“Home,” the emissary drawled. He stood, his voice drunken, but still commanding. “You’ve been gone, Fra Filippo. And I’ve been looking for you.”
“Not gone,” the monk said, stiffening. “I’ve been working at Fra Piero’s house in the hills, sketching the altarpiece for the convent where no one could disturb me.”
The baby let out a cry, and Lucrezia rushed past the men, into the bedroom.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour. I see what you’ve done.” Cantansanti gestured toward the altarpiece, which Fra Filippo had stored carefully in the corner. It was arranged under the window, where the light played over the lovely face of the Virgin, and the empty face of the Christ child.
“I’ve heard again from Florence,” Ser Francesco said. “I’ve come to tell you what they say.”
In his mind, the emissary ran over the letter he’d dispatched to Florence after the monk had slipped from his sight.
I watched him all week, and remained by his side to assure his diligence, Cantansanti had written. He worked, God he worked, and then last night he took off, I know not where.
“I know I’ve missed the promised date.” Fra Filippo refused to hang his head. “But you can see the work is good.”
Ser Francesco shifted in his heavy boots and picked up the correspondence he’d received that morning.
“Look.” Cantansanti thrust a rumpled parchment toward Fra Filippo. “Look at it.”
Fra Filippo heard Lucrezia soothing the child. He steeled himself and took the paper, blinking in confusion.
“What is this?” he asked at last.
“The Medici have approved your sketch for the frame. It will take many months, but it is to be executed as you described. In great detail, and at great expense. This is an order for the woodwork.”
“You said no more money,” Fra Filippo managed to say.
“There is none,” the emissary said sharply. “The money will go through Ser Bartolomeo, who will place the order according to your specifications. The sketch for the frame is impressive, Filippo, I commend you. And the altarpiece.” The emissary brushed a hand through the air, to move the painter to one side. “The altarpiece is magnificent. Each part of the work is as good as anything you’ve ever done. Better.”
He’d written to Cosimo’s son, in whose charge the work had come to be:
Good Giovanni,
The man is surely mad and forever finding trouble, and yet his work is brilliant, unsurpassed in splendor. He will finish it, if I have to beat him to do it, or else you can send your agent Bartolomeo, who may have more patience with the painter than I.
“The light, the forest, the hands of God.” The emissary leaned closer to the panel, studying the layers of colors in the scene of the Adoring Madonna. “The colors are so brilliant, it’s as if you’d held a mirror to the window and captured what God put into the reflection.”
Ser Francesco shook his head. He’d been living too long in the painter’s world.
“But the Christ child,” he said, pointing at the blank oval. “Where is the infant’s face?”
He looked at the monk, whose hands, for once, appeared to be scrubbed clean.
“But of course,” Cantansanti said wryly. “These things take time.”
In the bedroom, Lucrezia nursed the baby. She put a finger into his lips to break the suction and move him from one breast to the other. Filippino let out a gasp, and then a robust cry.
The men heard it, and looked at each other.
“I can see the face now,” Fra Filippo said with a smile. “Yes, Ser Francesco, now I can finish the piece.”
“Then get to work, Brother,” the emissary said, picking up his cloak and turning to the door. “I’ll be watching you. Remember, the eye of the Medici is on you, always.”