The Miracles of Prato (11 page)

“The Chapel of the Holy Belt,” he said solemnly.

“La Sacra Cintola della Madonna,”
Spinetta exclaimed. She and Lucrezia had heard much talk about the celebration that would overtake the city on the eighth day of September. Both sisters pressed their hands to the tall gate, its delicate trefoils locked against their entry, and peered up at the colorful scenes on the chapel walls.

“The frescoes were painted by Agnolo Gaddi, son of the Florentine artist Taddeo Gaddi,” Fra Lippi said. He gestured to an elaborate golden coffer that sat on the altar. “And the reliquary is remarkable.”

Lucrezia stifled a sigh.

“They say the belt offers protection and good health for women who are with child,” she said softly, again regretting the vows that condemned her to a barren womb.

“I've heard the Virgin's blessings extend to all who touch it,” Spinetta said. “And we'll be given the chance to do so on the day of the
festa
.”

They stood in solemn contemplation, each praying for what he or she most wanted from the Virgin on this day. Then the sisters followed Fra Filippo toward the front of the basilica, passing a few lone
souls who knelt on the elaborately tiled floor, and circling a grand bronze candelabrum filled with tallow candles. The chaplain paused below a tall wooden statue of the Virgin and Child, then beside another of Saint Elizabeth, before mounting two sets of white steps in the presbytery, genuflecting in front of the high altar covered in a red cloth for Pentecost, and passing behind it into the chapel where he spent most of his days.

As they stepped onto the wood floor, their eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight that flooded the
cappella maggiore.
The sisters were surprised by the maze of scaffolding filled with men, tools, and buckets of paint, but Fra Filippo smoothly nodded to his assistants, who greeted the visitors without stopping their work. Tomaso and Young Marco stood together on a low scaffolding, laboring carefully on the dark green leaves in the scene of Saint John's mission and speaking in quiet voices. Another assistant, Giorgio, was using a small brush to add tiny touches of white to the dusty rocks in Saint Stephen's scene.

Fra Filippo had not been to the church in many days, and in his absence Fra Diamante, his senior assistant, had overseen the application of the first layers of
intonaco
to the scenes in progress. At Fra Filippo's arrival, the
frate
turned from the table where he'd been poring over the fresco designs, and opened his arms to greet the painter. His face was lively, his brown monk's robe splattered with paint.

“I must show you all that we have done,” Fra Diamante said, indicating the careful lines he'd added to the scene of Saint Stephen's mission.

As the two men consulted, Lucrezia straightened her back and looked around the chapel. Her eyes roamed over the scaffolding, the thick plaster and chalk lines on the walls, the buckets of paints, and the string of candles that ran along the floor. She hadn't realized
there were so many artisans under the painter's direction, and the enormity of his undertaking here only increased her admiration for him. She smiled shyly as he climbed carefully down the makeshift wooden steps, and came toward her and Spinetta.

“Here, on this wall, is the life of Saint Stephen,” Fra Filippo said, touching her elbow so she would turn toward the north lunette. “It begins on the top tier, with his birth, and ends at the bottom, with his funeral.”

Lucrezia looked at the lively figures indicated in sinopia, and marveled at the lifelike quality of their gestures, the careful proportion of their bodies.

“What's over here?” Spinetta moved nimbly among the strewn tools, between the stubs of many candles, and gestured to the freshest chalk lines drawn over a smooth patch of plaster.

“That wall is dedicated to the life of Saint John the Baptist.” Fra Filippo moved closer and inspected the progress there, noting that all had been done as he'd instructed. He waved a hand toward a corner of the chapel, where the eastern wall met the southern one.

“This panel will depict Saint John kneeling at the moment of his beheading,” the monk said. “The scene will turn the corner and continue here, where his head will be placed on a platter and carried into Herod's banquet on the southern wall.”

Fra Filippo couldn't keep the excitement from his voice as he described the way he'd conceived the scene, how the figures would seem to inhabit the very space in which the viewer stood, and how the tragic end of the saint's life would appear almost as a performance on the walls of the chapel.

