The Miracles of Prato

by Laurie Albanese

  Lucrezia pushed her slight figure into the small space behind the kitchen doorway.

  “Is anyone here?” The prior general’s voice brayed in unison with his horse, which neighed at the post outside the doorway.

  He clomped through the bottega, treading across the splattered green paint. He would tell the painter that he was forbidden to paint Sister Lucrezia’s likeness again, and then he would go directly to the convent where he would upbraid the insolent prioress for disobeying his explicit orders that the novitiate not leave the convent.

  “Fra Filippo,” he called in a snarl.

  His temples pulsed and his boots made wet footprints as he entered the kitchen and spotted the crumpled robe, and then the small toes of Lucrezia’s stocking-covered feet. He turned slowly to his left, and Saviano’s heart began to pound when he saw her figure, crouched behind the door. His eyes climbed up the coil of Lucrezia’s body, taking in her white silk undergarments, her bare arms. Stepping closer, he put a hand out and touched her wrist. She flinched.

  “Sister Lucrezia!” His lips were tight. He looked right and left, around the small kitchen. “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  Lucrezia didn’t speak. Her eyes burned and brimmed with tears.

  “Where is the monk? Are you alone?” The prior general’s gaze changed from angry to bright as he took in the gravity of their circumstance. “You don’t need to hide, my dear.” He wrapped his long fingers around her arm, and pulled her from behind the doorway. “Come here, let me see what the monk has done to you.”

  “No.” Lucrezia’s lips tried to form words, but no sound came. She lowered her eyes and resisted as the prior general pulled her into the center of the kitchen. Holding her with a strong grip, he reached for her chin with his other hand. Her heart sank, and she trembled. She willed herself to move away, but her feet wouldn’t obey.

  “You know how beautiful you are,” Prior General Saviano said.

  She thought of Daphne, the Greek maiden who’d turned into a tree so Apollo couldn’t have her body, and Lucrezia stood still as a tree as the prior general roughly ran his thumb along her chin and tugged at the brim of her wimple. He pushed it back, then tugged it off, letting a long piece of hair spill out from under her hairnet. He fingered it gently.

  “The devil has made your beauty bewitching,” Saviano said. He held her arm tightly with one hand, and used the other to trace the bone up to her cheek, past her tiny earlobe, down the length of her white neck.

  She could hardly breathe.

  “Bewitching.” His voice was husky. “Beautiful, bewitching Lucrezia. This is how the painter touches you, isn’t it?”

  Lucrezia’s eyes moved toward the doorway. Where was Spinetta?

  “He doesn’t,” she said weakly. “He doesn’t touch me.”

  “You’re lying.” The prior general’s voice was low but harsh, and drops of spittle sprayed her cheek. “But your lies won’t do you any good.”

  Under his robes, the general felt his lust fueled by envy and anger. Why should the painter take liberties of the flesh while he did not? Why should he deny himself when the girl had already compromised her virtue and given the sweetest bit of it to Lippi?

  He clamped her hair firmly, locking her in his grip. Lucrezia felt his cold hand reach up and pull at the silken bloomers, the panni di gamba she’d sewn in her father’s home. The cloth ripped away as if there had been nothing there but cloud and air.

  “Don’t fight me,” he said gruffly, his breath hot on her face. “Give me what you’ve given to the painter.”

  He pushed her backward, lifting her off the ground and pinning her against the kitchen table. Lucrezia could smell onions and cheese on his breath. Her stomach was on fire, her body was numb. His hips pressed against her from the front, the wood table cut into her back. Breathing loudly, he pulled his robes up and fumbled under them, then roughly parted her legs. Lucrezia squeezed her eyes shut as he pressed between her thighs. There was a chafing, a dry heat, and she felt herself tear in two as he thrust harder, deeper. She cried out. Her head snapped back and hit the table, and she bit down on her lip and tasted blood. The prior general grunted loudly, the sound of an animal roared in her ear, and he thrust furiously until he shuddered, and for a moment everything in the room was still.

