“You told them I’m here?” She took a step backward, and realized her head was bare.
“The note was sent by our friend Fra Piero, the procurator,” the monk hurried to explain. “It doesn’t say where you are, only that you won’t be arriving for at least another night.”
“Then the procurator knows I’m here?” Lucrezia looked behind her, through the curtain that separated the bottega from the kitchen. She could see Rosina stoking the fire. She reached a hand up and grabbed the length of her hair, nervously twisting it into a knot. “I asked you to speak of this to no one.”
“Fra Piero is a trusted friend, mia cara, and he agrees we must protect you from the prior general. When Saviano leaves the Valenti home, of course you will go there.”
Lucrezia looked away, wrapping the knot of her hair more tightly.
“The prior general misunderstood,” the monk began. He faulted himself for allowing Saviano to bully his way into the bottega and then leave with wrongful assumptions. “He saw the painting of the Adoring Madonna, and the robes you wore while I worked, and he misunderstood.”
“I’m ashamed.” Lucrezia dropped her voice. “He thinks I’ve given away my purity. Please, Fratello, you have to tell him it’s not so.”
“I told him quite insistently, Sister Lucrezia. But he’s not a man who listens to reason.” From where he stood, Fra Filippo could see the vellum on which he’d drawn her face, the studies he’d made for her likeness on the Medici panel. His pen, he saw, did her justice. “In time, the work which you’ve helped me create will be finished, God willing. When the altarpiece is received and praised in Naples, the prior general will understand his error.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, you’re under the protection of the procurator. A note signed by him gives full sway over any instruction you have from the prioress.”
“It isn’t proper,” Lucrezia insisted quietly. “You know I can’t be here alone with you.”
Fra Filippo’s face darkened.
“Of course I’ve taken this into consideration,” he said. “Rosina will stay until Spinetta can come. It’s only for a day or two, until the prior general is gone.”
“Under what claim will you send for my sister?”
“The procurator has already sent for her. He wrote to Prioress Bartolommea, asking that Spinetta be permitted to join you at the de’ Valenti palazzo. But of course he will see that she is brought here, where the two of you will stay under my protection. I’m the chaplain of the convent, and there’s room enough in my small home for us to keep separate quarters. Everything is completely proper.”
“So much deception,” Lucrezia said. “It’s sinful.”
“The first sin comes from the prior general,” the painter said. “When he’s gone, you will carry on with your business, and none will be the wiser. What else can you do, Sister Lucrezia, given his reprehensible behavior? Here, no one will know where you are, and you will be safe.”
Lucrezia gave a small nod. It seemed the monk knew what must be done, and had taken charge of everything.
“As long as Spinetta is coming soon,” she said. “As long as I’m not here alone with you, Fra Filippo.”
The monk nodded brusquely. Above all, he wanted Lucrezia to know he would protect her honor. He moved to the panel with the figure of the kneeling Madonna, and pretended to study it.
“I’ll need to work while you’re here, of course.” From the corner of his eye he saw Lucrezia’s gaze roaming the studio, her hands pulling at her knotted hair. “Please, Sister Lucrezia, cover your head and you’ll feel more comfortable.”
Alone in the bedchamber, Lucrezia used the painter’s basin to rinse her face. Checking the door, she removed her robe and stood in the silken panni di gamba, washing quickly with a rag and remembering how kind Sister Pureza had been to let her keep the undergarments. Slipping her robe back on, she combed her hair with her fingers, and wound it back under her wimple, securing it carefully. Her boots were not in the chamber, and so she went back into the kitchen, bare feet padding against the straw scattered across the floor.
“Sorella, I’ve just cleaned your boots, let me get them for you,” Rosina exclaimed. She ducked through the door of the kitchen and returned with the boots. When Lucrezia returned to the bottega her wimple was in place, all of her lovely yellow hair tucked away, and the painter was at his table looking at a small sketch. He spoke without looking up at her.
“Do you know the story of Saint Stephen’s life?” he asked. “It was fraught with suffering and doubt, but it was a colorful life, and an exciting one.”