“The
effetti
are masterful, Brother Lippi.” Lucrezia uttered her first words since entering the chapel. “I can almost see what you're describing.” She was about to say more when she was startled by a loud cough.

Turning quickly, she saw a sharp-featured man in a red robe moving toward them from the rear of the altar. He seemed to glide on invisible feet, his robes dragging on the floor behind him.

“
Buongiorno,
good provost,” Fra Filippo said, greeting Provost Inghirami. “I thought you were presiding at a funeral.”

Fra Filippo noted the deep furrow between the provost's brows and the way he clenched his right hand. He thought about the rumors of the provost's unnatural longings, and wondered if it could be true.

“And I've returned,” the provost said crisply.

“I see that, and I'm hoping you are well. I have brought two of our novitiates from Santa Margherita, so they might see your church and all its wonders. I've just finished showing them where your portrait will go.”

Turning his shoulder away, the provost scowled at Fra Filippo.

“Why have the novitiates been brought here?” Inghirami demanded.

“Your Excellency, I beg your pardon, but this has all been carefully arranged with Mother Bartolommea. She has given her permission for their travel, especially as she has been asked to do so by the emissary of the Medici.” Fra Filippo spoke the name of his powerful benefactor decisively. “Their assistance has been indispensable in my completion of an important commission for the Medici, and in return, I've offered to show them around your magnificent chapel.”

“I see.”

The provost was, of course, aware that the Medici's emissary was in Prato. But until this moment he had not been sure why the sealed missive directing him to surrender the Holy Belt to Ser Francesco had come directly from Rome. Now, Inghirami began to see the force of the hand that had stripped his church of its most prized possession. The
Sacra Cintola
would not be gone for long, but the provost was nev
ertheless keenly disturbed by its removal. Allowing the belt to leave the church could only endanger it and, by extension, endanger him.

When Inghirami spoke again, it was with a new hostility in his voice.

“It's my understanding the novitiates were to be carefully chaperoned, and only leave the convent in service of the Lord,” he said.

From under the fold of her wimple Lucrezia glanced from his thin lips to the provost's clasped hands. She saw they were small and smooth, so different from the large and well-worn hands of the painter. Glancing sideways, she could see that her sister was staring at the ground, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Her heart sank as she heard the provost speaking sharply in her direction.

“You shouldn't linger here any longer,” the provost said, training his eyes on the space between Lucrezia and Spinetta. “Novitiates should remain cloistered. The world is a dangerous place, as you know. The walls of the convent exist for a reason.”

“You are right, Your Excellency.” The painter moved as if to shield the sisters from his glare, and cursed himself silently. Once again, he'd acted rashly. He could hear Fra Piero's warning echoing in the back of his mind, and he doubled his efforts to placate the provost. “We must go, as the escort will arrive shortly to return the sisters to the cloister. Please excuse us.”

Inghirami stepped aside to allow Fra Filippo and the novitiates to pass. Lucrezia felt his eyes burning into her back even after she'd dipped her fingers in the font of holy water and left the church.

 

When they reached the
bottega,
the escort was already waiting for them, fidgeting in his loose tunic. Spinetta stepped beside him, wishing to return to the convent as quickly as possible. But Lucrezia lin
gered. Fra Filippo moved close enough for her to smell the alcohol and rough soap he'd used to clean his hands.

“Arrivederci,”
he murmured.

She gave him a small smile.

“Grazie,”
she barely managed to say before she turned and followed the escort.

Avoiding her sister's glance, Lucrezia brushed the limestone dust from her fingertips. The bells of Santo Stefano began to ring as they left the Piazza della Pieve behind, and soon the steady tolling from every corner of the city filled the air as Lucrezia walked slowly beside her sister without speaking.

