The Miracles of Prato

by Laurie Albanese

  “That will be a sturdy elm, holding the vine.” He paused and waited. “The vine represents the wine, of course.”

  Rosemary. Lucrezia remembered the old nun’s words. Too much rosemary can rid the womb of its blessed contents.

  “The wine.” She spoke slowly. “The wine is a symbol of Christ’s blood.”

  She looked at the elm, its branches spread in the shape of a cross.

  “Is the elm the cross on which He died?” she asked.

  “Si.” The painter nodded with a sad smile. “I never tire of painting her,” he said. “Our Blessed Mother comes to us in so many guises. The Queen of Heaven, the Madonna of Humility, the Bride of Christ, the Annunciate Virgin. She suffered even in her innocence. When I paint her, all of this must show in her face. Compassion. Sadness. Purity. Love.”

  Fra Filippo took Lucrezia’s hand gently.

  “Purity,” he repeated, kissing her fingertips, looking into her wounded eyes. How much he wished to lessen her pain. “Love.”

  Rosemary.

  “Fra Filippo, do you have any rosemary?”

  He squinted in confusion, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

  “Rosemary,” she said again. “I’d like to have some bread, made with rosemary. If I may. If it’s possible.”

  “Anything,” he said, gently squeezing her fingers. “With love, Lucrezia, anything is possible.”

  Sorella, it’s me, Spinetta. Please open the door.”

  Lucrezia swung open the bottega door and looked directly into Paolo’s dark, shining eyes. Spinetta stood behind him, her small face pale against her white wimple.

  “Spinetta!” Lucrezia pulled her and Paolo inside quickly, and shut the door. “At last, you’ve come.”

  Spinetta looked quizzically at the large white robe Lucrezia wore.

  “Why are you here, Lucrezia? And what have you done with your habit?”

  “Vieni, Spinettina.” Lucrezia tugged on the sleeve of Spinetta’s rough robe. “You, too, Paolo.”

  Checking the latch, Lucrezia hurried them through the antechamber and into the studio.

  “Signora de’ Valenti sent a note to the convent asking why you hadn’t arrived,” Spinetta said, struggling to catch her breath. “Very soon after that, the prioress received a note from the procurator, asking that I be sent to join you at the palazzo. There was a great stir at the convent, and a visit from two nuns from Sant’Ippolito, and finally Paolo confessed that he’d brought you here.”

  Spinetta shook her head, her eyes brimming.

  “Of course Mother Bartolommea wouldn’t let me leave. I had to sneak away. I ran with Paolo, as quickly as I could. What’s happening, Lucrezia? And what have you done with your habit?”

  “Paolo,” Lucrezia said, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Go into the kitchen with Rosina, and have something to eat.”

  The boy nodded and slipped through the narrow curtain. As he did, Spinetta looked around the workshop. She saw Fra Filippo busying himself in the back room, and she grabbed Lucrezia’s hand.

  “Fra Filippo hasn’t been back to the convent since the day of the festa,” she whispered. “I listened at the door, and heard the nuns from Sant’Ippolito say they saw him pulling you away from the parade against your will. Is it true?”

  Lucrezia shook her head.

  “It wasn’t safe for me at the convent,” Lucrezia said, stroking her sister’s arm. “Fra Filippo brought me here to look after me.”

  “You can’t stay here, Lucrezia. Don’t you know what they’ll say about you?”

  “A terrible thing happened.” Lucrezia couldn’t look at her sister. “The prior general was very rough.”

  “Is that why you left Santa Margherita so suddenly?”

  Lucrezia nodded.

  “But he’s gone now,” Spinetta said. “He came for his things yesterday evening and left with barely a word to anyone.”

  “He was here, yesterday. Fra Filippo was gone.” Lucrezia spoke quietly, her hands clenched together. “The prior general came in when I was alone and he—”

  “He what?”

  “He forced himself on me.”

  Spinetta whimpered, and pulled Lucrezia against her.

  “It’s all right, I’m all right now.” Lucrezia pushed her sister away gently.

  “We have to tell the prioress,” Spinetta said. “She’ll see that the prior general is punished.”

