The Miracles of Prato (13 page)

“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 Lucr
ezia'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.”

Friday of the Thirteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456

The waning moon seemed to follow Sister Pureza and Lucrezia back to the convent. The women were exhausted, and the swift carriage rocked them even as the cradle lulled the newborn to sleep under the terra-cotta roof of his family's palazzo.

Behind her closed eyelids, Sister Pureza contemplated Signora Teresa's health, the miraculous cooling of her skin, the soothing of her spirit. The herbs from the convent garden had never seemed more potent as on this night. When it had appeared the mother would slip into the delirium that befell so many others, Signora Teresa had looked at Lucrezia's sweet face and her blood, her humors, the very fever in her body had been cooled.

Of course the servants had seen this transformation; Signora Teresa's sister-in-law had witnessed it, as well.
A miracle,
they'd said among themselves until Lucrezia had turned and said, “There is no miracle here, I beg you not to say such a thing.” They'd all nodded, of course, but crossed themselves before leaving the confinement chamber. And when the nuns packed up their things and prepared to return to the convent, it was with the parting words of Signor Ottavio in their ears.

“Any
servizio
I can do for you, at any time,” the wealthy man had said, taking Sister Pureza's old hand in his.

Now, Sister Pureza sighed without realizing she stirred.

“I'm sorry, Sister Pureza,” Lucrezia whispered, touching the midwife's robes. “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say about the painting. I had no knowledge of it until tonight.”

Sister Pureza turned and looked at Lucrezia. Even after a harrowing night, the girl's physical perfection was unmistakable.

“To have such beauty cannot be easy,” Sister Pureza said gently.

Lucrezia was silent. At home there had only been a single circle of polished silver, and Signora Buti had let the girls look at their reflection only on Saturdays when they washed their hair and bathed in preparation for the Lord's day. Other young ladies of Florence primped before their reflections daily and some, Lucrezia knew, sat outside in the sun to bring the yellow and gold colors out in their hair. But the Buti sisters had never been permitted or encouraged in even harmless vanities such as pinching their cheeks or biting their lips for a touch of color.

“I don't know.” Lucrezia's voice quivered. “No one has ever said such a thing to me. But I've often wished to hide my face because of the way men look at me.”

Lucrezia had never admitted this to anyone. She thought of Fra Filippo, and the pleasure his gaze gave her.

“There's no shame in your beauty, dear child, nor is it your only virtue. It couldn't have been your face alone that soothed Signora de' Valenti tonight.”

Lucrezia was close enough to feel the warmth of Sister Pureza's small body. She was grateful for the darkness.

“Like the flowers in our garden, your beauty has a purpose,” Sister Pureza went on. “I've been thinking about this since I learned that Fra Filippo would paint your likeness. If your face can become the face of the Madonna, and it can keep a woman such as Signora
de' Valenti from being claimed by the evil spirits that gripped her, then I believe there is much goodness in it.”

Sister Pureza turned in her seat as much as her old body allowed, to look Lucrezia full in the face.

“Treasure your beauty, Sister Lucrezia, but guard against its corruption.”

Lucrezia nodded. She was reminded again of the words Fra Filippo had spoken to her in the confessional, when he'd said beauty in the world is a mirror of God's kingdom. A
speculum majus.

“The chaplain said the holiest of men believe beauty in this world pleases God because it brings our world closer to His. But if this is so, then what about Christ's suffering, and the Virgin's?” Lucrezia asked.

The carriage crossed a mound of stones in the road, and Lucrezia's body bumped against Sister Pureza's. She felt the old woman steady herself.

“If suffering brings us closer to God, then how can beauty do the same?” she tried again. “Surely something comes from Satan, Sister Pureza. Is it suffering, or is it beauty?”

Sister Pureza was tired. She wished only to close her eyes, but sensed there was something important behind the novitiate's questions, something that made the young woman terribly unhappy.

“Beauty is from God, vanity is the Devil's work. And as for Christ's blood, Sister Lucrezia, you were at the birth tonight, you know the suffering that Eve's curse brings to women. There's always blood.” Hearing the harshness of her words, Sister Pureza tried to soften them. “But remember, child, that while the Virgin paid in innocence for the sins of others, She was crowned queen in heaven.”

