At dawn the next morning, Provost Inghirami was on his knees in his private chamber. The streets outside were quiet, but they wouldn’t be so for long. Pilgrims were arriving from as far south as Calabria and as far north as Piemonte, and a low buzz was filling the neighborhood around the church. Already it seemed the entire city had heard the rumors of the missing belt, and only his staunch denial, backed by the lies of the prior general who swore he’d seen it, had kept the priests of the church and the officials of the Comune di Prato at bay. Now, he’d run out of time. With the tolling of Terce tomorrow, the Festa della Sacra Cintola would begin, the streets would be swarming with horses, carriages, vendors, and traveling merchants, everyone praying and chanting and straining toward the Piazza della Pieve.
Provost Inghirami pictured the faces of the crowd turned up to the holy pulpit, waiting for him to appear with the Holy Belt. He cringed as he imagined their rising fury and jeers when he stood before them, the evidence of Satan’s work in Prato revealed by his empty hands.
Since dispatching his faithful messenger with a bag of gold and a note for the balia in the small village outside of Bisenzia, Provost Inghirami had been on his knees for nearly a full day and still there was no sign from the Holy Mother. What more did she want from him? He’d tried to make reparation. He’d heard the Virgin’s message and had the child returned to his mother’s waiting arms. But perhaps the Virgin was not yet ready to forgive. Perhaps she was upset because he’d defiled the house of God by stealing into the bell tower for the taste of things he had no right to know. Inghirami’s shoulders shook as he thought of the pleasure he’d found with the young painter.
“Dear Queen of Heaven,” the provost prayed in final desperation. “Dear Mother, I beg for your kindness and mercy for me, and for Young Marco.”
He bit his fist to keep from wailing. The name of Michael Dagomari was forever remembered in Prato as the man who’d brought the relic to their city for safekeeping, and now his own name, Gemignano Inghirami, would be remembered as the man whose sins had brought about this loss and disgrace.
At the first sound of the monks and archpriests in the sacristy stirring for Lauds, Provost Inghirami forced himself to his feet. In the event of the belt’s miraculous return, Santo Stefano had to be ready for the festa, and this job could be entrusted to no one but himself.
Everything was silent as he made his way into the nave just before daylight. The keys on his belt jangled against his hip, his footsteps echoed on the cool stones, and he turned to the gates of the Chapel of the Holy Belt. Just enough light streamed in from the small window for him to see the narrow lock, into which he inserted the key.
Please, Holy Mother, forgive my sins. The provost held his breath as he approached the golden coffer and gently lifted the lid.
It was still empty.
In vain, Inghirami reached into the box and ran his fingers around the velvet lining. When he still found nothing he shut and latched the box, closed the gate, and locked it again. The dimness of the church gave way as the provost moved through the transept toward the apse, where light was penetrating the darkness through a pair of arched windows. Two floating shafts of illumination crisscrossed in a corner of the church, and he squinted through the scrim of dawn to the statue of the Madonna. His gaze moved from her face, down her smoothly carved limbs, to the place where the light spilled below her waist.
Circling the hips of the Madonna was a green belt, its gold trim shimmering as if on fire.
Holding his breath, the provost hurried to the base of the statue. A spark went through him as he touched the belt, and he knew it was real. He was forgiven. The Sacra Cintola had been returned.
Chapter Thirty
The Feast of the Sacred Belt, the Year of Our Lord 1457
It was an especially warm day and Sister Pureza was sweltering under her robes. Her eyes were wide open, her chin high, as she watched the slow figure of the prior general leading the line of chanting nuns toward the Piazza della Pieve. Nothing in his expression belied his humbling, but she was certain he’d had many dark hours of doubt, perhaps even remorse, and this gave her some satisfaction.
“What did you say to the prior general when he came to the convent?” Prioress Bartolommea asked as they reached the piazza. “I’ve wanted to ask you for some days.”
The old nun turned to the prioress. Her friend looked very tired, and the smell of urine seemed to surround her always.
