The Miracles of Prato (10 page)

Leaning over to loosen Lucrezia's wimple, Sister Pureza smelled the scent of chamomile. She slipped the wimple over the girl's head and patted at beads of sweat on her forehead. The old nun wished she could tell the novitiate how ferociously she, too, had suffered and fought in vain against her fate. But the secret shame of Pasqualina di Fiesole had been buried long ago, and her soul reborn as wise Sister Pureza. No one but the prioress knew the secrets from her past, and that was as she wished it to remain.

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

Seated in the confessional, Fra Filippo knew many of the nuns by their fragrance: Sister Camilla smelled of dust and camphor, Sister Maria of wheat and rosemary, Sister Pureza of the sage she used to smudge away impurities. Sister Simona, whose tooth ached perpetually, he knew by the clove she kept hidden in her lip, and he recognized the prioress by the whiff of sulfur from the candle that burned as she studied the convent's books.

When the scent of chamomile filled the small booth, Fra Filippo immediately knew Lucrezia had come to him. He strained to see her face through the cloth that hung between them.

“Fratello, please forgive me for not coming to your workshop,” Lucrezia whispered as soon as she'd knelt. “I wanted to send you a message, but it was impossible. Sister Pureza insisted I rest, and she was right. I was troubled, Fra Filippo, and I am troubled, still.”

Beneath the curtain she could see Fra Filippo's robe, his feet in their rough leather sandals. She rushed on, before he could speak.

“I fear that putting on the finery was a grave mistake, Fra Filippo, not because you gave it to me, but because of how it made me feel, and the vain thoughts I had when I wore it. Please, Fratello, I fear that what we've done—even in the name of the Virgin—is a sin.”

Fra Filippo cleared his throat. He was determined to perform his role in the service of Lucrezia's soul.

“My dear sister, first I wish to grant you absolution for your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” He raised his hand, and made the sign of the cross. That done, he continued more gently.

“Surely the Lord moves among us in ways we do not understand,” he said. “Sister Lucrezia, I, too, am torn.”

The monk spoke tenderly. Lucrezia's mouth was dry.

“I can't pretend your beauty doesn't move me,” he said. “I fear I can't be trusted to offer you the most holy guidance.”

Lucrezia closed her eyes and saw flashes of red.

“What are you saying, Brother? Are you saying I was wrong to sit for you in the fine clothes?”

“Certainly not,” Fra Filippo rushed to reassure her. “Others have dressed in appropriate costume so I might paint them in the fullest representation of the Virgin.”

“There have been others?” Lucrezia asked. Her eyes flew open and she looked down at his hardened toenails and allowed herself to feel a small revulsion.

“There's never been another like you, Lucrezia.” He faltered, but continued. “I can't trust my feelings. I'm unsure of my heart. That's why I cannot in good faith hear your confession. I'll ask the procurator to attend to your confession in the future. This is best, Sister Lucrezia. Please, let us not continue.”

Lucrezia blinked, and spots danced across her vision.

“Forgive me. It is for the best,” he said. “Now go in peace.”

Silently, Lucrezia slid open the black curtain and hurried from the confessional, not daring to glance back.

 

T
he procurator stood at the foot of the monk's bed, clutching a sketch of Lucrezia.

“You're being tempted, Filippo, I see it,” he said. “Wake up, we must talk.” Fra Filippo opened his eyes and stared into Fra Piero's scruffy face. Overhead, the crucifix hovered on the wall of his small bedchamber.

“Damn you,” the monk grumbled. “Go away.”

“Come on, Filippo, rouse yourself.” Fra Piero shook the mattress and waved the parchment in his hand. “You can't deny what I see with my own eyes. You want the novitiate.”

The procurator was turning the sketch this way and that, examining Lucrezia's luminescent beauty. “I see how you're spending your time—caressing the girl with your silverpoint, seducing her with every stroke of your charcoal.”

Fra Filippo tumbled from his bed, used the chamber pot, and took his robe from its hook on the wall, pulling it over his head.

“I go away for two months, and return to find you this way,” Fra Piero said. “Maybe you've forgotten your disgrace, but I haven't. I was there in Florence and again in Legnaia. If you're hungry for young flesh, let me find you someone less conspicuous, less risky.”