The painter pointed to his sketch as he described the scenes he was re-creating in the chapel frescoes.
“There’s the stoning of the saint,” he said, indicating the group of men with their arms in the air, the cowering figure of the saint in a corner of the sketch. “And there’s his funeral, with his disciples kneeling by his corpse.”
Lucrezia had shown great interest in his work, and a fine understanding of art and beauty. As long as she was here, Fra Filippo wanted to share his knowledge with her.
“When I paint the funeral I have to think of all the sad things I’ve known in my life,” he explained. “I have to pour every sorrow and every moment of lost faith into the piece. It’s the only way to show the humanity of the saint’s life.”
The novitiate turned to him, her face registering surprise.
“When have you lost faith, Brother Filippo?”
“There are dark moments in every life, Sister Lucrezia. You’re still young, but in time you’ll understand.”
“I’m not as young as you might believe,” she said. “Since losing my father, I’ve aged a great deal. At least, that’s how I feel.”
She made a gesture with her arm, and the sleeve of her robe lifted to reveal the bruises. The monk put a hand out as if to touch her, but she pulled away.
“Tell me about the life of Saint Stephen,” she said quickly. “Please.”
Fra Filippo cleared his throat and found the voice that he used during worship, speaking in a tone that was both warm and commanding.
“He was the first martyr,” the monk said quietly. “But after his death he saw the Father and the Son. That was his reward for suffering in good faith.”
He brought Saint Stephen’s life into clear relief, culling facts and stories from his many hours of study. He recounted the saint’s trial for blasphemy, his public stoning, the scene of his magnificent funeral. When he’d clarified for himself the images that he wanted to capture, Fra Filippo shuffled through his parchments and spread the largest one across his oak table. He anchored it in place and silently, almost with his eyes closed, sketched the general outlines of the scenes and indicated in his rough handwriting what he would place within each frame.
Lucrezia sat on a stool and watched his fluid movements, the way he fell into the dream of his work and seemed to forget everything: the sounds of activity in the piazza beyond the curtained window, even her very presence in the studio. Her father had been the same, capable of submerging himself in a book of figures, or drawings and colors, emerging hours later as if he had been in a distant place that was closed to her. But in the bottega, she didn’t feel far from the painter. Somehow she felt she understood what he was doing as his hand flew across the parchment, making deft strokes and scribbling notes on the margins.
With a few final marks he’d completed two new figures, their heads perfect ovals, their robes flowing in sinuous arabesques. Then Fra Filippo stood, propping the large parchment against the wall, and stepped away to study what he’d done.
“Bene,” he noted with satisfaction. He drank from the ceramic jug and held the wine out to her. She shook her head.
“I remember, in the confessional, how you gave me permission to seek beauty,” Lucrezia said, forcing out the words she’d been rehearsing in her head. “I can’t tell you how that lightened my heart. I’m very grateful to you, Fratello.”
> The monk smiled and they looked at each other until Lucrezia turned away.
“And of course, I am most grateful for your protection,” she said.
In the de’ Valenti palazzo, Prior General Saviano woke from a long night of celebratory eating and drinking and joined Ottavio in his dining chamber. They took a leisurely meal together, and the prior general asked the merchant about his position concerning the politics in Rome, the illness that was reportedly consuming Pope Callistus III, and whom he supported as the next pope.
“I favor the Archbishop of Rouen,” said Saviano. “I do not believe the Medici should control all of Florence and the seat of Rome as well.”
“But think of Piccolomini’s diplomatic skills,” argued de’ Valenti. “Certainly the Bishop of Siena will do more for us than d’Estouteville can, coming from Rouen.”
Prior General Saviano frowned and de’ Valenti, ever the gracious host, offered his guest more wine, and then changed the subject.
“I pray, Your Grace, you might visit my son in his chambers,” the merchant said. “A final blessing, before you return to Florence?”
