by Mary Hoffman
It was very unfair, because she had spent so many years as a devoted wife, smothering her own feelings in order to serve Ubaldo and make his domestic life as comfortable as possible. The only thing she hadn’t done was love him; he couldn’t make her do that. But how could Umberto know that? She had always behaved impeccably in front of him.
And did so now, swathed in black, at the Requiem Mass. The children were so upset that she even managed to shed some genuine tears, out of sympathy for them. But Umberto, looking at her with his hooded eyes, seemed to see straight into her soul and she felt a fraud.
After the feast, when many toasts had been drunk in the merchant’s memory and his passing suitably marked, only Umberto remained of all the mourners. At his request, Isabella poured them both a goblet of wine and retired with him to Ubaldo’s office. She went with a heavy heart, consigning the children to a servant. She doubted that she would want to hear what he had to say.
‘Now, sister,’ he began. ‘We need to talk about my brother’s business affairs. Firstly, you will need to appoint a mundualdus. I should be happy to offer my services.’
This was what Isabella had been dreading.
‘Thank you, brother,’ she forced herself to say as lightly as she could. ‘You are most considerate. But I feel I need a little time to make up my mind. I have been so busy preparing for the funeral.’
‘Yes, well, you did give my brother a good send off,’ said Umberto grudgingly. ‘But do not take too long to decide. I shall expect your answer within a week.’
And then he was gone, a dark presence removed from the house. Isabella took herself to bed and slept for ten hours.
She was woken by her maid who told her that there was a young woman to see her. ‘A widow, Madama, like yourself and that only recently, I’d say by her mourning dress. The young gentleman accompanying her gave her name only as Angelica of Perugia.’
Isabella was puzzled but made haste to meet her unexpected guests. As she moved swiftly to the parlour, she couldn’t help feeling her spirits lift. She could entertain guests in that pretty room now without any fear that Ubaldo would disapprove. The sun shone through the window and outside birds sang as if they had just been released from a locked cage.
Isabella had not recognised the name given by her maid and she did not recognise the plump and pretty blonde who rose when she entered the room. Her widow’s weeds were indeed as black as Isabella’s own and the older woman recognised both the costliness of the materials and the style with which they were fashioned and worn.
‘Madama,’ she said to her guest, inclining her head.
‘Forgive me for intruding on your grief, Madama,’ responded the young woman.
‘It seems that you have recently suffered the same loss,’ said Isabella drily. She knew instinctively that this Angelica was no more grieving than she was herself. The young man bowing to her from the window was exceptionally good-looking, if a little foppish and there was an unmistakeable air of complicity between them.
‘Indeed,’ said Angelica. ‘My husband died only a month ago – in similar circumstances to your own.’
Isabella’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth.
‘He was murdered?’ she asked.
‘Yes, stabbed to death in the street,’ said Angelica calmly. ‘But I have recovered from the shock. It is not about his death that I wished to talk to you. I am going to trade as a wool merchant in Gubbio.’
Whatever Isabella had been expecting, it was not that. She could not reply.
‘I wanted to tell you this because we are going to be in competition,’ said Angelica. ‘I thought it would be fairer.’
‘And who is this?’ asked Isabella, indicating the young man by the window. ‘Will he run the business for you?’
‘Gervasio de’ Oddini at your service,’ said the young man, with a flourish. ‘And no. I am merely Monna Angelica’s escort today.’
‘His father is my mundualdus,’ explained Angelica. ‘We have appointed someone to run the business in Gubbio. I wondered what your plans are? Will you continue with your late husband’s wool business?’
Isabella had to admire this young woman, who had the confidence to confront her in this way. It was obvious too that she had her mundualdus in the palm of her hand if he let her be squired around by his handsome son. She could not imagine Umberto being so indulgent with her.
‘How old are you?’ she suddenly asked.
‘I am not yet twenty, Madama,’ Angelica replied, casting down her eyes in a practised pretence of modesty.
‘Would you excuse us for a little, Messer Gervasio?’ said Isabella, getting up to ring the bell. ‘There are matters I should like to discuss with Monna Angelica in private. My servant will take you to my late husband’s office and bring you refreshment there.’
When the two widows were left alone, the atmosphere immediately became more friendly.
‘I know we would be rivals if we were both selling wool in Gubbio,’ said Angelica. ‘But we are both women trying to make a living among men. Perhaps we should think of going into business together?’
‘Let us not be hasty,’ said Isabella. ‘You asked about my plans, but I find it difficult to plan anything until I know who will look after my legal affairs. My brother-in-law wants me to appoint him, but I know that he does not care about me.’
‘Would he have your children’s interests at heart?’
‘Yes, I think so. After all they are his brother’s children too. I don’t think he would cheat us. But he would think nothing of what I wanted to do.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Angelica.
‘It is not impossible,’ said Isabella. ‘I mean . . . in time . . . there is a remote possibility that I might wish to remarry.’
Angelica laughed, a high tinkling and most unbereaved laugh. Isabella envied her light heart and her youth.
