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, Prioress 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.
With 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.”
Three 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.
Lucrezia 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.”
The old nun lowered herself onto the bench alongside the novitiate, took up a fistful of the birthwort, and began to snap the leaves and stems. Her wrists were thick and her movements less limber than Lucrezia’s, but her fingertips knew just where to find the joint of the leaves and she made quick work of it, falling into the side-by-side rhythm that the novitiate had come to enjoy.
“There’s a full moon,” Sister Pureza said after a long silence.
Lucrezia looked up and followed the nun’s gaze. She’d caught only the sliver of the moon through her window, and was surprised to see it brightly visible in the blue sky to the east.
“I’ve had word from the de’ Valenti house that the child is coming.”
“Yes?”
“Before I came to the convent I’d received some training as a midwife. After the dark days”—Sister Pureza made the sign of the cross as she thought of the terror of the plague—“there were few of us left in Prato who knew these female ways, and I was called upon to assist at many partum bedsides. I’ve attended many difficult births since that time.”
She kept her hands moving steadily as she spoke. “Signora Teresa de’ Valenti and her husband are generous friends of the convent, and this will be the good wife’s seventh labor.”
Lucrezia shivered at the memory of her sister’s partum screams.
“I’ll need the birthwort, and some licorice root. And I’ll need an assistant with me at the palazzo,” Sister Pureza said. “I shall bring you.”
Lucrezia gasped, dropping the herbs she held in her hands.
“But I’m not trained in midwifery,” she exclaimed. “I have no knowledge of childbirth.”
“Your training has already begun,” Sister Pureza said. “Birthwort, for the bleeding. Vervain, for the humors. Sage for purification, wintergreen for the pain.”
“But there’s so much more,” Lucrezia said. “So much more that I don’t know.”
“You’ll learn,” Sister Pureza said. “It’s sharp medicine for a young woman to see the pain of childbirth, even a young woman bound for the veil.”
A flash of white cloth moved on the other side of the cloister garden and caught Lucrezia’s eye. She tore her gaze from Sister Pureza’s and peered through the cloister arches, hoping for a glimpse of Fra Filippo. Seeing the look that passed across the young woman’s face, Sister Pureza turned also, and saw the cleric. But it was not Fra Filippo. The man’s robes were black, ornamented with a white vestment that waved as he walked briskly toward the refectory.
“The prior general,” Sister Pureza said, squinting across the hedge and past the wall of the barn, to where the man hurried in the direction of the prioress’s study. “I saw his horse earlier.”
“Yes, he arrived this morning, when you were practicing the psalms with the others,” Lucrezia said. “Mother Bartolommea brought him to the garden.”
“The prior general was here, in my garden?”
Sister Pureza always found the prior general’s presence disturbing. He lingered too long in the refectory after meals, and stayed in the convent’s guest room longer than necessary while he dined with important merchants in Prato. In short, he seemed far more concerned with power than with piety.
“Yes. He asked me about the chaplain.” Lucrezia avoided saying the painter’s name aloud, and spared herself the fluster that came at his mention. “He seemed to be agitated.”
“Agitated?” Sister Pureza leaned forward, her face puzzled.
Lucrezia saw the prior general’s abrupt movement as he crossed the courtyard, and felt a stab of apprehension. But she was with Sister Pureza, and took comfort in the old woman’s presence even after the cleric disappeared from their sight.
“No. I spoke out of turn, Sister,” Lucrezia said, shaking her head. “He was only in a hurry. We spoke briefly, for barely a moment, and then he was gone.”
“Never mind,” Sister Pureza instructed. “We have much to think about, not the least of which is our duty at the Valenti palazzo. After Terce you must pack your things, and be ready to go with me when we are summoned.”
Sister Pureza came for Lucrezia after dark, swiftly whisking her to the de’ Valenti carriage that waited in the courtyard. The streets were empty, and they quickly arrived at the fine palazzo that filled an entire block on Via Banchelli, the golden hue of its stone exterior illuminated by lanterns.
A servant in a blue cap greeted the women and led them through a low back door. They passed through a busy kitchen with rough beams painted with intricate patterns of red and green. Although it was a mild evening, a bright fire blazed.
Following the servant up a narrow stair lit by a chain of sconces, the nuns entered the private appartamento of the Valenti family and were ushered into Signora Teresa’s elaborate birthing chamber.
“Grazie, Maria,” Signora Teresa cried as soon as she saw them. Her face was puffed and she was sitting in her large bed propped against a mound of pillows and surrounded by five women: two serving her, two related by blood, plus the midwife who’d been in charge until Sister Pureza’s arrival. Robust under her white cuffia da parto, Signora Teresa groaned.
“Not a moment too soon,” she cried. “My waters have already come.”
