The Falconer's Knot (12 page)

In the next picture the Saint, who had his own horse, gave a much grander, golden cloak to a poor knight.

‘Just like Saint Martin!’ Silvano exclaimed. ‘Will he now dream that the poor man was Our Lord?’

‘No,’ said Simone. ‘Francis does have a dream but it is of a palace filled with arms bearing the sign of the cross. It means that he has done a deed worthy of a knight and the arms are for him and his followers.’

He went on explaining the frescoes and gradually, as the Colour Master and Mistress became more involved in the story, the novices were able to linger behind.

‘They are wonderful, aren’t they?’ said Silvano.

‘Truly,’ said Chiara. ‘I have never imagined anything like it. But I don’t understand why the church dedicated to the Saint is so full of light and colour while we, who are also supposed to dedicate ourselves to the Order he inspired, must live without either.’

‘Do you hate it so much?’ asked Silvano.

‘It is different for you,’ said Chiara. ‘One day you will leave but I must stay for ever.’

‘I don’t know when that day will be,’ said Silvano. ‘And maybe something will happen so that you can leave too. I know that Monna Isabella would like to do something for you. Perhaps you could write to her?’

Chiara looked up at him gratefully. ‘Thank you. Perhaps I will. How was she when you left her in Gubbio?’

‘Quite calm and composed,’ said Silvano. ‘She is a fine lady. I think she will recover from her husband’s death.’

He heard what he thought was a very unreligious snort of suppressed laughter from the novice nun.

‘Of course she will! She hated him.’

Silvano was amazed. ‘Hated him? But she seemed so upset at the friary. I’m sure she nearly fainted when they put his body into the carriage.’

‘Only because she had seen your Brother Anselmo,’ said Chiara.

‘But why?’

‘His secular name was Domenico and they were in love when they were young,’ said Chiara. ‘It is a terribly sad story. Ubaldo took her from him. There was no way in which her family would let her marry a poor scholar when a rich merchant came courting.’

‘And so Domenico became a friar,’ said Silvano. ‘That makes sense.’

‘Yes but Isabella didn’t know that, not till yesterday. And now she would be free to marry him, but of course he has taken a vow of celibacy.’

‘Come, Sister Orsola,’ called Veronica. ‘You can see our blessed Saint Clare here.’

They hurried after the others so that Simone could show them the painting of Saint Clare and her fellow nuns encountering the funeral procession of Saint Francis. The Saint lay on a bier covered in a gold-patterned cloth while Clare leant over, sorrowing and almost taking him in her arms. The other sisters whispered sadly to each other in the background. One of the ones on the right looked a bit like Chiara.

But Silvano could not keep his mind on the story. Monna Isabella and Brother Anselmo had once been in love! And Ubaldo had separated them. Anselmo must have hated him. Yet Silvano could not reconcile the kindly and devout man he knew with one who would kill out of jealousy. He tried to think how he would feel if another man took Angelica from him then chided himself. It was not the same. He had hardly ever exchanged a word with her; she was not his. She had been another man’s before he knew her. And he had not killed that man.

They had reached the last pictures on the south side and were almost back at the stairs to the Lower Church. Simone was explaining that they showed miracles that happened after Francis’s death. Sister Veronica was making sure that Chiara looked at every detail and did not dawdle behind again with the handsome novice.

As they descended back into the Lower Church and the painter showed the sisters where other new paintings were going to be, Silvano decided to speak to the Colour Master about what he had heard. He simply couldn’t keep his curiosity to himself.

‘Brother Anselmo, is it true that you . . . that you knew Monna Isabella when you were young?’

It was perhaps the only thing that could have shaken Anselmo out of his reverie. He started and began to say, ‘But how . . .?’ Then he changed his mind and sighed.

‘It is true,’ he said simply. ‘I had not seen her for nearly twenty years, until she came to the friary yesterday. I have prayed and struggled with my feelings but the sight of her has undone many years of devotion to the service of Our Lord. I am deep in sin.’

‘But not the sin of murder?’ whispered Silvano.

Brother Anselmo looked at him reproachfully.

‘I mean, I’m sure you didn’t kill Ubaldo,’ said Silvano hastily. ‘But do any of the other brothers know your history with Monna Isabella?’

‘Abbot Bonsignore does,’ said Anselmo. ‘I told him the reason I had first become a friar when I joined the house at Giardinetto. But he didn’t know the name of the woman I loved or the man who married her. I told him only when he questioned me yesterday. He asked me about meeting you on the night of the murder and I told him I had been out for some fresh air. He asked me straight out if I had been to Ubaldo’s cell.’

Silvano held his breath.

‘I told him I had thought of it,’ said Anselmo. ‘The temptation was strong to find out how he had treated her over the years – just to hear him say her name would have been a sweet torment. But I struggled with it and took myself for a walk around the grounds instead.’