  Then he reached between them to separate his body from hers, and when his hand came up wet and rusty with the smear of new blood, his eyes widened. He cried out a final time.

  “You were—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  Lucrezia turned away and covered herself with her bare arms. The cleric stood upright and when he didn’t reach for her again, she pushed past him into the monk’s bedroom, slamming the door and falling against it onto the ground, sobbing.

  In the kitchen, the prior general wiped the blood and his seed on the hem of his black robe. He folded himself back into his undergarment, and looked around at the disheveled studio. Without another word, he turned and left.

  Fra Filippo took a last look at the sketches he’d made on the plastered walls in Santo Stefano, brushed the red chalk from his palms as best he could, and said good night to his assistants as dusk fell. Looking behind him at the stained-glass windows of the church, he felt wonderfully happy. It had been a fine day’s work, but all afternoon his mind had been in the bottega with Lucrezia. How lovely it was to have her there, even if only for a day or two. He knew she’d be in nuns’ robes, but when he thought of her, he pictured her wearing the silk dress of morello purple, the benda sewn with small pearls.

  He went out of his way to stop at the baker for two sweet rolls, one each for Lucrezia and Spinetta, before turning for home. As he hurried back across the piazza he saw that his bottega windows were dark. He reprimanded himself for failing to show Lucrezia where to find the candles and lantern, and quickened his pace until his steps crunched on the gravel in the walkway and he pushed the door open, calling her name.

  There was no reply. He fumbled in the darkness, the smell of ammonia and something else burning his throat.

  “Sister Lucrezia?” He felt a sudden alarm at the strange smells, the slick dampness under his feet as he reached for the candle on the worktable and sparked a match.

  The flame flared. He held the candle high to see around the studio.

  “Sister Lucrezia? Sister Spinetta?”

  Wildly, he thought Lucrezia might have run off, leaving behind her nun’s robe and slipping away in the silk costume he kept in his chest. Pausing at the wooden chest, he lifted the lid to see the purple and blue silks folded carefully in their place. A chill went through him. He parted the curtain and stepped into the kitchen, his boot skidding on a lump of black fabric, his eyes and nose pierced by the stink of ammonia and something foul and unfamiliar. He reached down and recognized the cloth as Lucrezia’s convent robe. Next to it, like the soul of its dark shadow, he saw the torn silk undergarment. As he bent to touch it, a sob came from the bedroom.

  “Dear God.” He nearly wept the two words. “Dear God.” Quickly, he pushed against the door and into the room, holding the candle high.

  “Lucrezia!”

  Her immobile form was curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. At the sound of his footfall and his voice, Lucrezia cried out.

  “Go away,” she sobbed, curling into herself. Fra Filippo imagined the worst. The face of a whore in Venice, her cheeks and nose disfigured with angry slashes, came into his mind.

  “What is it?” He fell to his knees at the bedside, put the candle on the floor. “What’s happened? Tell me what happened to you.”

  Her sobs were her only answer. She couldn’t imagine what words she could use to tell him such a terrible thing.

  The monk’s hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t move away. Her body was numb.

  “Please, let me see you. Let me see your face, Lucrezia.” Every bit of love and tenderness the monk had been hiding came out in the way he spoke her name. He didn’t care anymore. In his
heart he prayed, Please, God, let her be all right and I’ll do whatever I must to protect and love her.

  He dared to touch her hair, to lift the wet tangles from her face. She turned her body away, but let him see her hot cheek. It was unmarked.

  “All this, for a ruined robe?” he asked gently.

  “Not a ruined robe,” she managed to choke out. “It’s me. I am ruined. I’m ruined.”

  He pushed her hair from her neck, and saw the angry scratches.

  “What’s this?” His anger rose. “Did you go out? Did something happen in the street?”

  “No.” She rolled her body away from him. “The prior general,” she said, and her weeping took away the rest of her words.

  In an instant, Fra Filippo knew what it was that he smelled in the small chamber, mixed with the sour odor of ammonia and blood. And he knew what had happened.

