The Miracles of Prato

by Laurie Albanese

  Prioress Bartolommea didn’t think it prudent or necessary to tell the women that Prior General Saviano had forbidden her to grant special visiting privileges to the novitiates. Nor did she see reason to deny de’ Valenti’s generous request. The prior general would soon be gone, and if he noticed Lucrezia’s absence and inquired about it, the prioress knew what she would do: she would simply show him the gold, and smile. Four florins were worth a great deal; even the prior general would not be able to deny it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Feast of the Sacred Belt and the Nativity of Mary, the Year of Our Lord 1456

  Filing into the church for Lauds on the morning of the Festa della Sacra Cintola, the nuns whispered feverishly about the birth at the Valenti household, and the strange tension that had invaded their private world.

  “I heard Lucrezia weeping all night, and the prioress was up well before dawn,” Sister Maria said.

  “Maybe Prioress Bartolommea is displeased with Lucrezia,” said Sister Piera, who immediately made the sign of the cross to protect against the sin of jealousy.

  “The novitiate is proud of her beauty,” surmised Sister Maria, who blushed at her bold statement. “You know Sister Pureza and Prioress Bartolommea do not approve of pride or vanity.”

  “I wish I knew what made Sister Lucrezia weep,” said Sister Bernadetta softly as she padded behind them. “I’d help her, if I could.”

  Among the troubled and curious souls, only Spinetta and Paolo, the shepherd boy, knew the plans that had been made for Lucrezia. For the promise of bread, and herbs from Sister Pureza’s garden, Paolo had agreed to lead the novitiate to the Valenti palazzo when the time came.

  “But why is it a secret?” Spinetta whispered to her sister as they filed into the church. “If there’s nothing wrong, why is it a secret that you’re going to help Signora de’ Valenti care for her new baby?”

  Although Lucrezia suspected Sister Pureza had arranged to have her removed from the convent to keep her away from Prior General Saviano, she could only guess at the intentions of the old nun and the prioress. She gave Spinetta a terse shake of her head and then bowed in silent prayer.

  As the nuns filed toward the refectory for a quick breakfast, Lucrezia pulled her sister into the dormitory and pressed her prayer beads into her hands.

  “I’m returning them so you can have their comfort while I’m away,” she said.

  Spinetta took the beads, still warm from the folds of her sister’s robe.

  “Lucrezia, I’m afraid. There’s something you aren’t telling me,” Spinetta said.

  “Don’t be afraid, Spinettina.” Lucrezia’s fingers worried the hem of her panni di gamba until she found the silver medal she’d sewn into its cloth. Using the tip of a fingernail she broke open the loose stitches, slipped the silver medallion into her palm, and held this, too, out for her sister.

  “Until I return, keep my medallion safe,” she said. “I won’t need it at the home of Ottavio de’ Valenti. I have been there, Spinetta, there’s no need to worry. It is a grand palazzo full of people and servants and warm fire.”

  Spinetta searched her sister’s face, but Lucrezia revealed nothing.

  “I’ll return soon,” Lucrezia said recklessly. “If I’m not back within two days, I’ll ask the mistress of the house if you can come to help me.”

  “Yes.” Spinetta brightened, slipping the medallion into the fold of her robe along with the beads. “We had such fun together in Fra Filippo’s workshop. Didn’t we?”

  “Yes, mia cara. I haven’t forgotten anything that happened at the painter’s bottega,” Lucrezia said. As she spoke, she wondered again what the painter had told the prior general, and what had led the angry man to believe she and Fra Filippo had been intimate. At the memory of the accusation, Lucrezia shuddered. “But I do not think we will return there again.”

  The good citizens of Prato awoke on the morning of the Feast of the Holy Belt to find the day bright and the sky clearing. Shopkeepers swept their floors, hearths sparked, kettles warmed, and mothers wove their daughters’ hair with ribbons and told them the story of the Holy Belt of the Virgin Mary.

  “And so the Holy Virgin passed her belt to Thomas as she ascended to Heaven,” Teresa de’ Valenti recounted from her partum bed, the sheets pulled up under her chin, her eyes still sleepy. Her four daughters, Isabella, Olivia, Francesca, and Andreatta, all washed and dressed, sat on the plump bedding listening to the story of the Virgin’s ascension.

