The Falconer's Knot (7 page)

‘I suppose in one sense a great church is never completed,’ said Anselmo. ‘It is always being added to and beautified. But the Basilica was consecrated before I was born. And the frescoes of the Upper Church are already a sight that pilgrims come from miles around to see.’

‘You have seen them yourself?’

‘Oh yes, many times. They were painted by Giotto di Bondone. Ser Simone speaks of him with almost the same reverence we use towards Saint Francis.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Silvano. ‘But I am rather ignorant about saints and their lives.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Anselmo. ‘You didn’t expect to be joining a religious house.’

Silvano looked at his bony profile. ‘You know about me?’ he asked quietly.

‘Father Bonsignore told me a little when he asked me to take you on in the colour room. I know you are not really a novice.’

‘And you know what I am supposed to have done?’

Anselmo nodded.

‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Silvano.

Anselmo smiled. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You are no murderer.’

Silvano felt his heart lift. No one had said that to him since he found Tommaso dying in the street. Even his father had needed to ask him. He felt a warm rush of affection for Brother Anselmo, who accepted him so calmly and believed in him so completely.

‘Who else knows why I am in Giardinetto?’ he asked.

‘Only Brother Ranieri,’ said Anselmo.

‘I know about him,’ said Silvano. ‘As Novice Master, he needed to know that I was seeking sanctuary and had no calling.’

‘Then there is just him, myself and the Abbot,’ said Anselmo.

‘I wonder how long I’ll have to stay here,’ said Silvano.

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

‘Oh, no,’ said Silvano, flustered and wondering if he had seemed rude or ungrateful. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I can’t bear not knowing what’s going on in Perugia. Have they found the real murderer? Or is my name still slandered? It seems cowardly to hide away in the friary when I am not guilty. I would have stayed to plead my innocence but my father wouldn’t let me take the risk. I am his only son.’

‘You are precious to him,’ said Anselmo simply. ‘I can understand that. I wasn’t born a friar, you know.’

Silvano wondered if the Colour Master was one of those religious who had been a married man and lost his wife. Perhaps he had even had children of his own. ‘You would be a good father, Brother,’ he said impulsively, making them both laugh.

The hill of Assisi was coming into view, with its fortification at the top. Silvano could see the Basilica even from this distance, looking as if it had grown out of the rocks at the side of the hill, rather than being built by the hands of men. As they got nearer, Silvano could see that large numbers of people were swarming round the great church.

There were pilgrims, barefoot and wide-hatted, leaning on staffs. And there were people selling food and wine, and others selling carved wooden crosses and likenesses of Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Then there were artisans who Silvano guessed were working for the artists, stirring barrels of plaster. He felt very proud to be bringing the colours that would bring the plaster to life.

Brother Anselmo left Silvano in charge of the horses while he went to find Simone Martini. He soon returned with the artist, who was clearly delighted to see both of them.

‘Welcome to Assisi, Brother Silvano,’ he said. ‘I hear you have not visited here before? You must let me show you my work. But let’s get these pigments unloaded first.’

He beckoned to one of the young workmen making gesso. ‘Marco, come here and give our young friend a hand. He brings colours from Giardinetto.’

The four men made short work of unpacking the cart and then Marco took the horses off to a nearby stable. Silvano stretched in a rather unfriarlike way. He had been carrying in barrels without taking much notice of his surroundings and his arms ached.

But now he turned and looked around him. Simone was ordering the new materials on a long bench. They were in a chapel off the nave of the Lower Church. The windows had no glass in them and the light streamed in. That and the wooden scaffolding obscuring part of the walls made it difficult to see the wall paintings at first.

Silvano looked closer and he could see that each one was a miracle of colour and story-telling. The ceiling and the higher parts were completed and the round wooden platform where Simone stood to work was only just above Silvano’s head.

Simone saw him looking at the pictures and invited him up on to the platform to show him more closely.

‘You see, Brother Silvano? There is Saint Martin cutting his cloak in half for the beggar.’

There on the left was the Saint, on horseback, taking his sword to his cloak. Saint Martin was turned round looking backwards over his right shoulder at a poor shivering man, just as his horse had his neck turned round too.

