The Miracles of Prato (6 page)

Tuesday of the Tenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

A glance at the fine steed tied just beyond his window confirmed Fra Filippo's fears: Ser Francesco Cantansanti had arrived.

Casting a hurried glance around his workshop, the painter considered making some order of the chaos. But the emissary had come to see his progress on the altarpiece for King Alfonso of Naples, and no empty showing of methodical workmanship would make up for his procrastination now.

“Ser Francesco.” Fra Filippo flung open his door and greeted the emissary with a smile. “You've come for the
festa
!”

“Brother Lippi
.
” Cantansanti nodded. He cut an elegant figure in his
farsetto
and the bright
calze,
silk stockings.
“Buongiorno.”

Unlatching his cape, Ser Francesco stepped into the
bottega.
He smiled slightly, remembering the year the great Cosimo had ordered Fra Filippo locked into his country workshop so he would finish a commission instead of roaming the streets at the devil's hour in search of prostitutes.

“The altarpiece?” he asked Fra Filippo without delay. “What is your progress? Cosimo wishes to set a date for Naples.”

“Yes, yes, there's plenty of time to discuss these matters. First, my friend, can we share a glass of wine?”

The monk held out his jug, but the emissary shook his head. Fra Filippo took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, what of it?” Cantansanti looked around the cluttered workshop. “They're awaiting news of your progress in Florence. Where is it?”

There was no use stalling. Fra Filippo knew from the past that gamesmanship would only anger the emissary.

“It's not quite ready to be seen.”

“Not quite ready?” Cantansanti raised his voice. “Why not? Do you think the Medici will wait forever?”

“The wings have been started.” To his own surprise, Fra Filippo sounded calm. He could see Ser Francesco scanning the room, looking for signs of the altarpiece. “Please, let me show them to you.”

The painter pulled the draped linens off two rectangular panels, each half as high as a man.

“Look,” he said. “I've done as Giovanni and Cosimo instructed. Saint Michael's golden hair and silver armor shine like a Greek warrior's.”

“Bella.”
The emissary pursed his lips as he studied the carefully executed painting of Saint Michael, and the portrait of kindly Saint Anthony Abbot. “
Molto bene.
And the Blessed Mother? Surely you've transferred the sketch onto poplar by now?”

“Not yet,” the monk admitted. “But the sketches for the central panel have been expanded, and the
disegno
is finished.”

“
Per l'amore di Dio,
Filippo, stop stalling. I don't wish to bring an ill report back to Florence.”

He stared at the monk. Outside, the sun had burned through the morning haze, and the men heard the horse braying.

“I'm staying at the home of Ottavio de' Valenti until the
Festa della Cintola.
I'll be keeping a close watch on you.”

As Cantansanti walked slowly back through the
bottega
he paused in front of de' Valenti's
Madonna and Child
.

“This is splendid,” he said, leaning closer to look at the lines of the face, the clear blue eyes. “The Madonna is exceptional—you must do the same for the Medici, Fratello. Remember who your greatest patrons are!”

 

Fra Filippo sank onto a stool, the bottom of his cassock creating a pool of white as he lifted the jug of wine to his lips and emptied it.

He felt the terrible weight of his obligations pressing down on him, and the painter recognized the feeling: it was exactly this burden that had plagued him the year before, when he'd been overwhelmed with commissions and in debt to his assistant for the grand sum of one thousand lire.

With no way of paying Giovanni di Francesco de Cervelliera, Fra Filippo had issued a false payment receipt, and the indignant assistant had brought charges against him. Soldiers of the court of the Archiepiscopal Curia had come for the monk that Monday morning in May as he was getting ready to put the details on a small
Nativity
. Two men seized him by the arms and dragged him before Antonino the Good, Bishop of Florence, where the painter was pronounced guilty almost before he could protest, and sentenced to a punishment of thirty lashes.