“I asked him to send for your sister, Jacoba,” Sister Pureza said, letting her gray eyes meet the prioress’s milky gaze. “I think you’re tired, and perhaps your judgment isn’t as clear as it once was.”
The prioress opened her mouth, but her response was drowned out by the sound of cheering. The hundreds of spectators and worshippers who packed the piazza outside the church looked up as a flash of red robes appeared on the Pulpit of the Holy Belt. The cheers mounted into a deafening roar, and shouts of joy filled the air as Provost Inghirami hoisted the Holy Belt of the Virgin Mary into the air.
“Holy Mother of God, Gate of Heaven, Blessed Virgin,” Inghirami shouted as the crowd thronged ever closer to the church. The assembled sisters of the Convent Santa Margherita broke into wide smiles of relief, and began to push their way to the portal of Santo Stefano to pray for a year of good fortune, wisdom, and blessings.
As the crowd swelled, Sister Pureza felt a gentle tugging at her shoulder, and was delighted to see the crooked-tooth smile of Fra Piero.
“So it’s done,” he said softly.
In the warm sunlight, the terror he’d felt as he’d crept into the church under the cover of darkness and groped behind the doorway that led to the campanile seemed far away. Then, Fra Piero’s heart had hammered in his head like the anvil that had hammered nails through the limbs of the Savior. But when he’d seen the provost’s belt and keys hanging on the same spike where he’d seen them twice before, Fra Piero had known that the Virgin was with him, and all would go as he’d planned.
“Thanks to you,” Sister Pureza said softly.
“And to the Holy Mother,” said the procurator. He remembered the jangle of the keys on the provost’s belt as he’d stepped out of the bell tower staircase, and how the night wind had risen as if the voice of the Holy Spirit were covering the rush of his footsteps across the transept floor. The heavy key had turned easily, the gates of the Chapel of the Sacred Belt had opened as quietly as the rising of dawn.
“Mother and child are well,” Sister Pureza said. She’d already said her good-byes to Lucrezia, promising to send word through Paolo as often as possible, and to visit when she was able. “They’re waiting at the convent.”
“The monk is on his way now,” the procurator said.
“Praise be the Virgin Mother of the Sacra Cintola.” Provost Inghirami’s voice rang out above the throngs, and the two conspirators turned their eyes to the pulpit.
“Si, praise be the Sacra Madonna,” Sister Pureza whispered. As she closed her eyes, she said a silent good-bye to the daughter who’d left her long ago and gone to heaven on angels’ wings. “Praise be the Lord, who is good and just.”
Arriving at the convent, Fra Filippo didn’t ring the bell at the front gate, but stopped by the pear tree, picked the firmest fruit he could find, and lofted it skyward so that it fell beside the door of the infirmary with a soft plop. He waited, and in a moment the pear came back over the wall again. He heard the distant voice of Sister Spinetta, and when he listened closely, he heard the cries of his child. His son.
As Spinetta came around the corner of the convent wall, he reached into the pocket of his robe and fingered the small piece of coral strung onto a delicate leather cord. He’d bought it in the market, and had Fra Piero bless it with holy water. The amulet would keep Filippino safe. But it was he, Fra Filippo Lippi, who would keep him fed, and protected, and see that the child was learned in all the ways of the world.
Lucrezia was sitting on the edge of the cot, holding her baby, when she looked up an
d saw her sister leading what appeared to be Fra Piero, under a dark hood, into the infirmary. She looked behind him for the white robes of Fra Filippo, but there were none. Quietly, her sister turned and left, pulling the infirmary door shut without even a backward glance. Lucrezia held the boy tightly against her body, and said not a word. The monk lowered his hood. And there was her beloved Filippo.
“Oh.” Both breathed a single sigh; there was no need for anything else to be said.
“Come, Lucrezia, let’s not wait another minute,” Fra Fililppo said. He took the child from her arms, and held Filippino in the crook of his elbow. The baby was dressed in a gown Lucrezia had made from worn, soft cloth. “Signor Ottavio was kind enough to send us his errand cart. He would have sent the carriage, but it’s being used for the festa.”
