Monday of the Tenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456
Fra Filippo Lippi sat beneath the window in his bottega and studied the nearly finished Madonna and Child for Ottavio de’ Valenti. The likeness was breathtaking. He knew he should disguise the resemblance to Sister Lucrezia, but the Virgin’s expression was flawless, her features exquisite. Even her high brow, as suited a woman of great intelligence, couldn’t be altered, for this would change the face that illuminated all the Virgin knew, and all she understood. He needed only some madder for the Virgin’s lips and the jewels on her crown, perhaps the smallest bit of lapis lazuli to enhance the blue of her eyes. In all else, this Madonna was perfect.
Hanging his worn leather pouch from his corded belt, Fra Filippo set out for the convent. Heading toward Via Santa Margherita, he passed an old prostitute who lived with her twisted arm in a sling, shunned now by all but the meanest men. As the friar said a silent prayer for the aged peddler of sin, he wondered at the fates that led some women to God, and others to Satan.
I’ve seen this in my father’s garden,” Lucrezia said to Sister Pureza, holding soft dill needles in the flat of her hand. “And this,” she said, fingering the sharp rosemary spikes. “This I know from Beatrice’s bread.”
Lucrezia held a sprig of rosemary to her nose. The air was filled with the scent of crushed herbs. The heat had broken, and it was very soothing to be in the garden.
“Rosemary is used in the infirmary as well as in the kitchen.” Sister Pureza bent slowly and snapped a sprig from the healthy bush. “It clears the head of all weakness and aches, and may be rubbed vigorously on the hands and feet to chase away pain. But married women must always take care, for too much of it can rid the womb of its blessed contents.”
As the old woman examined the herb bush, Lucrezia studied her with quiet envy. In her time at the convent, Lucrezia’s bleeding had not come as expected, and she wondered, not for the first time, if the Virgin in her wisdom had chosen to spare her from the monthly curse so that she might sooner become a placid older woman, like Sister Pureza.
Except during prayer and mealtime, or when someone needed her attention in the infirmary, Sister Pureza could always be found in the herb garden, tending the plants that served the body, the spirit, and the mind. Always, as now, she appeared to be fully absorbed in her task.
“Many herbs have more than one use,” Sister Pureza said. “It’s our duty to find the purpose God intends for each plant, in each instance, and then serve His will.”
The garden was nearing the full bloom of late summer. The quince trees were heavy with young fruit, and the lavender spikes were just breaking into purple blossom. The stone birdbath was filled with small sparrows, sunflowers poked merry faces over the garden wall, and colorful hummingbirds hovered in the air collecting the last of the hollyhock nectar. There was a city of more than four thousand souls beyond the convent gates, but here they enjoyed the quiet solitude of a country garden, and the fragrant air took Lucrezia back to the carefree summers she’d spent at the family’s small farmhouse above the hills of Lucca. Her life then had been filled with simple joys: planting pole beans and red peppers, packing fresh fruit preserves in terra-cotta jars, and climbing in the small vigneto with its clusters of deep purple grapes.
“Buckthorn is used primarily by the artisans, to obtain a deep green,” Sister Pureza said as she showed Lucrezia how to take each branch gently in hand and find the place where it was nubbed. She trimmed carefully, shaping the unruly bush into a plump mound. Then she gave Lucrezia another set of iron shears, and the two worked side by side until Sister Simona appeared at the garden hedge, pale and silent in the bright sun.
“I’ll attend to our Sister Simona, while you keep at your work,” Sister Pureza said.
Lucrezia looked on as Sister Simona raised her arm to show a pustule of lumps on her skin.
“You aren’t fevered,” the old nun said to the thin one, putting a hand to her brow. “Perhaps it’s something in the lye or ash from the washroom. I’m sure I have a poultice that will soothe this.”
She ushered Sister Simona into the cool infirmary, leaving Lucrezia alone in the garden.
The friar swung open the low gate of the herb garden, and the back of a nun’s black robe caught his eye. Only when he saw the delicate hand pruning the boxwood leaves did he realize it was Lucrezia.
She turned at the sound of the latch.
“Benedicte, Sister Lucrezia. Do I disturb you on this fine morning?”
Although she’d been working for hours, Lucrezia looked as fresh as dawn as she knelt beside the bush. Beside her was a basket filled with leaves.
“Buongiorno, Brother Filippo, and God’s grace to you.” Lucrezia ducked her head respectfully, and stood. Even at a distance, she could feel the energy that radiated from him. “I’m afraid Sister Pureza is tending an ailment.”
“Who is ill?”
“It’s nothing serious, only a rash on Sister Simona’s skin. Would you like to wait?”
Lucrezia glanced toward the bench along the garden wall.
“I’m sure I can locate what I need,” Fra Filippo said. He was a bold man but found himself subdued in the presence of this young woman. “And I’ll have to ask Sister Pureza for what I need from the apothecary, for she’s very jealous of her careful storage system.”