  “Her beautiful belt, which had many sacred powers, was kept safe in Jerusalem until it was acquired by the merchant Michael Dagomari of Prato, as part of his wife’s dowry,” Teresa de’ Valenti told her girls. As she spoke, she looked at the face of the Virgin in the portrait that had been moved to her bedside. Her children’s eyes followed hers. “When the good man returned from the Holy Land with his bride, he brought the treasure with him and gave it to our church for safekeeping. For three hundred years the Blessed Girdle of the Virgin Mary has been here, and many important men have entered our great city walls to beg the Virgin for favor and holy intercession.”

  All over Prato, children listened in rapt attention to the story of the Holy Belt, and waited impatiently until the church bells rang and every doorway and window in Prato was flung open and the streets finally flooded with people making their way toward the church square.

  Led by Prioress Bartolommea, the nuns walked through the convent gates and into the streets of Prato.

  “Mother of Heaven, it’s a beautiful day,” Sister Antonia declared, and the others agreed.

  Throngs of early-morning faithful, pressing toward the piazza, stepped aside to let the nuns pass, their habits gently rippling in the soft breeze. Prioress Bartolommea began chanting the Gloria and soon the others joined her.

  As they drew closer to Santo Stefano, the sisters heard trumpets blowing and horses neighing. Some of the nuns grew increasingly delighted, intoxicated by the music and laughter, while others were unnerved by the riot of color and the sound of marching feet and blaring horns; shy Sister Piera even felt a little panicky and wished, for a moment, she was back in the safe terrain of the cloister.

  Patting their robes and straightening their spines, the nuns joined the crowd behind the pieve. With Sister Pureza in the rear, they took their places in pairs along the southern edge of the square, a few feet in front of the handsome Pulpit of the Sacred Girdle, just as the high notes of the trumpet were sounded. The crowd hushed, and the procession began.

  Provost Inghirami and Prior General Saviano sat on sleek black horses draped in gold and green silk, bracketed by young boys carrying Medici flags. Behind them walked a handsome Ottavio de’ Valenti, his dark hair slicked with oil. He was followed by his eldest daughters and two rows of young girls dressed in white gamurre, gold and green ribbons wound through their braids. Young town boys dressed in bright farsetto doublets and silk stockings sounded trumpets, their thick curls blowing softly with each note, and two of the tallest carried a large banner with the image of the nursing Madonna painted in bright colors, followed by a procession of proud mothers—some pregnant and others carrying fat, squawking babies who clapped their hands with delight or cried for their mother’s milk. At the rear of the procession came the members of the Orders—Augustinian, Dominican, Franciscan, and Carmelite—who lined the square, their brown, black, and white robes quivering like quiet notes against the reds, greens, and purples of the citizens’ festive attire.

  As the parade ended, the crowd turned to face the Pulpit of the Sacred Girdle, cheering wildly as Provost Gemignano Inghirami stepped out upon it. He raised his spindly arms and held the green belt above his head and instantly, as if choreographed, the men, women, and children made the sign of the cross and quieted so the provost could speak.

  “Holiest Mother, Queen of Heaven, Divine Virgin, we come here today to honor you and praise your name. Mary, Full of Grace, we bestow our love and adoration upon you. May the divine grace of your Sacra Cint
ola protect us and keep us as we honor you in the name of your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  The people squeezed closer to the pulpit, holding up their arms to be nearer to the sacred relic. Although that would be as close as many got, the sisters of Santa Margherita would be permitted the supreme blessing of touching the belt within the chapel. As best she could, Mother Bartolommea began to shepherd her flock toward the church doorway along with the tumult of many others in monastic tunics and nuns’ robes. So many people swelled toward the entrance that Spinetta grabbed Lucrezia’s hand to be sure she stayed close. Lucrezia squeezed her sister’s fingers and brought them to her lips, then forced them away. As she did, Sister Pureza slid alongside her and said, “This is for the best, my dear. May the Lord watch over you tonight.”