Lucrezia smiled and stood, straightening the plain brown dress that hung below her full bosom and billowed to the floor. Her legs were sturdy, her body was healing. But even more important, her spirit and her soul were strong and sure.
“I came here in a rough cart pulled by a donkey,” Lucrezia said, remembering the stars that had followed them on that night. “I don’t care how I get home. As long as my home is with you, and as long as it’s safe.”
Fra Filippo drew the corded piece of coral from his pocket. It was shaped like the bone of a chicken’s wing, and colored the deep yellow of a wheat field ready for harvest.
“For the baby,” he said. He handed it to her, and held the child out. “You can put it on him. It will keep him from harm.”
Lucrezia’s eyes filled. She reached the cord over the child’s head, his face a blur through her tears, and whispered the words she’d heard Sister Pureza say on the night that he was born.
“Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
Teresa de’ Valenti greeted the provost and the prior general on the balcony of her palazzo with a gracious sweep of her hand.
“Welcome,” she said, smiling broadly.
The signora looked every inch the strong, vibrant matron of Prato. Her silk gown was elegant, the bredoni sleeves edged in lace, the bosom scalloped to enhance her décolleté.
Her son, Ascanio, was with his nursemaid in the children’s quarters, in final preparation for the presentation that would mark the first anniversary of his birth.
“Please have some wine and food,” she said. She linked her arm through Prior General Saviano’s, and led him toward the grand buffet of goose and roasted pig surrounded by artichokes, olives, and a silver platter of sardines that had been broiled under the open flame in her kitchen.
“You’re lovely today, Signora,” the prelate said. His eyes roamed the feast table greedily.
“The Lord has been good to me, as He has been good to all of Prato.” She acknowledged his compliment with a modest nod as she handed him a goblet and waved for a servant to fill it. She let him drink, but held fast to his arm.
“I have a special request of you, Prior General,” she said, beaming warmly.
“Of course I will do my best to please you,” he said. The good wine made him quite agreeable.
Signora Teresa didn’t stop smiling. She knew her smile was one of her many great assets.
“You can grant Lucrezia Buti the protection of the Order for as long as she may need it, and under any life circumstance the Virgin may prescribe to her,” she said.
The prior general choked back a bray of indignation. Across the room, he saw Ottavio acting the benevolent host in his fine velvet robes. The merchant’s eyes wavered on his face and the prior general raised his eyebrows, his expression a question mark. The merchant answered with a barely discernible nod of his chin and a flicker of his gaze in the direction of his handsome wife. Then Ottavio smiled at another guest, and turned away.
“Of course she has her child, but the title of suora is one that offers a woman protection in the name of the Lord. I believe the Virgin herself wishes the woman and her child to be protected by the hands of the Lord’s servants on earth.”
Signora Teresa was perhaps the only woman outside the convent who believed she knew and understood the link between the child Filippino’s return and the return of the Holy Belt. Of course there had been no official confirmation that the belt had disappeared, but she did not underestimate the powers of Lucrezia and Sister Pureza—neither on earth, nor with the saints in heaven. If the prior general and the provost had shown up at the convent in a foaming fury, as rumor had it, there must be at least a shred of truth to it. She would ask Sister Pureza, someday, although she doubted the old woman would reveal anything.
“Perhaps you have reason to agree,” she added, demurely, to Prior General Saviano. “Lucrezia and the painter seem to have the Virgin’s blessing.”
Teresa de’ Valenti held his arm firmly as she led the prior general into the private quarters of her home, chattering as if she hadn’t just made an egregious request.
“What they’ve done is against Church law,” the prior general said, keeping an even burn in his voice. “A monk. And a nun.”
“A painter. And a young woman. In love.”
Teresa de’ Valenti’s smile wasn’t only on her lips, but in her eyes, as well. She had every reason to be happy on this day, and good reason to know the power that rested with her as the wife of Ottavio.
