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

by Alana White

  Guid'Antonio said, “Amerigo and I are setting out for Morba today.”

  “Morba? Isn't that where the girl disappeared? That's a lengthy journey.”

  “We meant to leave at dawn.” He made a light shrug. “Instead, I brought you and Giovanni here. Actually, Morba town's not our destination. I mean to go only as far as the place where Camilla Rossi vanished. Anyway, now we'll have to stop in San Gimignano for the night and take the road again early tomorrow morning.”

  Maria shaded her eyes with her hand, blocking the sun. “Why are you involved with her in the first place?”

  Of course—Maria didn't know about his investigation of the missing girl and the weeping painting. She didn't know someone appeared to be using Camilla Rossi da Vinci's disappearance to stir up a world of trouble in Florence. “I'm concerned about what happened to her,” he said.

  Fine lines appeared around Maria's dark eyes. “But Turks would have left no trace.”

  He blinked. “You believe Turks took her, Maria?”

  “On my soul, yes.” She crossed herself. “Everyone knows they did.” Tears rimmed her eyes, and her voice had the reedy sound born of certainty and fear.

  What could he say to this? He did not mean to mock Maria or demean her beliefs. What he must do was learn from her expression of dread.

  He squeezed her arm gently. The fabric of her full-length summer cloak felt hot beneath his fingers. “I believe we're safe from Mehmed the Conqueror. Presently, at least.”

  “You do? Good!” She looked at him inquiringly, wanting to believe. Then frowning. “But why do you have to go? Surely, the police have already been.”

  Yes, they had, in the slender shape of Palla Palmieri. The place Camilla Rossi da Vinci had vanished was an extended ride from Florence. He and Amerigo would have to find beds in San Gimi, and then ride a bit farther west, toward Volterra town. Palla Palmieri had inspected the scene the day after news of Camilla's disappearance had reached Florence and found—nothing.

  But Guid'Antonio wanted to see for himself. To smell the atmosphere and touch with his fingers the place where Camilla Rossi da Vinci had ended her journey with Tesoro, with her nurse, and with her slave boy. He wanted to fill his lungs with the same air, feel the worn ruts in the road, and wander in the surrounding forest. To discover if he could feel what had happened that particular Saturday. Perhaps there on the road to Bagno a Morba, home of Lucrezia de' Medici's healing sulfur springs, he would find his own cure. Fool. He smiled to himself.

  He said, “I only want to see if I might uncover additional information concerning what might have become of the girl. With Fortune's blessing, I'll be back late tomorrow evening. Meanwhile, do you need anything? More medicine for your mother?”

  Maria shook her head, still frowning, regarding Guid'Antonio thoughtfully. “She's calmer now, thanks to Luca Landucci's potions. The wolfsbane helps her most.”

  If only Luca's talents extended to discovering how the Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta was being made to weep! Late last night, Cesare had brought Guid'Antonio a sealed note from Luca, who had written he had a brilliant idea: what if someone were using a pig's bladder filled with water to squirt the painting's face at opportune moments? Luca, having tried this at home and discovered it worked, hinted he might slip into Ognissanti and—

  Christ on the Cross! Guid'Antonio had paled at the thought of the druggist sneaking into Ognissanti and aiming an animal organ at the Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta. What if Luca were caught? Abbot Ughi would have him drawn and quartered. Luca had suggested chemicals, too. A powder of some kind that became liquid under the proper conditions. In that way, the tears could be controlled. But what powder? What liquid? And what conditions? Luca was working on it.

  In his hastily written reply, Guid'Antonio had told the man he should not go to Ognissanti and experiment under any conditions. It was too dangerous. Also, Luca might damage the revered old painting. God's pants, to see Gostanzo win the palio next month, this was how far Luca Landucci would go to appease Guid'Antonio Vespucci?

  Yes.

  “I'm glad your mother is resting,” he said before rising from the circular stone bench. “Giovanni, come along.”

  Now, with his wife and son safely home in Santa Croce, and Amerigo walking with him to the Vespucci stable, Guid'Antonio felt awash in light and hope. How could the gently stirring breeze and the summer sun warming his shoulders through the fabric of his plain brown tunic and linen undershirt be anything other than a benediction?

  Shadows fell in bands across the sunlit road as they traveled south on Flora and Bucephalus. Florence was not far behind them when the road widened and flame-shaped cypress trees gave way to rolling hills carpeted with scarlet poppies, brilliant yellow genestra, and sweet-scented wildflowers, ravaged by bees. On and on they rode, saddles pleasantly creaking, past simple churches and stone farmhouses.

  Sighting the crumbling castles and fortified villages dotting the countryside, Amerigo shuddered. “Imagine what it was like living back in the gloomy old days. Utter cold. Bleak. No books to read. Not that many people could read then. Or if they once could, they had forgotten how. Can you imagine not holding a book in your hands?”

  Guid'Antonio glanced at him. “In the great scheme of things, it wasn't that long ago.”

  It was the Dark Ages, as people sometimes called it, a time in the dark past when violence ripped the Tuscan countryside apart as if it were soft flesh. A time when safety and power depended upon individual strength, and families sought refuge from axe-wielding enemies in lofty towers and walled strongholds, raining rocks and boiling pitch down on their heads. The skin of Guid'Antonio's scalp prickled. He saw Bernardo Bandini's axe slice down on Giuliano's head and saw Lorenzo race toward the sacristy with Angelo Poliziano at his back. Francesco Nori, manager of the Florence branch of the Medici Bank, had died at the altar that day. Instead of running, Francesco had stepped in front of Lorenzo and been stabbed in the heart.

  Guid'Antonio scrubbed his hand over his face. Not the Dark Ages, but a mere two years ago. These, the rich and the celebrated, living in the fullness of light and the new, blossoming genius of the day, scrambling to keep power and place, not to mention their lives: because, in fact, the fundamental trick remained simply to stay alive.

  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.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “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 poppie
s 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