  Then the old nun melted back into line with the others and Paolo appeared at Lucrezia’s side, his thin hand sliding into hers. Wordlessly she left Spinetta and the others and followed the boy as he slipped nimbly through the crowd. At the edge of the square he paused to look up at her, flashing a gap-toothed smile.

  “Sorella,” he said. “You’re very lucky to be going to the fine house of Signor de’ Valenti. You can eat as much as you want there.”

  Lucrezia smiled in spite of herself, and followed Paolo through the narrow streets, moving against the flow of people who filled the small shop doorways and crushed toward the church. She was sorry to be missing the celebration, for it reminded her of festa days at home with her sisters and parents. But she forced herself to keep up with Paolo, who’d let go of her hand and was flying ahead on fleet feet.

  Amid the mad bustling, Fra Filippo at last spotted Lucrezia. She was hurrying away from the pieve, with Paolo leading.

  “Sister Lucrezia, wait,” he called out.

  Lucrezia turned to see the monk moving toward her.

  “Keep going, Paolo,” she said. “Signora de’ Valenti is at home with her child, and they are waiting for me.”

  “Sister Lucrezia,” Fra Filippo’s voice rang out again. “Please stop!”

  Paolo looked up at Lucrezia. His sister was the monk’s kitchen girl, and both children were accustomed to doing as the man instructed.

  But Lucrezia quickened her step. As the monk’s heavy footfalls caught up with hers, she remembered the prior general’s rough grip, his harsh words. She spun around and faced Fra Filippo, her eyes blazing.

  “Keep your distance, Fra Filippo,” she said. “Please, leave me in peace.”

  She gestured for him to stay away, and as she did, the sleeve of her robe flew up, revealing the bruises the prior general had left there.

  “You’ve been hurt!” The monk tried to reach for her, but she snatched her arm away.

  “I beg of you,” he said. “Whatever has happened, you must let me help you.”

  “Help me?” Lucrezia began hurrying past the shop doorways, with Paolo beside her. The monk followed. “You’ve put me in the position of running from the prior general,” she said. “Now I must hide from him. Do you realize what he thinks of me?”

  “Lucrezia.” Fra Filippo leaned over Paolo and reached for her hand again. “For the love of God, will you tell me what is happening?”

  Lucrezia stopped to catch her breath, curling her hands up under her long sleeves. A group of nuns from Sant’Ippolito turned onto the street, heading toward her.

  “I’m going to the home of Ottavio de’ Valenti,” she said. “I’ll stay there to help his wife with their child until—until it’s safe for me to return to the convent.”

  “Until it’s safe?”

  “I believe I will stay until the prior general is gone.”

  Fra Filippo’s ears burned.

  “But Saviano will be at the de’ Valenti home tonight, perhaps for several nights,” he said. “He’s going there for a grand dinner in honor of the merchant’s newborn son.”

  The sounds of the parade filled the streets, and the merriment seemed to draw closer. The nuns approached, chanting softly.

  “If he’s hurt you, you can’t go there,” he said rapidly. He turned to Paolo, who was bouncing on his toes, waiting.

  “Paolo.” The monk took the boy by his thin shoulders. “The plan is changed. You must take Sister Lucrezia to my bottega. Your sister is there, and you must ask her to stay. Tell Rosina I’ll give her an extra silver piece for her trouble. Do you understand?”

  “No.” Lucrezia shook her head. “Prioress Bartolommea sent me to the Valenti palazzo, the signora has asked for me.”

  The painter grew agitated, and seemed to stand taller in her path.

  “I know Prior General Saviano, Sister Lucrezia, and if the nuns think it best to keep you away from him, then you cannot go to the Valenti palazzo until he is gone.”

  “Then I’ll return to the convent,” she said.

  “And if he looks for you there?” Fra Filippo asked.

  Lucrezia didn’t move.

  “Go with Paolo,” Fra Filippo commanded. “I’d accompany you myself, but I’m expected at the pieve and am already late. We will do what we can about the prior general when the festa is over.”

  Lucrezia’s head was spinning. If she went to de’ Valenti’s, the prior general was sure to find her there. Yet if she went back to the convent, the prior general could just as easily return to prey on her again. Santa Margherita was not a refuge for her now.

