The Madonna of the Almonds

by Marina Fiorato

  He could see her now – he would know her anywhere. She sat in the crowd next to that maid of hers, her head bowed under a hood. But he recognised so well how fabric fell across her body and the angle of her head, that he knew her at once. She would not look at him, but if he could but speak to her, and hold her again, he knew all would be well.

  Raffaella looked at her mistress. She did not know what ailed her, but perhaps it was the same malaise that beset Gregorio. She knew they had both felt deeply for the day of Lorenzo’s death, but she had seen such fresh outpourings of grief that it were as if the event had just occurred. All of last night her lady had wept over the candles of her lord’s wake, but Gregorio’s response was stranger still, for he had not attended the wake at all. He had come in at dawn, stinking from the alehouse, his eyes red with tears and wine. He had given no apology to their lady, but a look of such venom that she could not have failed to see it. He had ever been a respectful squire, and Raffaella was perplexed, but she had been forced to stay her enquiries as he had fallen into a deep slumber, and she and a silent mistress had had to ready themselves for church. Raffaella supposed that the mystery would be solved after mass. She followed her lady back to their seats after the taking of the sacrament, and scanned the faithful for a shamefaced Gregorio. But he had not come. She supposed that he was still sleeping off the wine, and would not appear at mass. But she was wrong.

  While all were silent in prayer in thanks for the Host, the doors opened and heads turned to see Gregorio himself staggering into the church. He weaved his way up the nave as all turned to gaze at him. Bernardino stopped in his tracks with a dreadful foreboding, for he saw here the man that had come into church last night. The man that both he and Simonetta had passed at the door, her to flee and he to chase her.

  The Cardinal, straining to read his texts, continued to intone the Ave Maria with his eyes on the Book of Books. But as he named the Holy Virgin Gregorio began to laugh, a manic horrible sound, and the Cardinal himself stopped. He fixed the intruder with a freezing gaze and motioned to his hidden guards. They moved as one from behind the twin pillars of the rood screen and advanced to take the intruder. They took an arm apiece and pulled him to the door as Raffaella gasped in anguish. But the nave was long, and Gregorio had plenty of time to say what he wanted to say.

  ‘The Queen of Heaven indeed. But did you know, your Eminence, that the model for the Virgin,’ he spat the word, ‘is not Mary Mother of God,’ he crossed himself clumsily, ‘but Mary Magdalene, the first among whores.’ Bernardino moved then, quick as a cat. He did not know whether to strike the squire down or attempt to silence with him, but was stopped in his tracks. ‘And here is her seducer,’ crowed Gregorio. ‘Your genius, the great Bernardino Luini.’ Gregorio had learned all that he had to of Luini in the tavern last night, and despised what he heard. His drunken invective came back to him and flowed long. ‘How can a man live like this, painting pretty pictures, seducing the wives of good soldiers; a man that has never seen a battlefield or felt neither the handle of a sword nor the point as it enters his flesh. And here they hide, kissing and cooing like doves in the house of God. I spit on you both.’ He suited the action to the words, but his thick phlegm dribbled down his contorted face, to be joined by tears. ‘How could you, my Lady?’ he appealed directly to Simonetta, his voice thick with sorrow and drink. She met his eyes, but looked away at once, appalled by the pain she saw there. ‘You were wed here! Wed! And to a man worth a thousand of him. A man that fought and died for us all. Like Christ! Yes, like Christ himself!’ Gregorio’s voice grew loud again as his confused thoughts took shape, and the parallels burst in upon him like a lightning strike. ‘Christ who died on the cross, and his cross now hides their shame.’ With a new zeal he broke free and leapt for the reliquary. Before he could be stopped he knocked it to the ground to reveal the faceless Virgin at the heart of the Adoration of the Magi. The monstrance rolled away, the ruby panes held the fragment of wood safe within, but the crash sounded into the silence. Gregorio was quickly recaptured but shouted above the melee. ‘Aye, there she sits. But she is not finished, no; for they were too busy in their bodily pleasures to think of Heaven.’