The Saint’s horse reminded Silvano of Moonbeam. It too was a grey horse with a proud neck and flared nostrils. The cloak concealed its hindquarters but Silvano was sure it was a hunting stallion too. It made a contrast with the Saint, whose mild face was framed by curled golden hair and a decorated halo.

The whole picture was a mass of pinks and greens and golds, offset by the dark blue sky behind. Silvano’s gaze travelled upwards and he gasped. Peeping out from behind the scaffolding was Ser Simone’s own face, with what Silvano thought of as his ‘sucking lemons’ expression. He was wearing a fashionable green and blue berettone on his head, quite different from the working clothes the painter was in now.

Simone caught his eye and laughed. ‘You must read the pictures in sequence,’ he said. ‘Not up from that one but along to your right. You are not to look at my ugly face yet.’

He indicated a picture of the Saint lying in a bed having a dream. It was startlingly realistic and Silvano, who knew nothing about painting, could not believe that he was seeing a flat wall. There was the Saint in a nightcap, lying in his bed, his body making the chequered bedspread rise and fall round its contours. He had elegant and expensive embroidered white pillows and sheets, and a gold halo surrounded his nightcap.

Saint Martin’s eyes were closed but there in his room was Christ the Lord, surrounded by angels and wearing the very half of the blue cloak that Martin had given to the beggar in the other picture. Silvano was entranced. ‘So the beggar was really Jesus?’ he said to the painter. ‘And Saint Martin had a dream of him?’

Simone looked pleased. ‘You didn’t know the story before? That’s good. It means I’ve told it properly.’

‘I’ve heard it but I couldn’t remember all of it,’ admitted Silvano. ‘But it’s very clear. Martin was kind to a poor man and then it turned out to be the Lord.’

‘It is as we read in the Evangelist,’ said Brother Anselmo, smiling. ‘Our Lord said, “Whenever you have done something for one of my least important brothers, you have done it for me.” So Saint Matthew tells us.’

Silvano suddenly felt safe between these two men, as safe as he felt in the friary. They were wise and good and could tell him of wonders. It was a world far away from blood and murder.

A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Ser Simone, we are here with the colours.’ He turned and saw a grey-clad nun. By her side was another and he suddenly found himself staring straight into the eyes of the pretty novice from the convent next door.

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CHAPTER FIVE

A Stab in the Dark

C
hiara was as astonished to see the novice friar as he was to see her. She didn’t take in a word of the rather awkward introductions, except to notice that the painter, Ser Simone, was embarrassed and amused that both his suppliers of pigments had turned up at the same time.

Sister Veronica obviously knew Brother Anselmo and they were stiffly polite to each other, each a little wary of treading on the other’s area of expertise.

Then Sister Veronica had gone off to supervise the unloading of her cart, with the painter and the young novice, leaving Chiara with the older friar in the chapel. It felt as if she were standing inside a jewellery box. Colours cascaded from the walls, sparkling with stamped gold and rich with azurite, cinnabar, red lake and malachite.

Chiara was suddenly flooded with sadness for the absence of colour in her present life and the future that stretched before her. For weeks now, apart from when she was in the colour room, she had been living in a sea of grey, the only brighter hues the occasional blue-eyed sister or glimpse of an illumination in the convent’s psalter. She felt the tears spring to her eyes.

Fortunately, Brother Anselmo was not surprised to see someone moved to tears by fine fresco painting.

‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it, Sister Orsola?’ he said gently.

‘What? Oh, yes, Brother, it is quite wonderful,’ said Chiara, sincerely.

‘Ser Simone was explaining to Brother Silvano the order in which the scenes are to be read,’ said Anselmo. ‘Shall I show you?’

So his name is Silvano, thought Chiara, but she had the presence of mind to say out loud, ‘Thank you, Brother. Please do tell me. I have never seen wall paintings before.’

Over the next half hour, more supplies of pigments were carried in by Silvano, Simone and the convent’s cart-driver, under the fussy supervision of Sister Veronica. There were so many that they had to be stacked along underneath the bench. And yet Simone assured them he would soon use the colours up. Every time Silvano came back into the chapel, he was intensely aware of the pretty novice and of her conversation with Brother Anselmo. Every so often, the painter lingered to explain a detail of one of his pictures. During one of those breaks, when Silvano stopped to stretch his muscles, he spotted a falcon in one of the paintings. It was on the right wall of the chapel, on the lowest level.

