The Miracles of Prato

by Laurie Albanese

  “There’s no need to thank me, Sister, truly,” Mother Bartolommea said, lowering her eyes and achieving what she felt was the proper tone of modesty, at last.

  Chapter Seven

  Tuesday of the Eleventh Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

  A uniformed Medici messenger entered the convent courtyard on Tuesday as the sisters were finishing Sext prayers. Prioress Bartolommea quickly closed her prayer book and rushed outside. The messenger bowed, his silver sword glinting in the sun.

  “Good afternoon, Prioress. I have been sent on the orders of Ser Francesco Cantansanti, emissary to the great Cosimo de’ Medici.”

  “Yes,” the prioress responded somberly. “We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

  Feeling the stable boy’s gaze, Mother Bartolommea turned and gave him a sharp look. He quickly resumed brushing a horse’s tail.

  “Perhaps you have something to deliver to me?” she asked with extreme delicacy.

  The messenger withdrew a velvet pouch from his pocket, and handed it to her.

  “I beg your patience while the sisters ready themselves for the journey,” she said, slipping the pouch under her sleeve before turning to signal Sister Pureza.

  At the sign from her superior, Sister Pureza helped the novitiates make their final preparations for the day outside the convent wall. Leading Lucrezia and Spinetta to the vestry, she gave each a coarse black mantello with a hood that covered their heads. Into Lucrezia’s hands Sister Pureza thrust a worn breviary and a copy of the Rule of the Order, written in plain black script. Spinetta received a roll of blank parchment, upon which she would copy the Rule with ink from the stores in Fra Filippo’s bottega.

  “You must always be on guard when you are outside our walls,” Sister Pureza said sternly to Lucrezia. She had expressed her objection to the outing, but had been unable to stop it. “Honor is our duty above all else. If you have a face the painter wishes to copy, then that face has come from God and should be used only to glorify God. Vanity is a great weakness, Sister Lucrezia. It’s the devil’s mask. Do not take it up.”

  As Prioress Bartolommea watched the stooped nun approaching the messenger, framed on either side by the willowy Buti sisters, she tried not to think she had made a terrible compromise. The Sacra Cintola was in her possession now, and this more than made up for the sacrifice of the convent. Soon a new altarpiece with her distinct profile would grace the main chapel of the Church of Santa Margherita and, hopefully, the metal chest in which she kept coins of silver and gold would again feel heavy in her hand. Surely the Holy Belt had the power to do this much.

  As they stepped outside the convent gates, Lucrezia felt a breeze from the Bisenzio River. Her boots hit the rough cobbled stones and she nearly laughed at the familiar sound of tapping heels. She took a great gulp of air and lifted her chin. Above the city walls she saw the lush hills of Tuscany.

  The messenger walked two paces in front of them, leading the way. Spinetta put her arm through Lucrezia’s. Below her hood, Spinetta’s eyes were bright, too.

  “How good it feels!” Lucrezia whispered.

  The sun beat down on their dark cloaks, but the heat didn’t dampen the sisters’ spirits.

  “How strange that I should be chaperoning you,” Spinetta said, thinking of the many years her older sisters had kept watch over her. “But I am so very glad of it!”

  Lucrezia smiled at Spinetta, whose piety had become quite weighty these past weeks.

  “Thank goodness I wasn’t sent with dour Sister Camilla,” Lucrezia said, and the two burst into laughter.

  “Did you see her this morning?” Spinetta asked. “When Mother Bartolommea said Sister Camilla had to stay and help in the kitchen because Sister Simona and Sister Bernadetta both have the rash now, I thought she would burst.”

  “She would have been such a terrible bore to have along. I’m so happy that it’s you, instead.”

  Walking slowly along Via Santa Margarita, the novitiates looked shyly at the women passing in workday clothes. One was bent under the weight of two heavy water buckets, another hurried by with a hog’s head wrapped in brown paper held between her heavy arms.

  “Look, it’s Paolo, the boy who tends our goats,” Lucrezia said, pointing to a young ragazzo who smiled when he saw them.