  “Prior General Saviano did this?”

  Lucrezia’s hands flew to cover her ears.

  “Don’t say his name,” she cried. She began to shiver. “I’m cold,” she whispered. “Very cold.”

  Realizing she was naked beneath his blankets, Fra Filippo reached his strong arms under her small body, wrapped the blankets around her tightly, and lifted her from the bed. She felt herself rise, and for a moment she was terrified that she would fall, fall and never stop. She clung to his shoulders.

  “Let’s get you warm,” he said. Her face was very close to his. He could see everything now, the wound on her bottom lip, the bruise against her left eye, the wet matting of her hair. “Let me take care of you.”

  She closed her eyes. The monk carried her to the kitchen, and gently placed her in the heavy chair next to the hearth. He piled several pieces of kindling and wood onto the smoldering embers, and fanned them until a small flame caught. He did everything without moving more than an arm’s length from her.

  “Where’s my sister?” she asked solemnly. The fire roared at his back, throwing an orange light across her face. “Is she not coming? Have you lied to me?”

  “I promise you, Lucrezia, I haven’t lied to you. I’d never lie to you.”

  Her gaze, filled with such pain and longing, released something inside the painter.

  “I couldn’t lie to you, Lucrezia.” He reached a hand out as if to take her chin in his palm, just as she’d imagined he might. “I love you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I speak the truth, more than any other truth I’ve ever known. I love you. I nearly told you so in the confessional, Lucrezia. I’d rather die than see you suffer, I love you—I’m so sorry I left you here alone.”

  Lucrezia pushed away his hand and put her palm to her mouth.

  “Why are you saying this now, Fra Filippo? Why now that I’m ruined?”

  His blue eyes blazed.

  “You aren’t ruined, Lucrezia. Your purity isn’t lost unless you surrender it willingly.” Drawing on the words of Saint Augustine, he tried to offer her comfort. “Chastity is a virtue of the mind as well as the body. It’s not lost if you don’t yield willingly. Saint Augustine said it in Rome, it’s what the Order teaches.”

  She wanted to believe what he was saying, but she couldn’t.

  “You said it yourself, Fra Filippo. You said it’s my face, you said—” The prior general’s words came back and she covered her face with her hands. “Even he said the devil made me beautiful, that’s what he said.”

  Fra Filippo shook his head.

  “Your beauty is a gift from God,” he said. “God damn the prior general. And damn the Church that’s made of arrogant men like him.”

  “Stop it, stop it,” Lucrezia cried. “Stop saying such things.”

  The monk tried to pull her close but she turned away.

  Fra Filippo found the thick white robe he wore in the coldest winter months and brought it to her. He poured a bowl of water from the cistern and handed her a clean linen cloth.

  “Mia cara, you must wash yourself, please,” he said. “Call to me when you’re finished.”

  Alone by the fire, Lucrezia gingerly touched the moist cloth to the place where she’d been torn. She didn’t look down at her body, but kept her eyes steady on the ground. When she was finished, she pulled on the robe. The monk’s garment fell far below her feet, and she tugged it up in a bulky drape, wrapping his rope belt twice around her waist. She combed out her hair and braided it as she’d done when she was a girl. She was sitting, waiting, when Fra Filippo came back into the room.

  “How can I go back to the convent now?” she asked.

  “Maybe there’s another way,” the monk said quietly. What had happened made no sense. It made no sense that she should be so beautiful, and so sad. It made no sense that he should love her as he did.

  “And what if I’m to have his child?” A fresh sob escaped her throat.

  “You won’t have his child,” Fra Filippo said. “I’ll send for Sister Pureza. She’ll know what to do.”

  “No, you can’t tell anyone,” she cried. “If you do, he’ll speak against me, you know he will. Even powerful friends can’t protect a woman from the lies of a man like him.”

  Fra Filippo had heard the tearful stories of many young women who’d lost their innocence in an act of violence, then lived in silence with the secret for just this reason.

  “You’ll stay here,” the painter said. “You’ll stay with me and I’ll take care of you.”