Stunned, he'd been carried directly into the jail and stripped of his robe. The monk's pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears, and the lash cut into his back cruelly. Afterward he was thrown into a cell, where he composed elaborate altarpiece designs in his head and dreamed of his mother's face, picturing her as the Virgin of his altarpieces, the Madonna of his private heaven, to keep himself from despair. On the fourth day of his imprisonment, Fra Filippo was awakened from a troubled sleep by a jailer who thrust before him a scroll containing the signature and wax seal of Cosimo de' Medici.

“Get up,” the jailer said. “You're leaving.”

Fra Filippo was eternally indebted to Cosimo. The powerful patron had saved his skin and paid his debts. He'd arranged for the painter to return to his work on the Prato frescoes, and helped in his appointment as chaplain of Santa Margherita.

Now, Cosimo and his son, Giovanni, wanted results. They wanted what Fra Filippo had promised: a glorious and newly imagined composition of the Madonna worshiping her babe in nature, in the forest, as no one had ever painted Mother and Child before. The idea was there, the sketches made. But the fulfillment of this vision required inspiration, and a work for the king of Naples demanded unsurpassed majesty to secure the future of Florence.

Fra Filippo felt his stomach churn, and wished for a soothing infusion from the herb garden of Santa Margherita. Shaken, he turned his face toward the window and caught a view of the small panel with the Madonna's face, her blue eyes.

“Lucrezia,” he whispered.

The painter envisioned Lucrezia's face on the altarpiece. He saw her ivory skin, her golden hair set under a delicate
benda
. He saw the Virgin kneeling in the woods, sunlight dappling the ground where the Child lay.

The picture came alive in his head, so that he could almost hear the finches in the trees, smell the citrus and eucalyptus in the thick groves surrounding the virgin Lucrezia. Of course, Lucrezia was the answer to his prayers. If she could grace the central panel of his triptych for the Medici, the painter knew he could complete it with all the glory worthy of a king.

But as Fra Filippo meditated on the scene, it seemed to dissolve into an abyss.

To paint the Virgin in the forest, as he imagined her, Fra Filippo
would need to gaze upon Lucrezia's face in full daylight. He would need her to sit for him as a model sat for a master, in his studio, where his paints and pigments and the heavy wooden panels were at his disposal during the high morning sun. He would need the impossible, for truly this would be not only difficult but improper. Unless he could make a plea to the prioress, and offer her something formidable in return for her consent, a novitiate would never be permitted to visit him here in his
bottega
.

 

P
rioress Bartolommea de' Bovacchiesi was having a hard week. The rain wasn't plentiful, late summer sun was baking the ground, and she feared the convent's vegetable garden wouldn't yield a bountiful harvest. She'd received notice from Florence that Prior General Saviano would be spending eight nights in their hostel before and after the
Festa della Sacra Cintola,
and preparations had to be made. In addition, Sister Simona had broken out in a rash of strange pustules and been replaced in the kitchen by Sister Bernadetta, who had neither the skill nor the patience for turning out perfect rolls or rich black bread.

Dipping her stylus in a pot of ink, the prioress looked out the small window of her study and saw a large white mass moving toward her building.

“
Benedicte,
Mother,” Fra Filippo said softly as he pushed open the door. “I pray I'm not disturbing you.”

Mother Bartolommea took in the artist at a glance. His jaw had a trace of graying stubble, his corded belt sat crooked above his waist. Although it was midmorning, he looked as if he'd just dressed, and in haste.

“No, Brother Filippo, of course you may enter.”

Unlike the novitiates, the prioress made it a point to meet the gaze of the men who stepped onto the grounds of Santa Margherita.

“
Per piacere,
do begin,” she said with a hint of impatience.

“Thank you, Madre.” Fra Filippo lowered himself slowly onto a narrow chair, his large frame overflowing the seat. “I've come to ask your concordance in a rather unusual request.”

Prioress Bartolommea's dark eyebrows lifted, her wimple moving slightly with the motion.

“Of course I don't ask this on my own behalf, but in the name of His Excellency, Cosimo de' Medici, may the good Lord Jesus Christ bless and honor him.”

The prioress nodded.

