The Falconer's Knot

by Mary Hoffman

  ‘But you have neither child nor husband,’ objected her father.

  ‘And soon I shall have both,’ she said. ‘I am engaged to be married to Gervasio de’ Oddini. By next year I shall bear the name of a noble house – and a child too.’

  Her father looked both gratified and shocked. A child of his married to a noble, even a penniless one, was an elevation in rank that the family had not dreamed of. They had thought a sheep farmer a significant step up. But he didn’t like to think that his own daughter could be of such easy virtue as to be bearing another man’s child so soon.

  Angelica cared just enough for her father’s good opinion to tell him the truth.

  ‘It’s not Gervasio’s,’ she sighed, patting her rounded stomach. ‘But he doesn’t need to know that. I can confuse him about the date the baby was made once we are married. Which had better be soon.’

  But everyone will think Angelica was dallying with him while the husband was still alive, thought her father. What other reason could there be for such a hasty marriage? Out loud he said, ‘Well, we are agreed on one thing at least. Let de’ Oddini make an honest woman of you as soon as may be. You won’t lack for a dowry this time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Angelica. ‘And I’ll have a good business in Gubbio too.’

  A servant came in, very agitated, and whispered in her mistress’s ear. Angelica clutched at her heart and looked as if she might swoon.

  ‘The Council have arrested Gervasio,’ she told her father. ‘They say that he is Tommaso’s murderer!’

  The friars of Giardinetto were trying to lead as normal a life as possible, considering they had a murderer in their midst. The freshly dug earth over the grave of Brother Landolfo was a constant reminder every time they walked past the little cemetery on the way in to chapel.

  Brother Anselmo had been preoccupied and uncommunicative ever since his meeting with Isabella, but he ran the colour room as steadily as before. Silvano felt cut off from the Colour Master’s thoughts though and this made him feel lonely, lonelier than he had since arriving at the friary.

  He took to missing services and riding out more often on Moonbeam. In a novice it was disobedience; in a sanctuary-seeker, it was sheer folly. But no one tried to stop him. Abbot Bonsignore was too caught up with his own problems to take much notice.

  On one of his unofficial outings, he ran into Brother Valentino, the Herbalist. The friar had been almost invisible in his grey robe against the rocky hillside and it was the horse who saw him first, pulling up short to avoid running him down.

  ‘Hello there, young Silvano,’ said Valentino good-naturedly. ‘You gave me a scare.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Brother,’ said Silvano, dismounting. ‘I didn’t see you. What are you doing?’

  ‘I am gathering wild thyme,’ said Brother Valentino. ‘My stocks have been rather depleted. I want to dry as many herbs as possible because the Abbot has asked me to take over from Landolfo as Guest Master.’

  ‘He wants you to do that as well as grow and keep the herbs?’

  ‘Yes, but it is not ordinarily a demanding job. We don’t have many visitors in Giardinetto. But now we are to receive quite a party from Assisi. They are bringing the relics of the Blessed Egidio and will leave them in the chapel overnight, before taking them back to Assisi for burial in the tomb our Minister General is having built.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand about these relics. I know it’s a great honour but what exactly will they do?’

  ‘They are the bones of one of Saint Francis’s early companions. Someone who passed his daily life with the Saint. They are so holy that they will surely drive out the evil that has lodged in our house. And I think the Minister General believes it will cause the Devil to come out of whichever brother killed Landolfo and he will confess his crime.’

  ‘I hope he’s right,’ said Silvano. ‘Will you ride back with me? You can ride Moonbeam and I will walk beside you.’

  Valentino looked at the grey horse and the hooded hawk with some apprehension.

  ‘No, thank you. I have not found all I need yet. But it is a kind offer.’

  He waved to Silvano and the boy got back on his horse and rode away thinking that he had never had a conversation with the Herbalist before. And then he thought, suppose Valentino was not harmlessly collecting wild herbs? Maybe there was some kind of naturally growing plant that contained arsenikon?

