The Falconer's Knot

by Mary Hoffman

  ‘And do you need horse manure to make that too?’ asked Silvano, glad that Brother Anselmo had not asked the workers in the colour room to produce any white.

  ‘Oh no, the technique is quite different,’ said Brother Fazio. But he seemed suddenly to have lost interest.

  ‘I must say farewell, Brother,’ he said absently.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Silvano. ‘Thank you for showing me your work.’

  And he lost no time getting back to the colour room, out of the range of Brother Fazio’s smelly shed.

  Isabella covered her bright hair in a black veil and peered through it at her looking-glass. She looked exactly as a widow should. She took a deep breath and smoothed the fabric of her taffeta dress. It was one made when she was in mourning for her father three years earlier but it would have to do. She had already ordered more from the dressmaker. And now she must descend to the front door, which was already festooned with black silk ribbons, and take her place in the carriage.

  A footman sat up in front with the driver but Isabella had the inside of the carriage to herself. She did not see the road to Giardinetto; her mind was still entirely turned in on itself, the way it had been ever since she heard the news from Brother Landolfo.

  A part of her was quite frozen, unable to take in the fact that this man, to whom she had been shackled for so long, was never going to speak to her or look at her again. And the unexpected manner of his death was something else she could not comprehend. She had wondered from time to time, throughout their marriage, whether Ubaldo would die before her; he was older by some years. But if she had imagined how it might happen, it was always because of a seizure or a fever. At most, an accident on his horse. But never a murder. The fact that it happened under the roof of a religious house somehow made it worse, as if the world’s order had been turned upside down.

  The children had taken their father’s death in different ways. Little Federico did not cry; he seemed to grow taller as he said, ‘Don’t worry, Madre. I am the head of the house now and I shall look after you.’

  The younger ones had been frightened and disturbed but she had never known how they felt about Ubaldo. All the caressing and kissing and love had come from their mother. Some fathers, it is true, spent more time with their little ones and Isabella had often speculated about the very different bond they might have felt with Domenico.

  Domenico. Her exhausted brain kept coming back to one constant thought: Domenico, her first love. Where was he now? Had he kept his word and remained unmarried? Did he know what had happened to her? Below all her fears and worries about what the future might hold, there ran, like a powerful underground stream, the steady current that had never lessened: her feelings for Domenico. The vision that they might one day be reunited was more and more like a misty dream after all these years, but the fact remained that Ubaldo’s death had left her a free woman.

  She shook her head; these were impious thoughts in a woman going to bring her husband home for burial. She must do everything correctly, as she always had throughout the marriage. Nothing would be lacking in the outward forms of respect for Ubaldo. And curiously Isabella had never felt so warmly towards him as she did today; the fact that she had to endure his presence no longer made her determined to do everything fitting for his funeral and obsequies.

  Chiara was in the sisters’ garden when the carriage came down the Gubbio road. She was carrying out one of her favourite tasks, because it brought her out into the fresh air. Sister Veronica needed fuller’s herb for a special yellow she was working on and Chiara was deft and neat at picking the plants. But she dawdled, always hoping to catch a glimpse of the handsome Silvano or at least see something to vary the monotony of life in the convent.

  She had thought that, after the murder next door, everything would be different but, after the washing of Ubaldo’s body, the sisters had gone back to their old routine. Chiara shuddered as she thought of the task she had helped to perform the day before. And then she was rewarded by the sight of a carriage heading towards the friary.

  It was drawn by two bay horses with rosettes of black ribbon on their harness and she knew immediately that this meant the arrival of Ubaldo’s widow. Rumour had already circulated that Monna Isabella would be coming herself to fetch him home. I wonder if her heart is broken? thought Chiara. She tried to think of the thing she had seen the day before as a living, breathing man, loved by his wife.

