The Falconer's Knot: A Story of Friars, Flirtation and Foul Play by Mary Hoffman
‘He can’t keep out of my way,’ said Pietro. ‘It’s always been the same. Wherever I go, I find Simone underfoot.’ But he clapped the shorter man on the shoulder and Silvano could see that they were great friends.
‘I shall not be under your feet,’ retorted Simone. ‘I shall be working across the aisle from you. But I shall be able to keep an eye on you and give you the odd word of advice if I see you going wrong.’
‘And likewise,’ said Pietro. ‘I shall curb your excesses of gold.’
‘Gold?’ said Silvano. ‘Are we to provide that too?’
‘No,’ said Simone. ‘No one comes to a house of Franciscan brothers for gold. But we are here to talk of something almost equally precious.’
‘Ultramarine,’ said Anselmo.
‘Blue from beyond the sea,’ said Simone. He took a small rock from his satchel that at first looked no more remarkable to Silvano then any other mineral the brothers had worked on in the colour room. ‘This is the true blue, the only colour for Our Lady’s mantle. Ordinary passers-by or bystanders might wear a cloak of azurite but for Our Lady it must be created from lapis lazuli and I ordered this consignment from Venice.’
‘But there is no sea between here and that city, is there?’ asked Silvano.
‘No,’ said Pietro. ‘Only the sea that surrounds it. But the lapis comes from far away across the sea before it reaches Venice. It is hewn from rocks in the valleys of Khoresan, the Land of the Rising Sun.’
Silvano was silent. He had hardly ever been out of Perugia and he suddenly felt small and ignorant, his problems insignificant in a world that had such wonders in it. The strange names of places far beyond his imagining came easily to the lips of these great artists but even the great trading city of Venice, famed for its beauty and wealth, had sounded exotic to him.
‘Look at your novice, Brother Anselmo,’ said Pietro. ‘We have bedazzled him with our talk of distant lands. Come closer, Silvano, and look at the stone. Some people believe that it is a fragment of the starry heavens themselves fallen on to the land from above. But those who work it say that it has to be hewn out of the rock like any other precious mineral.’
Silvano could see the dark, brilliant blue crystals shining in the dull rock. He yearned to turn it into a glowing colour that Simone and Pietro could use in their paintings. He could just imagine what an opulent robe Simone would give to the Blessed Virgin.
‘May I grind some?’ he asked.
‘That will be only the beginning,’ said Anselmo. ‘When we have pounded it in mortars and ground it finely on the slabs, all we will have is a grey powder. You will think that we have spoiled it. But wait till we have mixed it with rosin and mastic and wax, and sieved it and kneaded it with lye. Then shall you see the true blue appear.’
Silvano looked appalled at the amount of work needed to turn the already beautiful blue stone into the equally beautiful pigment. But the two artists were nodding approvingly.
‘We had no doubt about your expertise, Brother Anselmo,’ said Simone. ‘And I’m sure that you will use it to produce the finest ultramarine.’
The sisters were also expecting a visit from the Sienese painters. Chiara surprised herself by realising that she had something interesting to look forward to almost every day. And in between times the routine of the convent had become quite soothing to her. Even the regular visits to the chapel every few hours to say the Office, which she had thought she would never get used to, now felt like a natural punctuation of the day. She had stopped thinking of her brother and her first family and, although she was still in awe of Mother Elena, she was genuinely fond of Sister Veronica. And she enjoyed working the colours.
But her mind still went frequently to the friary next door and not just because of Silvano. A man had died horribly and so close to where she was living that it haunted her dreams. And all the more since she had seen the corpse and helped to clean it up.
‘What are you daydreaming about, child?’ asked Sister Veronica. ‘We must keep up with our work or we shall not have enough to offer the painters.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister,’ said Chiara. ‘I can’t help thinking about the murder next door.’
‘Natural enough,’ said Sister Veronica. ‘But there is no need to be afraid. Father Bonsignore is sure that the murderer has put a great distance between himself and Giardinetto.’