‘She hated him,’ said Silvano. ‘She has never stopped loving you. She told Chiara, I mean Sister Orsola.’

Anselmo sat down suddenly on a step and put his head in his hands.

‘It is like a nightmare,’ he said. ‘I told the Abbot about my past connection with Ubaldo and he believed in my innocence. But if this story gets out in the friary, I cannot trust that the other brothers will have such confidence in me, I am so recently come among them.’

‘I shall tell no one,’ promised Silvano. ‘But wouldn’t the best thing be if we could find out who the real murderer was?’

Anselmo smiled for the first time for days. Silvano’s trust in him was balm to his bruised feelings.

‘Yes, indeed. But how shall we do that? You are in the same situation yourself, are you not, with the man in Perugia?’

‘Yes but I am not there and can do nothing about my case,’ said Silvano. ‘At least we are both here. We cannot let suspicion fall on you or any of the other brothers for that matter.’

‘Unless one of them is guilty,’ said Anselmo.

Simone had stopped to talk to a tall, red-haired man working on a wall in the south transept. He had introduced the sisters and now beckoned to the Franciscan brothers to join them. Silvano thought the man’s long face looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t imagine where he might have seen him before.

‘This is my old friend and rival Pietro Lorenzetti,’ said Simone. ‘I have known him and his little brother Ambrogio ever since we were all boys growing up together in Siena. For years now we have competed for commissions and I’m delighted to find him here in Assisi too.’

Pietro bowed courteously to both of them.

‘Simone tells me that you and the holy sisters are supplying him with colours,’ he said. ‘Could you do the same for me? Now that I see the scale of the area I’ve been commissioned to decorate, I doubt that what I have brought with me will last for long.’

‘I should be honoured to serve you,’ said Brother Anselmo, his composure recovered.

‘I suppose we can manage to supply both of you,’ said Sister Veronica. ‘We must work even harder in the colour room, Sister Orsola. Mother Elena will be happy since it is all to the glory of Saint Francis.’

‘How did you like the paintings of Maestro Giotto?’ asked Pietro. ‘Simone tells me you have just seen them for the first time.’

‘They are beyond words,’ said Anselmo. ‘He is a genius of your art.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’ asked Silvano but the two Sienese shook their heads.

‘Our master was Duccio di Buoninsegna,’ explained Simone. ‘We admire the work of the great Giotto but we were taught by Duccio.’

‘It was he who painted the Mary in Majesty for the Cathedral in Siena,’ Anselmo told Silvano.

‘You have seen it?’ said Pietro eagerly.

Anselmo nodded. ‘I was there when they carried it into the Cathedral.’

‘Ah,’ said Simone. ‘That was a great day! Five years ago and I remember it perfectly. There was a great procession from the Maestro’s workshop through the streets of Siena up to our Cathedral of the Virgin on the hill. All the rulers of the city were there and all the other nobles and important people.’

‘And all the common people came out to see it too,’ added Pietro. ‘Everyone carried a candle. It was like the greatest religious festival and we had a tremendous party afterwards in the workshop. Do you remember that, Simone?’

‘Of course,’ laughed the painter. ‘And I remember the headache I had the next day as well, saving your presence, Sisters!’

‘We were no longer Duccio’s apprentices by then, of course, though Ambrogio still worked with him occasionally,’ said Pietro. ‘Simone and I had our own bottegas. But we remain friends with him.’

‘Is he still alive?’ asked Chiara.

‘Yes, but very old now,’ said Simone, gravely. ‘He paints little these days. But he and Giotto di Bondone are still the greatest artists in Italy. We just aspire to do anything as well.’

‘And yet you have painted your own Mary in Majesty in Siena, I believe,’ said Sister Veronica.

Simone inclined his head gracefully. ‘I am honoured that you have heard of it,’ he said. ‘But I must get back to my Saint Martin or I shall not complete the chapel in time.’

And the visitors from Giardinetto took their leave.

‘We should travel together next time, Sister Veronica,’ said Brother Anselmo. ‘It would save using two carts and taking up your man’s time unnecessarily.’

Silvano and Chiara exchanged looks. That would give them more time together and surely they would snatch a few words. It was beginning to be important to them both.

.

CHAPTER TEN

Mundualdus

S
o, Brother Fazio told you something of the art of illumination?’ Anselmo asked Silvano on their way back to the friary.

‘He’s very clever,’ said Silvano. ‘I saw the Gospel he is working on.’

‘His Saint John?’ said Anselmo. ‘It is a masterpiece, isn’t it?’

‘Wonderful,’ said Silvano. ‘I liked it a lot better than when he showed me where he makes the white.’

‘Ah,’ smiled Anselmo. ‘The malodorous shed. The brothers believe that Fazio has no sense of smell. It must help with that aspect of his work.’

