The Falconer's Knot

by Mary Hoffman

  The Minister General nodded to Silvano as if noticing him for the first time.

  ‘You, sir, Montacuto is it? Will you see the women safe to the guest house here? And ask Brother Giovanni to send more friars with a proper coffin for this poor man. I shall come to talk to you soon, Madama, and find out about his family.’

  Simone went with the others; he was glad to get out of the Upper Church, with its deadly secret.

  Isabella seemed loath to leave Anselmo to Michele da Cesena’s mercies but Chiara persuaded her. Once outside, the fresh air revived them.

  ‘You are a free man, I see,’ said Isabella to Silvano. ‘I am happy for you. I just wish the true murderer could be found at Giardinetto too so that Brother Anselmo could also be cleared.’

  ‘Brother Anselmo told us he had some idea of who the murderer is,’ said Silvano.

  ‘Who?’ asked Isabella, then quickly said, ‘No, don’t tell me. I am just glad Anselmo is here, even if he is in the clutches of the Minister General. At least he won’t be facing someone even more dangerous.’

  The women were not at all inclined to wait for Michele da Cesena to interview them, so Simone offered to show them his paintings. They were only too glad to get away from the horrors in the Upper Church and walk down the outside steps to the glowing and gilded jewel box of the chapel below.

  ‘Look, Silvano,’ said Chiara. ‘Simone has given his falconer a glove.’

  It was true. Simone had repainted the fist on the falconer on the extreme left of the picture in which Saint Martin was made a knight. It was a light bluish-grey and almost invisible but it was now there.

  Silvano felt absurdly pleased. With all the death and devastation going on around him it shouldn’t have mattered. But to have influenced even a tiny detail in the work of a great master like Simone – why, that might endure for centuries, long after he and Chiara and Gervasio and Angelica had all turned to dust.

  ‘You were right, of course, about the glove,’ said Simone from behind them. ‘I have never kept a hawk myself so I got that wrong.’

  ‘You have rings on the glove where you tie the bird’s jesses,’ Silvano explained to the women. ‘When she comes back to your wrist, you draw the line through them and make a knot. Look, you can see that Simone has painted the line in.’

  ‘That must be hard to do with the bird sitting on your wrist,’ said Chiara.

  ‘You have to learn to do it one-handed,’ said Silvano.

  And then it was as if the world slowed down around him. He could see Isabella’s mouth moving as if she spoke, but he heard nothing. The colours and shapes of Simone’s pictures swirled slowly round him. Silvano suddenly knew who the murderer was.

  ‘So you still deny having anything to do with the murders at Giardinetto?’ The Minister General pressed Brother Anselmo.

  ‘I could do no other, even under torture,’ said Anselmo. ‘I have never raised my hand in violence to any man. I had no reason to want Umberto of Gubbio dead. But still less those dear brothers who were murdered at the friary.’

  ‘I should like to believe you,’ said the Minister General. ‘Your record as a religious is impeccable. But in your secular life before you joined the Order, you did have reason to hate the merchant Ubaldo. You are the only friar with any motive for any of the murders. Umberto certainly believed that you had killed his brother.’

  ‘But he must have thought I had done it in order to make Monna Isabella free to marry me,’ said Anselmo. ‘And to do that I would have to give up my professed vows as a friar. I have no intention of doing that.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Isabella.

  The two friars turned; they had not heard her come back up into the Upper Church.

  ‘I asked you to take the ladies to the guest house,’ said the Minister General to Silvano, with some asperity.

  ‘We have found out something important,’ said Silvano.

  But Isabella interrupted him.

  ‘I came to Brother Anselmo and asked him to leave the Order and come back to me,’ said Isabella, her eyes fixed on Anselmo’s face. ‘He would not. He said that his life was dedicated to the Church and he would not break his vows. Would he have done that if he had killed my husband to be with me?’

  Michele da Cesena did not answer straightaway. But then he simply asked, ‘Who else could it be?’

  Silvano stepped forward eagerly. ‘Forgive me, Father,’ he said. ‘But I think I know. It’s . . .’

