The Falconer's Knot (16 page)

While he was daydreaming, Simone was explaining to Brother Anselmo and Sister Veronica that the other saint, dressed more luxuriously than the woman who looked like Chiara, in green and white, red and gold, was Elizabeth of Hungary.

‘She was a princess,’ Sister Veronica told Chiara approvingly. ‘And married at fourteen. But when her husband died she founded one of the first women’s houses for followers of Saint Francis. And gave all her money to the poor.’

Married at fourteen, thought Chiara, younger than I am now!

Simone had now finished the left wall and was working on the last picture on the right.

‘Here is Saint Martin renouncing arms,’ he explained when they came close to look at his work. ‘He is rejecting the earthly knighthood he accepted in the previous scene.’

Silvano admired the painter’s skill in showing the different characters in the scene, but now he also felt that the Saint had chosen the harder way when he decided to stop being a soldier and follow the religious life instead. He looked at Saint Martin’s bare feet, no longer wearing the boots and spurs of his knighthood.

No hawk and horse for him now, he thought.

Chiara was looking up at the ceiling. Simone had painted it to look like the heavens themselves, deep blue and scattered with gold stars.

‘Is that ultramarine?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Simone. ‘That is azurite, but coarse ground to give the intense colour.’

Chiara remembered Sister Veronica’s advice when she ground the vivid blue pigment herself at the convent.

As Silvano’s gaze followed Chiara’s and then travelled down the left wall, he saw again the face that he had noticed on the first visit, the one whose down-turned mouth made him think of Simone himself.

‘Is that you, Ser Simone?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am sometimes so short of models to draw from that I must use myself,’ laughed the painter. ‘But only as a last resort. Still, I needed a sceptic for that painting so my suspicious looks are appropriate.’

‘What’s the story of that one?’ asked Silvano.

‘Saint Martin is reviving a dead child, whose desperate mother begs him for the life of her son,’ said Simone. ‘Some in the crowd can’t believe their eyes.’

‘And there is one of our Order.’ Sister Veronica pointed out to Chiara a nun in a grey robe.

‘But didn’t you say that Saint Martin lived hundreds of years ago?’ objected Silvano. ‘Long before Saint Francis or Saint Clare?’

‘He was born nearly a thousand years ago,’ said Simone. ‘That is why the chapel must be ready for his millennium celebrations. I admit I have taken a liberty in including a Poor Clare. There’s a Franciscan friar too, like you and Brother Anselmo. See, there at the back, gazing up at that tree. That tree is the miraculous one that Saint Francis caused to grow in Siena by planting his walking staff in the ground.’

‘But didn’t Saint Martin resurrect the child in the middle of a field, according to the story?’ asked Anselmo, his eyes twinkling. ‘Here he seems to be doing it in the city – your city, by the look of it.’

Simone spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I am homesick,’ he said simply. ‘You have been to Siena, Brother, so you know what a jewel it is. I have been away a year and now that Pietro has joined me I miss my home more than ever. I want to get this chapel and the figures in the transept finished within the next few months so that I can see my native city again.’

Silvano was silent, thinking of his own home in Perugia, and he saw that Brother Anselmo was thoughtful too. What did he think of as home? Would he say Giardinetto now or did he still sometimes long for Gubbio, the place where he had been young and in love? Silvano realised how little he really knew about the Colour Master.

‘Why did you make yourself the man suspicious of the miracle, Ser Simone?’ asked Chiara. ‘Don’t you believe in miracles?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Simone, light-hearted again. ‘It’s just that the painter is an observer, the man outside the scene, so if I put myself inside one, I still look sceptical.’

‘We could do with an impartial observer in Giardinetto,’ said Anselmo quietly, so that Sister Veronica would not hear.

‘There is no news then?’ asked Simone in the same low voice.

‘No,’ said Anselmo. ‘We are no closer to finding the culprit. And some of the brothers are whispering against Silvano and myself. I don’t know if we shall survive the visit of our Minister General.’

‘But that is terrible,’ said Simone. ‘Apart from anything else, I can’t lose my best pigment-grinders if I’m to get the frescoes finished. But I’m jesting, of course. We must see what we can do to find the real killer.’

‘We’ve tried,’ said Silvano. ‘We went through all the brothers and couldn’t come up with any reason for the same man to murder both the merchant and Brother Landolfo.’

‘Then there are only two possible conclusions,’ said Simone. ‘Either there were two different killers and Giardinetto has been the victim of a dreadful coincidence . . .’

‘That’s what Abbot Bonsignore thinks,’ said Silvano.

‘. . . or, we are quite wrong to look for reasons and connections, and the killer is insane. The murders have been committed randomly by someone without motive or reason.’

‘But that means anyone could be next to die,’ said Chiara, fearful for the first time.