  Someone else had seen the carriage from her window. Mother Elena, the Abbess, realised as quickly as her youngest novice, that it signalled the arrival of the merchant’s widow. Poor woman, she thought. What a dreadful journey for her to make! She made up her mind instantly to offer her condolences in person. Father Bonsignore is a good soul, she thought, but he will not know how to conduct himself with a woman of the laity, particularly one of her station.

  As she swept through the courtyard, the Abbess found Sister Orsola standing open-mouthed in the garden, with a forgotten basket of plants at her feet. She had seen little of the girl since her admission into the convent and on impulse she decided to take her to the friary with her.

  ‘Come, Sister Orsola,’ she commanded. ‘Let us go and offer our sympathy to the widow of Ubaldo. She will appreciate the presence of other women in that house of bachelors.’

  Chiara couldn’t believe her luck: two days running a visit to the friary! All the grisly business was over now and she was burning with curiosity to see the merchant’s widow.

  They walked the short distance to the brothers’ house and were in time to see the footman help a very elegantly dressed woman out of the carriage and hand her ceremoniously to the Abbot, who had come out to greet her.

  Monna Isabella would take no refreshment nor wash the traces of her journey from her before seeing the body of her husband. It had been moved to the chapel and was already in a plain coffin. The small procession of Abbot and Abbess, widow and novice, walked slowly towards the trestles on which the coffin lay.

  The elegant woman gave an involuntary gasp when she saw the body and she pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth.

  What on earth would she have done if she had seen him the way he was yesterday? thought Chiara but, remembering the blood and the staring eyes, she wouldn’t have wished that on Ubaldo’s widow. How she must have loved him!

  ‘I will take that wine now, Father,’ said Isabella. She was struggling to compose herself. She glanced at the women, glad to have them near. ‘Perhaps your novice might attend me, Mother,’ she said to the Abbess.

  Chiara took Isabella to the guest room, where Brother Landolfo had set a pitcher and bowl of water and a rare looking-glass ready for their lady visitor. Isabella looked round the room and shuddered while Chiara poured out some water.

  ‘It was in here, wasn’t it?’ she asked, putting back her black veil. ‘This is where he died.’

  ‘Yes, Madama,’ said Chiara, struck by the woman’s composed beauty. ‘I attended to him myself.’

  ‘Really? And . . . and were his wounds very terrible?’

  ‘Not too terrible, Madama,’ lied Chiara.

  Isabella gave a short laugh. ‘You are a kind girl but there is no need to spare me. I have no idea who hated my husband enough to kill him but whoever it was has released me from a man I did not love.’

  Chiara was astounded. She said nothing but encouraged the widow to splash water on her pale cheeks and white hands. Then she proffered the towel and saw that Monna Isabella expected Chiara to dry her hands and face for her. She submitted to the novice’s care like a small child or helpless imbecile.

  ‘It shocks you, I am sure,’ continued Isabella. ‘To hear the sacrament of marriage spoken of so slightingly. I should have felt the same at your age, before I had experienced love and had it snatched away from me.’

  She paused and took a brush from her small carrying-case, then unpinned her veil.
Chiara saw with admiration the glossy hair underneath.

  ‘But I am forgetting, child,’ said Isabella. ‘You are married to the Church and must have no thoughts of earthly love.’

  ‘Only against my will,’ said Chiara, unable to help herself. She couldn’t bear to have this elegant woman thinking of her as a nun with a vocation. Seeing Isabella’s surprise, she plunged on with her explanation. ‘My brother brought me here without my consent,’ she said. ‘And the sisters are very kind to me but I have no calling. I am here because there was no money for a dowry. Otherwise I should have been allowed to think of love as much as I might wish.’

  It was the woman’s turn to be astounded. ‘But do not imagine you would have been able to choose your own husband, even if there had been dowry enough,’ she said bitterly. ‘It was my father who decided on Ubaldo for me, even though my heart was already given to someone else. We women have no choice but to do as our fathers or brothers – or husbands,’ she spat out the word, ‘decide for us.’

