The Falconer's Knot (11 page)

If it went well, she would gradually sell all the farms and become exclusively a merchant. Of course she would employ men to run the day-to-day business but she would be the first female wool merchant in Umbria – and a wealthy widow as well. Gervasio had no doubt that she would be much courted as soon as her period of enforced mourning was over.

He was to go with her and his father to an inn near the main wool market in the walled city so that they could visit the notary early in the morning and rent suitable premises for trading. They were driven in the handsome carriage which Angelica had insisted that her late husband should buy. Two dappled grey horses pulled them smartly along the road.

They overtook a solemn funeral procession and the men doffed their caps. Angelica started. The young friar escorting the widow had for a moment reminded her of the good-looking young scoundrel who had murdered her husband. But it couldn’t possibly be him. Silvano had disappeared on the night of Tommaso’s death – a sure sign of his guilt.

Angelica remembered him fondly and had wondered if he really had killed Tommaso out of jealousy and love for her. She couldn’t feel too harshly towards him since he had released her from such an irksome marriage.

‘Whose body is it, I wonder?’ asked Vincenzo. ‘A wealthy man, by his carriage and his widow’s clothes.’

‘We shall find out in Gubbio perhaps? They are going the same way,’ said Gervasio, who was still wondering where he had seen that grey horse before. It looked strangely familiar.

‘Then he died away from home,’ said Vincenzo. ‘How sad for him!’

‘Indeed,’ said Angelica, with a great sigh.

‘I’m sorry, Madama,’ said Vincenzo, who was always scrupulously polite to this woman who was so much his inferior socially and yet so far above him in terms of worldly wealth. ‘I have no desire to bring back your own sorrow.’

‘Tell me about that friar you spoke to before we left,’ the widow said to Silvano as soon as they were out of sight of Giardinetto.

‘Brother Anselmo?’ asked Silvano. ‘He is the Colour Master of our house. I work with him, grinding pigments for the artists who work in Assisi.’

‘Has he been in the friary long?’

‘I have not been there long myself, Madama, but I believe it has been only a matter of months.’

‘But he is a fully professed friar?’ she persisted. ‘He has taken the vows?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Silvano. ‘He came from a house in the southern provinces, I believe, where he had been for many years.’

Isabella sighed.

‘May I ask why you are interested?’

‘I thought he resembled someone I used to know in Gubbio,’ she said. ‘But I must be mistaken.’

‘He has never mentioned that he came from near here,’ said Silvano, though he remembered that Brother Anselmo knew a great deal about the Basilica at Assisi. He wondered whether to say that he had thought Anselmo had recognised the widow too.

But then he remembered how Anselmo had seemed upset when the Abbot mentioned Monna Isabella’s name to the merchant, the night that he was stabbed. And how Anselmo had not been in his cell at the time when Ubaldo had been killed.

He put the thought out of his mind. Brother Anselmo was no more a killer than Silvano was himself. But there was a history of some sort between him and Monna Isabella, he was sure.

‘I’m sorry to take you away from your work,’ she said and he was relieved that she had changed the subject. ‘And to make you ride at such a slow pace. That is a fine horse you have and capable of great speed, I think.’

‘It is no trouble, Madama,’ he said. ‘It is my pleasure to accompany you and do anything I can to ease your sorrow.’

He thought he saw the curve of her mouth behind the black veil.

‘Thank you. But I hope you don’t mind my saying you sound more like a courtier than a friar.’

‘I am a very recent novice, with a lot to learn,’ said Silvano humbly.

‘And so not yet tonsured,’ Isabella remarked.

He wished she would not be quite so personal with him but she was almost old enough to be his mother and he couldn’t really avoid her questions except by saying nothing.

‘And you keep your own horse?’ she continued.

Silvano didn’t know what to say. Chiara knew he wasn’t a real novice and so did most of the brothers at Giardinetto now. He didn’t want his secret to spread to Gubbio too.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Isabella. ‘We all have things we would rather that others didn’t know. Let us talk of pleasanter matters. Tell me about the painters at Assisi. Have you been there?’