  “Si. All right, Fra Filippo, yes, I will go, but only until I’ve found a better place.”

  The monk put a reassuring hand on her arm.

  “This is best,” he said. “The prior general will be reprimanded. He will not come near you once I have spoken to my powerful friends.”

  “Please, you’ve done enough,” she said, regaining the strength that had eluded her this morning. “I will stay until it is safe to go to Signora Teresa’s bedside, and with God’s will, no one will know where I have been.”

  “As you wish,” the monk said. He instructed Paolo to take Lucrezia around the long way to his bottega, so she would not have to pass through the crowded piazza again, and bade them haste.

  In their heated exchange, neither the painter nor the novitiate realized the nuns from Sant’Ippolito had clearly seen Fra Filippo—so unmistakable in his large white robes—stop Lucrezia and send her down a different winding street, in the opposite direction of la pieve.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Nones, Feast of the Sacred Belt, the Year of Our Lord 1456

  Lucrezia sat in a sturdy wooden chair next to Fra Filippo’s hearth, watching a girl in a ragged dress stirring the fire. Her arms were thin, but she poured water into an iron kettle effortlessly, raising the heavy pot shoulder height to hang it over the flames.

  “I’m Rosina,” the girl said. Her hair was dark, her face plain and sweet. “I’m Paolo’s sister.”

  The sounds of the festa reverberated outside, but all was quiet in the painter’s studio.

  “Why aren’t you at the festa?” Lucrezia asked.

  “I come every morning to help Brother Filippo in the kitchen,” Rosina said. Dark eyelashes grazed the top of her cheeks. “I’ll go to the pieve when my work here is done.”

  The girl looked at Lucrezia’s robe and wimple.

  “Soon I’ll be of age,” she added. “Then I will enter the Convent Santa Margherita.”

  Rosina handed Lucrezia a heavy mug. As she drank the sweet wine, the novitiate felt fatigue settle into her body. She hadn’t slept all night. It wouldn’t hurt to rest, she thought as she set the cup on the floor and closed her eyes. She was safe here. Surely she’d feel better if she prayed for guidance and surrendered to the sleep that is the Lord’s best medicine.

  Lucrezia woke on soft bedding. The room was dark and silent and for a few confused seconds she thought she was home in Florence, in the walnut bed that she’d shared with Spinetta.

  “Is anyone here?” she called out.

  She lifted the blanket and sat up. Someone had removed her boots and stockings. Vaguely sh
e remembered Rosina’s small, strong hands. Lucrezia rubbed her eyes until they adjusted to the darkness, and looked around at a small bedroom of rough-hewn beams and uneven walls. The ceiling was made of a thatched straw that could barely be expected to keep out the spring rains. She strained to listen, but the bottega and streets beyond seemed quiet.

  “Is anyone here?”

  She was still wearing her robe, and her wimple was tangled. As she removed the head covering Lucrezia looked around the bedroom, peering through the darkness at the outline of the large wooden bed, a simple chest, and a small washbasin. Above the basin she could make out the thick lines of a cross. She wondered if the monk had returned from the festa, and if Rosina was still in the kitchen. But before she could rouse herself, Lucrezia fell back onto the bed. She was as far from the prior general as she could be, in the protection of Fra Filippo, chaplain of her convent.

  Tiptoeing into the kitchen the following day, Lucrezia was grateful to see Rosina in a clean blue dress covered by a pale linen apron.

  “Buongiorno.” Rosina held a large wooden spoon, and her apron pockets were brimming with rags.

  Taking a piece of bread from the girl, Lucrezia lifted the curtain that led to the monk’s studio and peeked into the workshop. Morning light filled the bottega and the monk turned from his easel, paintbrush in hand.

  “You’ve slept a long time, Sister Lucrezia,” Fra Filippo said, his face brightening at the sight of her.

  “I must leave here,” she exclaimed. “I must at least present myself at the Valenti palazzo, where I’m expected.”

  “Don’t worry.” Fra Filippo held a hand under his dripping paintbrush. “They’ve received word that you are detained.”

  “But what reason did you give?”

  “The note said you aren’t feeling well.” The painter took in the tight lines of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Which seems to be true.”