Umiltà leaned forward over her desk. “Beatrice—the painter has proclaimed his love for you on the facade of the Ospedale. Are you not his dark angel?” For a few seconds, all I could hear was my own pulse in my ears. I couldn’t respond. “Ah, well. You need not answer now, Beatrice. Your words will not change the truth.”
Umiltà picked up the little wooden top on her desk, rolling it between her fingers. “The practical matters are of some concern, since there is no paterfamilias to arrange the marriage.” Umiltà placed the top on the desk and spun it briskly. “The painter’s mother died in childbirth, and his father followed less than a year later.” The top slowed and toppled onto its side. “His uncle, alas, was buried in the early days of the Mortalità, when there was still someone to record the deaths.” I imagined Martellino’s broad smile and floury hands. Umiltà was unaware of the blow she had delivered. “And have you no father, nor other family to offer your hand in marriage, even in Lucca?” I shook my head. “Then I can stand in the stead of family you have lost.”
I absorbed the simultaneous news of Martellino’s death and Umiltà’s offer to act as my adoptive parent. “I’m very grateful. But Ser Accorsi may not survive to marry anyone.”
“I agree it is premature to consider Messer Accorsi seriously as a bridegroom until his release. Report to me tomorrow after Terce when we will know the verdict and can act accordingly. I trust you will be well rested by then.”
“I’ll be there,” I said and turned to leave. It appeared that I had just discussed letting Umiltà arrange my marriage to Gabriele, who might be convicted of murder tomorrow unless my evidence could save him. I staggered back to my room in the women’s hospice. This time I collapsed fully dressed on the narrow bed and sank into oblivion.
* * *
On the morning of the third of January, 1349, I made my way to the Campo to hear the heralds announce the verdict. The Mortalità had gone quiet when the cold weather began, and the few who were left in the city came out for the spectacle. Heralds raised gleaming horns and filled the piazza with their high, bright sound. Gabriele was not the first to have his fate proclaimed that day, and I waited, shivering. One indictment for homicide, another for theft. I could hardly breathe. Then Gabriele’s name rang out across the assembled crowd, his ancestry, the crime for which he was tried, and finally the news of his acquittal. I am not usually a fan of noisy public demonstrations, but this time I yelled myself hoarse.
I had hoped to see Gabriele again at the proclamation of his verdict, but none of the reprieved were present for the announcement of their innocence nor were the indicted. I left the Campo and headed back to the Ospedale to keep my meeting with Umiltà.She smiled at me as I entered her studium.
“Your painter will be released later today; God works wonders through those who serve him.” I loved how the medieval mind could seamlessly intertwine belief and fact. “Have you thought about my proposal?”
“Yes. And my answer is yes.”
Umiltà beamed. “In that case, I shall execute the necessary steps.”
“Steps?”
“I remember you as more quick-witted than you now seem. Whatever happened to you on your voyage to Messina? It seems to have affected you adversely.”
“I fell ill in Messina.” Umiltà’s smile vanished abruptly.
“What sort of ill?”
“The Mortalità magna sort.”
“You did not say.”Umiltà inhaled once; I saw her shoulders rise and fall under her cloak. “Both you and Messer Accorsi were touched by the grim hand of the Mortalità, but escaped its grasp. You and the painter must have been watched over by the same protecting saint.” Or we took similar antibiotics. And Umiltà had survived too—maybe helped by my attempt to set up a rat-catching operation before I’d left for Messina? “I will dedicate myself to the furthering of your betrothal. In the wake of these miracles there is no more fitting way to honor our savior.”
“Excellent,” I said. So long as she was heading in the right direction, I didn’t care how she got there. “When can we visit Messer Accorsi?”
“We?” Umiltà laughed for the second time in my memory of her. “Now that I know the cause of your dimmed wits, I shall excuse you a bit more readily. You will stay at the Ospedale, demonstrating the piety of your widowhood and the industry of your scribal duties. I shall approach the Accorsi household. It would not be seemly for you to meet at this early stage, and all must be conducted without a breath of impropriety. I shall take my role as protector of your honor quite seriously, have no doubt about that.”
I had no doubt whatsoever, looking at Umiltà’s belligerent stance and jutting chin. She reminded me of a petite bulldog. “In any case,” she said, leading me to the door of her studium, “in your new role as chief scribe, you will be far too busy to do anything else.” Umiltà, as usual, was right.
* * *
When I entered the scriptorium I saw a man bending over the paper trays in the corner. At the sound of my entry, he turned to face me. Little Egidio was no longer little. His transformation over the months I’d been gone had an Alice-in-Wonderland quality—his body had elongated and his small round boy’s head sat on top of his new height awkwardly. When he saw me he dropped the tray he was holding. It hit the stone floor with a clatter.
“Egidio? You’ve grown into a man since I left, I hardly recognized you.”
I saw more evidence of his new adulthood as he looked at my face, then body, then rapidly back to my face again. He flushed to the roots of his hair. “Signora, to see you well is a great blessing.”