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

With the Feast of the Sacred Belt only two days away, the city of Prato was bustling with preparations. Bakers kneaded dough and shaped corded rolls, butchers quartered smoked meats, youngsters readied their costumes and practiced their dances, candlemakers brought out their best beeswax, and shopkeepers doubled their wares for the visitors who would flood the narrow streets.

The belt was honored on four other days in the year, but never with the pomp and celebration that accompanied the
Festa della Sacra Cintola
on the Virgin Mary's Feast Day on the eighth of September. On this day the gold reliquary would be opened, the Holy Belt of the Virgin displayed from the pulpit of Santo Stefano, and all of Tuscany would turn its eyes toward the city. There would be games as well as prayers, and every nun and monk in Prato would raise their voices in praise of the Holy Virgin.

At the Convent Santa Margherita, Sister Maria chopped cheese and raisins to make the traditional stuffed eggs, the nuns rehearsed the psalms they would chant, and on a rare visit to the kitchen, Sister Pureza prepared the herbs that would be rolled into savory cakes the sisters would eat in the evening after the
festa
.

Alone in her chambers while the others worked furiously, Prior
ess Bartolommea pulled the wooden box holding the
Sacra Cintola
out from under her cot and knelt before it.

“Blessed Mother,” she prayed in a shrill voice. “Smile down on us in recognition of all that I—and the others—have done in your Holy Name.”

The prioress stayed on her knees through the morning, ignoring the call to prayer, the knocks on her door, and even the gruff voice of Sister Pureza, asking if she needed a tincture to revive her energy.

“No,” the prioress called, raking her fingers through her gray hair. “Leave me be, I need solitude for my prayers.”

She ignored the bell at the gate, which rang incessantly with second requests for cream from the dairy man, and many extra deliveries for the kitchen. The prioress had only two more days before the belt would be secreted back to the church and returned to the reliquary, and she'd yet to see the blessings it was said to bring.

Fearing that she might have been tricked with a forgery, the good mother waited until she'd heard the prayer for Nones. Then she lifted the wooden lid and carefully held the soft folds of the belt between her fingers. She felt the worn goat's wool and studied the golden stitches that had circled the waist of the Blessed Mother. It seemed real enough, she thought. And yet she felt nothing.

 

W
ith a heavy heart Lucrezia worked in the
giardino,
picking through the prickly rosemary that tore at her fingertips. She could hear the nuns practicing their vocals for the
festa
parade, and Lucrezia was glad that it was too late for her to learn the notes for the procession. She preferred to be alone with her thoughts in the garden, where tender shoots of ferns poked between the bricks and there were no demands that couldn't be resolved by propping a stick or snipping a branch.

She was cutting a shoot of rosemary when the shadow of the prioress fell across the ground where she knelt.

“Sister Lucrezia, I wish to introduce you to Prior General Ludovico di Saviano, the head of our order.”

Lucrezia brushed her hands on her robe, and stood. The sun was behind the prioress, putting her in silhouette. Lucrezia could barely make out the face of the tall man next to Prioress Bartolommea, but knew by the finely cut black robes and tall headpiece that he was a worldly man. Lucrezia lowered her eyes.

“God's grace to you, Prior General,” she said softly.

“Are you the novitiate who has been going to Fra Filippo's workshop?” the man asked in a sharp voice.

Startled, Lucrezia looked at the prioress, but the woman's wimple obscured her face.

“There is no need to look to Mother Bartolommea,” said Prior General Saviano. “She has shared everything with me. I only wish to be reassured that you have gone willingly, and that you have not been compromised.”

The man's head moved left and right as he spoke, and after a moment he blocked the sun so that she could see his face, the angry look about his eyes. He was nothing like the painter; he was stern, with an air of entitlement. Lucrezia nodded.

“Is there anything you wish to say about the monk, or the circumstances of your visits with him?”

Images from the
bottega
came rushing to her: the Virgin's golden halo, the painter's brush flying across the canvas, the soft sound of his pencil on parchment. Lucrezia shook her head faintly.