  He dismissed the idea as soon as it came. Brother Valentino was a kind and gentle man, who used his herbs for healing. He couldn’t imagine him deliberately poisoning anyone, let alone stabbing anybody.

  Silvano stabled Moonbeam himself and put Celeste back on her post. He had missed Nones, and suddenly realised that Brother Valentino must have missed it too. Silvano hurried to the colour room, where an acrid smell met his nose.

  ‘Ah, Silvano,’ said Anselmo. ‘We are making caput mortuum.’

  ‘Death’s head?’ asked Silvano. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It is an ochre rich in red mineral deposits, but when ground and mixed with water, it makes a wonderfully dark purple, suitable for robes.’

  Anselmo seemed almost his old self, happy to be explaining and demonstrating the colours that he loved. Silvano smiled at him. They worked till Vespers, then walked to the chapel together, stopping to cross themselves by Landolfo’s grave.

  ‘Did you know that Brother Valentino is Guest Master now?’ Silvano asked Anselmo.

  ‘Yes, I heard that,’ said Anselmo.

  They both looked round the chapel for the Herbalist but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Perhaps he is still out collecting herbs?’ whispered Silvano.

  But the Abbot came in and they began to say the Office.

  Valentino was not present at supper either and Silvano felt uneasy. It was most unusual for a brother to miss a meal. He saw Anselmo speaking to Bonsignore and the Abbot beckoned him over.

  ‘Brother Anselmo tells me you had some converse with Brother Valentino this afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Father. I was out in the hills exercising my horse and I found him gathering herbs.’

  ‘Did he come back with you?’

  ‘No. I offered him my horse but he said he hadn’t finished his task.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About mid-afternoon, at the time of Nones,’ said Silvano. ‘I noticed he wasn’t at Vespers. Has he not been back at all?’

  The Abbot shook his head. ‘He came to me after the midday meal and asked to be excused Nones. He said he wanted to pick herbs. Perhaps we should go to his storeroom and see if he became so absorbed in putting his plants away that he missed the Vespers bell?’

  The Abbot, Anselmo and Silvano excused themselves from the refectory, leaving a buzz of speculation behind them. A heavy feeling lay in all their hearts. But there was no lifeless Brother Valentino in the storeroom. Still, he had been back. There were two baskets full of fragrant, freshly picked herbs. He had left them on a bench, as if in some hurry.

  They went to Valentino’s cell, which was likewise empty.

  ‘Perhaps he is in the refectory now?’ suggested Silvano.

  They went back and were met by the silent faces of the friars all turned towards them. The Abbot strode to the head of the table and rapped on it with his wooden cup. It was not really necessary; every eye was on him.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘we are concerned for the safety of Brother Valentino. Has anyone seen him since he returned from his herb-gathering?’

  Silvano suddenly felt grateful that they had found the baskets. If anything had happened to Valentino on the hillside, it would look bad that he had been out of the friary at the same time.

  ‘It was his turn to ring the bell for Vespers,’ said Brother Taddeo. ‘I saw him hurrying across the yard.’

  ‘
And did the bell ring?’ asked Bonsignore. Like all of them, he was so used to the sections of the day being portioned out by the ringing of the friary bell that he couldn’t say whether he had gone to Vespers because of its sound or because his body just knew it was the right time.

  But there was general agreement that the bell had rung.

  ‘And no one has seen him since then?’ asked Bonsignore. There was silence. ‘Well, he was not at Vespers, so perhaps we should go to the bell tower. He might have collapsed.’

  Silvano really hoped that was the explanation, even though he didn’t like the idea of Brother Valentino having some kind of seizure because he had hurried back and then rushed across the yard. He wished the Herbalist had accepted a ride on Moonbeam.

  The evening meal was abandoned and all the friars followed their Abbot to the bell tower with a sense of foreboding.