  “Paolo, buongiorno, garzone,” she called. The boy’s feet were bare. With only a moment’s hesitation, Lucrezia tossed him the parcel of thick rye bread and nuts that Sister Maria had wrapped in a cloth for their midday lunch.

  A low moan came from a dark doorway on the right, and the sisters turned to see a ragged woman, one arm in a sling, the other held out for alms. The sisters paused, and their faces clouded.

  “Venite, Sorelle,” the messenger said, gently prodding them.

  The sisters quickened their step, but their mood had grown somber.

  “The prioress said I’m to sit for the chaplain in service to all of Florence,” Lucrezia said in a low voice, bending her head toward her sister’s. “But she was very careful in warning me not to let him draw too near, even in the course of his work.”

  “I’ve heard the prioress and Sister Camilla speak of the painter,” Spinetta said carefully. “They say he’s had much trouble with the Bishop of Florence, and that he’s been known to consort with women of an indelicate nature.”

  Lucrezia hesitated, thinking of the power she felt in the monk’s presence.

  “But he is greatly admired,” she said. “Perhaps the prioress is jealous because the chaplain lives outside of the cloister, where he has the attention and patronage of the great Cosimo de’ Medici.”

  “Maybe,” Spinetta agreed. She knew the prioress did worry about the convent’s finances, and attached great importance to the alms that came to them as a result of the painter’s position there. She told her sister so.

  “And you?” Lucrezia didn’t look at her sister directly. “What do you think of our chaplain?”

  “I think he’s fine,” she pronounced. “When he comes through the front gates, it seems a breath of life is coming into Santa Margherita.”

  “Yes,” Lucrezia said. “To create such beauty as Brother Filippo does must please the Lord, right, Spinetta?” She held her breath. “And it’s honorable for me to help the painter if I can, isn’t it?”

  “You’re only doing what’s asked of you,” Spinetta answered.

  They rounded the corner and the tall bell tower, the prized campanile of the Church of Santo Stefano, came into view. Horses trotted briskly toward the piazza, merchant carts rumbled, and women called out to their children. Under Lucrezia’s placid exterior, she felt a great excitement. In truth, she couldn’t wait to see the monk.

  “Look there.” Spinetta pointed to the green and white bell tower visible over the rooftops. “That must be the pieve, Santo Stefano.”

  Only steps away from the Piazza della Pieve, the messenger turned up a small walkway that led to a simple stucco building with a thatched roof.

  “We’re here,” Lucrezia whispered. She saw the monk peering over the edge of a tall window. He spotted the sisters, smiled, and hurried to the front door as the messenger knocked.

  “Welcome,” Fra Filippo said as the novitiates lowered their heads and their escort bowed. “I hope your walk was pleasant.”

  Lucrezia felt suddenly shy. She wished she were wearing a fine cotta and fazzoletto instead of the glum black robe and white wimple. She was surprised when Spinetta, always so demure, spoke first.

  “Oh, Fra Filippo, we enjoyed our stroll, truly,” Spinetta exclaimed. “The fresh air, the new sights. What a blessed fortune on such a lovely day, praise the Lord!”

  Fra Filippo laughed.

  “I do hope you’ll feel that way after visiting my workshop,” he said. “I’m afraid we must work indoors, and you might find it terribly dull.”

  “Not at all.” Spinetta smiled boldly, her fine white teeth in a neat row. “I’ve been sent with the task of copying the Rule of the Order o
nto a parchment.” She took the book from her sister, and lowered her eyes. “And I am to ask you for a pot of ink.”

  Usually such requests from the prioress vexed him, for he didn’t like to part with his supplies. But on this day, nothing seemed too great to ask.

  “Of course,” Fra Filippo agreed.

  The four stood in awkward silence. From the road came the sounds of wheelbarrows and the clinking metal of horse harnesses hitched to posts along the row of simple shops.

  “Fratello,” said the messenger. “I’ve been instructed to see the blessed sisters safely into your workshop, and will return before Vespers to bring them back to the convent.”

  “Si. Scusi!” The monk blinked as though awakened from a dream. “Please, Sisters.” He motioned for the sisters to step over the threshold. “Please, come inside.”

  The novitiates followed the monk into the small antechamber, where a low wooden desk stood beneath a tiny window.