Lucrezia looked around the chamber that had been prepared for the lady’s confinement and spared no expense. It was furnished with an enormous carved chest upon which sat a luminous maiolica pitcher, heavy gold silk curtains that hung around the bed and covered the windows, and the sedia da parto, the birthing chair, which stood in a place of honor next to the fireplace. On the other side of the room a large cassone, decorated with images of Venus, stood open, more sheets and linens visible in its deep recesses.
“Sister Pureza—” Signora Teresa’s sentence was cut off by a spasm that took her breath away.
The old nun withdrew a sage smudge stick from her bag and lit it. She handed the smoking herbs to Lucrezia, and instructed her to walk the perimeter of the room to cleanse the air. Lucrezia did as she was told, keeping her face turned away from the laboring woman even as she breathed in the smell of her sweat, sharp and fetid under the perfume of lavender water.
“Mother of God,” the woman moaned.
“Recite your Ave Maria,” Sister Pureza instructed the woman. “Put your mind on your prayers.”
The pains were only minutes apart, and Sister Pureza was worried. The younger midwife knelt in a corner of the room, holding a pair of forceps in her hand.
“Dear Mother in Heaven,” the woman in the partum bed screamed. Her hair was matted, her teeth gritted together. Sister Pureza turned to see dark, clotted blood gush from between the mother’s legs.
Quickly, the old nun grabbed a towel and a flask from her bag. She warmed her hands by the fire and took a bit of liniment in her palms, rubbing them briskly together. She carried a copy of the Practica Secundum Trotam in her bag, but it had been years since she’d needed it. She knew where to lay her hands on the laboring mother, how to apply the ointment to the perineum, and where to massage the woman’s belly to help the child through the birth canal.
She worked confidently, using her fingers to measure the woman’s opening, counting the duration of the spasms, keeping her palms on the mother’s body. Signora de’ Valenti groaned again and her belly hardened, her hands flailing for something to hold on to. Sister Pureza spoke to Lucrezia in a deep, strong voice.
“Stand next to her. Let her take your hand.”
Lucrezia moved quickly, positioning herself next to the bedpost for support and reaching out for the mother. The woman grabbed hold of her hand and screamed. The howl frightened Lucrezia.
“It’s all right,” Lucrezia said, as much to console herself as to console the woman. “We’re here with you.”
Signora de’ Valenti looked up and saw Lucrezia’s face—the face of the Madonna—over her bed.
“Bella Maria, Blessed Mother.” She raised herself off her pillow and arched her neck toward the vision. It must surely be a miracle, for the face of the Madonna was here. The Virgin’s own cool fingers were between her hot ones. “Help me, Madre. Help me.”
Sister Pureza looked up from her place between the woman’s legs and stared at Lucrezia. Sometimes it was said that the sick and the ailing had a hand already in heaven, and could divine what others could not.
“Leave me on earth, Mother Mary, don’t take me away yet.”
Sister Pureza frowned, fearing the woman was having delusions that could only be explained by a great sickness of body.
“Focus on your child, Teresa,” the old midwife said. “Close your eyes and think about the child.”
A shriek, followed quickly by another, sent Sister Pureza into a squat between the woman’s bent knees. She beckoned for the first midwife to stand beside her, ready with the forceps.
“Bear down,” Sister Pureza instructed. “Bear down, use your strength.” Panting, Signora de’ Valenti squeezed her eyes shut and bore down. In her great effort her eyes flew open and she cried out in agony and in ecstasy.
“Mother Mary, Mother Mary,” she wailed. Tears blinded her as she grabbed for Lucrezia’s forearm and dug her nails into the novitiate’s flesh. “Mother Mary, deliver me,” the woman cried. There was a gush of mucus and blood, and the head of the child crowned.
“Don’t stop, Teresa,” Sister Pureza instructed firmly. “You must keep pushing, do not stop.”
Lucrezia looked down at Sister Pureza’s wimple, bobbing between the woman’s bent legs, and smelled the sharp odor of blood that filled the chamber. The birthing mother panted with her eyes closed and sweat pouring down her forehead, her dark hair matted. Then her eyes opened, she moaned, the bed shook, and Lucrezia felt herself grow faint.
There was a pounding on the door, and Sister Pureza, gruff as a stableman, shouted, “Not now, this is the moment.” In the same voice she shouted at Signora Teresa, “Pronto, now, it must be now, the child must come now, push with all your strength.”
She put a quill filled with mustard powder up to the mother’s nostril, and blew. Signora de’ Valenti’s startled eyes opened, she began to sneeze violently, and in the convulsions of the sneezes her uterus contracted, the hip bones opened the final space necessary, and the baby burst from between the wishbone of her legs into the warm linen blanket Sister Pureza held to catch him.
The old nun put her mouth over the baby’s face, sucked off the mucus that covered his nose and mouth, spat into the tafferia da parto, the wooden bowl that was by the bedside, and checked the infant quickly. He was whole, round, and fat.
