The Falconer's Knot (3 page)

Tommaso the sheep farmer was puffing up the hill from the market-place to his home. He was humming to himself; his fleeces had fetched a good price earlier in the summer and now his vegetables were doing well. And he had another little business that was thriving too. He would have significant wealth to leave to a son. Now that Angelica had let him back into her bed he was hopeful that he might have a son at last.

It was early afternoon and there were few people about; most were taking their midday meal or were already enjoying their rest. It was not the time of day to fear attack and, when he heard light footsteps behind him, Tommaso paid no attention. Even when he felt the blow at his side, he thought that some young bravo had just bumped into him by mistake.

He turned to curse the careless youth and saw someone running back down the hill. His legs felt weak and, looking down, he saw red flowering from his tunic. He put his hand to his side uncomprehendingly, and sank to his knees. It didn’t hurt, but there was a silver dagger-hilt sticking out from between his ribs. He grasped it and then the pain began.

He was a few doors from his house. He roared like a bell-wether. He looked up and saw a face he thought he recognised, a good-looking face. Tommaso clutched at the young man’s arm, not caring that he was splattering blood on the other’s clothes.

‘Murder!’ he whispered, feeling his voice gurgling in his throat.

‘Murder,’ echoed Silvano, gazing stunned at his lady’s husband dying in the street.

And then there was the sound of running feet all around him and a woman started screaming.

‘This is where we grind the colours,’ said Sister Veronica. She was tiny, several inches shorter than Chiara, with the bone structure of a twelve-year-old and hands and feet to match. She was neat and deft in all her movements and Chiara understood why she was valued by painters.

As she was shown round the pigment room, Chiara discovered that the preparation of colours was a serious business. Elisabetta the novice worked there already, as did two older fully professed sisters, Lucia and Felicita. But there was plenty of work and Chiara could see why Sister Veronica needed another pair of hands.

The sisters sat at a long wooden table, like the one in the refectory, but instead of a wooden platter, each had in front of her a square slab of a red veined stone.

‘Porphyry,’ said Sister Veronica, following Chiara’s glance. ‘It is harder than marble and ideal for grinding colours. You take another piece – like that one Sister Lucia is using, see? – and grind the natural minerals on the slab until they are a fine powder. Then you add fresh spring water and mix them together.’

Chiara looked round the room and saw shelves lined with little bottles, each stoppered with a cork and labelled in spidery writing. She went to take a closer look, fascinated.

‘Vermilion,’ she spelled out. ‘Terra verde, azurite, dragonsblood. Dragon’s blood?’

‘Not much of that, you see,’ said Sister Veronica. ‘It is not used by the fresco painters in Assisi. The friars use it for illuminating manuscripts.’

‘But is it really made from the blood of dragons?’ asked Chiara, wide-eyed.

‘According to some,’ said Sister Veronica, ‘it is the result of battles between dragons and elephants. But it seems more likely to be a resin that comes from a shrub.’

Chiara looked disappointed. She liked the explanation about dragons and elephants better.

‘But it is a shrub that does not grow in these lands,’ said Sister Veronica. ‘It grows only on hot islands in the East.’

Well, that was something, Chiara thought. At least it came from somewhere exotic, even if not from real dragons.

Baron Montacuto was roused from his afternoon rest by his manservant tugging at his sleeve. The Baron had only just drifted into a refreshing dream about boar-hunting and was tetchy at being disturbed.

‘A thousand apologies, my lord,’ said the servant nervously. ‘But it is the young master. They say he has killed a man.’

The Baron was instantly awake, shaking his head like a wild boar himself, one with something caught on his tusks. He motioned towards a pitcher of water and the servant fearfully obeyed his master’s gestures to throw the contents over his head. The Baron ran downstairs, buckling on his sword and shaking the water drops out of his grizzled hair and beard.

‘Where is Silvano?’ he demanded of the servant.

‘Disappeared, my lord. They say he ran away when people came to help the dying man.’

‘And who was this man?’

‘Tommaso the sheep farmer. They say – forgive me, my lord – that your son was enamoured of Tommaso’s wife.’

The Baron stopped in the hall and wiped the remaining moisture from his face. The servant cringed.

‘I have heard something of this. But my son is no killer. He is mild as milk. Why do they put the blame on Silvano?’

‘It was his dagger, my lord, with the family crest.’