  It was a simple brick tower with only one bell in the open cupola at the top. Several flights of stairs wound up inside it to where the bronze bell hung, but it was rung by a heavy rope that hung down inside the tower. Silvano had been inside the tower only a few times since he was not allowed to ring the bell by himself and was not on the rota of friars that did it before services.

  The little procession stopped outside the wooden door at the bottom of the tower.

  ‘Come with me, Brother Rufino,’ commanded the Abbot. ‘If Valentino has fallen ill, we may need you.’

  But when they pushed open the door, it was clear, even in the gloom of the shadowy tower, that Valentino was beyond Rufino’s help, or anyone else’s.

  He swung from a beam, his grey robe long and shapeless, obscuring his feet. The hem dangled only a few inches from the floor. His face was congested and purple, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. There was a bloody bruise on his forehead.

  A collective gasp went up from the brothers as Bonsignore and Rufino rushed inside. Anselmo and Silvano were right behind them. The Abbot himself took the weight of the body while Rufino and Anselmo undid the cord. They lay Valentino on the flagstones. The Abbot closed his staring eyes and cast his own cloak over the corpse. He intoned a Latin blessing over the dead friar and all the brothers said, ‘Amen’.

  The news was quick to reach Assisi. It ran round the Basilica and reached Simone and Pietro the next morning as they breakfasted with their assistants outside their workshop in the grounds.

  ‘Another murder?’ said Simone, while Pietro tried to remember which brother was the Herbalist.

  ‘The Minister General is taking the relics of the Blessed Egidio today,’ said Teodoro the goldsmith, who had come to bring them the story, knowing their interest in Giardinetto.

  ‘You finished the casket then?’ asked Simone.

  ‘It took me all day and all night for three days,’ said the goldsmith, yawning. ‘And that was with my assistants helping me. But I am pleased with it.’

  ‘May we see?’ asked Pietro.

  Teodoro took them into the Upper Church, where the casket lay on two trestles before the High Altar. It was a magnificent piece of work. Sheets of crystal were let into the side and lid of the casket, which surrounded a lead coffin holding the sacred bones. It was made of polished pink-veined marble, and every hinge and corner was decorated with gold.

  Simone and his friend Pietro knelt in veneration before the holy relics. But first and foremost they were artists and it was the workmanship and artistry of the casket which had impressed them as much as what it contained. They walked out into the cold morning sunshine praising Teodoro’s work.

  ‘It was worth losing sleep over,’ said Pietro, clapping the goldsmith on the back.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Teodoro. ‘The Minister General seems pleased.’

  ‘So I should think,’ said Simone indignantly. ‘It is absurd for such a commission to be given at such short notice. You have done in days what any other artist would have insisted on taking weeks if not months to design and make.’

  As they walked across the green, they saw a small procession approaching. A carriage drawn by two horses was accompanied by several horsemen, Michele da Cesena among them.

  ‘I showed you my casket just in time,’ said Teodoro. ‘I think they have come to take it now. Giardinetto’s need is more urgent than ever.’

  ‘How should you like a ride out into the country?’ Simone asked Pietro.

  ‘Very much,’ said Pietro, ‘but I have work to do and so do you.’

  ‘Donato and the others can continue while we are away. And you have your own assistants. Besides, we could collect some more pigments from the friars.’

  ‘Do you think Michele da Cesena would appreciate our presence?’

  ‘We are not froward friars for him to glare at. And we can’t help it if we happen to be at Giardinetto to collect our colours while he is there.’

  Silvano had slept badly, with terrible nightmares. He thought he would never expunge the image of Valentino’s ghastly purple face from his memory. He had been hanged by his own rope belt and that somehow made it seem much more cold-blooded of the murderer. No one suggested that the Herbalist had taken his own life.

  It seemed as if the other young friars and novices had passed an equally restless night. Faces were pale and voices quiet. But they had not had their supper the night before and they were hungry. So they were all present in the refectory to break their fast.