  The crowd looked on, shocked by such iconoclasm. They stared at the unfinished Madonna and back at the lady of Saronno. Bernardino had stopped in his tracks, and Simonetta stood, stony and still as a pillar. Gregorio’s maudlin appeal to her, his tears, had affected her more than his anger; more than the falling of the reliquary, more than the revealing of the incomplete fresco. She could not fault him; he was right, and far more loyal than she.

  The squire had done at last; he slumped and sobbed, docile now as the guards recaptured him and bundled him outside. Simonetta and Bernardino were suddenly the only two standing in the church. They gazed at each other over desert wastes, parted forever now. She lowered her eyes and sank to her seat, dry eyed and utterly defeated as the hubbub around her grew. The eyes were arrowshafts, the words were barbs to her flesh and she knew she deserved every one. Bernardino stood now alone, filled with horror that the new and tender shoots of their love had suffered the killing frosts of scandal before they had had chance to grow. The world’s eyes were upon them, judging them, weighing their worth with grubby fingers and finding them wanting.

  The Cardinal in his ceremonial chair gazed on them both, his eyes limpid, pale and dangerous. He could not countenance what he had heard and seen; he knew only that disrespect, the heresy and licentiousness had entered God’s house, and besmirched the frescoes that he had planned and paid for. Now the miraculous paintings were darkened in his eyes. He did not see the Saints or angels, just the ugly expressions of sin writ large on their faces. He looked at the pair before him and saw the same sins written there. The moment was broken as the guards re-entered, and the Cardinal spoke these words; the first that he had uttered without Latin, in Milanese so all could understand.

  ‘Arrest him.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Saint Maurice and Saint Ambrose do Battle

  ‘Will they arrest him?’ Amaria’s firelit face was lively with concern.

  ‘Who? The Comune of Pavia arrest Selvaggio?’ asked Nonna. ‘Never. The Swiss have no friends here, no one will miss them. No one loves a mercenary. Their families are far away in Swisserland. The bodies will have gone, never to be found. The citizens of Pavia may be cowardly, but they are quick to clean up their affairs after the fact. All will be dispatched, swift and secret. There has been discontent brewing about the ways of the Swiss for long enow. This will serve them well.’

  Selvaggio was silent as he sat before the fire, rubbing his sword hand where it had rung like a bell with the blows. Three blows, three dead, and three days had passed. Days which Selvaggio and Amaria had spent shuttered in the house, abandoning their customary walks, much to Nonna’s surprise. Finally they had confided in the old lady, in an attempt to end Amaria’s constant agony that each moment would bring the constables to their wooden door. The Swiss sword, witness to all, had come home with them. Selvaggio, in a gesture he did not know for his own, had sheathed it in his belt, to guard against further challenges on the road home. He would bury it later, but for now it stood in the corner of the hearth. Set into the handle, winking reproachfully in the firelight was the charm of Saint Maurice, the martyr of the Theban legion. The Swiss kept his medals close and trusted in his protection. But that day, Saint Ambrose had prevailed. In Selvaggio’s head the Saints had fought and Saint Maurice had lost. Saint Ambrose had protected his own on his day, that shining girl who shared his name. Selvaggio looked at Amaria where she sat in the only chair, warming herself by the fire. Nonna had wrapped a sheepskin round her shivering granddaughter and given her a cup of broth. She was shocked beyond measure at what she had been told, but Selvaggio’s rescue of Amaria warmed her so completely that she had no need of the fire. Yet Amaria’s teeth still chattered like a monkey and her hands still shook till the wooden bowl clacked against her teeth. Selvaggio took both her hands in
his, warming them round the bowl.

  ‘’Tis done,’ he stammered. ‘They are gone, and cannot hurt you.’