‘Only once, Madama, but it is wonderful to behold. We are supplying colours for Simone Martini, who is decorating a chapel in the Lower Church. He is going to show me the frescoes by Maestro Giotto in the Upper Church when Brother Anselmo and I take him his next order.’

‘He needs many pigments then?’

‘Yes, so much that the sisters at Giardinetto are also supplying him. Sister Veronica has been running a colour room there for much longer than Brother Anselmo.’

‘I didn’t meet Sister Veronica, did I? Just the Abbess – Mother Elena I think – and that sweet girl, Sister Orsola.’

‘She works with Sister Veronica in their colour room,’ said Silvano. ‘We met them in Assisi.’

‘I don’t think she is at all suited to life in the convent,’ said Isabella.

‘Really?’ said Silvano. ‘Might I ask why?’

‘She is very unhappy,’ said Isabella. ‘I should like to do something for her. She was so kind to me.’

Silvano was silent. He realised how sorry he would be to see Chiara go. But that was selfish of him since he didn’t expect to be at Giardinetto for ever himself.

The sky was a dark royal blue by the time that they reached the merchant’s house in Gubbio. The whole household came out to pay their respects and Isabella arranged for several menservants to transport the body into the parlour, where Ubaldo would be transferred to the much grander coffin she had ordered. Then, in the morning, the children could be taken to see him.

The journey had passed surprisingly quickly for Silvano after all. Monna Isabella could be a pleasant companion and he had enjoyed explaining Ser Simone’s frescoes to her. She had even said she would like to go to Assisi herself when her period of mourning was over. And she seemed to be a woman of taste, quite knowledgeable about painting. She said she had seen Simone’s Mary in Majesty in Siena the year before.

Silvano declined more than a hasty drink of ale and some bread and cheese because he wanted to get back on the road. The Abbess had said she didn’t want the old saddle back so he was unencumbered on the homeward road and relished the thought of a proper ride.

Silvano walked out into the balmy night waiting for his horse to be fed and watered. He strolled out into the main square and then ducked back quickly behind a building on the corner. He had seen Angelica! He was sure it was her. He had to fight a strong impulse to run over and throw himself at her feet.

It would have been madness. He had to maintain his disguise in order to save his own life. But it was hard. And then he saw that Angelica was accompanied by an older man, whom he recognised. As incredible as it might seem, it was Gervasio’s father! And as he watched Vincenzo de’ Oddini going into a tavern he saw that Gervasio himself was also one of the party. What could that mean?

And as he watched, he saw Gervasio bend down and whisper something in Angelica’s ear and be rewarded with a smile.

His heart like a stone, Silvano turned back to the merchant’s house. He would get Moonbeam out of that stable and ride him back to Giardinetto as hard as he could.

.

CHAPTER NINE

As Beautiful as Possible

S
ilvano spent a restless night at the friary. His limbs ached from the unaccustomed fast ride home and his mind could find no peaceful place to rest. He was no nearer to knowing who had killed Tommaso and the glimpse of Angelica had rekindled some of his old feelings for her. He could not understand why she was with Gervasio and his father. Silvano felt so cut off from his family and what was happening in Perugia. He knew that his father would have contacted him if the real killer had been found and that he wouldn’t risk giving away Silvano’s place of safety for anything less than that news. But it was so hard to wait, without any information.

And when he tried to think about things inside the friary, nothing was any better. There was another murdered man and he had a growing suspicion that Brother Anselmo knew more than he was telling. The only thoughts that did not distress him were of Chiara the reluctant novice.

Eventually he fell into a troubled sleep and immediately had a nightmare in which two women in black veils came towards him with blood dripping from their hands, pointing accusing fingers. He woke with a shout. The bell, which he could usually ignore, told him it was midnight, time for Matins.

Although novices were excused from getting up for prayers in the middle of the night, Silvano was afraid of going back to sleep and went to the chapel to say the Office with the older friars. It did soothe him a bit, though he thought that Brother Anselmo still looked troubled.