  Compline and Matins had not been said and only a few friars had gone to the chapel for Lauds in the early morning. When the bell rang for Prime at daybreak, everyone looked fearful. Who would have been brave enough to enter that bell tower after what it had witnessed the night before?

  As they approached the chapel, they saw that the bell tower door was wide open and it was Brother Anselmo pulling vigorously on the rope. The Abbot was there too, blessing the tower with holy water and carrying a wooden cross before him.

  Silvano felt a surge of affection for both men. They were strong and determined to carry on with the religious life of the friary, no matter what new horror was thrown at them. When the brothers had filed into the chapel, the Abbot came and addressed them before they said the Office.

  ‘Brothers in Christ, this death of another brother is a terrible blow to us all. Even to the murderer among us.’ He stopped and raked the small congregation with his gaze. ‘If that killer is here in this chapel, sanctified to our beloved Saint Francis, I pray him to come forth and confess. Let the devils within him be called out and exorcised so that he may be free to repent and go to the Lord.’

  There was an uneasy silence in which no man dared look at his neighbours.

  ‘Let us pray together for the salvation of the soul of Brother Valentino, whose body lies in the infirmary. May he today find himself in bliss, even though he went to his rest unshriven. And we also pray for Brother Landolfo and Ubaldo the merchant. Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord.’

  ‘And may light perpetual shine upon them,’ responded all the brothers.

  ‘May they rest in peace.’

  ‘And rise in glory.’

  After the Office of Prime had been said, Bonsignore spoke again.

  ‘Later today our Minister General will come from Assisi with the bones of the Blessed Egidio. The casket will lie here all day and all night and any brother is free to come and pray by it at any time. There will be a service of blessing immediately after Vespers. The relics will be taken back to Assisi after Terce tomorrow morning. I shall be in my cell until the arrival of the party from Assisi, if any brother wishes to speak to me. Meanwhile, you are all to carry on with your work as normal.’

  He left the chapel with a firm step, like a man fully in control of his house, though that was far from how he felt.

  The friars dispersed to their tasks and did their best to behave normally but they were deeply frightened.

  ‘It is a good t
hing that Michele da Cesena is coming back,’ said Brother Anselmo to Silvano. This is too great a burden for Father Bonsignore to bear alone.’

  ‘What do you think will happen?’ asked Silvano. ‘Will he call for the friary to be dispersed?’

  ‘It is very possible. We could all be looking for new houses by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Shall we make colours as usual?’

  ‘We must. It is what the Abbot wants and what will keep us sane.’

  ‘But not the murderer.’

  ‘No. I fear Simone is right. One of our brothers must have lost his mind. Brother Valentino was enemy to no man, as sweet a soul as Landolfo. There could be no other reason but insanity.’

  ‘Perhaps we should not make death’s head purple?’

  Anselmo looked at him sympathetically.

  ‘No. We shall make a more cheerful colour today.’

  Umberto made his plans carefully. He had neither wife nor children to mourn him if his scheme went awry and he had already made a will leaving all his money and property to his three nephews and a dowry for his niece. His house was in order in every sense.

  Now he was drinking deeply. Like his older brother, he was able to drink heavily without impairing his ability to ride. But it made him even more dangerous. He was going to go to Giardinetto, armed with Ubaldo’s dagger, and take vengeance on his brother’s murderer.

  The only pity was that his sister-in-law would not know about it until after the event. And if he should be so unlucky as to miss his mark and be himself killed by the friar, however unlikely that might be, he would miss the satisfaction of seeing her grief over the loss of her paramour.

  Umberto brooded about this and eventually sent his man with a message to Isabella:

  ‘Am gone to Giardinetto to avenge my brother. U.’

  He sat back, satisfied that he had tied up every loose end, and drank another two goblets of wine. He had never killed a man before. And his intended victim was a man of God – supposedly. But that did not deter him. Umberto did not expect to be sent to Hell for murder or sacrilege. He saw himself as the wielder of justice, justice that had so far been denied to his brother.