  Lucrezia’s eyes were sad and deep. Her resolve had strengthened during the night. It was a resolve born as much of pride as of shame.

  “No, it would be his word against mine, and I’m nothing, only a novitiate. You mustn’t tell anyone, sister. Fra Filippo has promised to make it right and I trust him.”

  The young women turned to where the monk was holding a sketch up to the rear window, pretending to focus on his work.

  “But the prior general must be punished!” Spinetta cried again.

  “Fra Filippo has promised to take me away from here as soon as he can. Until then, I’ll stay here with him.” Lucrezia spoke quickly. She put her lips against Spinetta’s ear. “Spinettina, what I tell you now you mustn’t speak of to anyone. This very day Fra Filippo is to see the Medici’s emissary, to ask for special dispensation from the pope. And when he gets the news he wants from the Curia, he’s promised to marry me.”

  Spinetta turned pale.

  “What about your vows?”

  Lucrezia looked into her sister’s eyes.

  “Imagine, Spinetta, if a child is to come of this.” Lucrezia hurried through her words. “I must have some way of standing the shame. Fra Filippo has offered to help me. And remember, mia cara, I’m not blessed like you, with a soul made for the cloister.”

  “What if the pope refuses? That is likely, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” Lucrezia pressed her palms together, her lips tightened. “I only know that I can’t go back.”

  Spinetta threw her arms around her sister and began to weep.

  “But Lucrezia, a novitiate living with a monk is a terrible sin, and a shame to our family’s good name.”

  “Please, Spinetta, he says he loves me,” she whispered. “If all is as God wills, how do we know that this isn’t God’s will?”

  Spinetta blinked into Lucrezia’s stricken face.

  “And you? Do you love him?”

  Lucrezia bit her lip. How could she explain all that she felt at this moment: fear, shame, sorrow, gratitude, and love?

  “Yes.” She nodded, looking into her sister’s dark eyes. “I love him.”

  “Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.” Spinetta slipped her hand inside the pocket of her robe and pulled out Lucrezia’s silver medallion of Saint John the Baptist, pressing it into her sister’s hand. “I don’t understand, Lucrezia. I don’t understand. But I’ll stay as long as you need me. I’ll stay until word comes from Rome.”

  When Ser Francesco Cantansanti showed up at the bottega shortly after Sext that afternoon, Fra Filippo was ready.

  Lucrezia and Spinetta were in the monk’s bedroom, hidden from sight. The sketch for the Medici centerpiece stood on an easel, illuminated by the light from the large front window. Next to it, the nearly finished panel of Saint Anthony stood on one side, the finished panel of Saint Michael on the other. Saint Michael’s silver breastplate and shield glittered like true warriors’ armor, and Saint Anthony’s face was kind and humble. Fra Filippo was pleased with these portraits representing the patron saints of King Alfonso of Naples, and he felt certain Ser Francesco would see their great worth.

  “I’ll try to finish the work before the date on the contract, if possible.” Fra Filippo bowed his head as the emissary surveyed the work. “It is my sole intention to please my honorable patron, the great and illustrious Giovanni de’ Medici.”

  “This is far better behavior than I’ve seen from you in some time, Lippi,” Cantansanti said, moving closer to inspect the panels. “Perhaps you can explain
what’s brought you to your senses?”

  At that moment a clatter came from the bedchamber, followed by a muffled whisper. The men’s eyes met, and Cantansanti’s filled with a new light. The whisper came again. The voice, faint though it was, surely belonged to a female.

  “Ah, Fra Filippo, there’s nothing like a pretty girl to spur you in your heights of creativity,” the emissary said, turning to him with a half-smile. “I like the soft flesh of a woman as well as the next man. But I wish you wouldn’t bring women to your bottega when the eye of the Medici is on you.”

  Tall in his boots, he folded his arms over his chest. Fra Filippo hesitated only a moment. The emissary had helped him before. He was a strong man, opinionated but fair.

  “Of course I never forget the eye of the Medici is upon me, as you say,” he replied. “The sketch you see is complete, and I’ve begun transferring the image onto the wood panel. You may take the vellum with you when you leave.”

  Casting a satisfied glance at the sketch, the emissary nodded, and Fra Filippo continued.