  “You may sit here, Sister Spinetta, where it’s pleasant,” he said, whisking away a pile of dirty linens he’d collected for the kitchen girl to wash. “The light is quite good here, and will be for many hours.”

  Fra Filippo placed a pot of ink and some freshly washed quills on the table. On the other side of the table he put an earthen jug with water, and a small plate of cheese.

  “I’m sorry it’s not a richer offering,” Fra Filippo said.

  “It’s very thoughtful, Fratello,” Spinetta said.

  Lucrezia stood silently to the side with her cloak still on her shoulders. She felt weak from the heat.

  “Allora!” Fra Filippo said, as if he’d read her mind. “The day grows warmer. Please, take off your cloaks. Then, if it pleases you, I can show you around my workshop.”

  The painter had put away the many sketches of Lucrezia, and turned de’ Valenti’s Madonna and Child to face the wall. The bottega floor was swept, the wooden tabletops wiped clean, and the cobwebs were gone. The monk had hung a curtain around one corner of the room to hide a small pile of clutter.

  “Of course I’m in the midst of many projects,” Fra Filippo said. “The frescoes at Santo Stefano are only partially completed, and I’ve much to do on them still.”

  Fra Filippo fell into the familiar language of his artistry, and his confidence returned. He’d been a master of his craft for many years, and was comfortable in his studio no matter who might be his guest.

  “Here are the sketches for the life of Saint Stephen, which will be on the north wall of the chapel.” He showed them the carefully measured birthing chamber where the saint’s mother would lie under a fine velvet blanket, and the synagogue steps where the saint would be confronted by angry rabbis.

  Seeing the hidden staircases and complex architecture in his designs, Lucrezia spoke for the first time since their arrival.

  “It looks very difficult, Fra Filippo,” she said. “So many lines and walls, rooms inside of rooms.”

  “Ah, yes.” The monk was pleased that she perceived, so quickly, what was important to his work. For a generation, painters had understood perspective thanks to the works of Brunelleschi and Alberti, but Fra Filippo strove to go beyond what had already been achieved. He pointed to the place where the fresco would turn the corner in the chapel. “See, here, the figures will appear as if they’re stepping out of the painting and into the room.”

  Fra Filippo’s enthusiasm for his work was contagious. As the sisters grew comfortable, Lucrezia felt her body begin to relax.

  “It’s necessary to secure many commissions at once, for I must keep all of my patrons happy or they’ll find other painters to do their work. But of course, the altarpiece commissioned by the Medici takes precedence above all others. Their emissary has graciously arranged for your visit here so I might paint your likeness in full daylight.”

  He dared to glance at Lucrezia but her eyes were taking in the crowded workroom.

  Against the walls were assorted panels of various sizes, some covered in a thin layer of gesso, others close to finished. Along the northern wall, shelves held numerous glasses and ampoules filled with substances that reminded Lucrezia of the apothecary shops she’d visited in Florence. Chunks of purple hematite and clumps of malachite lay out in the open air on parchment, ready to be ground and mixed for pigment. An assortment of brushes, knives, and other pointed objects lay scattered on the table. Lucrezia recognized paint colors that matched the numerous splotches she had seen on the painter’s hands during the week. To cover the stale smell, Fra Filippo had placed clusters of lavender and lemon balm throughout, which lent their fragrant notes to the room.

  “Brother Filippo, it’s delightful!” Lucrezia exclaimed, forgetting her shyness. “How hard it must be to leave each morning.”

  “Indeed, we’re lucky to have you at Santa Margherita,” Spinetta hurried to add.

  “The good fortune is mine, Sisters.” As Fra Filippo answered, he saw a slant of light fall across Lucrezia’s face. “Look at the sun,” he said. “We must begin as soon as we can.”

  The monk settled Spinetta at the small table in the antechamber, and Lucrezia stepped in front of the large window that faced the busy piazza.

  As he came back into the room, Fra Filippo saw her tuck away an invisible wisp of hair. He felt alive in every muscle, intoxicated by the golden light that filled the room and created dapples of color on Lucrezia’s robe.