The Baron looked instinctively up at the coat of arms above his mantel: the jagged summit of a mountain between oak trees. He had given Silvano that dagger himself.

Just then Silvano himself appeared, white-faced and red-handed. Blood stained his elegant jerkin and his long fingers.

‘What the devil does this mean?’ demanded his father, relieved though he was to see the boy alive. He hustled him into a side room where they couldn’t be overheard.

‘I . . . I came in through the stables,’ stammered Silvano. ‘There is a mob after me. They think I . . . they say I killed a man.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said the Baron testily. ‘Well? Did you?’

Silvano looked miserable. ‘No. I found him dying. I tried to help him.’

‘Dying from your own weapon, as I hear,’ said the Baron. ‘Do you swear it was not by your hand?’

‘I swear it,’ said Silvano passionately. ‘You know I would not kill anyone – unless to save my mother or sisters. I don’t know what happened to my dagger. I knew it was missing only when I saw it in the body.’

‘I believe you,’ said the Baron. ‘But you are in severe danger. It looks bad against you. Weren’t you fooling with the man’s wife?’

Silvano looked anguished. ‘Not exactly,’ he mumbled. ‘But why would I kill her husband in broad daylight, with my own dagger?’

‘The Council will not concern themselves with such fine detail,’ said the Baron. ‘You will be arrested and, unless we can find the real assassin and force him to confess, you will be executed.’

There was a furious knocking at the great wooden door.

‘Quick,’ said the Baron. ‘Go and wash all that blood off. Give your stained clothes to the servants to burn. Then take refuge in your mother’s chamber.’

Cautiously he led Silvano back into the hall and summoned the servant who was waiting.

‘I need you to take a message to the Franciscans in the city,’ he ordered, thinking fast.

The Baron turned to Silvano. ‘No one is going take my son from me without a fight,’ he said grimly. ‘Now, hurry, or it will be too late.’

The Abbot of Giardinetto was standing at his window when he saw a member of his Order riding at full tilt towards the friary. It was unusual enough to see a friar on horseback; they were encouraged to walk everywhere, unless they were sick. Such a messenger must bring urgent tidings.

The exhausted friar was shown into the Abbot’s room and given a blessing before being poured a cup of wine. He waited until he was alone with the Abbot before spilling out his message.

‘I come from the brothers in Perugia,’ he said. ‘My name in Christ is Ambrogio and I am sent by my Abbot. You know the Baron Montacuto, I think, Father?’

‘I do indeed,’ said the Abbot. ‘We were at university together in Bologna, more years ago than I care to remember. Bartolomeo da Montacuto has been generous to the friary here too.’

‘And now he begs a favour of you, Father,’ said Brother Ambrogio. ‘His only son is in mortal danger, accused of a murder he swears he did not commit. The Baron asks that you give the boy sanctuary here in Giardinetto until the real culprit can be found.’

‘Bartolo’s boy,’ said the Abbot, half to himself. He had not had much contact with his old friend in recent years but he knew of the many children conceived and lost by the delicate Baronessa, knew how much this boy – Silvio, Silvano? – meant to the friend of his youth. Titles, property, inheritance – these were all baubles the Abbot had renounced when he accepted God’s calling but he understood what his only son and heir meant to Bartolomeo da Montacuto.

‘We will take him,’ he said decisively. ‘If Montacuto says he is innocent, then he is and we shall shelter him until it can be proved.’

Chiara was walking with Elisabetta back from the colour room to the living quarters, when she saw two horsemen riding into the yard of the neighbouring friary. She looked up with interest in spite of Elisabetta’s shushings and frantic gestures to turn her eyes away from the visitors. Both were dressed in the grey habits of the friars of Saint Francis, but Chiara was not so long out of the world not to recognise that the younger one was a most unlikely religious.

His robe seemed to have been thrown on over some more fashionable clothes and he was wearing boots of fine suede. His horse was of a much better quality than his companion’s and there was a hawk on his pommel. Chiara peered through the dusk unable to believe her eyes, but it was true. There really was a hunting bird, probably a peregrine, tethered to this ‘friar’s’ saddle. It was the most interesting thing she had seen since entering the convent.

Silvano looked up, as if aware of a gaze fastened on him. He saw two sisters of the Poor Clares, one modest, with downcast eyes, agitatedly trying to pull her companion away. The other stood boldly looking out towards the friary, frankly assessing him and his horse.