Agreeing, Prior General Saviano followed his host through the piano nobile, up the main stairway graced with tapestries and frescoes depicting scenes from the Old Testament. Ottavio greeted his wife’s many attendants with a gracious air of indulgence, and they parted to let him pass. At the entrance to her birthing chamber, the merchant paused in front of the portrait he had commissioned for his wife, and gestured to Fra Filippo’s painting. But it was unnecessary. The Virgin’s face had already caught the prior general’s eye.
“Ottavio, can you explain this?” Saviano asked in a low rumble. “This is the novitiate from the convent.”
De’ Valenti nodded, and rested his hands on his full belly.
“I’ve only seen the novitiate once, Your Grace, but I can tell you the picture barely does her beauty justice.” Ottavio clapped a silk-covered arm around the shoulder of his guest. “Teresa claims the painting has holy powers. She believes it is the girl herself who kept her alive on the night my son was born. Everyone in my house is calling this piece our Miraculous Madonna.”
De’ Valenti pushed his berretto up on his head and scratched at his temple.
“My wife has given me four daughters and three heirs, but the devil took each of my sons before his first earthly breath. Only this one survives, and if my wife believes there was a miracle in her birthing chamber, who am I to deny it?”
Making his way into his wife’s private apartment, Ottavio de’ Valenti found Teresa propped on many plush pillows. He kissed her cheek, and she greeted him fondly.
“Ottavio, didn’t you send for the novitiate?” she asked. “I thought she was to arrive last night.”
“I wrote immediately to the prioress.” The merchant knelt at his wife’s bedside and took her hands in his own. “This morning we received word that she is delayed. But it’s only for a day or two. Then she’ll be here with you.”
Behind him, Prior General Saviano screwed up his face. He’d expressly said the girl was not to leave the convent.
“The novitiate? The Virgin of the painting is to come here?”
Teresa de’ Valenti smiled and nodded.
“My husband is good to me. He’s good to all of us. The Lord has given us many blessings, and now we have our own Miraculous Madonna. It is a blessed omen that she is here among us, don’t you agree, Prior General Saviano?”
Please, Fra Filippo, don’t let me keep you from your work,” Lucrezia said after their moment had passed. “I’m content to sit and watch, especially if you have something to keep my hands busy.”
Fra Filippo’s eyes fell upon the lavender he’d taken from the convent garden two weeks earlier. The flowers had dried, and could be ground to make fragrant oil.
Gathering the herbs and a wooden bowl and pestle, the monk settled Lucrezia at his table, where she nimbly separated the kernels as he talked about his plans for the frescoes.
“There’s also the life of Saint John the Baptist, who is the patron saint of the wool guild in Prato,” he said. “I’ll show his birth, his parting from his parents, and the banquet when his head is brought to King Herod on a platter. Many church patrons have paid to have their likenesses among the faces at Herod’s banquet. It’s said that when a patron is depicted in a painting that serves God’s glory, it takes him one step closer to heaven’s gate.”
His voice trailed off, and Fra Filippo turned to his fresh parchment, imagining where he might place the faces and bodies of the banquet revelers. As she sifted through the lavender, the colorful grains falling easily from the stems, Lucrezia wondered if her likeness as the Virgin Mary also brought her closer to heaven’s gate.
“Do the paintings act as an absolution?” she asked softly. “Is that why the patrons are brought closer to heaven when they’re depicted in your work?”
Absently, the monk answered.
“Si, si. A man may pay the church for forgiveness of a sin already committed, or become a patron and earn leniency for future transgressions. At least”—he glanced sideways at her—“at least, that’s what they say in Rome.”
Lucrezia thought about his reply, and wondered if Fra Filippo might agree to paint Spinetta’s face in one of his fresco scenes. Spinetta wasn’t a sinner, but it couldn’t hurt to have extra assurance of God’s good favor.
“It is past Sext,” Fra Filippo said after a time. “You must be hungry.”
The two had a light meal of bread and cheese in the kitchen. Rosina poured them each a cup of watery wine, and tidied up the hearth as they ate in strained silence.
“If there’s nothing else, Fratello, my mother needs me at home,” Rosina said after she’d wiped their small plates.