‘So I should think,’ said Angelica. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Monna Isabella, and a rich one too. I am contemplating the same thing myself.’ Her eyes slid towards the door where Gervasio had made his exit. ‘But what would your brother-in-law think of that? Especially if he were also your legal representative.’
Isabella was silent. Ever since her glimpse of Domenico at the friary her heart had been in turmoil. She had tried not to think of him as she prepared for her husband’s funeral. It would have been disrespectful to Ubaldo and a departure from her sense of what was right. But whenever she had fallen short of her own high standards, she had come up against the immovable fact that Domenico was now a professed friar.
This meant two conflicting things at the same time: that Domenico had kept his promise never to marry anyone else and that he was as out of her reach now as when Ubaldo was alive. And yet she could not believe that Fate had brought them together at the time of her husband’s death if they were not meant to find a way of being together.
‘Monna Isabella,’ said Angelica, startling her from her reverie. ‘Would you forgive my impertinence if I were to offer you some advice?’
‘Of course,’ said Isabella. ‘I am much in need of the counsel of another woman. And you seem very sure of your own course.’
‘It might have been different for you,’ said Angelica, giving the other widow a shrewd look. ‘But I did not love my husband. It was a marriage arranged by my family and he was much older than me. It was a relief when he died. My advice to you is this: choose as your procurator the father of the man you really love, if he still be living. In that way you have the protection of the older man and the company of the younger. And with the wealth you inherit from your husband, you can expect little resistance to your plans.’
Isabella smiled sadly. This rather brash young woman, brimming with crude vitality, saw everything through the eyes of someone who had not yet completed two decades on earth. It was doubtful that Domenic
o’s father was still alive.
She was about to say something of the kind when an idea suddenly occurred to her.
‘You might well be right,’ she said. ‘Thank you for that advice. I shall find a way to take it.’
Baron Montacuto was not happy. He had had several very uncomfortable interviews with representatives of the Council in Perugia and they were still seeking out his son for the murder of Tommaso the sheep farmer.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said unashamedly, when they asked where Silvano was.
‘But isn’t that a clear admission of his guilt?’ asked the Capitano. ‘If he has run away from the city without telling even his own family where he was going? That is the action of a guilty man.’
‘And what would the actions of an innocent man be?’ asked Montacuto, enraged. ‘To stay and answer questions when his own dagger had been stolen from him to commit the crime?’
‘You know that his dagger had been stolen?’ asked the Capitano.
‘It must have been,’ said the Baron firmly. ‘My son is not a murderer.’
But for all his bluster, he wished that he had some sort of evidence to offer that would clear Silvano of the crime he was accused of. He missed his son terribly every day and wanted him back from Giardinetto. But it clearly wasn’t safe yet.
His own investigations had yielded one important piece of information. Tommaso, as well as being a successful sheep farmer, had started a second business as a secret moneylender. No records had been found of who owed him money; it was possible that he carried them with him and that they had been taken by his murderer.
But the Baron had found two people who had borrowed money from Tommaso at a high rate of interest and now there was no trace of the loans. Both had witnesses to testify that they had been elsewhere at the time of the stabbing, so they were not suspected of the murder. Needless to say they were very relieved that Tommaso was no more.
Montacuto was convinced there were many more debtors and, if only he could find them all, the murderer would be among them. But for the time being, Silvano remained the only person suspected of the deed and there were notices all over Perugia proclaiming him a wanted man. Baron Montacuto ground his teeth as he walked past one of them nailed to a tree in the square outside the Council. That debtor with the dagger had robbed not only Tommaso of his life and the Baron of his son, but also the House of Montacuto of its honour.
If he ever found out who it was, that man would be made to pay for all three.
Silvano still felt uncomfortable in the friary. Wherever he went, he found that brothers were looking at him or they broke off conversations when he drew near. Whatever Brother Matteo had said about him, it hadn’t stopped the rumours. If he could have heard what they were actually saying, he might not have felt so disturbed. The friars of Giardinetto were so unused to anything interrupting their routine of prayer, preaching and attending to the needs of others that the arrival of both a suspected murderer and an actual murder had been like a fox invading a chicken coop.
Their feathers were ruffled and a certain amount of clucking was to be expected. But they had taken to this modest and willing boy from the city and it didn’t seem as if any brother really believed him capable of one, let alone two murders.
The Novice Master, Brother Ranieri, let the gossip run for a while then decided to have a word with each of the postulants in his charge. But since he did not include Silvano, the young noble had no idea that anyone was trying to quash the rumours.
Late in the day, he decided to see the Abbot.
‘Come in, come in,’ Father Bonsignore welcomed him. ‘How is everything?’
‘I am not very happy, Father,’ said Silvano.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said the Abbot. ‘Can you tell me why?’
‘Word seems to have got about among the friars as to why I am here. And I think they might believe I had something to do with Ubaldo’s death.’
‘Surely not?’ said the Abbot, genuinely shocked. ‘I must have a word with them. I don’t know how they found out – certainly Brother Ranieri was under strict instructions not to tell anyone.’
‘I don’t think I can stay here if I’m under suspicion,’ said Silvano. ‘It was bad enough having to leave Perugia. I can’t go through that again.’