‘The Saint is receiving his knighthood in this one,’ the painter was saying. An important-looking man in a rich red and gold robe was girding a sword round the Saint’s waist. ‘The Emperor Julian,’ said Simone.

Silvano was confused by the picture. How could a man be a saint and a knight at the same time? The short time he had spent in the friary had made him believe that the religious life and the life of action were as different as red and blue. But this clearly was the Saint again, with his hands raised in prayer even at the moment of his investiture, and his gold halo surrounding his almost equally golden hair.

Another figure was putting a spur on the Saint’s left foot and in the background were colourfully dressed musicians and singers. It was a figure on the left who was holding the bird of prey. It was beautifully painted, with every feather clear and separate, the jesses and the bells, the leash and a golden hood all shown.

‘He isn’t wearing a glove,’ said Silvano, before he could stop himself. ‘You need a glove or the bird’s talons grip your hand.’ Instinctively, he held up his left arm; he could almost feel the light weight of Celeste on his wrist.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Simone, smiling. ‘I’m no falconer. You sound as if you keep a hawk yourself.’

Silvano realised he was on dangerous ground and cast a quick look at Brother Anselmo. He saw that the young novice nun was listening intently.

‘Brother Silvano takes his falcon out once a week to bring back food for the ailing friars,’ said Anselmo.

‘I trust there are not many of those,’ said Simone and the moment passed.

While Silvano and Chiara were being amazed by the art in the Basilica, Ubaldo the merchant was concluding a very successful meeting with the head of the friary at Assisi. The order for the altar cloths was going to make him a lot of money. He left and ate an early dinner at a local inn, fearing that the fare offered to him in Giardinetto would be as scanty as the night before. After many goblets of wine, he heaved himself up on to his horse with some difficulty and ambled towards the Gubbio road. The horse, who knew his master’s moods well, adjusted himself to Ubaldo’s slumped posture and did not break into a trot until they were on the main road.

On the way back to Giardinetto, he overtook two horse-drawn carts, one with two grey friars and the other carrying two Poor Clares. For some reason, the sight made Ubaldo laugh and he began to wobble in his saddle.

‘What a lout!’ whispered Sister Veronica. ‘You’d think a man who can afford clothes and a horse like that would have better manners.’

It was not the sort of thing that nuns were supposed to say and Chiara was delighted to discover that Sister Veronica had this human side. It had been a most interesting day, what with the trip to the Basilica and meeting the painter and seeing the handsome novice.

‘Ser Simone was very agreeable, wasn’t he?’ said Chiara. ‘I liked him.’

Nuns weren’t supposed to have personal likes and dislikes either, but Sister Veronica let it pass. It seemed as if all the rules were relaxed a bit once they were outside the convent.

‘And a great artist,’ added Veronica. ‘It will be wonderful to see the chapel when it is all finished.’

‘So we can go again?’

‘Oh yes. I think Ser Simone will need several more loads from us and the brothers. We are going to be kept busy in the colour room.’

Brother Landolfo was the Guest Master at Giardinetto. He was a small, plump friar with a silver tonsure, who did not often have to offer hospitality to outsiders. But two days ago Abbot Bonsignore had told him to make a room ready for a rich merchant, saying that the house’s reputation was at stake.

The first night, their guest had been brought supper in his room and had seemed to look down his nose at it a bit. So Landolfo was determined that the stranger would eat in the refectory tonight with all the brothers and that their fare would be richer than usual. He had discussed the meal with Bertuccio and Brother Nardo, the Cellarer.

Franciscan friars were not supposed to own anything but they were often given gifts, particularly of food and wine, in return for prayers said or acts of healing performed, and there was nothing against using the items they received. Since Giardinetto had a skilled Herbalist and Infirmarian there were plenty of such gifts.

Brother Landolfo fussed around the kitchen, driving the cook, Bertuccio, mad. But a commotion brought him out into the yard. Their distinguished guest had returned – and fallen off his horse. As Ubaldo staggered to his feet, helped by the friary’s stableman, it was clear that he was inebriated. He waved graciously to Brother Landolfo.