Chiara wasn’t afraid but it was a good excuse for inattention. She bent over her slab determined to keep concentrated on the azurite she was grinding. It must not be too fine, Sister Veronica had said; the coarser the grains, the more intense would the blue pigment be. But not as intense as the costly ultramarine which the Sienese artists wanted for their most important figures.
Sister Lucia entered the room and whispered to the Colour Mistress. The two grey sisters turned towards Chiara, who had not yet trained herself not to be curious and was already looking at them. Sister Veronica beckoned her over.
‘Sister Lucia comes with a message from the Abbess. She wants to speak to you in her room.’
Chiara wiped the blue-grey dust from her fingers on to her robe, where it became invisible, adjusted her veil, and prepared to face the Abbess. She hoped very much that she had done nothing wrong.
Simone and Pietro sat down to a good meal with the friars; Bertuccio bustled about, shiny-faced, bringing more and more dishes from the kitchen. Brother Landolfo hovered in the background, smiling nervously. The painters were not richly dressed but they still looked like peacocks in a dovecote among the grey friars at table.
Usually the friars ate in silence while Brother Gregorio, the Lector, read from the Scriptures, but the rule was relaxed when they had visitors. Talk flowed around the table and the main topic was still that of the death of Ubaldo.
‘So, your last visitor was murdered?’ said Pietro. ‘Should we be worried?’
‘No, no,’ said Landolfo hastily. ‘That was a most unlikely occurrence. We have never had an intruder in the friary before and I’m sure it will never happen again.’
‘Do not disturb yourself, Brother,’ said Simone, frowning at Pietro. ‘My friend is not serious. We are very comfortable here in your friary and grateful for your hospitality.’
‘You go to visit the sisters next?’ asked Landolfo. ‘You must eat up here – they will have nothing to give you.’
‘We shall have no need of anything from them after such a spread,’ said Pietro, and Landolfo looked gratified. He eventually sat down at the long table himself in his usual place next to Brother Fazio and had a little to eat.
‘Brother Anselmo tells me that your paintings in Assisi are of the utmost magnificence,’ said Father Bonsignore.
‘He is too kind,’ said Simone and the conversation at that end of the table turned to art and great masterpieces seen by the brothers before they entered their calling. Brother Fazio was eloquent on the subject of Cimabue, who had also painted some walls in the Basilica.
Down at the lower end, Silvano strained to hear them but then caught another thread of talk that distracted him. Brother Taddeo, the Assistant Librarian, was whispering something to Matteo about Brother Anselmo. He heard ‘Isabella’ and ‘Domenico’ and his heart sank. Anselmo’s secret was out.
When the novice came into her room, Mother Elena tried to assess how much Chiara had changed since the day she had thrown her curls to the birds. She still looked too boldly into other people’s faces but now she remembered, after the first glance, to cast her gaze down. And she moved more slowly and was less impetuous. The Abbess thought that, with time, Chiara could make a good sister in the Order of the Poor Clares. She was willing and obedient but Mother Elena knew that she had still not felt the voice of God calling her to such a life. And she doubted that she ever would.
‘Sister Orsola,’ she said. ‘I have had an interesting letter about you. From Gubbio.’
‘No, from a rich lady,’ said the Abbess.
‘Monna Isabella?’
‘She writes to ask if you could be released from your novitiate,’ said the Abbess gravely. ‘What do you think of that idea?’
Chiara did not know how to respond. A few weeks ago and she would have been thrilled at the prospect of escape, as she would have seen it. Now she did not know if she wanted to leave. There was Silvano close at hand and the chance of seeing him both here and in Assisi. And there was the work itself, which had opened her eyes to the marvels of art. And her curiosity made her want to stay to hear the end of the story of Ubaldo’s murder.
And yet . . . Isabella was offering her a way out of a life she dreaded. One day Silvano would leave and one day the paintings in the Basilica would be finished. In a year or two Chiara would be in the grey world of the sisters, growing older with no prospect of love or adventure. Wouldn’t it be better to be a companion to a wealthy widow in Gubbio, if that was what was being offered?