  Chiara was brushing the widow’s hair by now with soothing strokes. How she had missed having her own long curls to tend!

  ‘And what happened to him?’ she felt bold enough to ask the back of Isabella’s head. ‘The man you really loved?’

  ‘Domenico?’ said the widow. ‘I don’t know,’ and, putting her face in her hands, she wept for the first time since the news of her husband’s death.

  .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Widows

  Isabella and Chiara talked for a long time before Chiara led the widow to Father Bonsignore’s cell. She felt very different now that she knew Isabella’s secret. But, although the merchant’s death had not grieved his widow, Chiara could not doubt that it had shocked and surprised her.

  Now for the second time in two days, the novice found herself taking wine with the Abbot. The widow seemed reluctant to let her go and leant heavily on the young girl’s arm. Father Bonsignore poured liberal measures of the best red wine his Cellarer could provide and looked relieved that Isabella had someone to look after her.

  Isabella was having a whispered conversation with the Abbess about the funeral arrangements for her husband. Chiara heard the words ‘Requiem Mass’ and ‘Cathedral’. But the Abbot had another pressing practical matter to discuss.

  ‘Forgive me, Monna Isabella,’ he said, ‘for bothering you with such a matter at this time but what are we to do with your husband’s belongings? His baggage and clothes can, of course, travel with you in the carriage but I was wondering about his horse . . .’

  Isabella looked like someone who had just swum up to the surface of a deep lake. ‘His horse? Yes, to be sure. We must make some arrangement,’ she said distractedly.

  Then as if she had realised this for the first time, she suddenly said with anguish, ‘Am I to travel in the carriage with his body?’

  Bonsignore was nonplussed. There would be plenty of space for widow and coffin alike and he had assumed it would be the arrangement but now he saw that the idea filled Isabella with horror. He looked to the Abbess for advice.

  ‘Can you ride a horse, Madama?’ Mother Elena asked.

  ‘I can,’ said Isabella doubtfully. The journey home had become something enormous to accomplish.

  ‘Forgive me, Mother,’ said Chiara. ‘But I don’t think that Monna Isabella is well enough to ride alongside the carriage unaccompanied.’

  ‘You are right, child,’ said the Abbess. ‘But Father, is there not a young novice here who can ride? Could he not accompany the lady and see that she travels safely on Ser Ubaldo’s horse?’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said the Abbot. ‘I shall send for Brother Silvano at once.’

  Silvano was back in the colour room, diligently grinding celadon rock into a dull green powder. He looked up from his porphyry slab when Brother Ranieri came into the room and whispered to Brother Anselmo. He saw the Colour Master turn pale and they both looked at him.

  ‘Brother Silvano, come here a moment, will you?’ said Brother Anselmo. ‘Leave the green earth.’

  He took the young man outside and said, ‘Father Bonsignore has something to ask of you. Monna Isabella, the widow of Ubaldo, is here to reclaim his body. The Abbot wishes you to accompany her back to Gubbio on your horse. She will ride on her late husband’s beast.’

  Silvano was more than willing to go. It would be good to see Gubbio again and a ride in the fresh air, even with a grieving widow, would be more exciting than spending the rest of the afternoon grinding colours and praying.

  And surely this meant the Abbot did not still think him involved in Ubaldo the merchant’s death? He would hardly send a suspected murderer to accompany the victim’s widow home.

  He was surprised to see the pretty novice from the convent when he entered the Abbot’s cell. It was as well that Brother Anselmo had already told him of his commission, because Silvano found it hard to concentrate on what Bonsignore was saying, under the young girl’s scrutiny. She seemed always to be crossing his path nowadays and he more often found her features floating into his mind when he tried to remember Angelica’s face.

  He tried not to look at her, or at Ubaldo’s widow, after the introductions. He was willing enough to ride with her to Gubbio but he didn’t want to think about what she must be feeling.

