as the sisters were finishing Sext prayers. Prioress Bartolommea quickly closed her prayer book and rushed outside. The messenger bowed, his silver sword glinting in the sun.

“Good afternoon, Prioress. I have been sent on the orders of Ser Francesco Cantansanti, emissary to the great Cosimo de' Medici.”

“Yes,” the prioress responded somberly. “We've been awaiting your arrival.”

Feeling the stable boy's gaze, Mother Bartolommea turned and gave him a sharp look. He quickly resumed brushing a horse's tail.

“Perhaps you have something to deliver to me?” she asked with extreme delicacy.

The messenger withdrew a velvet pouch from his pocket, and handed it to her.

“I beg your patience while the sisters ready themselves for the journey,” she said, slipping the pouch under her sleeve before turning to signal Sister Pureza.

 

At the sign from her superior, Sister Pureza helped the novitiates make their final preparations for the day outside the convent wall. Leading Lucrezia and Spinetta to the vestry, she gave each a coarse
black
mantello
with a hood that covered their heads. Into Lucrezia's hands Sister Pureza thrust a worn breviary and a copy of the Rule of the Order, written in plain black script. Spinetta received a roll of blank parchment, upon which she would copy the Rule with ink from the stores in Fra Filippo's
bottega
.

“You must always be on guard when you are outside our walls,” Sister Pureza said sternly to Lucrezia. She had expressed her objection to the outing, but had been unable to stop it. “Honor is our duty above all else. If you have a face the painter wishes to copy, then that face has come from God and should be used only to glorify God. Vanity is a great weakness, Sister Lucrezia. It's the devil's mask. Do not take it up.”

As Prioress Bartolommea watched the stooped nun approaching the messenger, framed on either side by the willowy Buti sisters, she tried not to think she had made a terrible compromise. The
Sacra Cintola
was in her possession now, and this more than made up for the sacrifice of the convent. Soon a new altarpiece with her distinct profile would grace the main chapel of the Church of Santa Margherita and, hopefully, the metal chest in which she kept coins of silver and gold would again feel heavy in her hand. Surely the Holy Belt had the power to do this much.

 

As they stepped outside the convent gates, Lucrezia felt a breeze from the Bisenzio River. Her boots hit the rough cobbled stones and she nearly laughed at the familiar sound of tapping heels. She took a great gulp of air and lifted her chin. Above the city walls she saw the lush hills of Tuscany.

The messenger walked two paces in front of them, leading the way. Spinetta put her arm through Lucrezia's. Below her hood, Spinetta's eyes were bright, too.

“How good it feels!” Lucrezia whispered.

The sun beat down on their dark cloaks, but the heat didn't dampen the sisters' spirits.

“How strange that
I
should be chaperoning
you,
” Spinetta said, thinking of the many years her older sisters had kept watch over her. “But I am so very glad of it!”

Lucrezia smiled at Spinetta, whose piety had become quite weighty these past weeks.

“Thank goodness I wasn't sent with dour Sister Camilla,” Lucrezia said, and the two burst into laughter.

“Did you see her this morning?” Spinetta asked. “When Mother Bartolommea said Sister Camilla had to stay and help in the kitchen because Sister Simona and Sister Bernadetta both have the rash now, I thought she would burst.”

“She would have been such a terrible bore to have along. I'm so happy that it's you, instead.”

Walking slowly along Via Santa Margarita, the novitiates looked shyly at the women passing in workday clothes. One was bent under the weight of two heavy water buckets, another hurried by with a hog's head wrapped in brown paper held between her heavy arms.

“Look, it's Paolo, the boy who tends our goats,” Lucrezia said, pointing to a young
ragazzo
who smiled when he saw them.

“Paolo,
buongiorno, garzone,
” she called. The boy's feet were bare. With only a moment's hesitation, Lucrezia tossed him the parcel of thick rye bread and nuts that Sister Maria had wrapped in a cloth for their midday lunch.

A low moan came from a dark doorway on the right, and the sisters turned to see a ragged woman, one arm in a sling, the other held out for alms. The sisters paused, and their faces clouded.