Lucrezia looked up in alarm.
“Of course.” Fra Filippo stood and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “And I must go to the chapel to check on the progress there.” He reminded Rosina to be sure her brother had gone to the convent and delivered the procurator’s message.
“Yes, Fra Filippo,” the girl replied, “my brother has done as you asked.”
“Si, he’s a good boy.” The painter removed a silver coin from a jar on the shelf, and slipped it into her hand. “Bring your mother something from the market.”
“Molte grazie.” The girl pressed her cheek against his hand, bowed to Lucrezia, and slipped out the door.
It was still early afternoon. Standing in the doorway to the antechamber, Fra Filippo turned to Lucrezia.
“I’ll work in the chapel until the light fades,” he said stiffly. “Please pass the time as you like, and I won’t bother you again until dusk. By then I trust Spinetta will have arrived.”
After he’d gone, Lucrezia moved restlessly around the studio. She lifted a sheet and saw a darkly painted pietà, the face of the Virgin taut and gray. Lifting another cloth draped over a large panel, she found a kind-faced friar with a halo above his head. When she couldn’t make out his identity, she dropped the sheet and picked up a pile of parchments. She turned them over and found her own likeness looking back at her. It was her face, her cheeks, her eyes. Yet by the monk’s hand she’d become something precious and holy. She’d become the Madonna, the Blessed Mother.
Spinetta had said the likeness was flattering, but Lucrezia wanted to see for herself if this was true. Although she’d worn splendid dresses, and been adorned with delicate bende made by the finest weavers in Florence, here in Prato she’d been told for the first time that she was a beautiful woman. She couldn’t help but wonder what changes showed now, in her face. Her eyes moved quickly across the monk’s cluttered worktable, sure that there would be a reflective surface among his many tools.
The monk wasn’t a tidy man, and his table was piled with many instruments. She reached over a cluster of large vessels and pots toward a glass canister near the wall, and her sleeve caught on a paintbrush, tipping a jar of color. Lucrezia cried out and jerked her arm back. But instead of ste
adying the container she upset another, which tipped into a bowl of paint.
She jumped back, but it was too late. The viscous liquid streaked down her robe from waist to knee, and it smelled of rotten eggs.
Lucrezia grabbed a crumpled rag, but wiping at the verdaccio only smeared it further. She tried water, but it beaded up on the oily surface of the paint. Lemon did the same, and wine vinegar bubbled and turned the green mess into brown and purple the color of an old bruise.
When it was clear the thick paint wasn’t lifting, Lucrezia remembered that Fra Filippo used ammonia to clean his brushes. She bent to the low shelf where she knew he kept the flask, and carefully removed the stopper. The sharp odor burned her eyes. Looking quickly around the workshop, assured that no one passing by could look in and spy her, Lucrezia slipped the robe over her head and stood in her undergarments. She laid the robe onto the floor, where she could be sure nothing else would spill on it, and blotted the black fabric with the foul-smelling ammonia. But instead of lifting the color, it seemed to suck away the pigment. The robe was ruined.
Surveying the sloppy mess she’d made, she thought bitterly of the beautiful dress she’d worn on the day she left her home. Lucrezia replaced the stopper in the flask, returned the ammonia to the shelf, and went into the kitchen, where a bucket of water sat on the floor beside the fireplace. Wearing only her wimple and her panni di gamba, Lucrezia knelt, dipped the rag in the bucket, and dabbed furiously at the green splotches and grayish pools of color where the ammonia had leached the dye from the fabric.
The terrible smell made her dizzy. Sitting back on her heels, she fingered the hem of her silken chemise, where she’d secreted her medallion before giving it to her sister, and wished she had it now. Her eyes were closed when the knock came, three quick taps that she barely heard before the door opened and the wind came in with the imperious figure of Prior General Saviano.
“Brother Painter,” he cried into the bottega, his voice a mockery. “Frate Dipintore, I wonder if you can solve a mystery for me?”
The Miracles of Prato Page 15