‘You are silent, Sister,’ said the Abbess.
‘It is a surprise to be asked, Mother,’ said Chiara. ‘What else does Monna Isabella say?’
‘That if you wish to be released, she will make a donation equivalent to the one that your brother gave on your entry into the convent. And that she is willing to keep you at her expense in her house in Gubbio. Your duties would be light, I think, more those of a companion than a servant.’
‘And would you agree to that, Mother?’ asked Chiara.
‘If that was what you wanted, yes,’ said the Abbess. ‘If you were sure that you have felt no vocation.’
Such kindness brought tears to Chiara’s eyes. A part of her wanted to please the Abbess, to tell her that she would be happy to devote her life to God and end her days in the little convent at Giardinetto. But the other part beat wildly at the bars of its cage and yearned to fly away, even to so near a place as Gubbio, and live the life of an almost free woman. Surely Isabella would be an undemanding mistress? And one day Chiara might find someone else to share her life with?
Here her imagination gave out. If she tried to visualise a man who might become her husband, only Silvano’s fine features appeared in her mind, and even though he was not a real friar he remained an aristocrat – each equally out of the reach of a Poor Clare and perhaps even of Monna Isabella’s dependent in Gubbio. She could not base a decision about the rest of her life on a good-looking youth who happened to live next door.
‘May I have some time to think about it, Mother?’ she asked.
The Abbess was surprised. She had thought that the novice would jump at the chance of her release. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I shall send to Gubbio to let Monna Isabella know of our conversation. She expects to be here quite frequently, as she has business with Father Bonsignore. You can talk to her the next time she visits.’
‘Well,’ said Simone. ‘We should leave your delightful table and visit Sister Veronica. We have brought the same amount of lapis lazuli for the grey sisters,’ he told Anselmo. ‘Perhaps it will inspire the spirit of competition?’
‘Thank you again for the repast,’ Pietro said to the Abbot.
The two painters went to say goodbye to the cook and Guest Master but Landolfo was unable to get to his feet. His face had gone a terrible colour and he was clutching his head. Brother Rufino was at his side in an instant.
‘What is it man?’ he snapped, pushing the other friars out of the way. He was a great friend of Landolfo’s and the Guest Master was alarming him.
Landolfo looked at the Infirmarian as if he didn’t know who he was. ‘Silvano,’ he said. ‘Where is the young falconer?’
‘I am here, Brother,’ said Silvano, coming forward quickly. ‘What can I do?’
‘Take your hawk,’ babbled Landolfo wildly. ‘We need a couple of hares. Artists are coming from Siena.’
Silvano looked helplessly towards the Abbot.
Simone leant over the Guest Master. ‘We are here, Brother,’ he said. ‘And have dined well.’
‘Here already?’ said Landolfo frantically. ‘But we must cook the hares. Bertuccio, quick.’ Then he slouched over the table and started to snore.
Silvano and the other brothers were amazed. It seemed as if Landolfo might be drunk but he was such an abstemious man and had hardly taken any wine at the meal. Certainly he was confused. Only Anselmo seemed to have an idea what was wrong. He went to Rufino and spoke to him and the Abbot urgently in a low voice.
‘We shall take Brother Landolfo to the infirmary,’ announced Father Bonsignore. ‘My apologies to our distinguished guests but, as you can see, our brother has been taken ill.’
He summoned Taddeo, Matteo and Silvano, the three youngest members of the house to carry Landolfo out of the refectory.
Brother Anselmo followed, aware that he was receiving some strange looks from the other brothers. At a loss whether to stay or go, the two Sienese painters also followed what was beginning to look like a cortège.
The young friars laid their brother on a cot in the infirmary and suddenly the room filled up with other people. The body on the bed, which no longer looked like Landolfo, began to convulse and a yellow liquid trickled from his mouth. Rufino and Anselmo exchanged desperate looks.
