The Miracles of Prato (17 page)

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.”

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.

“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.”

 

S
orella, 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.”

 

W
hen 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.”