  Amaria did not say what she feared. For though she had thrilled at his action and strength to save her, she feared that Selvaggio, her dear kind Selvaggio that would not hurt a flea, had gone too.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Bells of Santa Maria dei Miracoli

  As Gregorio had rightly said, Bernardino was no soldier. He ran. Had he had time to reflect, he might have been amused by the ironic twist of his fate, for here he was, twenty years on, running once again from a brace of liveried guards in the cause of the virtue of a woman. But he had never felt less like laughing in his life; he had, it seemed, lost his love – he wasn’t about to lose his liberty too.

  His way to the church door was guarded, and so, with no clear idea why, he headed for the side door into the bell tower – his bell tower – and swarmed up the stair and the rope ladder like a ship’s monkey. He knew the way well, through the darkness and the ropes and the menacing sweet whisper of the bells. He climbed at last to his chamber where he had slept these long months. He could not hear them following. They were heavier men than he, and armed, but they would find him eventually. He was a rat in a trap. Then he understood. They were not coming. The Cardinal had a much more effective way of getting him down.

  Bernardino watched in soundless horror as he saw the bell ropes pull tight and the massive bells creak upwards, mocking him with their open black mouths. He covered his ears just before their great tongues fell, but still the sound hit his body like a blow fit to stop his heart. He screamed then, but could not hear himself. Desperately, as the twin giants bawled again and again he looked from the four arched windows and faced the four winds which forced him back inside with freezing gusts. He could see nothing of what lay below as the winter’s breath and the unbearable song of the bells brought tears to his eyes. His ears and nose wept blood in sympathy. He knew he must get away before he ran mad, but could not climb back down into the lion’s jaws. In the end he headed for the north window – for north was where Lake Maggiore lay – and plunged out and down into the night as the stars fell away.

  Landed with a crunch, laid winded, but the branches of a friendly tree lay under his back and told him that his fall had been broken. He could not rise alone, but he had help. A dark figure loomed, stooped. Bernardino took the proffered hand and was hauled to his feet.

  ‘Can you walk?’ was the urgent whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Run?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then do it. Follow me.’

  Along narrowed streets and through close alleys he followed the bearlike figure. Bernardino’s muscles cracked and his ribs pained him. The snow stung the leaf cuts of his face, and he could taste the blood the bells had drawn from his nose. Perhaps he ran straight into the jaws of a trap, but he cared not – anything would be better than the thugs of a merciless Cardinal.

  At length they arrived at a door, a knock was given and his saviour turned to go. Bernardino’s memory struck a familiar note. Once, at a different door, he had done as much for a small boy who needed him. The thought made him hold the other’s arm as he made to vanish into the night. His rescuer turned back and silver eyes flashed from beneath the cowl.

  ‘Where are we?’ Bernardino mumbled through the blood.

  ‘At the house of the priest. He is your friend I think?’

  ‘Why do you do this?’

  ‘Because if you help me and mine, you too shall be helped.’

  With this enigmatic answer Bernardino’s rescuer was gone. The door opened, and Bernardino fell through it, into the arms of Father Anselmo’s tiring woman. The motherly soul clucked over him, for Bernardino was known to her through his friendship with her Master. Bernardino, dazed by events, could not answer her questions. Perhaps the fall had addled his head, for he could have sworn that the hand that had hauled him to his feet was made of gold.

  CHAPTER 22

  Alessandro Bentivoglio and the Monastery in Milan

  Bernardino wandered round the well-appointed house, fitfully fiddling with objects and putting them back. When he had time to think about anything but the loss of Simonetta, he wondered that Anselmo, who had ever seemed a humble and Godly man, had been granted a benefice so large that he could afford a house like this, with servants and rich furnishings. He had plenty of time to acquaint himself with the house, for Anselmo had told him that the Cardinal’s men were still seeking him and it was too dangerous to venture out. The Cardinal was not a man to forget a slight, and his anger boiled vengeful and black.

  It was the third day since Bernardino had escaped from the church, and his body had healed but his heart had not. For he had learned that Simonetta had exiled herself – she was shuttered in her house like a maiden that lived in the dragon-days.