They didn’t speak then and Silvano went back to bed for another hour of tossing and turning. When the bell rang three hours later for Lauds, he gave up and rose with the other friars. Then he went to the stable and took Moonbeam and Celeste out on a morning hunt. He couldn’t remember if it was the right day for it but he had to get away.

Angelica was feeling well satisfied with her morning’s work in Gubbio. She had found suitable premises and appointed a manager. They had heard that the richest merchant in the city had recently died, leaving an excellent opportunity for a new trader to step in. As she walked back to the inn with Gervasio and his father, they passed a door with its lion head knocker tied up with black ribbons. It was just closing on a man leaving the house.

‘That must be where he lived,’ she said to Gervasio. ‘The merchant who died.’

‘That’s right,’ said the man, who had called to pay his respects. ‘Ubaldo. Stabbed in his bed – at the friary in Giardinetto.’

‘Giardinetto,’ said Angelica, remembering the slow carriage they had passed the day before. ‘Where is that?’

‘A village on the way to Assisi,’ said the man. ‘Nothing there but some Franciscans and Poor Clares.’

‘How sad. Had he a wife and family?’

‘Oh yes. Monna Isabella went to bring him back yesterday and there are four young ones.’

‘She must be broken-hearted.’

The man nodded and raised his cap to them before walking away.

‘And yet wives are not always broken-hearted when their husbands die suddenly,’ whispered Gervasio, so that his father should not hear.

If they could have seen Isabella inside her house, they might have been surprised nevertheless by how calmly she went about her domestic duties. There had been a constant stream of friends and neighbours coming to view the body and pray for the soul of her late husband.

But the worst had been taking the children down early in the morning, to see their dead father. He was now dressed in his finest lace-trimmed nightshirt and there had been sweet herbs burning all night but nothing could disguise the scent of blood and the incipient decay of his flesh.

The viewing was hurried through as soon as possible and then Isabella took the children to the kitchen for cakes and a mouthful of sweet wine. She had to supervise the provision of food and drink for all the expected visitors and think ahead to the funeral feast. The sooner Ubaldo was in the ground the better.

She saw in her mind’s eye the long dining table spread with delicacies, the huge epergne in the middle. She would see Ubaldo on his way in grand style. And then she would give that thing away. She would not need it any more. Never again would there be anyone at her table she couldn’t bear the sight of. As a rich widow, she might in time be courted. But if Isabella ever married again it would be for love.

The Abbot of Giardinetto had come to visit the Abbess. It was a rare enough event but these were extraordinary times.

They talked for a while about the upheaval affecting both their houses.

‘Are you any closer to knowing who killed the merchant?’ asked the Abbess.

The Abbot shook his head. ‘It must have been an intruder – someone with a grudge against him. A successful businessman like him must have made enemies. Someone must have followed him from Assisi and waited till we were all abed.’

‘And then fled from the friary,’ said the Abbess. ‘It would have been easy enough to escape without notice.’

‘I have been thinking we should have a service of purification,’ said the Abbot. ‘Perhaps the sisters should come too? I feel that both our houses have been defiled.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ the Abbess agreed. ‘They are all very disturbed and frightened. I shall tell them that it is all over and the service will help to restore them to the proper frame of mind.’

‘I hope it does the same for the brothers,’ sighed the Abbot. ‘I have never known them so disrupted. Rumours are flying through the friary.’

‘Rumours?’

‘Well, you know our young novice?’

‘Brother Silvano?’

The Abbot shifted uncomfortably. ‘Actually he isn’t really a brother. We are giving him sanctuary at the request of an old friend of mine. Until it is safe for him to go back to Perugia, he passes for a novice here.’

‘And why did he need sanctuary?’

‘He was suspected of a murder,’ admitted the Abbot. ‘A man was stabbed in the street in Perugia and it was Silvano who found the body.’

‘Stabbed!’ exclaimed the Abbess. ‘And you still say that Ubaldo’s murderer came from outside the friary.’