  Anselmo stopped him. ‘Don’t say it,’ he said. ‘Too many people have suffered from unjust suspicions. We need absolute proof.’ He turned to the Minister General. ‘Let me go back to Giardinetto with this young man and confront the suspect. If it is as I believe, we can bring him to justice here.’

  ‘But that is much too dangerous,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘Whoever it is has killed four people already. Surely he will try to kill you too if you accuse him?’

  ‘I shall be with him,’ said Silvano. ‘And I am armed.’

  ‘Don’t let them go,’ implored Chiara. ‘At least not alone. Send some others of your friars to protect them.’

  Michele da Cesena hesitated. At last he knelt and prayed before the altar, in front of the bones of the Saint’s companion and the newly dead body of Umberto. When he got to his feet, a group of friars was entering the church with a wooden coffin.

  ‘Go,’ he said to Anselmo. ‘I believe you are innocent of any crime. Go and take this young man with you. And bring me back the murderer.’

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dead White

  The messenger from Perugia stretched and yawned. He had spent a pleasant day doing nothing. A nice old friar had brought him bread and cheese at midday and he had lain in the sun for several hours. When it got too hot, he had transferred himself to the shade of some yew trees and slept on, oblivious of his surroundings.

  As the friars trooped out of the chapel after saying Nones, he woke up. If the young master didn’t give him a message soon, he would be hard pressed to make it make to Perugia before nightfall. But, even as he had the thought, Silvano came back. The big grey horse clattered into the yard, followed by a lady’s carriage.

  So there is another woman in the case, thought the messenger, who had heard rumours about Angelica. And indeed Silvano handed down a very pretty young girl from the carriage. Perhaps those were her parents, that handsome woman and the rather ugly man with the down-turned mouth? Silvano was lucky the girl took after her mother in that case. But there was also a friar; maybe the young master had rushed off to Assisi to get married? The messenger settled down again with his back against a tree. If that were the case, young Silvano would have a long letter to write to his father.

  There had been little conversation in the carriage on its way back from Assisi. Simone had talked to Isabella about art and Chiara had sometimes joined in. Brother Anselmo had listened in silence. They all knew that what they really wanted to talk about was unspeakable. Silvano rode alongside the carriage and cast many a longing look through the window. It would be good to settle the matter of the murders once and for all, thought Anselmo, and let these young people get on with their lives. Yet, if he was right, he was taking all of them into danger.

  Isabella had insisted that they should accompany Anselmo back to Giardinetto but now that they were here, she did not know what to do. She didn’t want to let Anselmo out of her sight. He settled the matter by taking her and Chiara to the Abbot.

  ‘You are back!’ said Father Bonsignore, delighted. ‘Does that mean the Minister General has acquitted you?’

  ‘He no longer believes me responsible for the murders, Father,’ said Anselmo.

  ‘But that is splendid news! You and young Silvano cleared on the same day.’

  ‘There is bad news too,’ said Anselmo. ‘We found Umberto. Hi
s body was in the casket with the holy relics.’

  Bonsignore’s good humour quickly evaporated. ‘Another murder,’ he said quietly. ‘And the bones of the Blessed Egidio desecrated! But if the Minister General has let you go, perhaps he knows now who is responsible for all these deaths?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t know,’ said Anselmo. ‘But we do,’ indicating Silvano. ‘At least we think so. We should like to speak to him now but you must keep Monna Isabella and Sister Orsola, I mean Chiara, safe here with you.’

  Before the Abbot had time to ask anything else, the three men left the cell.

  ‘We shall go first to the colour room,’ said Anselmo. ‘That would be natural and will not put the murderer on his guard.’

  The friars and novices were still working on their porphyry slabs; Anselmo had been absent for only a day and had left them tasks to get on with. Matteo looked up at their entrance and smiled to see Silvano no longer in his novice’s robes.

  ‘I’m going back to Perugia, Matteo,’ said Silvano. ‘They have found out who really killed the man there and I am free to go home without a stain on my character.’

