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.”
Fra 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:
Fra Filippo Lippi,
It is of utmost import that you faithfully fulfill and retain the post of chaplain at Convent Santa Margherita while you complete the frescoes in Santo Stefano, for this small stipend will cover the many debts charged to the Order in your name during Lent and Easter last. I urge you to attend your duties with great vigilance, and cease to succumb to the vanity that supposes your artistic talents supersede your obligation to the Order, which is the first duty for every ordained brother in Christ.
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.”
Flanked by Sisters Pureza and Camilla, the novitiates offered a humble greeting with their heads bowed. Lucrezia let her gaze flicker across the monk’s feet in thick sandals, the flecks of green and gold paint splattered along the hem of his robe.
“Benvenute,” Fra Filippo said. “Welcome.”
He reached a hand toward the young women and put a palm on Lucrezia’s bent head, another on Spinetta’s, and invoked a quick prayer. As he removed his palms, the scent of chamomile rose into the air.
“We’re blessed to have you with us, Sister Spinetta and Sister Lucrezia.” The monk noted the sisters’ soft hands, so different from the callused palms of the others, and willed Lucrezia to meet his gaze. “I’m sure the good sisters of Santa Margherita will educate you in the many manners of devotion to the Lord,” he said.
The sisters nodded.
“I have seen—” Lucrezia broke the silence, then stammered as she saw the robes around her stop their gentle swaying. She did not look up. “I have seen your magnificent work in the chapel, Fratello.”
Sister Pureza put a gentle hand on the novitiate’s shoulder.
“Our young sister has admired your Coronation only this morning,” Sister Pureza said. “It allowed her to contemplate the rich gifts God has given us here at Santa Margherita.”
Tongue-tied by a rare flash of modesty, Fra Filippo merely nodded.
“May God bless your stay here,” he said finally. “I will be honored to attend to your spiritual needs.”
As he prepared to step away, Lucrezia raised her eyes and Fra Filippo saw they were a startling blue, a lapis lazuli as wonderful as the sky over the Bisenzio Valley.
She smiled at him almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you, Fratello,” she murmured.
Her lips moved and the monk’s mind flew into the world of fantasia where his paintings began, and he heard the voice of his intuition urging him to memorize each detail of her face.
Morning prayers flowed into the hour of Sext, and Fra Filippo lingered at the convent. He offered himself to the service of the prioress, and let his eyes linger on Lucrezia whenever he dared. After the midday meal, when he could think of no other excuse to remain, the monk walked quickly back to his workshop with her face still burning in his mind. He’d almost reached the piazza when he heard the unwelcome greetings of Gemignano Inghirami, provost and head of the confraternity of the Church of Santo Stefano. The provost rarely left the shadowy halls of his church, and Fra Filippo had no doubt the cleric had come solely to see him.
“So there you are, Fratello.” The provost’s voice grated the air.
Arranging his features carefully, Fra Filippo smiled.
“Buongiorno, and God’s blessings to you.” The monk threw out his arms in greeting as Inghirami dragged his red robe across the dusty path.
The provost was a thin man with a rangy, beaklike nose and a sharp gaze. He gave Fra Filippo a weak smile and stepped back from his embrace.
“I’ve just come from the church,” Inghirami said coolly. “It appears there’s been no progress on the frescoes since you laid down the underpainting in sinopia. Nor are there any lines on the intonaco, where the scenes of Saint John are to be.” The provost laughed unpleasantly. “Unless they are visible only to the chosen few.”
As provost and rector of Santo Stefano, Inghirami was the most powerful church figure in the city. Along with his clerical duties he was charged with guarding the Sacra Cintola, the Sacred Belt of the Blessed Virgin, which was said to possess the power of miracles. The relic was visited yearly by hundreds of pilgrims whose generous alms enriched the church’s coffers and allowed the confraternity of Santo Stefano to commission costly works and adornments, of which Fra Filippo’s fresco series for the church’s cappella maggiore was the grandest.
“I’ve been eager to show you my progress,” said the monk, putting an arm around him and turning him toward the piazza.
“Progress?” Inghirami muttered. “I haven’t seen anything.”
“Then you haven’t looked carefully, Padre, begging your pardon.”
Fra Filippo had been paid five hundred gold florins for the fresco cycle, and would receive many hundreds more when it was completed. But instead of finishing the work in three years, as he’d agreed, the painter had accepted yet another commission to design a stained-glass window for the church’s main chapel. He’d acquired several more commissions from the Medici family, and there was still de’ Valenti’s Madonna to deliver before the woman’s birth pains began.
“Let us look together,” the monk said. “And I can explain my progress.”
Keeping a firm grip on Inghirami’s thin shoulders, Fra Filippo led him quickly across the Piazza della Pieve. On this warm summer day the city’s central plaza was filled with housemaids and messengers from the grand palazzi in the Santa Trinità quarter, stout merchants’ wives who hurried to and from the market, and monks whose sandals scuffed slowly across the square.
The air inside the pieve of Santo Stefano was scented with incense and candles, and markedly cooler than on the streets. The two men made their way down the nave, under the high Corinthian columns, and stopped to genuflect before climbing the alberese staircase, passing behind the altar, and stepping into the grand chapel of the church, the cappella maggiore.
The chapel was dominated by a maze of rough scaffolding and a large open window at the rear, and buzzed with apprentice painters and two stained-glass artisans from the Florentine studio of Fra Lorenzo da Pelago. The visiting artisans stood at a large worktable studying Fra Filippo’s design for the window that would replace the one Inghirami had ordered removed.
“You see, it will be as you wished.” Fra Filippo kept up a constant dialogue with Inghirami even as he greeted the young men and surveyed the elaborate window sketch. “The lunette window will celebrate the Madonna’s cintola and by extension, of course, commend your honor in keeping the Holy Belt safe these many years.”
> Inghirami scowled and nodded as the painter described in detail the colorful glass arrangement that would depict the scene of the belt being passed from the Virgin to Saint Thomas.
“The window will take many years,” Fra Filippo said with a loud bravado. “But my fresco series is already well under way.”
Keeping his hand on Inghirami’s shoulder, he turned his attention to the cycle of six frescoes which would fill the high walls of the grand chapel. The series was to illustrate the lives of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Stephen, to whom the church was dedicated, beginning at the top of the walls with scenes from their births, and ending at the bottom, with a scene from the end of each saint’s life.
Using a rich palette of green and gold, daring perspective, and animated expressions that brought his figures to life, Fra Filippo intended to make these frescoes his greatest achievement to date. But after three years, only the scene of Saint John taking leave of his parents contained any finished giornata, the work that marked the rhythm of the fresco painter’s life. Everything else remained largely in the painter’s mind.
“See here, among this patch of arriccio?” The painter directed the provost’s gaze to the middle tier, which was covered with a layer of preparatory plaster. It was clearly uneven, and needed to be smoothed. “Here is where I’ll place the scene of Saint Stephen’s disputation in the synagogue. You can see where the drape of the saint’s robe might fall to the floor.”
The monk waved a hand, and in his mind’s eye saw Saint Stephen’s black and red robe, and his bald head covered by a rich silk berretto.
The Miracles of Prato Page 3
