“Not yet,” the monk admitted. “But the sketches for the central panel have been expanded, and the disegno is finished.”
“Per l’amore di Dio, Filippo, stop stalling. I don’t wish to bring an ill report back to Florence.”
He stared at the monk. Outside, the sun had burned through the morning haze, and the men heard the horse braying.
“I’m staying at the home of Ottavio de’ Valenti until the Festa della Cintola. I’ll be keeping a close watch on you.”
As Cantansanti walked slowly back through the bottega he paused in front of de’ Valenti’s Madonna and Child.
“This is splendid,” he said, leaning closer to look at the lines of the face, the clear blue eyes. “The Madonna is exceptional—you must do the same for the Medici, Fratello. Remember who your greatest patrons are!”
Fra Filippo sank onto a stool, the bottom of his cassock creating a pool of white as he lifted the jug of wine to his lips and emptied it.
He felt the terrible weight of his obligations pressing down on him, and the painter recognized the feeling: it was exactly this burden that had plagued him the year before, when he’d been overwhelmed with commissions and in debt to his assistant for the grand sum of one thousand lire.
With no way of paying Giovanni di Francesco de Cervelliera, Fra Filippo had issued a false payment receipt, and the indignant assistant had brought charges against him. Soldiers of the court of the Archiepiscopal Curia had come for the monk that Monday morning in May as he was getting ready to put the details on a small Nativity. Two men seized him by the arms and dragged him before Antonino the Good, Bishop of Florence, where the painter was pronounced guilty almost before he could protest, and sentenced to a punishment of thirty lashes.
Stunned, he’d been carried directly into the jail and stripped of his robe. The monk’s pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears, and the lash cut into his back cruelly. Afterward he was thrown into a cell, where he composed elaborate altarpiece designs in his head and dreamed of his mother’s face, picturing her as the Virgin of his altarpieces, the Madonna of his private heaven, to keep himself from despair. On the fourth day of his imprisonment, Fra Filippo was awakened from a troubled sleep by a jailer who thrust before him a scroll containing the signature and wax seal of Cosimo de’ Medici.
“Get up,” the jailer said. “You’re leaving.”
Fra Filippo was eternally indebted to Cosimo. The powerful patron had saved his skin and paid his debts. He’d arranged for the painter to return to his work on the Prato frescoes, and helped in his appointment as chaplain of Santa Margherita.
Now, Cosimo and his son, Giovanni, wanted results. They wanted what Fra Filippo had promised: a glorious and newly imagined composition of the Madonna worshiping her babe in nature, in the forest, as no one had ever painted Mother and Child before. The idea was there, the sketches made. But the fulfillment of this vision required inspiration, and a work for the king of Naples demanded unsurpassed majesty to secure the future of Florence.
Fra Filippo felt his stomach churn, and wished for a soothing infusion from the herb garden of Santa Margherita. Shaken, he turned his face toward the window and caught a view of the small panel with the Madonna’s face, her blue eyes.
“Lucrezia,” he whispered.
The painter envisioned Lucrezia’s face on the altarpiece. He saw her ivory skin, her golden hair set under a delicate benda. He saw the Virgin kneeling in the woods, sunlight dappling the ground where the Child lay.
The picture came alive in his head, so that he could almost hear the finches in the trees, smell the citrus and eucalyptus in the thick groves surrounding the virgin Lucrezia. Of course, Lucrezia was the answer to his prayers. If she could grace the central panel of his triptych for the Medici, the painter knew he could complete it with all the glory worthy of a king.
But as Fra Filippo meditated on the scene, it seemed to dissolve into an abyss.
To paint the Virgin in the forest, as he imagined her, Fra Filippo would need to gaze upon Lucrezia’s face in full daylight. He would need her to sit for him as a model sat for a master, in his studio, where his paints and pigments and the heavy wooden panels were at his disposal during the high morning sun. He would need the impossible, for truly this would be not only difficult but improper. Unless he could make a plea to the prioress, and offer her something formidable in return for her consent, a novitiate would never be permitted to visit him here in his bottega.
Prioress Bartolommea de’ Bovacchiesi was having a hard week. The rain wasn’t plentiful, late summer sun was baking the ground, and she feared the convent’s vegetable garden wouldn’t yield a bountiful harvest. She’d received notice from Florence that Prior General Saviano would be spending eight nights in their hostel before and after the Festa della Sacra Cintola, and preparations had to be made. In addition, Sister Simona had broken out in a rash of strange pustules and been replaced in the kitchen by Sister Bernadetta, who had neither the skill nor the patience for turning out perfect rolls or rich black bread.
Dipping her stylus in a pot of ink, the prioress looked out the small window of her study and saw a large white mass moving toward her building.
“Benedicte, Mother,” Fra Filippo said softly as he pushed open the door. “I pray I’m not disturbing you.”