‘Then we must just make sure there is no next victim,’ said Simone. ‘This is more important even than my paintings. Tell me everything you know about every brother in the friary.’

In an inn two roads away from where the painter discussed murder with the followers of Saint Francis sat Umberto, drinking deeply of the red wine poured for him. He was musing on what he had been told in the friary at Giardinetto.

‘Brother Anselmo,’ he said to himself, slurring the name. ‘Or should I say Domenico? You think you’ve got away with it, don’t you? You kill my brother, persuade his stupid widow to appoint your puppet Bonsignore as her representative. And then what? You suddenly discover that you have lost your faith? Leave the Order and after a decent interval – ha! What would be decent for a murderer and his drab? – you offer yourself to my brother’s widow. And who is her guardian and protector? That old fool of an abbot! And then you have everything that was Ubaldo’s – his house, his land, his business, his wife.

‘But you haven’t reckoned on one thing. Umberto will not leave his brother unavenged. You shall have none of it – not one scudo!’

.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Minister General

B
aron Montacuto was eating his midday meal with no relish at all. His wife, Margarethe, had always been pale, like their son, but now her face across the table from him was almost bloodless and no smile ever reached it. Their little daughters, Margherita and Vittoria, normally such a joy to him, sat silent as their parents, toying with their food.

The Baron cursed the day Silvano had ever set eyes on the comely wife of the sheep farmer. With the farmer’s death, the Baron’s family had been shattered at a stroke. The sentence still hung over Silvano’s head; it would be death for him to set foot in Perugia again until the real killer had been found. And until Silvano could return, the Montacuto family was a shadow of its former self.

A servant came in and announced the arrival of the Abbot of Giardinetto. A light flashed in the Baron’s eyes but he quickly suppressed his elation.

‘Show him to my study and bring him refreshment,’ he ordered. ‘Excuse me, my dear,’ he said to Margarethe. ‘I have eaten my fill and Bonsignore is one of my oldest friends.’

‘Of course,’ said his wife listlessly. ‘It will give you pleasure to see him.’

But the joy that Bartolomeo felt in clasping his son’s protector in his arms soon turned to alarm.

‘He is well and he is safe – so far,’ said Bonsignore cautiously.’

‘What do you mean “so far”? Is his secret out?’

Bonsignore sighed. ‘That is the least of our worries, but yes, somehow Silvano’s history is now known in the friary.’

‘Tell me everything,’ said the Baron.

In the de’ Oddini household a more satisfactory conversation was taking place. Vincenzo had a most unusual commission to convey to his son.

Gervasio had always been a mystery to him. The family had too many children for their father to know them all well but he had a better sense of all his other sons and daughters than he had of this youngest boy. ‘You have become friendly with the widow Angelica these last weeks?’ he began.

‘Yes, father,’ said Gervasio meekly, trying to keep the excitement out of his face. He knew what was coming. ‘We are on good terms.’

‘Well it seems as if Monna Angelica would like to be on even better terms,’ said Vincenzo drily. ‘She has asked me to enquire whether a marriage would be acceptable to you.’

‘A marriage to her?’

‘Of course to her! What do you think she is – a professional matchmaker?’ said Vincenzo.

‘What do you think of the idea, father?’

Vincenzo tried not to shudder. He thought it would be a terrible come-down for a son of a noble family, however impoverished, to marry a common peasant, however wealthy. But he could not advise Gervasio against it. There would not be enough patrimony to support him after Vincenzo’s own death and this was a great opportunity to get his hands on considerable wealth. And the widow was pretty, there was no arguing about that, if a bit coarse. As long as Gervasio liked her, his father could raise no objection. He had made enough money himself out of advising her and could not afford to offend her.

‘I think, if you like the lady, I should be happy to give my blessing to your union,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

‘Thank you, father,’ said Gervasio. ‘Then I am happy to become her second husband. Let us announce the engagement immediately. We would like to have the ceremony as soon as decently possible, considering her status as widow.’

‘As you wish. Now, would you like me to visit her or shall you take your answer yourself?’

‘I shall go myself, father, if that is agreeable to you,’ said Gervasio.

‘Perfectly agreeable,’ said Vincenzo. ‘I shall tell your mother.’

And as his son left the room, he felt as if he had, in some indefinable way, been the victim of a conspiracy.

‘Two more murders!’ thundered Bartolomeo da Montacuto. ‘Under the same roof as my son?’

‘Well, two murders,’ said the Abbot. ‘I doubt they are connected to the one in Perugia.’

‘What have I done?’ the Baron moaned, his head in his hands. ‘All I wanted was to protect my boy and it seems I have sent him into the lions’ den.’

‘We are doing everything possible to protect every member of the community,’ said Bonsignore and his old friend noticed for the first time how haggard he looked. ‘The Minister General is coming on a visitation and will interrogate every brother.’