“Nothing?” the man asked, this time perhaps a bit more patiently.

She remained silent, struggling to hide her nerves. When the man
spoke again, he enunciated his words clearly and she heard the years of seminary training in his diction.

“I welcome you to the convent, Sister Lucrezia. I will keep you in my prayers.”

He turned, and the prioress ran after him to keep up with his long strides as he left the garden and walked into the grassy patch behind the chapel.

 

“Prioress Bartolommea.” The prior general's voice was cold. “I do not approve of the unconventional practices you allow in Santa Margherita. If I hadn't received notice from Provost Inghirami, I would have had no idea you'd allowed the novitiates to go into Prato.”

Prioress Bartolommea stared up at the prior general's profile, but what she saw in her mind was the altarpiece she'd been promised, and the small wooden box hidden under her bed.

“I can assure you it was out of my hands,” she stammered. “The arrangements were made at the explicit request of the Medici.”

“You should have come to me out of respect.”

“Of course,” said the prioress. “You have my apologies, Prior General.”

“I trust your dealings with the Medici in this matter are finished,” the cleric said.

“Perhaps,” Prioress Bartolommea said tentatively, for she knew that a Medici messenger would arrive the following morning to retrieve the belt. “Of course, we do have other business with the Medici, Your Grace.”

“What other business can you have with the Medici of Florence?” Saviano snapped. “Santa Margherita is our humblest cloister.”

“We've been praying for them,” the prioress said. “For their concerns in Prato, especially those of Ser Cantansanti.”

Prior General Saviano stared at her.

“Yes.” The prioress nodded. “We've been praying for Fra Filippo's timely delivery of the altarpiece to the King of Naples, so that peace may reign between men.”

The prior general shook his head in disgust, and waved for his carriage.

“See that the souls in your care remain so,” he said. “Pray for
that
.”

 

T
hree loud raps sounded on Fra Filippo's door and startled the painter.

“Aspetta!”
the monk yelled, wiping his hands on his apron and pushing back his stool as he stood. “Wait.”

He was expecting Niccolo, the butcher boy, bringing his monthly supplies of ox bones to be ground into binder for the paint. Annoyed at the disturbance, Fra Filippo swung open the door, a sour look on his face. Prior General Ludovico di Saviano filled the doorway.

“Wait?” Saviano asked icily. “What should I wait for?”

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Fra Filippo said, recovering from the surprise. “Pardon and welcome.”

He stepped aside quickly, allowing the prior general to enter. As he turned, his heart sank. If only he'd known Saviano was coming he could have gathered up the drawings of Lucrezia, and covered the sketch for the altarpiece.

“I was lost in my work, and not expecting anyone, Prior General. Of course, you're always welcome.”

“All right.” Prior General Saviano responded with an air of impatience. “And how is your work going, Fra Filippo?”

“I suppose you mean the frescoes at Santo Stefano?” Fra Filippo asked. “It's been going rather slowly, but with two new assistants,
the pace has picked up in these last weeks. Praise God.”

“New assistants?” Saviano shook his head. “I'm certain the provost told me your budget allows only for two, Filippo. You'll dismiss the others at once.”

Including Young Marco and Fra Diamante, he had four assistants at Santo Stefano, all paid directly by the
Comune di Prato,
in accordance with the terms of his contract. The monk opened his mouth to speak, but Saviano waved his hand irritably and moved on.

“I've heard there are things of great interest going on in Santo Stefano,” the prior general said. He ran his hand along the heavy table where the painter had his jars of colors and supplies. “But I see you have plenty to keep you busy right here in your
bottega
.”

Prior General Saviano eyed the dried jar of green paint, the dirty rags, and the piles of parchment. Scanning the room, he fixed on the detailed sketch for the Medici altarpiece and saw the face of the novitiate he'd met at Santa Margherita's that morning. She was drawn kneeling in a fine gown that exposed her lovely collarbones, her arms in sleeves covered with tiny flowers, her hair wrapped in a
benda
. Every inch of Sister Lucrezia's face had been rendered faithfully, but seen through a veil of such love that she no longer looked entirely mortal.

