The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) (26 page)

In the violet dusk of evening, they approached San Gimignano, built high upon a hill. “Hear my confession and call me a sinner,” Amerigo said. “I'm always amazed by the number of towers in this small city.”

“Yes. Seventy or more.”

After showing the guard their traveling papers, they passed through the gate and rode down a narrow, rocky street lined with workshops. Another tight lane led them to Piazza del Duomo. They dismounted, and Amerigo set out in search of the public stable, having secured the horses at a water trough, while Guid'Antonio walked in twilight to the church on the main square, seeking a relatively safe place for them to rest their heads for the night. These tasks accomplished, they sought
La Buca
, the town tavern. Looking around at the careworn faces in the light of stubby candles set on tables in the hot little bar, they made a filling supper of wild boar ham and tiny sweet peas washed down with pottery cups of Vernaccia, the local white wine.

Guid'Antonio swept a glance around the tight eatery: curious, each and every man supping and drinking at the wooden tables, all of them eager to exchange gossip and information. “Ah. You're traveling to Morba for the soothing waters? Watch your backs. The road is lined with blood-sucking Infidels. You know at midnight, they become werewolves and eat our flesh!”

“Yes, yes,
Signore
. Not long ago, they attacked an innocent. A girl! Of course, that's what they like, slaves for the market. And for themselves.”

Guid'Antonio shook his head in sorrow. “We heard about the attack. Where did it happen?”

“You'll find the place marked with a cross, two reeds twisted together, like those protecting our crops.”

Later, after buying the tavern a round and checking on Flora and Bucephalus in the stable, Guid'Antonio and Amerigo extinguished their night candles and fell exhausted onto their pallets in the sanctuary of the pitch-black church. Amerigo whispered, restless: “Uncle Guid'Antonio, I can't sleep.”

“You're exhausted, Amerigo. Good night.”

Amerigo's voice was animated. “It's not that. How can you close your eyes, surrounded by these hellish frescoes? They're, they're—”

“Taddeo di Bartolo's
Last Judgment
,” Guid'Antonio murmured. “The proper word for them is ‘breathtaking,’ though they do depict the souls of the damned being tortured in hell. In fact, the frescoes are nowhere near, but at the back of the church, on the far walls of the nave. Besides, 'tis midnight black in here. Those gold stars painted on the ceiling above our heads are not shining down on our heads.”

Amerigo said, “I saw Ghirlandaio's frescoes in the chapel of Saint Fina when we arrived this afternoon. His depiction of the girl's piety is quite satisfying.”

“I'm sure Ghirlandaio would be ecstatic to hear you say it.” Guid'Antonio, too, had seen Domenico Ghirlandaio's fresco cycle in the chapel today and had read the words inscribed on Saint Fina's tomb:
Are you looking for miracles? Observe those that the vivid images on these walls illustrate. 1475.

Yes
, Guid'Antonio thought.
I am.

“Have you seen Ghirlandaio's new fresco in Ognissanti?” Amerigo said.

Guid'Antonio blew out a tired breath. “The
Saint Jerome
near Sandro's
Saint Augustine?
In passing, yes.”

“No, no. The one in the refectory.
The Last Supper
on the far end wall.”

“No.” Guid'Antonio's body felt as if it had been whipped for the last week, and then flung onto a stone bed. Well—after all, he was on the floor.

“Nor have I. Uncle Giorgio commissioned it,” Amerigo said.

“Perhaps we should start calling Brother Giorgio ‘Brother Moneybags,’ ” Guid'Antonio said.

“Uncle—”

“Amerigo, has Sandro begun your portrait?”

“Alas, no. As you say, who's had time? Though I'm sure he'll chase me down soon, so he can begin collecting payment.
Buona notte
, Uncle. Um, when tomorrow are we leaving?”

“Early, lest we're trampled beneath the monks' feet.”

They rode from San Gimignano wrapped in a blanket of drizzle and white clouds so thick, they could barely make out the noses of their horses. “God!” Amerigo exclaimed. “I had hoped to produce a map of this place. How, when we can't see where we're going?” He bit into the apple he had purchased from the peddler setting up his wares near the church at the first pink glimmerings of dawn.

Guid'Antonio pulled his hood up against the early morning damp. “Just think how men must feel when they first set sail on the uncharted ocean, my beloved nephew. Nothing but water and sky as far as the eye can see.” He felt, rather than saw, his nephew straighten in the saddle.