  He had not written her a letter, for his fist was awkward and he was no orthographer. He had painted instead, using all his skill, on a small piece of vellum which he prepared himself from lamb’s skin. He had concentrated hard, for never had a picture seemed more important. He had sent Anselmo as his emissary. The priest, with his inexhaustible goodwill, had agreed to deliver the vellum while strongly deprecating the whole affair. Only when Luini had sworn that the encounter overseen by Gregorio was chaste and prompted by the truest love, did Anselmo agree to carry the missive. Bernardino waited impatiently for his return from the Villa Castello, and when the door opened he was upon the priest at once.

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  Anselmo shook his head. ‘She will not see you. She bids you leave her be.’

  ‘Did you give her the picture? Surely now she must understand!’

  ‘Bernardino. I gave her the picture. But she wishes to put an end to this, and you must respect that.’

  ‘I must go to her myself.’

  And he did. But his reward was only to see at last the great house, with its crenellations, an uncanny echo to the one he had imagined. He had seen, too, with his farsighted eyes, a figure at the window; a figure with shoulder-length red-gold hair, wearing a man’s russet hunting tunic. She was there, holding a parchment in her hand. She saw him and turned away with such anguish that he was struck, as if by an arrow. He knew then, but did not wish to admit, that he was torturing her. He came away, back to the priest’s house, to think on what to do next – how to reach her. He was angry and reckless in his return, and entered the town with little disguise. The place was hedged about with the Cardinal’s guards, on their third day in steadfast pursuit of his person, and he felt an uncanny sense that he had been seen and denounced. The circle was closing in. Against all his expectations he reached the house safely. He challenged Anselmo by candlelight, and had the bitter fate of a candid friend – to hear what he already knew.

  ‘You are endangering yourself by being here.’

  ‘I care not.’

  ‘And you are hurting the lady you claim to love by your very presence. Now say that you care not.’

  Bernardino was silent. He had no wish to hurt where he loved, but he could not give her up. He felt his innards bleeding out of him like sand from an hourglass, and if he did not stem the tide he would be lost. Yet what more could be done here? He could not lay siege to her, for she was resolute, and he would be starved and broken. He could not storm her castle; could not break in and take her in his arms, much as he wished to. Anselmo detected a weakening and pushed forth, for he had a scheme to save his erstwhile friend. ‘There is a great man by the name of Alessandro Bentivoglio. He is a great patron of art, and has in his gift the decoration of a great monastery in Milan of which he is the patron. His eldest daughter has taken orders there. The foundation is in the honour of Saint Maurice.’

  ‘Saint Maurice?’

  ‘Saint Maurice was a martyr of the Theban legion.’

  Bernardino had no patience today. ‘You know I have little theology.’
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  Anselmo’s face was lively with the expansion of the subject he loved. ‘Eucherius, bishop of Lyons, specifically names his immediate source as Isaac, bishop of Geneva, who had himself learned of the story from another bishop, Theodore, identifiable as Theodore of Octodurum…’

  ‘Quicker…’

  ‘In essentials Saint Maurice was a Christian martyr,’ Anselmo opted for brevity rather than lose his audience, ‘an officer massacred along with his legion when they refused to participate in pagan sacrifices prior to battle.’

  Bernardino gave a bitter humourless laugh. ‘I, who have been publicly derided for not being a soldier, am now to glorify a military martyr. Your God has quite a sense of humour, Anselmo.’

  ‘Still, the work would satisfy you. Think of it – an entire monastery and its attendant church. And once there, you could think on your situation with more clarity.’

  ‘But Milan? The See of the very man who seeks my ruin? Why would I enter the lion’s den?’

  ‘Because the lion never seeks his prey at the heart of his territory. You may hide from His Eminence by concealing yourself right under his nose, in his own city.’

  ‘Would he not visit the foundation?’

  ‘It is not permitted, for the monastery is for women only. Though all may worship in the convent church, only the sisters may enter the cloister itself. Behind the clerestory you will be safe. The frescoes could be attributed to ‘a painter of the Lombard school’ until it is safe for your authorship to be revealed. You know this is oftentimes done.’