“I’m very happy to be back.” Egidio bent to retrieve his work; the rag pulp had scattered onto the floor. “The Virgin herself must surely have you in her hands. I know of no one else touched by the Pestilence who lived to tell of it.”
I could think of one other person. “Can you show me what needs doing? I’m sure much has changed.”
“Gladly,” he said simply, and we went to work.
I had explicit instructions not to go looking for Gabriele, so I applied myself to scribal tasks, glad for the distraction. I fell back into the rhythm of the scriptorium as the familiar movements reasserted themselves: smooth the parchment flat, weight it with lead, lay out inks, select a quill, set the lines to rule the page. But my preoccupation with Ser Signoretti’s role in Gabriele’s near conviction, and the possible Medici threat to his welfare, kept me on edge. I felt like I had to do something—but what?
* * *
I had an opportunity to interrogate Clara on Sunday evening after Vespers. I had not experienced medieval January before, and I discovered that there was no effective way to get warm. Fireplaces warmed only one side of me at a time, and were banked before bedtime. As a result, I became obsessed with the idea of having a hot bath. I wouldn’t let Clara fill the tub, despite her protestations, so a kitchen maid and I lugged the buckets of steaming water upstairs to the women’s baths. I was the only person desperate enough to bathe so late, so Clara and I were alone in the room. I sank into the water gratefully. Clara took a seat on a wooden stool behind me and began washing my hair with a fragrant mixture of dried winter herbs. The feel of her fingers on my scalp made my words come easily.
“Clara, where did you go after I left Messina? A penniless orphan in a city overrun with pestilence?”
“I had the good fortune to find accommodation with Messer Provenzano in the contado,” she said crisply. I sat up out of the water to look at her face. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “The good man gave me a place in his household as a cook. At first.”
“At first?”
“We found ourselves quite well-suited. I was without recourse, as you said, and he did not like to be alone. His staff was much reduced and many of his acquaintances perished in the Mortalità.” Her voice trailed off, and we were both quiet for a while. I sank into the bath again, and after a few moments she resumed scrubbing.
“Where is Provenzano now?”
“H
e is on a business voyage at present. Do you mean where does he reside?”
“Yes, please, enlighten me.”
“Why, here of course.”
I sat up again, splashing water out of the tub. “Here? In Siena? But isn’t he from Genoa?”
“Why would I not leap at the chance to find passage back home?”
“Provenzano brought you here? That was generous of him.”
“Yes, I am fortunate to have found such a generous husband.” Clara said it without a trace of drama, but to my ears the word husband hit the air like an explosive.
Wow, nice work, Clara. “Congratulations on your marriage,” I said, too stunned to say anything else. That explained the new baby, though I was beginning to realize that it was never quite safe to make assumptions about Clara. I sank back into the bath, done with questions. But after she was gone, I wondered whether she’d stay with me, since she was, amazingly, a married woman now.
* * *
By the end of the first week of January I was too restless to sit in the scriptorium writing all day. The thought that Gabriele was out of prison and chatting with Umiltà about my future made me frantic. On top of that, I still had no plan to ferret out a possible Medici troublemaker. I put on my cloak and headed out the door, not knowing where I was going.
As I walked, I started to have the feeling I was being followed. Now that I’d provided evidence in court contradicting a powerful member of the Sienese casati, I might be a target. I thought of the ambush en route to Pisa, and walked faster.
I turned onto the Via di Fontebranda; on the wide busy street I felt safer. Soon I saw the fortress-like building that housed the fonte itself. This was the dyers’ neighborhood. Even in the cold weather, evidence of their trade was in the air: the acrid smells of mordants used to make cloth hold the dye. The scent reminded me, not pleasantly, of my trip with Lugani. The fonte had three basins under its arches. At the first, women filled their vessels for cooking and watering wine. At the second, two horses stood shivering as they drank, their masters looking colder than they. The runoff into the third was for washing clothes.
I stepped inside, out of the wind. Light came through the archways under the vaulted roof, but at the far edges the pools were dark. I watched the light playing over the water’s shifting surface, the patterns ruffling then resettling as the few bundled women bent to fill their vessels.
“Depicting the mysterious union between water and light is a life’s work, even for a master.”
The voice startled me out of my reverie. Gabriele stood a foot away from me, in a hooded cloak that hid all but his face.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Regarding you, as you regard the water: with wonder at the beauty of God’s creation.” Artists certainly give beautiful compliments—at least this artist did.
“Aren’t we not supposed to meet?” Medieval propriety kept my hands at my sides.
“We are not.”
“But now Umiltà can’t blame us for meeting by accident.”
“This is no accident. I followed you.”
“You what?”
“I came to the Ospedale to meet with Umiltà, and saw you leave by the gate. I stayed a few paces behind you all the way.”
“You had me feeling paranoid.”
“Paranoid? Another of your own time’s words?”
“It means thinking people are plotting against you when they aren’t. Sorry, I keep forgetting to talk properly.”