‘But meanwhile, Silvano is under suspicion again?’ asked Bartolomeo. ‘If his history is known and the first victim was stabbed, surely the other friars would think of him as the most likely assassin?’

‘I can’t deny it,’ said Bonsignore. ‘But his mentor, Brother Anselmo, is also under suspicion since he wooed the first victim’s wife in their youth.’

‘And this man is looking after my son?’

‘He is our Colour Master. Silvano works under him in the colour room, grinding pigments for the painters in Assisi. He seems to like the work.’

‘But do you think this Brother Anselmo is the murderer?’

‘No,’ said Bonsignore. ‘I would stake my life he is not. But it must be someone in my care and I can’t bear the thought that any of the friars would do such a thing.’

The Baron sat back in his chair, mollified. ‘Do you think Silvano is still safe with you?’ he asked. ‘Should I try to find him sanctuary elsewhere?’

‘I think it would be very dangerous to move him now. But I cannot promise that I can keep him as safe as I should like. After all, I could not save Brother Landolfo.’

The two men were silent.

‘I almost forgot,’ said Bonsignore. ‘I have brought letters from Silvano, for you and for the Baronessa.’ He took rolled parchment from the scrip at his belt.

The Baron took them eagerly. ‘I shall wait to give Margarethe hers,’ he said. ‘She must not know it came with you. It is vital that she shouldn’t know where Silvano is hiding. I’d better read it myself first, in case he gives anything away.’

‘Shall I go out with Celeste to hunt meat for the Minister General?’ Silvano asked Bertuccio the cook.

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Bertuccio. ‘I have strict orders from the Abbot. Michele da Cesena is a stickler for poor living. He has just written a paper about how all Franciscans must go back to the original rule of the Saint – no luxury, no property, no self-indulgence. It’s going to get him into trouble, mark my words.’

Bertuccio was a lay brother, so Silvano didn’t know how much he really knew about Franciscans. Ever since he had arrived in Giardinetto, Silvano had found the rules relaxed for him but he could still tell that some brothers were more abstemious than others. Brother Landolfo, in spite of his jolly appearance and role as provider of hospitality, had eaten and drunk very little, while some other brothers clearly enjoyed the pleasures of the table.

The brothers’ attitudes to property were hard to tell. All friars had the same coarse grey robes and maybe a psalter or breviary. No one wore any ornament, except for the Abbot’s plain pectoral cross. The brothers wore sandals only if they had to undertake a long journey; usually they went barefoot.

But Silvano had not been into any of the senior friars’ private cells, except the Abbot’s and Brother Anselmo’s. Could some of them have chests full of sumptuous cloths and jewels? It seemed very unlikely. Silvano knew the story of how the wealthy young Francis had renounced all his possessions, even down to the clothes he wore, and turned away from his noble family to found an order based on poverty, to try and get back to the life of Christ.

He remembered how his old friend Gervasio had feared and dreaded the prospect of becoming a friar but Silvano had not found it hard to fit in. It helped, of course, that he knew he had another life to return to. It would have been different if his entire future lay in the Order.

Silvano found himself dreading the visit of this grim-sounding Minister General. He was anxious too for Abbot Bonsignore to return from Perugia. Not only would he have seen Silvano’s father and delivered his letters, he might have news of the sheep farmer’s murderer, something that could clear his name in Giardinetto.

Anselmo and Silvano now worked in silence in the colour room. The atmosphere was heavy with suspicion. Simone had advised them to look for signs of lunacy in other friars, so they had started to treat the other brothers with the same caution they were experiencing. It made Silvano feel closer to the Colour Master but the more they scrutinised their fellow friars, the harder it was to say who was sane and who not.

Brother Fazio was definitely a little eccentric about his illumination colours but that didn’t make him mad. Gregorio the Lector was strict – Silvano thought he was the kind of friar the Minister General would approve of – but he was a fair man and not mentally unstable. Brother Rufino, the Infirmarian, and Valentino, the Herbalist, were a bit territorial with one another. But really neither Anselmo nor Silvano could single out one of the brothers as any madder than any man outside the Order. They had their quirks and peculiarities, but no more than other groups of men and it was still fantastic to think of one of them as an insane assassin.

‘It is settled!’ said Gervasio, lifting Angelica in his arms and twirling her round. She laughed with relief and when he put her down, he was a little out of breath. Surely she hadn’t always been so heavy?

‘We are to be married at your convenience, my love,’ he said.

Angelica regarded him complacently. Now this was more what a husband should be like! He was young, slim and good-looking – and he came from a good family. He wouldn’t scrape her face with an unshaven cheek or belch over his food. Gervasio would be as elegant an ornament to her house as any tablecloth or vase she might order.