Lucrezia couldn't begin to untangle her tongue or her prayers fast enough to ask any more questions.

“Your beauty and goodness are a gift,” Sister Pureza said gently, her voice growing dim as Lucrezia closed her eyes. “But beauty fades. The soul must grow stronger and wiser.”

 

When Lucrezia opened her eyes the carriage was pulling through the convent gates. It left them in the courtyard, and the nuns hurried to the low dormitories, the gray stones glowing eerily in the moonlight.

“You did well tonight,
mia cara,
” Sister Pureza said. “Now sleep.”

But once she was alone, Lucrezia's head began to buzz again with the talk of blood and beauty, the recollection of the signora's screams, and the portrait of herself as the Virgin, painted by Fra Filippo's hand.

Lucrezia paced her narrow cell for a few moments—the room was too small, too airless. Slipping her boots back on, she lit a candle and slid down the dormitory hall to the night stair. Descending into the narrow passage, she moved quickly past the spiders, which she'd learned to ignore, and didn't even look down at the tiny mice that scampered out of her way.

Reaching the church steps, Lucrezia blew out her candle to save the wick. Hearing a footfall in the landing above, she thought one of the nuns was up to say Lauds before daybreak, and Lucrezia prepared to greet her with a somber nod.

“Well.” Prior General Saviano stepped in front of Lucrezia. The door to the night stair closed behind her. She and the prior general were alone in the narrow corridor that led to the apse.

He moved the candle between them and looked at her from head to toe.

The prior general had slept poorly, and his eyelids burned. The girl's beauty, brilliant even at this hour, seemed to mock him—just as
the painter's disrespect had mocked him, and Prioress Bartolommea had angered him.

“General.” Lucrezia bowed and hesitated, unsure of the proper way to address him. “Fratello Saviano.”

“Fratello?”
Prior General Saviano was certain the girl meant to ridicule him. He had been belittled all day—slighted and humiliated at every turn. The fine garments in the painter's room and the sketch showing the girl's bare collarbones flashed through his mind.

“I am Prior General Ludovico Pietro di Saviano.” The man recited his full name and title in his deepest baritone. As he spoke, Lucrezia saw the hem of his black robes move and sway. She saw the candle he held throw strange shadows across the bricks on the floor. “Surely you're not confusing me with your good friend, the painter?
He
is a
frate,
a mere
frate,
despite what you may have been led to believe.”

Lucrezia's mouth grew dry. She was afraid of this man. Recalling Sister Pureza's words in the carriage, Lucrezia tugged her wimple down and tried to turn away. But the prior general put his hand on her arm.

“Why do you hide from me, Lucrezia?”

She could smell the long night in the odor of his body.

“I'm tired, Prior General Saviano. I've come only to say a prayer before I sleep.”

“Lucrezia.” Saviano spoke her given name, and it felt sublime and sensuous on his lips. “You are not yet of the veil, you haven't taken the vows. They call you Sister Lucrezia, but that is not true yet, is it?”

Lucrezia stiffened. The prior general didn't let go of her arm. As she twisted away, he stepped closer. His thighs, firm under his robe, pressed against her hip.

“Prior General,” Lucrezia stammered. “Please, sir, let me pass.”

“I've been to the workshop of your friend
Frate
Filippo. I know that you took off this robe.” The prior general pinched the fabric of her gown. “I know you disrobed for him, you put on the fine clothes of a Florentine
donna
.”

Pressing his face against hers, he gripped her arm higher, near her bosom. Years of denial raged in his loins.

“Lucrezia. Are you Fra Filippo's lover?”

“I'm not.” Terrified, she tried to wrench away.

“He's had many, you know. Many lovers.” Prior General Saviano tightened his grip. “You're nothing special to him.” He pursed his lips. “But you could be special to me.”

“No!” Lucrezia twisted away and kicked at his legs. His candle fell to the ground and sparked at the edge of his robe. As he looked down at the candle she rushed past him.