The monk rubbed his face briskly.

“I don't want a whore,” he nearly growled. “How dare you compare the virgin of Prato to a whore of Padua, to a
puttana
on the streets of Florence?”

“Calm down, Filippo,” the procurator replied. “We're men, we have needs. I travel widely, I know chaplains and monks who indulge themselves with farm girls, courtesans—even a few who amuse themselves with boys.”

Fra Filippo grimaced. He knew there were monks who preferred a man's body to a woman's soft flesh, but he'd never known any who admitted as much, and he was glad of it.

“I see the way you're drawing her face.” Fra Piero whirled around. “If you won't deny your lust for her, then at least hide it better.”

“That's just it,” the monk said. “I fear this is far more than lust,
amico mio
.”

Fra Piero was used to hearing the painter speak in grand superlatives. He ignored the last remark and walked from the kitchen into the
bottega,
which was filled with morning light. It was early, and the kitchen girl had not yet arrived to help with the morning's chores. There were soiled rags flung on the floor, jars of paint scattered about, and sketches propped everywhere.

Standing before a large wooden panel, Fra Piero examined a splendid throne and luminous angel's wings, and shook his head. Even the lauded works of Fra Giovanni the Dominican, beloved by the Medici and by many in the Orders, couldn't match this in sheer celebration of earthly beauty.

“This is the work for the Medici? This is why our friend Ser Francesco has come again?”

Fra Filippo nodded.

“You've surpassed yourself, Filippo. But you'll bring a great pain upon all of us if you're not careful. Prudence, maestro!”

The painter looked at the sketch in the procurator's hand, and recalled the haze of unreality that he often associated with his best work.

“Lucrezia Buti,” Fra Filippo said. “I've never met a woman who could bring me to such heights.”

“The girl is a novitiate, Filippo,” Fra Piero exclaimed.

“I'm not a fool! I've already refused to hear her confession—you must go in my place, Piero.”

The procurator sucked in a breath.

“So it's as I thought.”

“It's much worse,” the monk said. “When I'm near her, the very quality of the air and light seems to change. Everywhere I go, I see her face.”

“For the love of Christ, protect yourself!” the procurator said. “If you must have a woman, Filippo, don't take a novitiate. I beg you, don't see her again. Not here—you have too much to lose.”

Fra Filippo scowled at his friend.

“Only yesterday the provost complained to me about the progress of your frescoes,” Fra Piero said. “Inghirami may have his own peculiar desires, but he's wise when it comes to the politics of the Church. I suggest you spend your time placating him, rather than entertaining yourself with the comely faces of young virgins.”

“What peculiar desires?” Fra Filippo demanded. “I've never heard anything about the provost, save that he's stingy with the food he gives to the needy children.”

“I heard it for the first time in Montepulciano, Filippo. There are men who say the provost looked at them the way other men look at a woman. It's only a rumor, but you know that even rumors can get a man in trouble. So be careful, Filippo. I can only do so much. The Medici can only do so much.”

Shaking his head, Fra Piero paused at a small panel he'd overlooked. It was turned to face the wall, and signed on the back
O. de' V.

“Is this de' Valenti's commission? Just yesterday, Ottavio was telling me he's very eager to present it to his wife.”

The procurator picked up the panel and turned it to reveal the novitiate's face again, a crimson hood emphasizing her beautiful mouth.

“It's magnificent. Luminous. But why is it still here? Why haven't you delivered it?”

“I can't part with it,” the monk admitted. “I cannot bear to part with it.”

“Oh, my friend,” the procurator said. “I fear for you. Truly, I beg of you, do not have this girl in here again.”

 

F
ra Filippo walked to the convent that afternoon reviewing all the reasons why Lucrezia should not return to his
bottega:
she was a novice, and he was a monk; God had chosen her path, and he could not change it; she was an honorable young woman, and if he was alone with her again, he didn't know if he could trust himself.

Shutting the gate behind him, Fra Filippo vowed to tell Lucrezia his decision immediately after Nones prayers. He would be gentle, but inflexible.

With a heavy heart the monk called the nuns to the chapter house and watched them arrive one at a time, their faces haggard in the heat. Even Prioress Bartolommea sat with a deep sigh. But Lucrezia wasn't among them.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he began.