  “It’s impossible,” she said. “Don’t promise what can’t be.”

  “But it can be, Lucrezia. Nothing is impossible if God wills it.” He took her cold hands and rubbed them between his warm palms.

  “It’s wrong,” she cried.

  Fra Filippo squatted so that they were face-to-face.

  “What was done to you is wrong,” he said. “But not love. Love is never wrong.”

  He looked at her steadily, and she began to weep.

  “Will you pray for me, Fra Filippo?” she asked, falling on her knees. “It’s my fault, Fra Filippo. I don’t know what to do. Please pray for me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday of the Fourteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

  Lucrezia woke to the sound of pots rattling in the next room, and her eyes flew open.

  The devil made your beauty bewitching.

  She was ruined. She could think of nothing else.

  Give me what you’ve given the painter.

  She felt shame in the pain between her legs and in the bruises on her neck. The prior general’s words haunted her, and she could still feel his hands burning on her body.

  Wrapping the heavy robe tightly, she put her crushed wimple over her head and crept to the bedroom doorway. Only the dimmest light was visible through the small kitchen window, and there seemed to be no one stirring in the streets. The monk stood by the hearth with his back to her. He was dressed, and he’d folded away the bedding from his makeshift pallet. She saw he’d washed her panni di gamba and laid it on the hearth to dry. The garment was in shreds.

  “Good morning,” she whispered. Her throat was raw. “Where is my sister? Why isn’t she here?”

  Fra Filippo turned to see her engulfed in his winter robe, her face puffy, her head hastily covered by her wimple. She looked small and lost.

  “Buongiorno,” he said gently. “I don’t know what has detained her, but I trust Sister Spinetta will be here soon. If not, I will ask Fra Piero to fetch her himself.”

  The bruise on her eye was gray and soft green, and there was a spot of dried blood on her lip. She put a hand out and grabbed his arm, feeling the strength beneath his white robe. It was the first time she’d ever reached for him.

  “Please stay with me until she arrives.” She blinked, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. But she asked again. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

  He bent and put his lips to her forehead, resting them for a moment on her cool brow.

  “I’ll stay with you, Lucrezia,” he said.

  “And work,”
she said. “Please, you must work. You must show me something beautiful.”

  He could only get her to swallow a bit of wine and bread before he began to gather the materials he needed for his work. He did everything carefully, moving slowly as the sun rose over the city. He’d stored the triptych panel behind a bench in the corner, where no harm could come to it. Now he put it on the easel and placed the sketch on the table beside him.

  “Come, look,” he said. Lucrezia stood next to him and quietly studied his plans for the Medici’s Adoring Madonna, which would be the center of the three-part altarpiece. Around the kneeling Virgin, Fra Filippo had drawn dense, beautiful woods and a sky brimming with angels and penitent saints. Mary knelt in a clearing before the Child, who rested on her silken veil.

  “The wilderness is a place of meditation and redemption,” the painter said.

  He showed Lucrezia the barren tree that would stand on Mary’s left, the young sapling that would stand on her right.

  “The bare branches evoke death. The young tree reminds us of the fertile womb.”

  As she listened, Lucrezia dimly remembered Sister Pureza telling her which herbs cleansed the womb and robbed it of its contents. Her head was too addled to recall anything clearly.

  “Before the birth of the child, there’s hopelessness. After the child there’s renewal and light,” the monk said quietly. His hand followed the shape of the Madonna’s body where the sunlight would fall on her shoulders. “The Virgin is kneeling in adoration as she welcomes the Savior. She’s kneeling in humility,” he added.

  Both Lucrezia and Fra Filippo thought at the same moment of the way she’d insisted on kneeling when she’d posed for him that first day in his bottega. She’d knelt in humility. And he’d touched her chin.

  “Yes,” Lucrezia said. The place between her legs was raw. She tried to keep her mind on anything but the smell of blood, the memory of the prior general’s heavy body and his animal groans.

  “And what will this be?” she asked, holding her finger above the sweeping lines in the background.