Fra Filippo registered the shock on Prior General Saviano's face.

“I've begun the altarpiece in earnest now,” the painter said quickly. “The Medici have been keeping the pressure on me and the prioress was kind enough to send me a model to hasten the work along.”

“Why, yes, Brother Filippo, I am aware that Sister Lucrezia has been here several times, walking the streets of Prato for all to see.”

The monk made a gesture as if to speak, but Saviano raised his voice and continued.

“Today, I've had the pleasure of making the novitiate's acquaintance.”

“Then it's no surprise why I've asked her to sit for these portraits. She makes a very fine Virgin.”

“Certainly,” the prior general agreed. “But to have her here is improper, and a mockery of my Order. I will not have it.”

“I've done nothing wrong.” The monk struggled to avoid the appearance of guilt. “At the request of the Medici, I've commenced work on a magnificent altarpiece, one that sings the Madonna's praises. If she's beautiful, it is a reflection of the purity and beauty within the novitiate and the Mother.”

“Filippo, you, of all men, can ill afford even the whisper of indiscretion. And I will not tolerate it.”

Fra Filippo had known Lucrezia's visits to his
bottega
would end; the prior general was only announcing the inevitable. And though he felt it might break his heart, Fra Filippo could do nothing but bow to Saviano's orders. Even the Medici's influence would go no further to secure their meetings when anyone could see that he had more than captured the young woman's likeness already, many times over.

“Your will is done, Prior General. I'll not see the novitiate here again.”

Satisfied, and weary from his long morning, Prior General Saviano prepared to leave. But as he turned to exit the workshop, the flowered sleeve of a
cotta
caught his eye from under the crooked top of a wooden chest. His robes rippled as he walked to the storage box and lifted the top. A deep purple dress with flowered sleeves lay crumpled in a pile. Gingerly, he lifted the dress. A
benda
and a pair of silk stockings fell out of its folds.

The prior general swung around and stared at the sketch of Lucrezia, his eyes moving back and forth from her image to the pile of wrinkled clothing in the chest. A purple, as deep as that of the gown, spread on his cheeks and climbed to the tip of his forehead.

“Ah, now I see,” the prior general said softly. He held the
benda
up to his face, and inhaled a long breath of chamomile.

“You see nothing at all,” Fra Filippo snarled in disgust. “What can you see?”

Prior General Saviano took the
benda
and held it in front of the sketch. He held the empty silken
cotta,
and ran it through his hands as if it were a naked woman's skin.

“You're even more clever than I thought, Fra Filippo. I hope you've enjoyed her while it lasted.”

The monk felt his rage flame. He reached for the garments.

“I'm painting her for the glory of Florence. It is my duty.”

The cleric flared his nostrils, like a steed at the start of a long run, and gripped the finery in his thick palms.

“What's in your mind is wrong,” Fra Filippo said heatedly as he tore the garments from the prior general's fists.

“What is in my mind is not the issue, Fratello.” Saviano stood shoulder to shoulder with the monk. “What is at issue is what is in
your
mind. This will not go unpunished, I assure you.”

The prior general strode angrily from the
bottega,
slamming the door fiercely behind him. Fra Filippo watched a tumbler fall from the easel, his hands just barely missing it before it hit the ground and cracked into a dozen pieces.

 

L
ucrezia sorted the birthwort, her mind on the chaplain and the man who'd come into the garden that morning. Fra Filippo was a monk of formidable talents and skills, and this made people humble in his presence. But the man who'd been in the garden today seemed to be someone whose power could overwhelm both friend and foe.

“The work goes well today, I see,” Sister Pureza remarked.

Lucrezia paused only a moment to greet her mentor.

“You're lucky you won't be singing the psalms in the
festa,
” Sister Pureza said. “It's a strain to memorize new psalms each year, only to forget them by Advent.”