He said the prayers dutifully, finishing with the benediction and urging the nuns to remain as long as they wished, enjoying the shady respite of the chapter house. Searching each face to be sure Lucrezia wasn't among them, he slipped out the door, determined to find her.

“Fratello.” Her voice called to him as he was passing the garden well. He turned to see her mouth was pinched, her eyes sunken.

“Sister. You were not at prayers. Are you ill?”

“No.” She dropped her gaze, and struggled to get out the words. “I believe I'm to come to your
bottega
one more time, and I look forward to seeing all the work you've done. I—”

“Sister Lucrezia.” He tried to interrupt her, but she put out her hand and continued.

“I trust I've done nothing to hinder your work,” she managed to say. From the corner of her eye she saw Spinetta approaching. “Fratello, I pray you won't keep me from all the beauty you've shown me,” she said in a rush. “In your work. Your work for the Lord.”

She knew they were consigned to God and there could be nothing between them. But everything of wonder and beauty that she'd found since coming to Santa Margherita led to him. Even her tasks tending the herbs with Sister Pureza led to the colors that were ground with his mortar and pestle. The splendor he'd shown her was sustaining her spirit.

“Please,” she said softly. “Beauty isn't a sin. You told me this yourself.”

Fra Filippo blinked. He was transfixed by the movement of her lips.

“Don't take it from me,” she said, her voice low. “Please.”

“Sister Lucrezia,” Fra Filippo said gently. “I hear your plea.”

“Then I may come again?”

He meant to say otherwise. Instead, he nodded mutely.

 

W
hen Lucrezia and Spinetta arrived the following afternoon, Fra Filippo met them at his doorway.

“Today,
sorelle mie,
I'll take you on a small outing,” the monk said, forcing a smile. He stole a glance at Lucrezia, whose blue eyes were radiant in her somber beauty. “I can go no further with my work on the altarpiece until I have some fresh pigments and supplies delivered, and it is too fine a day to remain in the
bottega
.”

If Lucrezia wanted to see art and splendor, he would show her
all that he could. In this way he would honor Fra Piero's advice and Lucrezia's sincere plea at the same time.

“With your consent, we'll go to the
pieve di Santo Stefano
and check on the progress of the frescoes.” He bowed, hoping Lucrezia would understand he meant this to be his gift to her. “That is, if it pleases you to do so.”

Lucrezia and Spinetta glanced at each other and then at Fra Filippo, their wimples fluttering slightly.

“
Si,
Fratello,” both sisters said, and then Spinetta laughed. “It would be a great pleasure for us,” she added.

The monk shut the door and the three walked briskly across the Piazza della Pieve. Together, they created a study in contrast: Fra Filippo's heavy brows and dark stubble stood out sharply above his floating white robe, while the nuns' tunics seemed even blacker against their pale complexions.

It was a busy day in the square, filled with trotting horses, the smell of cured meats from a nearby butcher, and a pair of dogs yapping in pursuit of a chicken. Wheels scraped against cobblestones, the chink of a blacksmith's hammer rang out, and the light footsteps of street urchins flew across the narrow alleyways. Men and women hurried by carrying bundles and talking loudly as the green and white striped basilica rose dramatically above them.

“It's beautiful,” Spinetta exclaimed, looking up and shading her eyes against the sun. “It does justice to God's glory.”

Fra Filippo pointed up to a rounded pulpit that jutted out from the side of the church, overlooking the piazza
.
The putti carved on it were gilded and appeared to be dancing wildly in the sunlight.

“The Pulpit of the Sacred Girdle was designed by Donatello and Michelozzo,” he said, knowing the names of his celebrated contemporaries would be familiar to the Florentine sisters. “Provost
Inghirami will stand up there during the
Festa della Sacra Cintola
when he holds the Holy Belt for all to see.”

Entering through the heavy church doors, the three made the sign of the cross and let their eyes adjust to the dim light. The noise and activity of the piazza quickly vanished, replaced by the scent of incense in the still air.

“Look here.” Fra Filippo directed their attention immediately to the left, where the novitiates saw an enclosed chapel surrounded by an ornate bronze gate. Candles flickered in sconces hung from chains overhead.