  “The woman you heard has played an important role in helping me to conceive the piece for His Eminence. She arrived here yesterday. She seeks my protection.”

  At this, Cantansanti arched his eyebrows in mock surprise.

  “Your protection? Then she must not know you well.”

  “Please, this isn’t a joke. The novitiate fled the convent to protect her honor.” Fra Filippo slid a ceramic jug of wine toward Cantansanti. “Good sir, you’ve helped me before and I need your help again, perhaps more than ever. And so does the girl.”

  Fra Filippo lowered his voice, and nodded at the Virgin in his sketch.

  “Do you see her face?”

  Cantansanti nodded. “Breathtaking.”

  “It’s the novitiate, Lucrezia, recently arrived at Santa Margherita with her sister.”

  Cantansanti’s face darkened.

  “The novitiate who’s been coming and going at my bidding?” he asked tightly. “She’s a nun, Filippo. Tell me the whisper in your bedroom isn’t from her lips.”

  “She’s not a nun,” the painter quickly said, again pushing the wine in Cantansanti’s direction. “She’s only a novitiate, and that against her wishes.”

  The painter paused. What could he barter that he had not yet traded against in his life? His soul and heart went into his work. His flesh went into his work. He’d lost sleep and meals, given whole years of his life to create art in the glory and praise of God and Cosimo de’ Medici. He’d given almost everything he had. And yet there was more. At the bottom of the well, instead of despair, he’d found a new river of hope.

  “This isn’t a whim—believe me, I haven’t known her, not as you imagine,” Fra Filippo said. He fell to his knees in front of Ser Francesco, and the man, who’d seen all sorts of hubris from Fra Filippo and never expected anything but pride and audacity, was aghast.

  “For God’s sake, get off your knees,” Cantansanti said. He grabbed the jug of wine and drank. Fra Filippo shook his head.

  “I won’t get up until you’ve heard me, good Ser.”

  “Then speak.” The emissary kept an eye on the monk, another on the sketch for the altarpiece, and wished he had a third to train on the doorway to the kitchen. If the novitiate appeared, he wanted to see her in the flesh.

  “Don’t drag it out anymore, Fratello, just tell me what you want—and don’t ask for money, there are no more florins until the work is complete.”

  “I want nothing as base as money,” the monk scoffed. “For this girl I would give away my money. I’d sell my flesh if I had to, to see her heart satisfied.”

  “We don’t want your flesh, either, Filippo. We want your masterpiece, and we want it in Naples. Now tell me why you’re on your knees, or I’ll leave.”

  Fumbling in his pocket, Fra Filippo withdrew the letter he’d carefully written and sealed with his blue wax.

  “I want to marry Lucrezia,” he said, holding out the note. “All is explained in this letter beseeching the aid and endorsement of my great patron. I beg of you to deliver it to Ser Cosimo by your own hand.”

  Cantansanti took more wine. He drank until the jug was empty. He didn’t reach for the letter.

  “You’ve lost your senses.” His voice was cool. “You’re a monk.”

  “I’ll give it up. I’ll give up whatever is asked of me.”

  “The Medici family is best served by your continued service to Rome,” Cantansanti said. He put the jug down. “I’ll make no promises.”

  “All I ask is a petition in my name. You know that many exceptions have been made when the great Medici family has requested it.”

  Cantansanti’s eyes narrowed. The power of the Medici was to be respected, not invoked. He put a hand on the painter’s elbow and pulled him up from his knees. Then he took the sealed note.

  “I’ll do what I can. And you, Fra Filippo, you’ll do what you must.”

  Cantansanti tucked the letter into his pocket and turned on his heels. Outside the bottega, he shook his head and almost laughed. The monk had even more audacity than he’d imagined.

  In Florence, a very weary Prior General Saviano climbed two wide steps and entered the Barbadori Chapel of Santo Spirito, crossed himself, and knelt at the marble altar. This private chapel had long been the prior general’s place of penitence, prayer, and worship. The light was dim but the scent was pleasing, as the prior general had the chapel rails polished with lemon oil each day, and the candles fragranced with frankincense each evening.