“I’m sure their transgression cannot be irreparable,” she said. She came to a stop, and with a slight incline of her head, gestured toward the painting on the wall before them. “My servants call this our Miraculous Madonna. It’s not for me to say on whom or what the Virgin confers her favor. But I’m certain the girl has the blessing of the Holy Mother. And what heavenly intervention doesn’t allow for on earth, my husband is prepared to pay for in the dispensation of indulgences.”
The prior general looked at the painting. The novitiate’s lips were plump and soft. Her eyes sparkled. Her forehead was high and wise.
“The price for such an indulgence could be very dear,” Saviano said stubbornly. “And if Rome denies us, I cannot override the decision of the Curia.”
Teresa de’ Valenti nodded.
“Understood,” she said.
The prior general remembered the girl’s gasp under his body, the shock of her blood.
“I’m sure there is a fair price,” he conceded, perhaps with less reluctance than his words indicated.
“And the mother and child will live in peace?”
“As much peace as there is in my power to grant,” the prior general said. And as he spoke the words that would bind their agreement, the cleric was grateful to Saint Augustine who, in his wisdom, had found a suitable penance for Saviano’s own sin of debauchery. “I give you my word.”
Lucrezia’s heart was light as the donkey finally pulled the cart to the corner of the Piazza della Pieve. Fra Filippo held the reins beside her, his back straight and proud, his eyes squinting in the bright sun. The child was in her arms, covered by a blanket to keep the sun from his face. All around her was the celebrating and chaos of the festa, but the joy inside her was even stronger than the revelry of a thousand voices.
“Look, Filippo,” she cried as the bottega came into view and she saw a large basket of fruit, bread, and cheeses on the doorstep.
Bringing the cart to a stop, Fra Filippo tethered the donkey and reached up to take the baby from Lucrezia. He held the child in his weighty arm, and put out his hand to steady Lucrezia as her boots once again stepped onto the city’s dusty ground.
“We have friends,” she said, happily surveying the gift of nuts, cheeses, meats, and a pile of small gowns for the child, made of the softest linen and cotton.
For our Miraculous Madonna, the note in the basket read. From the Honorable Ottavio and Teresa de’ Valenti.
“Sorella?”
Lucrezia turned at the sound of Paolo’s voice behind her.
“Paolo?” She hadn’t seen him since that Lenten day when he’d refused to come up the path to her home.
Beaming, Paolo thrust a small package into her hands.
“Mia madre,” he said, and lowered his eyes. “She sends this for the child.”
Lucrezia took the gift and slowly unwound the piece of cloth to reveal a small carved cross, ornamented with tiny purple flowers, each petal made with a single drop of paint.
“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed, looking into his happy face. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Si.” He nodded. “And my mother painted it.”
Fra Filippo put out a hand, and ran a finger across the purple flower petals.
“Violets,” the painter said. “The Virgin’s flower.”
The baby waved his hands in the air. The three turned toward him as he opened his mouth and let out a gusty wail.
“You’re home,” Lucrezia said, taking her child from Fra Filippo’s arms. “We’re home now.”
They opened the door to the bottega. And there was Ser Francesco Cantansanti, his fine costume rumpled from the long day of festivities.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Home,” the emissary drawled. He stood, his voice drunken, but still commanding. “You’ve been gone, Fra Filippo. And I’ve been looking for you.”
“Not gone,” the monk said, stiffening. “I’ve been working at Fra Piero’s house in the hills, sketching the altarpiece for the convent where no one could disturb me.”
The baby let out a cry, and Lucrezia rushed past the men, into the bedroom.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour. I see what you’ve done.” Cantansanti gestured toward the altarpiece, which Fra Filippo had stored carefully in the corner. It was arranged under the window, where the light played over the lovely face of the Virgin, and the empty face of the Christ child.
“I’ve heard again from Florence,” Ser Francesco said. “I’ve come to tell you what they say.”
In his mind, the emissary ran over the letter he’d dispatched to Florence after the monk had slipped from his sight.
The Miracles of Prato Page 30