‘Hold him down,’ ordered Rufino, sending his assistants for cloths and water.
Landolfo was thrashing around, his eyes rolling up into his head.
‘Is it a fit?’ Simone asked Silvano.
‘I don’t know,’ said Silvano, helplessly. ‘I have never seen anyone like this.’
‘Was it something he ate?’ asked Pietro, surreptitiously passing a hand over his own full stomach.
‘Perhaps,’ said Rufino grimly.
Brother Anselmo took hold of one of Landolfo’s wildly flailing hands and silently invited the Infirmarian to look at the nails. They were turning a purplish-blue colour.
Landolfo’s back arched with another spasm and then he fell into a sonorous slumber.
‘If it is as we think,’ said Rufino, ‘there is one thing we might try. Anselmo, do you have any sulphur in the colour room?’
Anselmo was beginning to shake his head when Brother Fazio broke in, ‘I do, Brother. I use it in the manufacture of oro musivo – the gold employed on parchment. It is not the only component of course . . .’
‘For Heaven’s sake, man, we don’t need a disquisition on how to make illuminator’s gold!’ said Rufino. ‘Just fetch it will you?’
‘Very well,’ said Fazio, offended, but he trotted off at a great pace.
‘Is he asleep?’ Silvano asked Anselmo, looking down at Landolfo.
The Colour Master shook his head. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I think he is dying. Brother Landolfo has been poisoned.’
.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Poison in the Air
When Chiara left the Abbess and crossed the convent yard, she saw two brothers hastily carrying a plain coffin into the main house. She stopped for a moment and crossed herself, a cold premonition touching her spine.
But she shook off her fears. There surely couldn’t be another death so soon. While she was still watching, the painter Simone and his friend Pietro hurriedly crossed the small distance between the two houses, looking desperately worried.
‘Ah, Sister Orsola,’ said Simone. ‘Well met. Can you take us to Abbess Elena?’
‘Of course. You want to see her before you go to the colour room?’ asked Chiara, setting off to retrace her steps.
‘I think our commission of ultramarine will have to wait,’ said Pietro. ‘We bring bad news from the friary.’
Chiara halted. ‘Someone else has died, haven’t they?’
The two painters looked at each o
‘Please!’ insisted Chiara. ‘If it is one of the brothers, tell me who. I have friends there.’
Pietro shrugged. ‘It is Brother Landolfo.’
Relief flooded through Chiara’s body. Then she felt ashamed. She did not know Brother Landolfo but she was sorry that any of the friars had died and so suddenly that he must have gone unshriven. How awful to die unconfessed and unabsolved, she thought, especially for a friar. But perhaps, being a friar, he had very few sins to confess or forgive?
‘How did it happen?’ she managed to ask.
‘It appears that he might have been poisoned,’ said Simone, as the friary chapel bell started to toll.
‘Another murder?’ asked Chiara.
‘We really should go to the Abbess,’ said Simone.
‘Yes,’ said Chiara. ‘I’ll take you straight to her.’ But her thoughts were in chaos.
Another murder meant another murderer – or the same one who had stabbed Ubaldo the merchant. But that meant it was one of the brothers – it was unthinkable! She wished she could talk to Silvano and Anselmo about it.
Once she had left the painters at the Abbess’s door, she had to run to Sister Veronica and tell her what had happened. The sisters in the colour room had already heard the passing bell and were sitting white-faced, waiting to find out what had happened.
‘Poison?’ said Sister Veronica, as if she hadn’t understood the word. ‘He must have eaten something bad.’
Chiara lowered her eyes and whispered, ‘I think it was another murder.’
The friars of Giardinetto were stunned. Brother Fazio had brought the sulphur but it had been too late. Brother Landolfo had never recovered consciousness and soon ceased to breathe. For Silvano, it was the second time he had seen a man die and the third violent death to have occurred near him in a matter of weeks. His mind struggled to make sense of it. A small voice at the back of it said that at least it hadn’t been another stabbing; he was sure suspicion would have fallen on him again if it had been.