“I have thought of it. Daunting, to say the least.” Amerigo paused, thinking. “But there is a school which holds—”

Guid'Antonio smiled, letting Amerigo prattle as they rode on, picking their way, trusting the horses, descending at last from the veil of clouds into a lush valley. Hoods lowered, cloaks soggy, they rode westerly across green hills and through glittering, clear steams, slowing their mounts when the trees bordering their passage thickened and became forest. “There,” Guid'Antonio said, indicating the reed cross stuck in the grass beside the road.

They dismounted and removed their cloaks. Amerigo fetched a hunk of thick chewy bread from his saddlebag and tore it in half, wordlessly handing Guid'Antonio a portion. They drank from a trickling stream and ate sausages with the bread before wiping their hands on their pants and approaching the cross.

Rough, yes. Two reeds, twisted together.

Arms crossed, with his right finger pressed against his mouth, Guid'Antonio observed his surroundings. The road was narrow here, little more than a sun-dappled clearing.

“Room enough for a thundering horde to waylay a young woman with no sign of struggle?” Amerigo said.

“No. And of course Palla was here almost immediately and says he saw no sign of a disturbance.”

“That's good, am I right? Since it's proof Camilla left her husband of her own will, with nary an anti-Christian in sight?”

“With a lover, you mean?”

Amerigo shrugged. “What else?”

“Good as far as it goes, Amerigo. Meaningless when it comes to frightened people who consider the Turks half devils capable of all manner of cruel deeds. Also, a few ordinary thieves could have waylaid her. Plenty of room for that.”

Amerigo cocked his head. “If Camilla
did
leave of her own will—and there's a leap for a lady—what about the nurse and boy? It's they who cried 'Turks' in the first place.”

Distantly, Guid'Antonio said, “Precisely.” And then: “What did you say?”

“It's they who cried—”

“No, about the leaping lady.”

Amerigo looked impatient. “What girl of Camilla Rossi da Vinci's standing would dream of quitting her husband? Well.” He grinned. “Plenty of them may dream of it, but when did one ever do it?”

Right. Guid'Antonio wondered what in hell he had been thinking when he jumped to the conclusion Camilla Rossi had run off of her own accord with some strapping, hot-blooded youth. For one thing, this assumed she was miserable with her husband, Castruccio Senso. Who could say for certain? For another, divorce was possible in Florence. He had handled one such case, successfully, in the end. But when had a young woman ever actually flown off with her paramour? Actually, several times he could recall. But in each instance, the girl had been hunted by her family and sent to a nunnery to live out the days of her life. Another, in despair over her impossible situation, slit her own throat.

What, then? What other possible scenarios were even remotely possible? Why were the boy and the nurse lying about Turks? He must question them. But the town of Vinci, like Morba, lay a good distance from Florence. He was tired of traveling. He was tired of everything.

They walked the woods on either side of the road and up brambly hills, sniffing the green smell of the ferns and the fecund odor of damp decay. “Nothing,” he said.

They made their way back to the horses and stood in the sunlight filtering through the trees, Guid'Antonio sucking in great breaths of air. He got down on his knees and sifted the dirt through his fingers. A tranquil place. A safe, fair place. He pressed his hands to the ground, inhaling the mix of earth and heat, and it seemed to him for one wondrous moment, he felt against his flattened palms the thumping of his heart connected to the earth, to all ages past and all yet to come.

And then he had an odd feeling that something had, indeed, spoiled the quiet of this golden place. Something . . . he rose to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.

Something terrible and violent.

“Where to now?” Amerigo said. “The baths?”

Guid'Antonio swung into Flora's saddle, frowning, slowly shaking his head. “Why would we go all that way when our young lady never reached her destination? We're going home, Amerigo. To Florence.”

“That's your rain cloak?” Cesare's violet-blue eyes swept Guid'Antonio up and down. Gingerly, he accepted the sopping wet fabric and draped it over the corner rope in the courtyard garden, to dry it in the sun.

Guid'Antonio had yanked his tunic up over his head by the time he reached the stairs from the courtyard to his private apartment. “That cloak has more than earned its cost, first coming from France, then now,” he said.