  The Abbot sent him to saddle up both horses. They were to borrow an ancient ladies’ saddle from the convent, left over from Abbess Elena’s secular life, so Silvano accompanied the sisters back to the convent to collect it. He walked silently and as respectfully as he could but it was hard to keep his eyes from sliding sideways for a glimpse of the novice.

  ‘Sister Orsola’ the Abbess had called her, and the widow of Ubaldo seemed attached to her. She had said, ‘Please come back and say goodbye to me.’ And the Abbess had nodded slightly, to give permission.

  So it was that the two young novices found themselves walking back across to the friary unaccompanied. Silvano was perplexed. Since he wasn’t a real postulant, he had no idea if he was allowed to address the sister but he didn’t want to appear impolite.

  ‘The lady seems grateful for your company, Sister Orsola,’ he said and was rewarded by a deep sigh.

  ‘I am not Orsola yet,’ she said, glancing up at him. ‘My name is Chiara and I like it a lot better.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Silvano impulsively. ‘It is a beautiful name.’

  She gave him a radiant smile.

  ‘And it suits you,’ he added rashly.

  ‘Is Silvano your real name?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I have no other.’

  ‘But you are not really a novice, are you?’

  He stopped and looked at her.

  ‘Does everyone know, in both our houses?’ he asked, uneasy about his safety from prosecution if his disguise became the subject of universal gossip.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But I saw you arrive, with your horse and your hawk, and I knew then that you were no friar.’

  Silvano smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I saw you too and – forgive me, Sister Chiara – I thought that you too did not seem a very convincing novice.’

  A shadow fell over her face. ‘I don’t know why you are here,’ she said. ‘But it is some kind of game to you and all in earnest for me. I cannot leave the grey sisters and one day I must be Orsola in reality for ever – a gruff and grim little bear.’

  Silvano was moved by her sadness.

  ‘It is not a game for me either,’ he said seriously. ‘The reason I am here is that I am accused of stabbing a man in Perugia.’

  Chiara started.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he reassured her. ‘I am innocent and seeking sanctuary here with the brothers. And I had nothing to do with the merchant’s death here.’

  ‘But why did anyone think it was you?’ she asked. �
��That had murdered the other man, I mean.’

  ‘Because my dagger was used,’ he said. And then resolved to tell her the whole truth. ‘And I had been paying attention to the man’s wife, Angelica.’

  Chiara felt a stab of pure jealousy. She would have liked to ask him more – what Angelica looked like and whether he still had feelings for her. But as they reached the stables, they met several people at once.

  The elderly lay brother, Gianni, who worked in the stables, was leading out the bay horses to harness them into the carriage. He nodded to Silvano to go in to his own grey stallion and the merchant’s brown mare.

  The Abbot was leading the widow out to the stables and six brothers were carrying the merchant’s coffin, now nailed up, behind them. Unaware of this procession, Brother Anselmo came round the corner from the colour room and called out.

  ‘A moment, Brother Silvano,’ he said. ‘I would have another word with you before you leave.’

  Chiara saw Isabella come to a sudden stop at the sound of his voice. The coffin party nearly ran into her where she stood, a hand on her heart. ‘Domenico!’ She barely mouthed the name, but Chiara understood. In an instant she looked with new interest at Brother Anselmo, who stood fixed to the spot. So this was Monna Isabella’s first love!

  It was a strange tableau, whose meaning few members understood. Chiara hurried to Isabella’s side, worried that this new shock would rob her of her senses. How was she to ride safely to Gubbio in this state? She persuaded the widow to sit down on a mounting-block.

  ‘Father Abbot,’ said Chiara, looking at Isabella’s white face. ‘I think that the lady needs a moment longer. The sight of the coffin might have been too much for her.’ She flashed Silvano a look into which she put as much meaning as she could, indicating that he should go to Brother Anselmo.

  Silvano took the older man’s arm and led him aside, while the coffin was loaded into the carriage and the Abbot fussed around Isabella.

  ‘What is it, Brother?’ Silvano asked.