Mother Bartolommea took in the artist at a glance. His jaw had a trace of graying stubble, his corded belt sat crooked above his waist. Although it was midmorning, he looked as if he’d just dressed, and in haste.
“No, Brother Filippo, of course you may enter.”
Unlike the novitiates, the prioress made it a point to meet the gaze of the men who stepped onto the grounds of Santa Margherita.
“Per piacere, do begin,” she said with a hint of impatience.
“Thank you, Madre.” Fra Filippo lowered himself slowly onto a narrow chair, his large frame overflowing the seat. “I’ve come to ask your concordance in a rather unusual request.”
Prioress Bartolommea’s dark eyebrows lifted, her wimple moving slightly with the motion.
“Of course I don’t ask this on my own behalf, but in the name of His Excellency, Cosimo de’ Medici, may the good Lord Jesus Christ bless and honor him.”
The prioress nodded.
“As you are aware, the Medici have entrusted me with the commission for an altarpiece that is intended for King Alfonso of Naples.” Fra Filippo paused so that the significance of these names might be impressed upon the prioress. “The fashion of the day is to work directly from life. It’s said that soon all the best painters will require a model to sit for them. Only with the beauty of God’s children right before our eyes, can one truly capture life.”
Guardedly, Fra Filippo watched the expression on the prioress’s features turn to surprise. He continued.
“In his own painting of the Blessed Virgin, Saint Luke shows her as a young woman with a sweet countenance. So I would have it be for my painting, Prioress. Clearly, if one is already fair of face, the task is that much easier, for the painter need not deviate much from the work of God.”
Anticipating rejection, the painter quickened his speech.
“I humbly ask your permission, therefore, to copy the face of the novitiate Sister Lucrezia. She is young and fair and would be a fitting model for the Madonna. You are aware, of course, that my work must be done in my bottega, where I have my paints and tools at my disposal. It’s the same for all the great masters who’ve paved the way before me. I believe it would please Cosimo—”
“What?” The prioress’s eyes widened.
“I beg your indulgence, Mother. I wish only to create the most powerful work for the glory of Florence. With a model before me, my work would surely go quickly. My workshop—”
“Per l’amore di Dio!” Prioress Bartolomeo sputtered. “Would you have me violate the sacred rules of the claustrum, the very rules of modesty and sanctity laid down by Saint Augustine himself?”
The prioress’s voice grew louder. “Fra Filippo
, here at Santa Margherita we do not answer to Cosimo de’ Medici, or to the King of Naples. We have only one master, Jesus Christ, Lord and King. I’ll not have love of earthly riches destroy the good name of this convent!”
Fra Filippo pressed on. He’d seen her ire many times before, and the stout woman didn’t intimidate him.
“I’ve clearly upset you, but in God’s name, please believe I hope only to bring a greater glory upon Prato and upon this convent, of which I am a humble servant,” he said. “I may be able to offer you a substantial repayment, and as with the prayers and words I recite here, my aim is to glorify God through my painting. Perhaps I have been misunderstood.”
“It seems you are often misunderstood, Fra Filippo.” The prioress spoke so quickly, she barely registered the monk’s mention of substantial payment. “As in the courts of Bishop Antonino.”
At her stinging remark, Fra Filippo rose from the chair. Immediately, the prioress became acutely aware of his imposing size and recalled the force of his anger.
“I’ve spoken out of turn, Chaplain. I apologize.” She resisted the urge to speak hastily. “My worry over your request has loosened my tongue. Today, in these wretched times, a novitiate can ill afford any stain connected to her name.”
“You needn’t worry, Madre,” Fra Filippo responded stiffly. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
Reaching the grand palazzo of Ottavio de’ Valenti, where Ser Francesco Cantansanti was staying, the painter stopped to catch his breath. The building’s beautiful orange and blue tiles glowed in the dusky light and Fra Filippo admired their rich glaze as he lifted the brass knocker and waited for a servant to open the door.
“You’ve come with good news, my friend?” The merchant wore a costly black tunic trimmed in silk, and his arms were outstretched as he strode down the grand staircase.
“Si, si, your painting is completed,” the monk said assuredly. “The final touches of cinabrese are drying now.”
“Fabulous, maestro.” The thick-haired merchant clasped a bejeweled hand over the painter’s own. “I know my wife’s spirits will be lifted when she sees your exquisite work. Please, I was just about to take my midday meal. Won’t you join us?”
Fra Filippo was gratified to see Ser Francesco Cantansanti at the table in de’ Valenti’s inner courtyard, surrounded by potted lemon trees, flowers, and a bubbling fountain. The monk greeted Ser Francesco with the necessary bows, which the emissary accepted with an arched eyebrow.
“Only a day has passed,” Ser Francesco said. “Surely you haven’t finished the altarpiece already?”
“No, but I’ve found my inspiration, Your Emissary,” the monk said. “You will have a masterpiece fit for a king.”
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.”
Sister 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.
The Miracles of Prato Page 6
