Chapter One
Feast of Saint Philomena, the Year of Our Lord 1456
Lucrezia and Spinetta Buti arrived at the Convent Santa Margherita in early July, on Monday of the fourth week after Pentecost. They came in a simple carriage drawn by two fine horses that gave pause to all who saw them along the dusty road from Florence. Farmers who labored in the olive groves drew off their caps as they passed, and shepherd boys tending their flocks in the golden hills outside of Sesto Fiorentino waved, hoping a pale hand might toss coins, sweets, or small colored beads from the carriage.
Gleaming in the midmorning sun, the horses trotted through Prato''s main gates and whinnied as they slowed outside the convent. Prioress Bartolommea, sitting in her small study, squinted up over her account books.
"Who are we expecting?" she asked Sister Camilla. "Is it the procurator?"
"The procurator is still in Montepulciano, at the new convent under his ministration," the secretary answered.
"Then is it the prior general?" Mother Bartolommea asked as the gates were opened and the carriage rolled into the courtyard.
"If it is, Madre, he''s not come at an appointed time," said Sister Camilla, who stood and peered out the window. "Nor has he come in his usual carriage."
The women crossed themselves and glanced toward heaven. Unannounced visits from Prior General Saviano, head of the Augustinian Order, were distressing: he rarely stayed less than four nights, ate heartily, and consumed more than his share of wine without replenishing the nuns'' meager supply.
"Perhaps it''s someone to see Fra Filippo," said Sister Camilla.
"Perhaps," the prioress said faintly. She patted the younger woman''s hand as she thought of Fra Filippo Lippi, the famed painter and monk. Despite her distaste for the Carmelite brother''s gruff voice and salacious reputation, the prioress brightened whenever he crossed her mind. Fra Filippo''s acclaim for painting the most beautiful Madonnas in the Italian states was growing, and the prioress hoped his presence in Prato, along with his recent assignment as chaplain to her nunnery''s small collection of souls, might yet bring some glory to Santa Margherita.
In his workshop near the Piazza della Pieve, Fra Filippo Lippi was also aware of the fine horses that trotted through the streets of Prato. As they reached the church square, the monk put down his brush and hurried to the window. Sunlight fell on his features, revealing a strong mouth, heavy brow, wide Roman cheekbones, and deep blue eyes. The passing carriage was modest, and the monk saw quickly that it didn''t belong to the Carmelite Order, nor did it bear banners displaying the Medici crest of six golden palle. Whoever it carried, the passengers were not coming to his bottega to demand past-due work or debts owed, and the painter was greatly relieved.
The horses turned the corner onto Via Santa Margherita and Fra Filippo went back into his cluttered bottega. Well into his fourth decade, the monk moved easily among the pots and containers of paint and tempera that filled the shelves and speckled the floor with color. With his mind on his work, the man barely noticed the wooden panels stacked against the walls and filled with images of angels and saints and patrons in various stages of living, praying, or dying as they awaited the life that came from his hand.
Running a thick palm across his tonsured scalp, the monk stood before his easel and stared at the panel he''d been laboring over for days. The painting was a commission from Ottavio de'' Valenti, Prato''s wealthiest citizen, and Fra Filippo forced himself to focus on this small portrait of the Madonna and Child.
"A Madonna. Una bella Madonna con bambino," Signor Ottavio had requested, pressing ten gold florins into Fra Filippo''s palm to seal the commission. "For my blessed Teresa, now in attesa. God willing, she''ll bring me a son at last."
The monk''s Virgin sat on a wondrous throne painstakingly rendered with tiny jeweled detailing. Her robe was a sumptuous blue of the finest lapis lazuli, carefully ornamented in gold leaf and red madder. The cherubic Christ child was in her arms, looking up into the Virgin''s face.
But there was no face. There was only a light sketch in red crayon on a flesh-colored oval, awaiting the painter''s brush.
Slowly, the Buti sisters stepped from their carriage. The local boys who tended the convent''s barnyard animals stopped to watch, and the nuns within sight of the courtyard peered from under their wimples.
Spinetta, the younger of the two, came first. She was pale in her brown traveling cloak, but her cheeks still had their fullness, and wisps of blond hair framed her face. She kept her gaze on the ground as she moved aside to let her sister descend.
All eyes were on Lucrezia as her boot stepped from the carriage, followed by the hem of her bold magenta cotta, a gloved hand, a narrow waist, and a braided blond head wrapped in a reta of gold netting. In her twentieth year, Lucrezia Buti was beautiful, with an eye trained for finery in the home of her father. Her features were placid and delicate: a high, smooth forehead, wide-set eyes, full lips. She stood by her sister, and raised her chin to look at the dusty courtyard.
Lucrezia took in the goats and boys, the limestone cloister walls, the fragrant bay laurels that stood beside the prioress''s study, the quiet solemnity of the convent yard. She saw the tight face of an old nun staring from a narrow window, shadowed by a younger, gape-mouthed nun with a large nose and thick, furrowed brows.
"Mother of God," Lucrezia murmured. She brought a small linen satchel of dried flowers to her nostrils, remembering how her fingers had deftly sewn the crushed petals into the clasp of fabric on her last night at home. "Mother Mary, give me strength."
Continues...
Excerpted from The Miracles of Pratoby Laurie Albanese Copyright © 2009 by Laurie Albanese. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