  There was a little smatter of applause in the colour room. Silvano had been a popular worker there.

  Anselmo was showing Simone some cinnabar so Silvano sat down at the long table; they were obviously not going to confront the murderer straightaway. He felt the package from his father, which he had thrust into his jerkin and forgotten about. He pulled it out now and read the letter.

  Gervasio, Angelica and Tommaso the sheep farmer now seemed to him like characters in a story – a tale told on a winter evening perhaps. It all seemed so far away compared with the beautiful girl who had smiled at him from the carriage window and the moment of revelation he had experienced in Saint Martin’s chapel.

  He still didn’t know if Gervasio had planned to incriminate him in Tommaso’s murder or just stolen his dagger because it was better than his own, as he had apparently told the Baron. It was of course inexcusable to kill a man but he could imagine something of the desperation that drove Gervasio to do it. Ever since they had been boys, the older friend had been aware of his family’s lesser fortune and the fact that he was a youngest son and not his father’s heir.

  And now he was going to marry Angelica and become a father himself – at least if Silvano said the word. Silvano did not know if his friend deserved to escape execution but he did know that he had seen enough deaths at Giardinetto not to want to be responsible for another. And he wasn’t jealous about Angelica any more. His ideal woman was no longer plump and blonde and rosy. His idea of the perfect woman was a real person, now drinking herbal tea with the Abbot.

  Silvano put the letter away with a secret smile. Perhaps he would be a father himself not long after Gervasio? He could hardly imagine it; it seemed a world away. He suddenly remembered the messenger. He should go and find him and send him back to Perugia.

  He slipped out of the colour room and soon found his father’s servant in the cemetery. The man jumped up brushing grass off his livery.

  ‘Yes, master?’ he said.

  ‘Please tell my father that I give my assent to the question he asked me.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said the man. ‘No letter for me to take back?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Silvano. ‘I shall probably be home myself soon enough. Just tell my father what I said and take my love to him and my mother and sisters.’

  He watched as the man headed towards the stables. And then he saw Brother Fazio going towards the colour room.

  ‘Ah, the painter,’ said Brother Fazio. ‘How is the gilding going?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Simone. ‘And how goes the Word of God?’

  ‘It progresses slowly,’ said Fazio. ‘Brother Anselmo, can you let me have some verde azzurro?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Anselmo, going over to his jars. ‘Have you been using your lead-white today, Brother?’

  ‘No,’ said Fazio. ‘I prepared the page yesterday. I am ready to illuminate it now. Though I shall not get much done before Vespers.’

  ‘I am glad you have not,’ said Anselmo, escorting Fazio towards the door with the jar in his hand. ‘I think the bianco di piombo is not good for you.’

  It happened in a flash. As Silvano stepped back through the door, he saw Brother Fazio drop the jar and then the flash of a blade.

  ‘Quick,’ Silvano shouted as he sped towards Brother Anselmo. ‘Fazio is the murderer. He has a dagger!’

  But it was too late. Fazio had raised the blade and caught Anselmo in the forearm he had flung up to save himself. The two men fell to the floor, struggling with the knife and in a moment everyone else in the colour room was trying to pull them apart. Fazio fought like the madman he was and there was a cry ending in a gurgle. Blood was spreading on the floor of the colour room.

  ‘I can’t bear this,’ said Isabella. ‘We must go and see what is going on.’

  ‘Has Brother Anselmo shared his knowledge with you?’ asked the Abbot. ‘Do you know whom he suspects?’

  ‘He shares nothing with me,’ said Isabella bitterly. ‘I am nothing to him now. But I still can’t sit here while he might be getting himself killed!’

  There was an agitated knock on the door and Matteo the novice burst in.

  ‘Please come to the colour room straightaway, Father,’ he panted.

  ‘What is that on your habit?’ said Isabella horrified. ‘Is it some red pigment?’

  Matteo looked at his stained garment and shook his head. He was clearly in a state of shock. They did not wait to ask him any more but hurried from the cell.