‘Silvano is no murderer,’ said the Abbot. ‘He’s an obedient and good-hearted fellow. And what possible reason could he have had for killing Ubaldo?’

‘For what reason did people think he had killed the other man?’

‘There were rumours that he was, um, enamoured of the man’s wife.’

‘Well,’ said the Abbess. ‘At least that could not be the case with the merchant.’

‘I am sure that he had nothing to do with it,’ said the Abbot.

‘But until they find out who killed the man in Perugia, there will still be a shadow over him, won’t there?’ said the Abbess. ‘And however innocent he may be he can’t stay in Giardinetto for ever. People will wonder why he remains a novice.’

The Abbot decided not to tell her that there was a second friar who did have a motive for murdering Ubaldo. He wanted to believe as she did that the killing was over.

The nuns and friars filed into the chapel of the friary the next day, filling it to overflowing. The Abbot led the service, solemnly intoning words of comfort. There was so little room that the novices had to stand at the back and Chiara managed to catch Silvano’s eye. She wanted to talk to him about Isabella and Brother Anselmo but also hoped that he might tell her more about his life in Perugia. Chiara had already guessed from his superior horse and his hawk that Silvano was an aristocrat. And she wanted to hear him say that he no longer cared for the woman whose husband had been murdered. But it was virtually impossible for two young people of opposite sex in religious houses to speak alone, even though they lived so nearby.

An unexpected opportunity came later in the day, when both novices found themselves back in the Basilica with Simone Martini. The artist seemed much more pleased than either of them would have been about the quantities of dull green paint that Brother Anselmo and Sister Veronica had brought him.

‘Do you make your own white?’ Silvano asked the painter, remembering his conversation with Brother Fazio.

‘My journeymen do,’ said Simone. ‘They mix the gesso for the walls in a workshop here at the Cathedral and make large quantities of lime-white.’

‘Saint John’s white,’ said Silvano.

Simone raised his eyebrows, impressed. ‘Indeed, though here it will be used for Saint Martin. It’s not skilled work. They mix slaked lime and water in buckets and stir it for eight days. Then they make it into little cakes and put them to dry in the sun. We call it biacca.’

‘Couldn’t they make the colours for you too, Ser Simone?’ Chiara dared to ask.

‘I would not entrust such a task to journeymen, Sister,’ he replied. ‘Of course my assistants have the skills but you see how I need them here.’

He gestured to the scaffolding where several men were working on the hands of figures in frescoes that were nearly finished.

‘My brother, Donato,’ said Simone, ‘and my friends Lippo and Tederigo. They are part of my bottega in Siena. I could not finish this commission without them.’ The artists looked down and smiled to acknowledge the visitors, then turned back to their delicate task.

When the day’s load of colours had been brought into the chapel, Simone offered to take the visitors into the Upper Church and show them the life of Saint Francis. Sister Veronica was fascinated, dedicated follower of the Saint that she was, and even Silvano and Chiara were interested because the painter had made the scenes so real. Only Brother Anselmo seemed to have to force himself to be interested in the paintings.

‘As beautiful as possible,’ said Simone. ‘That is the responsibility of all us mural painters – to beautify the House of God to the best of our ability. I am trying hard in the church below us but Maestro Giotto has given me a lot to measure up to.’

The nave was completely decorated – walls, ceilings, chapels, even the thin columns and arches that sprang up into the vaulted roof. Everywhere was a mass of bright colours and it took a while for eyes accustomed to the dimness of the Lower Church to make sense of it all. But the painter took them to the beginning of the sequence of the Saint’s life on the north side of the nave.

It was a picture of the centre of Assisi, with a Greek temple in the middle, squeezed up between two modern buildings. The Saint walked from the left in a dark cloak, his head already haloed. On the right a man spread his cloak for Francis to walk on.

‘He is a simpleton,’ said Simone. ‘Not a grand person like the other men in their red and gold and white robes. But he alone recognises the holiness of Francis and pays him homage.’