“Venite, Sorelle,”
the messenger said, gently prodding them.

The sisters quickened their step, but their mood had grown somber.

“The prioress said I'm to sit for the chaplain in service to all of Florence,” Lucrezia said in a low voice, bending her head toward her sister's. “But she was very careful in warning me not to let him draw too near, even in the course of his work.”

“I've heard the prioress and Sister Camilla speak of the painter,” Spinetta said carefully. “They say he's had much trouble with the Bishop of Florence, and that he's been known to consort with women of an indelicate nature.”

Lucrezia hesitated, thinking of the power she felt in the monk's presence.

“But he is greatly admired,” she said. “Perhaps the prioress is jealous because the chaplain lives outside of the cloister, where he has the attention and patronage of the great Cosimo de' Medici.”

“Maybe,” Spinetta agreed. She knew the prioress did worry about the convent's finances, and attached great importance to the alms that came to them as a result of the painter's position there. She told her sister so.

“And you?” Lucrezia didn't look at her sister directly. “What do you think of our chaplain?”

“I think he's fine,” she pronounced. “When he comes through the front gates, it seems a breath of life is coming into Santa Margherita.”

“Yes,” Lucrezia said. “To create such beauty as Brother Filippo does must please the Lord, right, Spinetta?” She held her breath. “And it's honorable for me to help the painter if I can, isn't it?”

“You're only doing what's asked of you,” Spinetta answered.

They rounded the corner and the tall bell tower, the prized campanile of the Church of Santo Stefano, came into view. Horses trotted briskly toward the piazza, merchant carts rumbled, and women
called out to their children. Under Lucrezia's placid exterior, she felt a great excitement. In truth, she couldn't wait to see the monk.

“Look there.” Spinetta pointed to the green and white bell tower visible over the rooftops. “That must be the
pieve,
Santo Stefano.”

Only steps away from the Piazza della Pieve, the messenger turned up a small walkway that led to a simple stucco building with a thatched roof.

“We're here,” Lucrezia whispered. She saw the monk peering over the edge of a tall window. He spotted the sisters, smiled, and hurried to the front door as the messenger knocked.

“Welcome,” Fra Filippo said as the novitiates lowered their heads and their escort bowed. “I hope your walk was pleasant.”

Lucrezia felt suddenly shy. She wished she were wearing a fine
cotta
and
fazzoletto
instead of the glum black robe and white wimple. She was surprised when Spinetta, always so demure, spoke first.

“Oh, Fra Filippo, we enjoyed our stroll, truly,” Spinetta exclaimed. “The fresh air, the new sights. What a blessed fortune on such a lovely day, praise the Lord!”

Fra Filippo laughed.

“I do hope you'll feel that way after visiting my workshop,” he said. “I'm afraid we must work indoors, and you might find it terribly dull.”

“Not at all.” Spinetta smiled boldly, her fine white teeth in a neat row. “I've been sent with the task of copying the Rule of the Order onto a parchment.” She took the book from her sister, and lowered her eyes. “And I am to ask you for a pot of ink.”

Usually such requests from the prioress vexed him, for he didn't like to part with his supplies. But on this day, nothing seemed too great to ask.

“Of course,” Fra Filippo agreed.

The four stood in awkward silence. From the road came the sounds of wheelbarrows and the clinking metal of horse harnesses hitched to posts along the row of simple shops.

“Fratello,” said the messenger. “I've been instructed to see the blessed sisters safely into your workshop, and will return before Vespers to bring them back to the convent.”

“Si. Scusi!”
The monk blinked as though awakened from a dream. “Please, Sisters.” He motioned for the sisters to step over the threshold. “Please, come inside.”

The novitiates followed the monk into the small antechamber, where a low wooden desk stood beneath a tiny window.

“You may sit here, Sister Spinetta, where it's pleasant,” he said, whisking away a pile of dirty linens he'd collected for the kitchen girl to wash. “The light is quite good here, and will be for many hours.”

Fra Filippo placed a pot of ink and some freshly washed quills on the table. On the other side of the table he put an earthen jug with water, and a small plate of cheese.

