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.
The 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.”
Fra 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.
When 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.
“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 nevertheless 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 lingered. 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.