‘He’s quite a character,’ said Silvano.

‘He was a bit suspicious of me when I came, I think,’ said Anselmo. ‘After all, he is an expert when it comes to colours. But the sort we supply to artists like Simone Martini aren’t all suitable for illumination, and vice versa. So Fazio and I have settled down, each to his own speciality and I don’t think he sees me as a threat any longer.’

‘You don’t have much ill-feeling in the friary, do you?’ said Silvano. ‘I’ve noticed the brothers seem to get along pretty well.’

‘In the main, yes,’ said Anselmo. ‘Each has his own task to get on with and that helps. But sometimes a brother might feel that another is treading on his toes. I believe that Brother Valentino and Brother Rufino don’t always see eye to eye for instance.’

‘Brother Rufino is the Infirmarian, I know,’ said Silvano. ‘But Valentino?’

‘He is the Herbalist. You see that his role overlaps a bit with Brother Rufino’s.’

‘You said in Assisi that one of the brothers could be the murderer . . .’

‘I should not like to believe such a thing,’ said Anselmo quickly.

‘Can’t we try to find out?’ asked Silvano. ‘I hate the thought that anyone might suspect you.’

‘They won’t,’ said Anselmo. ‘As you know, I have told only you and Abbot Bonsignore about Monna Isabella.’

‘But all the same,’ insisted Silvano, ‘wouldn’t it be good to think we have found the real culprit?’

‘You are a good boy,’ said Anselmo. ‘And I think it would ease your troubled heart to clear an innocent man. But how would we set about it? The Abbot has questioned all the brothers and apparently found nothing to suggest that the murderer came from within the friary.’

‘Then there is nothing we can do?’

‘Not now, I fear. The murderer has long fled.’

‘We could ask Monna Isabella,’ Silvano suggested hesitantly. ‘At least Sister Orsola could. I’m sure she will see her again. She could ask about Ubaldo’s enemies.’

Anselmo’s brow creased with an old sadness.

‘I should not wish to distress her,’ he said softly.

Silvano was silent for a while, wondering when he would see the pretty Chiara again.

‘When shall we next go to Ser Simone?’ he asked. ‘Ser Pietro too now I suppose.’

‘That has not been decided,’ said Anselmo. ‘We expect them to visit us next at the friary. Simone wishes to discuss the ultramarine with us. They will be with us the day after tomorrow.’

It was the day of Ubaldo’s funeral. The principal mourners were Isabella and her four children and the merchant’s younger brother, Umberto. He was a tall and grim-faced man with a forbidding air and Isabella had always sensed that he disapproved of her. She felt grateful for the first time that her husband had died away from home. She would not have put it past her brother-in-law to suspect her of a hand in Ubaldo’s death otherwise.

It was very unfair, because she had spent so many years as a devoted wife, smothering her own feelings in order to serve Ubaldo and make his domestic life as comfortable as possible. The only thing she hadn’t done was love him; he couldn’t make her do that. But how could Umberto know that? She had always behaved impeccably in front of him.

And did so now, swathed in black, at the Requiem Mass. The children were so upset that she even managed to shed some genuine tears, out of sympathy for them. But Umberto, looking at her with his hooded eyes, seemed to see straight into her soul and she felt a fraud.

After the feast, when many toasts had been drunk in the merchant’s memory and his passing suitably marked, only Umberto remained of all the mourners. At his request, Isabella poured them both a goblet of wine and retired with him to Ubaldo’s office. She went with a heavy heart, consigning the children to a servant. She doubted that she would want to hear what he had to say.

‘Now, sister,’ he began. ‘We need to talk about my brother’s business affairs. Firstly, you will need to appoint a mundualdus. I should be happy to offer my services.’

This was what Isabella had been dreading.

‘Thank you, brother,’ she forced herself to say as lightly as she could. ‘You are most considerate. But I feel I need a little time to make up my mind. I have been so busy preparing for the funeral.’

‘Yes, well, you did give my brother a good send off,’ said Umberto grudgingly. ‘But do not take too long to decide. I shall expect your answer within a week.’

And then he was gone, a dark presence removed from the house. Isabella took herself to bed and slept for ten hours.

She was woken by her maid who told her that there was a young woman to see her. ‘A widow, Madama, like yourself and that only recently, I’d say by her mourning dress. The young gentleman accompanying her gave her name only as Angelica of Perugia.’

Isabella was puzzled but made haste to meet her unexpected guests. As she moved swiftly to the parlour, she couldn’t help feeling her spirits lift. She could entertain guests in that pretty room now without any fear that Ubaldo would disapprove. The sun shone through the window and outside birds sang as if they had just been released from a locked cage.