‘There is no question of it,’ said the Abbot firmly. ‘This is your home until it is safe for you to go back to your family.’
‘I suppose there is no news from Perugia?’ asked Silvano, without much hope.
‘Nothing yet,’ admitted the Abbot. ‘But I shall go myself next week to see the Bishop, and it would be most natural for me to call on my old friend Montacuto. I can take him a message if you would like.’
‘And to my mother?’ said Silvano eagerly. ‘And he can tell you about what is going on in the city.’
There was a knock on the door. Brother Gregorio, the Lector, came in with a roll of parchment in his hand.
‘I shall leave you, Father,’ said Silvano. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
As he passed Gregorio in the doorway, the Lector patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Be of good courage,’ he said quietly and Silvano left the Abbot’s cell feeling better than when he came in.
‘That is a troubled soul,’ said Bonsignore, shaking his head.
‘Indeed,’ said Brother Gregorio. ‘If only we could find out who killed the merchant Ubaldo. Until we do, there is a cloud over Silvano.’
‘And I see you know he came here under such a cloud already.’
‘There has been some talk,’ said Gregorio. ‘But I have paid it no heed. I like the lad.’
‘We all do,’ said the Abbot. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘This letter has come for you from Gubbio,’ said Gregorio.
Bonsignore looked at the wax seal. ‘That is Ubaldo’s signet,’ he said. ‘It must be from his widow.’
‘To thank you, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
The Abbot pulled the seal from the string and unrolled the parchment.
‘By Our Lady and Saint Francis!’ he said. ‘Monna Isabella asks that I be her legal representative. She wants me to be her mundualdus.’
.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From Beyond the Sea
Brother Landolfo, the Guest Master, had been agitated when Brother Anselmo told him about the two distinguished painters coming to the friary.
‘They will not stay overnight,’ explained Anselmo. ‘They are coming to see the colour room and discuss our production of the first batch of ultramarine. And they will want to see Sister Veronica’s workshop too.’
‘But they will join us in the midday meal, surely?’ said Landolfo. ‘I must speak to Bertuccio. And perhaps your young apprentice could get his hawk to catch a hare or two?’
‘My novice,’ corrected Anselmo. ‘I’ll see what he can do.’
It was astonishing how often Bertuccio or Brother Rufino came to Silvano to ask for a game bird or rabbit for the pot. He was indeed hawking more than once a week and the Abbot turned a blind eye to the pursuit. Celeste needed to be flown every day anyway and it was better exercise for her and Moonbeam if they went outside the friary walls.
Before the two painters arrived, the colour room was in good order. The friars who worked there had stopped gossiping about Silvano and spent the first hours of the day making giallorino.
‘It is from a mineral found close to great volcanoes,’ Brother Anselmo explained to Silvano. ‘This batch came from near Mount Vesuvius. It’s much too hard to break up on a slab so you must pound it in a mortar.’
The friars took the large bronze mortars and worked hard to break up the yellowish rock. Brother Fazio’s bird-like head poked round the door of the colour room.
‘Sorry to disturb
you,’ he said. ‘I have run out of verdigris.’
Brother Anselmo went to one of the long shelves and took down a jar of bluish green particles.
‘What are you making today?’ Fazio asked the room in general.
‘A kind of yellow, Brother,’ volunteered Silvano. ‘From volcanoes.’
‘Ah, giallorino,’ said Fazio. ‘All very well for walls, I suppose but I prefer king’s yellow. Nothing less than the royal hue for the Word of God.’
He left with his jar of verdigris.
‘What did he mean?’ asked Silvano. ‘What is king’s yellow?’
‘It is orpiment,’ said Anselmo. ‘We call it and its red brother, realgar, “the two kings”. But they aren’t suitable for walls.’
‘Why not?’
‘They turn black. I make small quantities for Brother Fazio and his helpers to use on parchment. But it is to be avoided as much as possible. The old Greeks called orpiment “arsenikon” and it is a strong poison.’
At that moment there was a tap on the door and the Sienese painters entered. The brothers had met Simone Martini before but they all had to be introduced to Pietro Lorenzetti. As when they first met, Silvano again had the strongest feeling that he had seen the tall red-haired painter before. He noticed that Simone was smiling at him.
‘You have recognised our Pietro?’ he said. And then Silvano remembered where he had seen that long handsome face before. ‘Our Lord!’ he exclaimed.
Pietro laughed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid my Sienese friends took that liberty.’
‘It was my assistants – the ones you met last time in Assisi,’ said Simone. ‘They painted Our Lord among the angels in that picture I showed you of Saint Martin’s dream. And they decided to give him Pietro’s features.’
‘Isn’t that blasphemy?’ asked Silvano before he could stop himself.
‘Not really,’ said Simone. ‘We are all made in God’s image but I think He would have chosen to come to earth in a form more like Pietro’s here than with a face like mine.’ And he smiled his down-turned smile. ‘But enough of paintings already done. I have a second commission in the Basilica. As soon as I have finished the chapel I must paint five saints and Our Lady in the north transept.’