Sister Pureza gave the child to Lucrezia and told her to have the basin of water moved just outside the bedroom, near the warm fire that roared in the hallway. Servants immediately sprang into action, tugging the heavy basin through the doorway.
“You must use the swaddling bands,” Sister Pureza said, fingering the ends of the linen fascia that she’d wrapped around the child. “Only uncover the part that you’re washing, and you must bundle him quickly again to keep off the chill. When the babe is clean, give him to the wet nurse. Tell the balia to put him to the breast to see if he’ll suckle.”
As quickly as she gave her orders, Sister Pureza returned her attention to the mother. The child was pink and robust, but Signora Teresa was delirious, her skin broken in a patchy fever. She continued to call out the name of the Virgin even as Lucrezia shut the door behind her.
“Dominus spiritus sanctus,” Sister Pureza prayed. She put her hands out and held them over the mother’s breast. “Veni creator spiritus, mentes tuorum visita, imple superna gratia, quae tu creasti pectora…”
As Lucrezia stepped out of the room with the infant, the servant who’d led them up the stairs came to her, tense and pale.
“It’s a son. An heir,” Lucrezia said. She looked down at the child. His face was puckered and red, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands balled in tight fists.
“And my lady?” The servant peered into Lucrezia’s face, but before words could pass Lucrezia’s lips, the woman’s mouth opened in a wide circle.
“Dio mio,” the servant cried, raising her hand to her forehead and making the sign of the cross. “You have the face of the Virgin.”
The servant turned and pointed. On the wall opposite the bedroom hung a painting Lucrezia had never seen before. It was a painting of the Madonna in crimson robes trimmed in gold, holding the Christ child and seated upon a green throne, a delicate pearl benda wrapping her hair. The Virgin’s face was her own.
“How?” Lucrezia cried. “How did this come to be here?”
“It is a gift from the master to the mistress. It was delivered by the painter Fra Filippo only this week.”
The servant looked from Lucrezia to the painting and back again.
“The resemblance is impossible,” she said, and stared again at Lucrezia.
Tightening her hold on the child, Lucrezia stepped closer to the painting. She felt a strange, dizzying sensation, the same sense of unreality that filled her whenever she thought of the painter.
“Sister!” Lucrezia heard the sharp cry from inside the bedchamber. It was Sister Pureza’s voice, but she’d never heard it sound this way before. “Sister Lucrezia, I need you at once.”
The mother groaned and shrieked, the babe in Lucrezia’s arms opened his mouth and wailed. Lucrezia’s head was fuzzy with fatigue and confusion.
“I am needed,” she said to the servant, whose face had crumpled. Lucrezia passed her the child, and hurried back into the birthing chamber, where Signora Teresa was flailing her arms and legs. Sister Pureza was prostrate across the woman, trying to keep her from falling off the bed. The first midwife was on her knees, praying.
“You must find a cloth and tie her,” Sister Pureza instructed. “I can’t minister to her this way, I can’t get her to drink anything that will calm her.”
Lucrezia hesitated.
“Do what I say, child. Take a long piece of sheeting and twist it like a rope.”
Lucrezia took a clean sheet from the pile in the corner, coiled it into a makeshift rope, and brought it to Sister Pureza.
“Tie her before she hurts you,” Sister Pureza commanded. Lucrezia’s hands shook so badly that the twisted sheeting slipped from them.
“Please,” Lucrezia said. “I cannot do it. I’m sorry, Sister, I’m too frightened.”
Sister Pureza looked at Lucrezia from head to toe.
“Come, take her hands,” Sister Pureza said. “I’ll tie her, you hold her.”
In her fever, Signora Teresa felt herself fading, and she was afraid. She turned toward the candlelight, and saw the face she’d seen before.
“Is it you?” she whispered to Lucrezia. “Is it you, Blessed Virgin? Have you come for me?”
“I am Sister Lucrezia,” the novitiate said. She felt strange, and wise beyond anything she’d felt before. “Don’t be afraid. The likeness in the painting is only a coincidence. I’m not the Virgin. I haven’t come to take you. You have a strong, healthy heir. He’s in the hands of your servant and he’s being washed now for the nurse.”
Signora Teresa, long devoted to the Blessed Virgin, heard Lucrezia’s words and let herself be calmed. Everything was all right. She took a deep inhale, and her limbs went limp. When Sister Pureza put the cup of chamomile and vervain to the new mother’s lips, she drank quietly. A short while later the fever lifted, and Signora Teresa de’ Valenti slept under two blankets while the women of her family prepared the rich desco da parto, the painted birth plate, heaped with oranges and sweets. Signor Ottavio drank a glass of port in honor of his new son, Ascanio di’ Ottavio de’ Valenti. And in the hall outside the confinement room, Sister Pureza stood staring at Fra Filippo’s Madonna and Child.
“The signora was fading. She was halfway to heaven,” said the younger midwife, who’d come to stand beside Sister Pureza. “Your novitiate has the Virgin’s blessing, Good Sister.”