“As you are aware, the Medici have entrusted me with the commission for an altarpiece that is intended for King Alfonso of Naples.” Fra Filippo paused so that the significance of these names might be impressed upon the prioress. “The fashion of the day is to work directly from life. It's said that soon all the best painters will require a model to sit for them. Only with the beauty of God's children right before our eyes, can one truly capture life.”

Guardedly, Fra Filippo watched the expression on the prioress's features turn to surprise. He continued.

“In his own painting of the Blessed Virgin, Saint Luke shows her as a young woman with a sweet countenance. So I would have it be for my painting, Prioress. Clearly, if one is already fair of face, the task is that much easier, for the painter need not deviate much from the work of God.”

Anticipating rejection, the painter quickened his speech.

“I humbly ask your permission, therefore, to copy the face of the novitiate Sister Lucrezia. She is young and fair and would be a fitting model for the Madonna. You are aware, of course, that my work must
be done in my
bottega,
where I have my paints and tools at my disposal. It's the same for all the great masters who've paved the way before me. I believe it would please Cosimo—”

“What?” The prioress's eyes widened.

“I beg your indulgence, Mother. I wish only to create the most powerful work for the glory of Florence. With a model before me, my work would surely go quickly. My workshop—”

“Per l'amore di Dio!”
Prioress Bartolomeo sputtered. “Would you have me violate the sacred rules of the
claustrum,
the very rules of modesty and sanctity laid down by Saint Augustine himself?”

The prioress's voice grew louder. “Fra Filippo, here at Santa Margherita we do not answer to Cosimo de' Medici, or to the King of Naples. We have only one master, Jesus Christ, Lord and King. I'll not have love of earthly riches destroy the good name of this convent!”

Fra Filippo pressed on. He'd seen her ire many times before, and the stout woman didn't intimidate him.

“I've clearly upset you, but in God's name, please believe I hope only to bring a greater glory upon Prato and upon this convent, of which I am a humble servant,” he said. “I may be able to offer you a substantial repayment, and as with the prayers and words I recite here, my aim is to glorify God through my painting. Perhaps I have been misunderstood.”

“It seems you are often misunderstood, Fra Filippo.” The prioress spoke so quickly, she barely registered the monk's mention of substantial payment. “As in the courts of Bishop Antonino.”

At her stinging remark, Fra Filippo rose from the chair. Immediately, the prioress became acutely aware of his imposing size and recalled the force of his anger.

“I've spoken out of turn, Chaplain. I apologize.” She resisted the
urge to speak hastily. “My worry over your request has loosened my tongue. Today, in these wretched times, a novitiate can ill afford any stain connected to her name.”

“You needn't worry, Madre,” Fra Filippo responded stiffly. “You've made yourself perfectly clear.”

 

R
eaching the grand palazzo of Ottavio de' Valenti, where Ser Francesco Cantansanti was staying, the painter stopped to catch his breath. The building's beautiful orange and blue tiles glowed in the dusky light and Fra Filippo admired their rich glaze as he lifted the brass knocker and waited for a servant to open the door.

“You've come with good news, my friend?” The merchant wore a costly black tunic trimmed in silk, and his arms were outstretched as he strode down the grand staircase.

“
Si, si,
your painting is completed,” the monk said assuredly. “The final touches of
cinabrese
are drying now.”

“Fabulous, maestro.” The thick-haired merchant clasped a bejeweled hand over the painter's own. “I know my wife's spirits will be lifted when she sees your exquisite work. Please, I was just about to take my midday meal. Won't you join us?”

Fra Filippo was gratified to see Ser Francesco Cantansanti at the table in de' Valenti's inner courtyard, surrounded by potted lemon trees, flowers, and a bubbling fountain. The monk greeted Ser Francesco with the necessary bows, which the emissary accepted with an arched eyebrow.

“Only a day has passed,” Ser Francesco said. “Surely you haven't finished the altarpiece already?”

“No, but I've found my inspiration, Your Emissary,” the monk said. “You will have a masterpiece fit for a king.”