Isabella had not recognised the name given by her maid and she did not recognise the plump and pretty blonde who rose when she entered the room. Her widow’s weeds were indeed as black as Isabella’s own and the older woman recognised both the costliness of the materials and the style with which they were fashioned and worn.

‘Madama,’ she said to her guest, inclining her head.

‘Forgive me for intruding on your grief, Madama,’ responded the young woman.

‘It seems that you have recently suffered the same loss,’ said Isabella drily. She knew instinctively that this Angelica was no more grieving than she was herself. The young man bowing to her from the window was exceptionally good-looking, if a little foppish and there was an unmistakeable air of complicity between them.

‘Indeed,’ said Angelica. ‘My husband died only a month ago – in similar circumstances to your own.’

Isabella’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth.

‘He was murdered?’ she asked.

‘Yes, stabbed to death in the street,’ said Angelica calmly. ‘But I have recovered from the shock. It is not about his death that I wished to talk to you. I am going to trade as a wool merchant in Gubbio.’

Whatever Isabella had been expecting, it was not that. She could not reply.

‘I wanted to tell you this because we are going to be in competition,’ said Angelica. ‘I thought it would be fairer.’

‘And who is this?’ asked Isabella, indicating the young man by the window. ‘Will he run the business for you?’

‘Gervasio de’ Oddini at your service,’ said the young man, with a flourish. ‘And no. I am merely Monna Angelica’s escort today.’

‘His father is my mundualdus,’ explained Angelica. ‘We have appointed someone to run the business in Gubbio. I wondered what your plans are? Will you continue with your late husband’s wool business?’

Isabella had to admire this young woman, who had the confidence to confront her in this way. It was obvious too that she had her mundualdus in the palm of her hand if he let her be squired around by his handsome son. She could not imagine Umberto being so indulgent with her.

‘How old are you?’ she suddenly asked.

‘I am not yet twenty, Madama,’ Angelica replied, casting down her eyes in a practised pretence of modesty.

‘Would you excuse us for a little, Messer Gervasio?’ said Isabella, getting up to ring the bell. ‘There are matters I should like to discuss with Monna Angelica in private. My servant will take you to my late husband’s office and bring you refreshment there.’

When the two widows were left alone, the atmosphere immediately became more friendly.

‘I know we would be rivals if we were both selling wool in Gubbio,’ said Angelica. ‘But we are both women trying to make a living among men. Perhaps we should think of going into business together?’

‘Let us not be hasty,’ said Isabella. ‘You asked about my plans, but I find it difficult to plan anything until I know who will look after my legal affairs. My brother-in-law wants me to appoint him, but I know that he does not care about me.’

‘Would he have your children’s interests at heart?’

‘Yes, I think so. After all they are his brother’s children too. I don’t think he would cheat us. But he would think nothing of what I wanted to do.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Angelica.

‘It is not impossible,’ said Isabella. ‘I mean . . . in time . . . there is a remote possibility that I might wish to remarry.’

Angelica laughed, a high tinkling and most unbereaved laugh. Isabella envied her light heart and her youth.

‘So I should think,’ said Angelica. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Monna Isabella, and a rich one too. I am contemplating the same thing myself.’ Her eyes slid towards the door where Gervasio had made his exit. ‘But what would your brother-in-law think of that? Especially if he were also your legal representative.’

Isabella was silent. Ever since her glimpse of Domenico at the friary her heart had been in turmoil. She had tried not to think of him as she prepared for her husband’s funeral. It would have been disrespectful to Ubaldo and a departure from her sense of what was right. But whenever she had fallen short of her own high standards, she had come up against the immovable fact that Domenico was now a professed friar.

This meant two conflicting things at the same time: that Domenico had kept his promise never to marry anyone else and that he was as out of her reach now as when Ubaldo was alive. And yet she could not believe that Fate had brought them together at the time of her husband’s death if they were not meant to find a way of being together.

‘Monna Isabella,’ said Angelica, startling her from her reverie. ‘Would you forgive my impertinence if I were to offer you some advice?’

‘Of course,’ said Isabella. ‘I am much in need of the counsel of another woman. And you seem very sure of your own course.’

‘It might have been different for you,’ said Angelica, giving the other widow a shrewd look. ‘But I did not love my husband. It was a marriage arranged by my family and he was much older than me. It was a relief when he died. My advice to you is this: choose as your procurator the father of the man you really love, if he still be living. In that way you have the protection of the older man and the company of the younger. And with the wealth you inherit from your husband, you can expect little resistance to your plans.’

Isabella smiled sadly. This rather brash young woman, brimming with crude vitality, saw everything through the eyes of someone who had not yet completed two decades on earth. It was doubtful that Domenico’s father was still alive.

She was about to say something of the kind when an idea suddenly occurred to her.

‘You might well be right,’ she said. ‘Thank you for that advice. I shall find a way to take it.’