  Clasping his hands, Prior General Saviano lifted his eyes to the predella beneath the altarpiece. It had been created by his nemesis, Fra Filippo Lippi, at the behest of the Barbadori family of Florence, and depicted an ecstatic Saint Augustine at the precise moment the Lord had pierced his heart with faith.

  “My great sainted brother,” Saviano prayed. “You know I’ve long held my lust at bay, and you know how difficult this has been for me. Now this girl, this daughter of Eve, has led me astray. I beg you, show me what I must to do to cleanse myself of this sin.”

  Eyes open, knees on the padded step, the cleric looked at the brown folds of the saint’s robe, the books and inkwell on his desk, the fine golden light of Saint Augustine’s study. Although he had little patience for its creator, Prior General Saviano had long loved this painting. Before, he’d been able to meditate solely upon Augustine when he gazed at the altarpiece. Now, try as he might, the cleric was unable to push the painter’s name and face out of his mind. Each time he saw the monk’s bulky frame, he saw the novitiate beside him; the monk’s eyes filled with reproach, the novitiate’s full of horror.

  “She was surely put there to test me, and I failed,” Saviano said.

  Closing his eyes, the prior general sickened at the memory of what he’d done. His nostrils seemed to fill with the foul scent in the small kitchen, the memory of her virgin blood. Quickly he opened his eyes and inhaled the cleansing scent of lemon oil and frankincense. He reminded himself, as he’d done so many times during his years in the clergy, that it was Saint Augustine who’d given the most generous and forgiving of all saintly commands: love the sinner, hate the sin.

  “With all the strength of my faith, Lord, I detest my sin,” Prior General Saviano said, bringing his gaze to the arrows that pierced the saint’s breast. “And I hate the man who brought me to the sin. I will not let Fra Filippo be the ruin of me.”

  Anger filled the man’s knotty limbs. He stood to his full height and eyed the self-image that Fra Filippo had painted into the altarpiece. In it, the painter’s face was young, and he looked like one of the ragazzi of Florence, as surely he had been.

  Prior General Saviano vowed that the painter would not make a mockery of his Order, nor of the blessed Convent Santa Margherita. If there was a sin that demanded recompense it was the sin of the man who’d brought the novitiate into his bottega and kept her there; it was the sin of temptation, the sin of Eve. Yes, yes, Saviano told himself: Lippi
was the snake, Lucrezia was Eve, and he, Prior General of the Order of Saint Augustine, was the victim of their devilish temptation.

  Making up his mind, the man crossed himself and strode through the halls of Santo Spirito to his office chambers. There, he rang for his secretary.

  “Bring me a pot of cheese and some wine,” Prior General Saviano said, remembering it had been many hours since he’d last eaten. When the refreshment came, he used a dull knife to cut large hunks of cheese, which he crammed into his mouth. When the cheese was gone, he dictated a missive to Provost Inghirami of Prato, to be announced by il banditore in the central piazza of Prato.

  Fra Filippo Lippi is hereby dismissed of his duties as chaplain at the Convent Santa Margherita, he wrote. By decree of the Order of Saint Augustine on this tenth day of September in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and fifty-six.

  Chapter Sixteen

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

  “Perhaps you could go to Signora Valenti,” Spinetta said, her small hand reaching across the table, “and explain why you were delayed.”

  “What explanation will I give?” Lucrezia asked. She was weary of this question, which she’d answered many times. “Will you have me tell her that I’ve been compromised and ruined?”

  “You needn’t tell everything, Lucrezia, only that you are afraid to go back to the convent.”

  “No.” She bent closer to the needle she was threading through her panni di gamba. Soon they would be mended, although they would never be flawless, as they had been before. “I cannot face the terrible lies and rumors that are out there, especially if they come from Signora Valenti’s lips.”

  “Lucrezia, forgive me.” Spinetta had to force herself to speak gently. “But I think perhaps you simply want to stay, even if it means bringing our ruin.”

  Lucrezia knotted the thread, and snapped it with her teeth. She could barely admit it to her sister, or even to herself. But it was true. She did not want to leave Fra Filippo. Not only because he would protect her, but because his love and his promise gave her the strength to rise each morning. If this was a sin, she prayed God would forgive her.