“Come back,” the prior general called, but she only shrieked again, stifling a sob. He heard revulsion in her cry, and it stung him.

“You've made your lot, now,” he called, his voice rising. “Nothing good will come of it, you'll see. This is my convent—
my
convent. Remember that.”

 

Lucrezia burst through the church door and stumbled into the cloister garden. The prior general knew she'd taken her clothes off in Fra Filippo's
bottega,
he knew about the fine silk
cotta
. She yanked open the first door she came to, and ran through the latrine to the dark hallway in the nuns' dormitory.

Hearing the girl's sobs, Sister Pureza opened her cell door. She'd already removed her wimple, and her long gray hair was loose. She put out an arm and grabbed Lucrezia as she passed.

“What is it?”

“The prior general,” Lucrezia sobbed. She pulled up her sleeve and showed Sister Pureza the angry marks the man had left there.

 

S
ister Pureza waited until the cock crowed three times, and then walked across the courtyard. The old midwife didn't try to deny what had happened, or make excuses for the prior general. Men took advantage of women; she knew this was the way of the world outside the church walls. But inside the convent a woman, even a beautiful woman, should be able to find sanctuary.

Assuming the prioress was still sleeping, Sister Pureza knocked softly on her door and then pushed it open. But Prioress Bartolommea was already awake. She was kneeling at the foot of her bed with the Bible open on her cot. By the dim light of a single candle, Sister Pureza saw the stout figure bolt and rise. Around her waist was a green and gold belt of such finely woven wool that even in the candlelight, it glowed and sparkled.

“Sister!” The prioress raised her hands to block Sister Pureza's approach. “I am in prayer, you have interrupted me. Please leave at once.”

Sister Pureza stepped forward. She did not take her eyes off the belt.

“Is that the
Sacra Cintola
?” she asked as Mother Bartolommea tried to hide the sash with her elbows.

The prioress shook her head vigorously.

“That's the Virgin's Holy Belt, isn't it?” Sister Pureza knew the belt was kept behind a locked gate in Santo Stefano, and that papal orders forbade its removal from the sanctity of the chapel. “The Holy Belt, here, in your cell. How can it be?”

The prioress, who had not yet put on her wimple, brushed a clump
of gray hair away from her eyes and flashed an angry glance meant to intimidate the old nun.

“This doesn't concern you, Sister Pureza. As I have said repeatedly, all that goes on in the convent is not known to you. I have plans that will enrich our coffers with the blessing of the Holy Mother.”

“Plans?” Sister Pureza stood her ground, neither backing up nor moving forward. She was old, but she was not weak. “Plans that include the Holy Girdle of the Virgin Mary?”

“And myself,” the prioress sputtered.

“And yourself.” Sister Pureza thought for only a moment more. “And the novitiates, I presume? Perhaps in exchange for compromising their welfare, you are now in possession of the city's most precious relic.”

“That's enough, Sister Pureza.” The prioress advanced toward the midwife. “I will not hear any more. You must leave at once, so that I might return the Holy Belt to its secured storage place. And you must not tell anyone that the belt is here. By the time the sun is up it will be gone, and any appearance of impropriety concerning the
Sacra Cintola
would be a travesty our convent might not survive.”

“My good Mother.” Sister Pureza looked from the prioress's bare feet on the stone floor, to the robe she'd slung sloppily over her plump shoulders. “The convent's sanctity has already been compromised. This is what I have come to tell you.”

“I shall not hear it,” the prioress said. “You have been behaving very strangely.”

“You must hear me.” The old woman shook with anger. “The prior general does not respect the sanctity of these walls. On this night he has forcefully and improperly approached the novitiate Lucrezia, with unspeakable intentions.”

The prioress stood, paralyzed. She had her hands on the Holy
Belt, and blasphemy was being uttered in her own cell. She turned her back on Sister Pureza.

“You must leave,” she said in a low voice, as she began to open the long golden ties that secured the belt on her waist. “You must not allow your good sense to run away with you. You must think very carefully. The prior general is an important man, and you cannot make slanderous charges against him. There are hands more powerful than his directing what happens here in Santa Margherita.”