‘Good evening, Brother,’ he said, his voice slightly slurred. ‘How are you faring this evening? It has been a lovely day, has it not?’

Landolfo was pleased to see that Ubaldo was the kind of man who became mellow with drink rather than mean-tempered.

‘Good evening, Ser Ubaldo,’ he said. ‘We are glad to see you safely back from Assisi. I trust your business went well?’

‘Excellently well, thank you,’ said Ubaldo, swaying slightly.

‘I hope you have not already dined,’ said Landolfo anxiously. ‘The brothers hoped to have the pleasure of your company at table tonight.’

‘I shall be happy to join you,’ said Ubaldo, aware of the rules of hospitality. He was so pleased with his day’s work that he wouldn’t mind eating a second dinner. And he thrived on the deference and respect the friars showed him. He never experienced anything like that in his own home, with his wife’s quiet hostility always there like a murmuring underground stream.

He weaved his unsteady way across the courtyard as the bell rang for Vespers and all the friars scurried to the chapel.

‘I shall join you in the refectory,’ he said, ‘when you have finished saying your prayers.’

Brother Anselmo and Silvano were back only just in time for Vespers themselves and the younger man found it even harder than usual to concentrate on the Office. Why couldn’t he get the novice Clare out of his mind? Try as he might, he was finding it difficult to visualise Angelica’s face and an altogether darker and rosier one was superimposed on his pink and white image of beauty.

This was madness. He loved Angelica. And where was the future in being attracted to a nun? Admittedly she wasn’t professed yet, but she would soon be ‘a bride of Christ’ and out of any man’s reach. These were very unholy thoughts to be having in a chapel and Silvano struggled to discipline his mind.

The visit to Assisi had been a welcome change but it was unsettling to be back in touch with life outside his sanctuary. Simone’s paintings with their vivid colours and their narrative of knightly adventure had made Silvano wonder afresh when he would be able to resume what he thought of as his real life. And yet he knew that he would miss the friars once he was back in Perugia, especially Brother Anselmo.

It was a shock when he entered the refectory after Vespers to see, at the top of the long table, the richly dressed merchant who had ridden past them on the road. So this was the visitor some of the younger friars had talked about! In spite of his wealth, Silvano hadn’t thought much of the merchant’s manners. In fact even Brother Anselmo had commented on the man’s obvious consumption of liquor.

But as Silvano took his place at the bottom of the table, with the other novices and heard the name ‘Ubaldo’ mentioned, he was surprised to see the Colour Master’s reaction. Brother Anselmo, as a senior friar, was seated much higher at the table and he was clearly having to fight to restrain some very strong emotion. Perhaps no one else would have noticed but Silvano had spent a lot of time with Brother Anselmo and felt he knew his moods.

Abbot Bonsignore took the head of the table with Ubaldo the merchant, as guest, on his right. Close by were the Lector, the Librarian, the Illuminator, the Guest Master and the Colour Master. Down Silvano’s end, as well as the novices, sat the Assistant Librarian, the Herbalist, the Novice Master, the Cellarer and the dozen or so professed friars who had no assigned title within the friary. The Infirmarian was tending a couple of elderly brothers and was not present. The lay brother, Bertuccio, was still toiling in the kitchen.

The introductions, which took place after Grace, seemed to go on an inordinately long time. Silvano felt his stomach rumbling. Ubaldo was the only man who had come to table without being particularly hungry and he took his time understanding who each brother was and what was his name and function, while Bertuccio fumed in the background, worrying about the food spoiling or getting cold.

At last, he was allowed to bring in his game-bird stew. Silvano couldn’t believe the delicious smells coming from the dishes. His partridges had been consumed days ago and he hadn’t been hawking since but Bertuccio had somehow got hold of some more fowl and worked kitchen miracles with them.

Ubaldo seemed more interested in having his wine cup filled than in what was on his plate, but at least he no longer looked disdainful and ate a reasonable amount, to Brother Landolfo’s relief. In spite of what Sister Veronica thought, Ubaldo was not a lout. He was a rich man with expensive tastes, used to getting his own way. But he respected learning and piety, which is why he preferred to lodge with the friars rather than stay in a more comfortable inn.