Lucrezia looked up at Fra Filippo, avoiding his face but eyeing his white robe and the leather pouch that resembled the one her father’s master dyer had carried. She remembered the delight his Coronation had offered her that first morning at the convent, and cringed at the intimacy of her tearful confession only days ago. Already the monk knew much about her, and she felt an urge to hurry him out of the garden.
“Maybe I can help you, Fratello,” she said softly. “What have you come for this morning?”
Fra Filippo paused and smiled. Yes, he believed his painting caught the likeness of the novitiate very well. He looked quickly at her eyes, pleased to note they were as he’d remembered, with many shades of blue and even a hint of green sparkling in the sunlight.
“Lavender,” he said. “And woad. I’ll need the woad today, as it takes some time to ferment.”
“Yes, it does,” Lucrezia answered, flushing brightly at the mention of the fermenting process.
Fra Filippo saw she was biting her lip.
“I think you may know something about woad, Sister Lucrezia, although I can’t imagine how or why.”
It was true. Lucrezia knew that urine was needed to ferment the woad to its fine blue hue, and remembered her father’s workers drinking their fill of beer and wine when the supply of woad arrived each year. She’d been told that the alcohol they expelled with their frothy golden urine provided just the right bath in which to soak the woad so it released its deep blue dye.
“My father,” Lucrezia said uneasily. “He used woad to dye the blue silks in his shop.”
Of course Fra Filippo remembered that Lucrezia’s father had been a silk merchant. In fact, he remembered everything about Sister Lucrezia.
“Ah, yes,” said Fra Filippo. “And are you familiar with other herbs, as well?”
“Yes, Fratello.” Lucrezia nodded. “My father taught me what he could about dyes. He knew a great deal.”
“Yellow,” he said, curious to learn what else she knew. “I also need something for yellow.”
“Back home we used saffron.” The reply came to Lucrezia easily, for her father often had tested her knowledge in a game that went much like this one. “But I know it’s very costly. The weld will yield a good yellow, too. I can gather some for you. Or better still,” she said quickly, for in spite of herself, she was pleased to be showing off her knowledge. “Some margherita.”
Both turned their eyes to the rich clusters of golden margherita that grew in the southern corner of the garden, and their gazes met. Margherita. Santa Margherita. Although he’d never seen it, Fra Filippo was suddenly sure that Lucrezia’s hair was the exact color of margherita.
“Dandelion is abundant in the meadow, and if you soak it for as long as you can the magenta will be almost as deep as your cinabrese,” Lucrezia said. Her discomfort faded, and words spilled off her tongue almost as easily as they had at home as she pointed to various leaves and plants.
Listening to her lovely voice, Fra Filippo was struck with a desire to fold back her wimple and then to paint her exactly as she was at this moment, a beautiful virgin in a garden clausura.
“Boxwood makes a fine green, Fratello, and we’ve been trimming it just today. Perhaps you’d like to take some of the leaves?” Lucrezia looked up and saw that the monk’s attention had wandered. “But I’ve gone on too long, Brother Filippo, forgive me, I was carried away with myself. Let me get you what you came for.” She bent clumsily to reach for a branch of lavender.
“No,” Fra Filippo said a bit too quickly. “Per piacere. Go on. Your learning is impressive.”
“Truly?” She responded earnestly. “I remember what you told me, Fratello, that the world is a speculum majus, a mirror of the Lord’s kingdom. It eases me to think of this when I work, and when I pray I remind myself that everything is a mirror of God’s miracles.”
Lucrezia opened her palms in a small gesture meant to include the garden, the sky, the chaste berry, and even the heavy shears she’d been using to prune the bushes. For the first time since their meeting, Lucrezia smiled a real smile and met Fra Filippo’s blue eyes.
“Fra Filippo.” She spoke his name too quietly for the painter to hear. Then, adding volume to her voice, she said, “I’m very honored to help you in my humble way.”
Fra Filippo saw her smile in relief and in shadow, and was imagining how he would capture it when the bell began to ring, calling the nuns to prayers.
“Already!” he cried, looking up at the sun’s position in the sky and turning away. “I’ll have to return after the prayers. I haven’t yet gathered any supplies.”
As he rushed from the garden, Sister Pureza emerged from the infirmary and stood beside Lucrezia.
“Fra Filippo must have a great many needs today,” the nun said quietly.
“Yes, he was waiting for you.” Lucrezia resisted the urge to glance at her face. “He said you guard the herbs carefully.”
“Indeed.” The older nun turned her eyes upon Lucrezia, and the young woman saw they were veiled. “I guard this garden and everything in it with great care. A gardener must be sure her plantings are not trampled or harmed by a careless hand.”
The bell was still pealing. Sister Pureza took the shears from Lucrezia, and placed them carefully in the basket of boxwood trimmings.
“Andiamo,” the old woman said, turning to lead the way out of the garden. “It’s time.”