  “Sister Lucrezia,” he said gently. “I am indeed blessed to have you here, when I am in need of something truly magnificent and beautiful for my patron.”

  “I’m glad to be of service.” Lucrezia’s words were stiff, her voice a whisper. She couldn’t lift her eyes to the monk’s. “And ready to begin.”

  The monk picked up a silverpoint and arranged a fresh sheet of parchment on his drawing table. He found the stylus, and checked its measure. He took his time in these tasks. The girl’s face, framed in the white wimple, was pale.

  “We’ll follow the light,” he said. “You’ll sit here, and I, here.” The monk motioned to a three-legged stool for himself, a straight-backed chair with a generous straw seat for her, in front of the window. Lucrezia stood where she was.

  “Fra Filippo, I’ve often wondered—” she began.

  Perhaps it was nerves that spurred Lucrezia to speak. Perhaps she wished the monk to dispel the disquieting rumors her sister had shared only a short while ago. Perhaps she simply wanted to hear Fra Filippo’s soothing voice.

  “I’ve often wondered about the mixing of paint, and what some call alchemy,” she said.

  The monk’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I’m sure it’s not much different than what’s done to mix the colors for silk,” he replied with a small shake of his head.

  “Forgive me, but at home I heard people—learned, pious people—speak against painters who mix strange substances to make their colors,” she said. “It’s said they tempt the devil.”

  “You are so curious,” Fra Lippi said, approval softening his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucrezia answered quickly. Her father had only allowed her to ask questions when she countered them with great modesty. “I don’t mean to question your piety. I only want to know what you think of this practice, and if it’s one you use.”

  “I do mix my colors in the new ways of the masters among us,” he said, pleased to share his knowledge with her. “But God—not Satan—has passed this secret knowledge to us, so we might make His world more beautiful. Many great works that grace our churches have the most brilliant colors imaginable thanks to what others foolishly say is the devil’s temptation.”

  Lucrezia could see she’d broached a subject that interested the painter. The warm, open quality of his features, even the hint of sadness in his eyes, made her feel peculiar.

  “Yes, in some ways it is like the colors mixed in the tintori’s vats, certainly I should have known that. My apologies again, Brother.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s better, I think, if I s
how you how this is done. It’s not black magic at all, but simply the mixing of earthly materials provided by the Lord.” Fra Filippo removed an assortment of jars and containers from the shelves. Holding an amber flask, he opened the cork.

  “Smell this carefully.”

  She did, and her eyes filled with tears, her nose burned.

  “Ammonia.” The monk corked the flask and put it down. Next, he opened a clay canister that held a small bit of ground yellow substance.

  “Careful,” he said as he extended the canister toward Lucrezia. “This is worse than the first.”

  Gingerly, Lucrezia closed her eyes and used a hand to waft the odor toward her nose.

  “It’s vile!” Lucrezia cried, clapping a hand over her face. Her gesture delighted the monk.

  “It’s sulfur,” he said. “Now, we put these two nasty substances together.” He took a tiny dab of each and put them in a clean jar. “We add quicksilver. And then, a bit of tin.” Fra Filippo added a few drops of thick liquid. “We stir them, then add the power of fire.”

  The frate lit a fat candle and held the jar over the flame until the substances began to melt. After a minute he removed the jar from the heat and swirled it. A beautiful, glowing yellow appeared. He held out the jar for Lucrezia to see.

  “And this is not a sin?” Beneath the simplicity of her question, Lucrezia knew she was asking about more than alchemy.

  “No. This is beauty. And beauty isn’t a sin.” Fra Filippo’s eyes were warm. “This is mosaic gold. And it will be the color of your crown.”

  “Not mine.” Lucrezia averted her eyes quickly. “The Virgin’s.”

  There was a step behind them, and the two turned to see Spinetta in the doorway.

  “It’s beautiful, Brother,” she said, approaching the table and looking at the gold in the jar. “But isn’t it only God who can change the nature of things?”

  Lucrezia stepped back, putting distance between herself and the monk. She was shocked at her sister’s forthrightness, but the monk seemed to notice nothing unusual. He answered pleasantly, although there was none of the intimacy Lucrezia felt when he spoke to her.