  They reached the colour room and saw Anselmo sitting propped up on one of the grinders’ benches. The sleeve of his habit was rolled up and Silvano was staunching the blood from a deep wound with strips torn from his own shirt. Brother Fazio lay on the floor, very still.

  ‘Father,’ said Anselmo. ‘Michele da Cesena was right. I am a killer.’ His eyes rolled up into his head and he slid down the bench.

  Isabella gave a cry and ran to him. Chiara looked at the still body of the Illuminator on the ground.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked Silvano.

  He nodded. ‘He tried to kill Anselmo. We all did everything we could to separate them but in the commotion, Fazio got hurt.’

  ‘More than hurt,’ said Bonsignore, who had turned the body over and now closed Brother Fazio’s eyes.

  ‘Brother Anselmo was fighting for his life,’ Silvano pleaded with the Abbot. ‘Fazio had a dagger and was trying to kill him. It was a fierce struggle and Anselmo wrested the dagger from him but Fazio wouldn’t give up. I think he fell on the blade as much as Anselmo wielded it.’

  ‘The wound is just under his ear where one of the great blood vessels lies,’ said the Abbot, examining the body. ‘It was bound to be fatal.’

  Isabella was clasping Anselmo in her arms. Silvano came and put his round Chiara.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She nodded, but she was trembling. She hadn’t seen any of the other bodies since Ubaldo the merchant’s. They had shielded her from the sight of his brother’s in the Basilica. It didn’t seem real now, with Brother Fazio stretched out on the floor in a pool of blood and Anselmo unconscious and bleeding.

  Brother Rufino came bustling in; Matteo had fetched him from the infirmary.

  ‘Let me see, let me see,’ he said, so scandalised by what Isabella was doing that he almost pushed her out of the way. ‘Brothers,’ he beckoned to some of the friars once he had looked at Anselmo, ‘help me get him to the infirmary. He will be all right. No vital organs or blood vessels involved.’

  It was hours before the friary had any sense of coming back to order. Abbot Bonsignore had sent the stableman with an urgent message to Michele da Cesena in Assisi. He had himself gone to t
he Abbess to tell her that the weeks of terror were at an end. And he had insisted that Brother Fazio’s body should be laid in front of the altar in the chapel.

  ‘He was a brother, one of us, and whatever his crimes, he will soon stand before a higher judge than the Minister General,’ he said.

  And then he set a team of younger friars to scrubbing and mopping the flagstones of the colour room.

  While Bonsignore busied himself with putting his house to rights, the others all stayed in the infirmary, in defiance of Brother Rufino’s wishes. Anselmo was conscious but very pale. Rufino had absolutely refused to let Isabella help him, so she sat in a chair by the window, with Chiara by her side.

  Silvano would not leave Anselmo’s bedside. He kept seeing the scene in the colour room replaying itself in his head, this time with a different outcome. Fazio’s knife rose and fell and landed, not on Anselmo’s arm but in his heart.

  Silvano shook his head to get the image out. It was replaced by a swarm of questions. And he was not alone. As soon as the Abbot joined them in the infirmary and had assured himself that Anselmo was going to live, he asked for an explanation.

  ‘How did you know it was Brother Fazio? And why did he do it?’

  ‘I had suspected for some time that he was poisoning himself with some of the strong substances he had been working with,’ replied Anselmo. ‘Particularly the bianco di piombo. But there was also the arsenikon in the orpiment and realgar he loved to use.’

  ‘You mean that all the materials of an illuminator are dangerous enough to drive him mad?’ asked the Abbot.

  It was Simone who answered. ‘Many are to be handled only with care. Dragonsblood and even vermilion contain poisons.’

  ‘And he was devoted to what he called “the two kings” – he told us himself,’ said Silvano.

  ‘Two kings?’ asked Bonsignore.

  ‘Zarnikh and sandarach, as the Persians call them,’ said Simone. ‘Orpiment and realgar, as we know them. They are a brilliant yellow and red but no good for us mural painters because they turn black on walls. And they do contain arsenikon.’