Riding home the previous afternoon, he and Amerigo had run afoul of a raging summer storm, complete with black, bursting rain clouds accompanied by silver shards of lightning and volleys of thunder that saw Flora and Bucephalus slipping in the muddy road and rolling their eyes in terror. When Castellina in the Chianti Valley drew near, they turned toward that little town and sought shelter. This morning, it was on to Florence, past cypress trees and scarlet poppies beaded with raindrops sparkling in the sun like gemstones.

Behind him now, following him up the stairs, Cesare said, “If you hadn't returned soon, I was mounting a search for you. These days who knows what the mob might be about?”

Guid'Antonio growled. He did not want to be met by gloom and doom every time he came back home from—somewhere. “I don't believe Amerigo and I are in any particular danger.”

“Humph,” Cesare said. “By the way, your nephew Ser Antonio Vespucci is gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” Another question he asked often these days. He turned down the hall and into his chamber.

“San Felice, yesterday. With his wife and children to escape the heat.” No need for Cesare to add the rest of it: “And to tend his father, Nastagio Vespucci, in residence at the villa since your entry back into our lives one week ago. Antonio left you this.” Cesare bolted the door and pressed a sealed note into Guid'Antonio's hand.

Guid'Antonio mio:

Whilst you were gone, wild rumors of a
balìa
began creeping through town. People are saying Lorenzo means to make himself prince of the city, officially, once and for all. Don't ask me the source of this astonishing speculation. I honestly don't know, for Lorenzo de' Medici is nothing if not closemouthed. There is talk, too, of dissension within the Lord Priors' ranks. Some fear the power a
balìa
could render our Lorenzo. There are murmurs Lorenzo means for the Signoria to change the laws so he can make himself a duke like Ercole d'Este in Ferrara or Montefeltro in Urbino. Some speak of armed rebellion if this happens, others of mounted Medici troops in the streets. Others say Lorenzo is our prince in all but name, anyway, and he is a good man, so what harm if the Signoria makes it official?

Pray Mary that if any changes come about they favor us, as the future of our House depends on maintaining our position within the Republic, whatever shape it may take. Destroy this document, since as yet we know not whose side we are on. Stay safe.

Antonio di Nastagio Vespucci
Saturday, 15 July 1480

“Burn this,” Guid'Antonio said.

“Done. There is some good news.”

“Thank God.”

“You know the lady in Ognissanti wept when Camilla Rossi's horse rode into the city two days ago now. Last night, the Virgin Mary's eyes went dry as a witch's tits.”

Cool air smelling of old stone brushed Guid'Antonio's face the moment he opened the door to Ognissanti and entered the church with Amerigo. “I see you continue robbing people of their earnings,” Amerigo said, addressing Brother Bellincioni, who was standing by the holy water font with his collection box in his hands. “Even when our Virgin Mary isn't weeping.”

“What do you know of earnings? Pah!” the monk spat. “Either of you, in your boots of fine leather and rich clothes.”

“Amerigo, don't waste your breath,” Guid'Antonio said, pushing past the bitter old man.

Within the sanctuary, he glanced around and took a step back. Was it possible? Oh, joy, good luck at last! “Amerigo!” he said. “Look there!”

Hurrying along the south wall were two brothers of the Benedictine Order of the Humiliati, the smaller fellow a novitiate, the other the tallish young monk who, racing from the cloister in pursuit of his fleet, dark-haired brother last Monday, had burst straight into Guid'Antonio.

It was Brother Paolo Dolci and his little shade, Ferdinando Bongiovi.

“Here's one prayer answered.
Andiamo
, Amerigo. Brother Paolo, hold!”

Brother Paolo Dolci turned slowly around, his face suffused with a look of wonderment: him, singled out in the church by a voice at once demanding and unfamiliar? His pale blue eyes widened as Guid'Antonio and Amerigo Vespucci elbowed through the people in the sanctuary, coming near, and he shrank back. “I meant you no harm, Messer Vespucci. I swear!”

Amerigo bristled. “Harm him?
You?
It would take more than the rude bump you gave us last week.”

“Brother Paolo,” Guid'Antonio said, “I mean only to have a word with you. Nothing more.”

“Oh,” Paolo said. “I thought—” Delicate fingers brushed back a missing lock of hair; a ghost lock: so, Brother Paolo was newly tonsured. “May God bless you for your mercy,” Paolo said, casting his eyes down.