“I'm sorry it's not a richer offering,” Fra Filippo said.

“It's very thoughtful, Fratello,” Spinetta said.

Lucrezia stood silently to the side with her cloak still on her shoulders. She felt weak from the heat.

“Allora!”
Fra Filippo said, as if he'd read her mind. “The day grows warmer. Please, take off your cloaks. Then, if it pleases you, I can show you around my workshop.”

The painter had put away the many sketches of Lucrezia, and turned de' Valenti's
Madonna and Child
to face the wall. The
bottega
floor was swept, the wooden tabletops wiped clean, and the cobwebs were gone. The monk had hung a curtain around one corner of the room to hide a small pile of clutter.

“Of course I'm in the midst of many projects,” Fra Filippo said. “The frescoes at Santo Stefano are only partially completed, and I've much to do on them still.”

Fra Filippo fell into the familiar language of his artistry, and his confidence returned. He'd been a master of his craft for many years, and was comfortable in his studio no matter who might be his guest.

“Here are the sketches for the life of Saint Stephen, which will be on the north wall of the chapel.” He showed them the carefully measured birthing chamber where the saint's mother would lie under a fine velvet blanket, and the synagogue steps where the saint would be confronted by angry rabbis.

Seeing the hidden staircases and complex architecture in his designs, Lucrezia spoke for the first time since their arrival.

“It looks very difficult, Fra Filippo,” she said. “So many lines and walls, rooms inside of rooms.”

“Ah, yes.” The monk was pleased that she perceived, so quickly, what was important to his work. For a generation, painters had understood perspective thanks to the works of Brunelleschi and Alberti, but Fra Filippo strove to go beyond what had already been achieved. He pointed to the place where the fresco would turn the corner in the chapel. “See, here, the figures will appear as if they're stepping out of the painting and into the room.”

Fra Filippo's enthusiasm for his work was contagious. As the sisters grew comfortable, Lucrezia felt her body begin to relax.

“It's necessary to secure many commissions at once, for I must keep all of my patrons happy or they'll find other painters to do their work. But of course, the altarpiece commissioned by the Medici takes precedence above all others. Their emissary has graciously arranged for your visit here so I might paint your likeness in full daylight.”

He dared to glance at Lucrezia but her eyes were taking in the crowded workroom.

Against the walls were assorted panels of various sizes, some covered in a thin layer of gesso, others close to finished. Along the northern wall, shelves held numerous glasses and ampoules filled with substances that reminded Lucrezia of the apothecary shops she'd visited in Florence. Chunks of purple hematite and clumps of malachite lay out in the open air on parchment, ready to be ground and mixed for pigment. An assortment of brushes, knives, and other pointed objects lay scattered on the table. Lucrezia recognized paint colors that matched the numerous splotches she had seen on the painter's hands during the week. To cover the stale smell, Fra Filippo had placed clusters of lavender and lemon balm throughout, which lent their fragrant notes to the room.

“Brother Filippo, it's delightful!” Lucrezia exclaimed, forgetting her shyness. “How hard it must be to leave each morning.”

“Indeed, we're lucky to have you at Santa Margherita,” Spinetta hurried to add.

“The good fortune is mine, Sisters.” As Fra Filippo answered, he saw a slant of light fall across Lucrezia's face. “Look at the sun,” he said. “We must begin as soon as we can.”

The monk settled Spinetta at the small table in the antechamber, and Lucrezia stepped in front of the large window that faced the busy piazza.

As he came back into the room, Fra Filippo saw her tuck away an invisible wisp of hair. He felt alive in every muscle, intoxicated by the golden light that filled the room and created dapples of color on Lucrezia's robe.

“Sister Lucrezia,” he said gently. “I am indeed blessed to have you here, when I am in need of something truly magnificent and beautiful for my patron.”

“I'm glad to be of service.” Lucrezia's words were stiff, her voice a whisper. She couldn't lift her eyes to the monk's. “And ready to begin.”

The monk picked up a silverpoint and arranged a fresh sheet of parchment on his drawing table. He found the stylus, and checked its measure. He took his time in these tasks. The girl's face, framed in the white wimple, was pale.