“You talk beautifully, if mystifyingly at times. But certainly I am not plotting against you.” He tilted his head and the familiarity of that gesture gave me a full-body rush of warmth. “Why were you afraid of being followed?”
“Haven’t you been afraid, since the trial? Wondering who denounced you, and why Ser Signoretti testified against you?”
“I have been grateful for your testimony, which saved my life.”
“My pleasure. But escaping conviction doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who meant you harm.”
“I cannot see a purpose to living in fear. I have lost a wife and a son, survived the Mortalità, and now escaped this false accusation. I am free to walk the streets of the city, to paint, and, it seems, to marry. I prefer to enjoy my hard-won freedoms.”
“What if he’s still out there somewhere—the man who had you falsely arrested for murder?”
“Is there something you might know, Beatrice, from your unusual vantage point?”
“I might.”
“Tell me then.”
“It’s suspicion, not fact. Don’t go out and break someone’s legs.”
Gabriele smiled. “Humor in the face of disaster, Beatrice; your singular skill.”
“Thanks. Giovanni de’ Medici has a son.”
“The one to whom he wrote the letter you miraculously produced in the courtroom.”
“His name is Iacopo de’ Medici. And I suspect he’s out for revenge.” The name tasted bitter in my mouth. “But I don’t know whether I’m right.”
“But you may be. So we must find him.”
“Sure. I could go to Florence and ask everyone I see whether they know a guy named Iacopo. Or maybe I could write a letter to his mother; I think her name is Immacolata. It could go something like this: ‘Dear Florentine Noblewoman: your son is trying to kill my future husband. Would you mind telling me where I can find him?’ ”
“Do you jest, sweet Beatrice?”
“Can you think of anything better? We can’t send a message to him directly.”
“I shall think upon how we might find this man, or at least prevent him from further mischief—if he is in fact the origin of the mischief. I should hate to accuse someone falsely, having experienced false accusation myself. And a young man who has lost his father has suffered amply as it is.” I’d never thought of it from Iacopo’s perspective. “For now,” he said, “we have escaped our rival’s wrath again, whoever he may be.”
A woman came to fill her bucket, curtseying and smiling shyly at Gabriele. I shook my head, amused.“You seem to charm everyone, Gabriele.”
“Do I charm you? That is all that matters.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you are likely to accept, if Umiltà should present my proposal of marriage? I would be comforted to know my chances of success.”
“Your chances are one hundred percent.”
“Does that mean certain?”
“Exactly. Are we betrothed now?”
He laughed quietly. “There are procedures to follow, as you will see. Now that I know your origins, I understand your peculiar gaps of knowledge.”
“You’d have some peculiar gaps too, if you were transported centuries out of your time.”
“I am certain of it.” Gabriele paused. “Beatrice . . . what befell you?”
“After I left you in Messina, you mean?”
“After you left me dying, or so I thought.”
“You told me to leave you!” My voice echoed, too loud, under the vaulted roof. Only one horse and his master were left—they raised their heads to look at us.
“I meant no offense. But please tell me what transpired.”
“I got sick too,” I said. “The same sort of sick.”
“Ah,” he said. “I feared as much.”
“I thought you would die. For a while I thought I might die too, during the rare moments that I could think at all. But I had a letter written by a friend from my own time, and I believe that letter took me back. I traveled on a current of longing for what I’d left behind.” This was the first time I’d articulated it, the strange story of my return.
“I hoped you had found your way to somewhere safe.”
“It was safe, yes. My time is good at taking care of sick people.”
“Then why, if you had safety in your time—why would you choose to return?”
I was silent for a few seconds before answering. “The beauty of this time called me back.” Gabriele nodded, as if he knew exact
ly what I meant. “I saw what you wrote.”
“So my words found you, Beatrice?” The last horse had slaked his thirst at the fountain, and his owner led him out.
“They did.”
He smiled slowly. “As I hoped they would.”
“And what happened to you?”
Gabriele pushed his hood back, and the sun slanting through the entryway fell across his bright hair. “Your strange medicine saved me. But it was many months before I could stand, and more before I could travel home again. When I came home, Martellino and Rinaldo were gone. Thank God the Pestilence spared Ysabella, Bianca, and little Gabriella.”
“Thank God, indeed.” I imagined the two women and a baby, alone in the city as thousands died around them. “Gabriele, may I please touch you? I know it’s not allowed but I can’t bear it anymore.”
“Please,” he said.
I put my hand to his face. His cheek was warm. “You are real.”
“I might have wondered the same of you, but your reality is evident. And your hands are very cold.” Our laughter echoed under the arches. “Beatrice, we ought not to risk further impropriety. Soon our embrace will be sanctioned by God.”
“Amen,” I said. Neither of us made a move to leave. “But I want to risk further impropriety.”
Gabriele stared at me as if I’d spoken a foreign language. In a way, I had. “Do you?” Gabriele’s voice dropped to a whisper. “At this moment?”
“Please don’t say no this time.”
Gabriele gathered my hands between his, tightly. “You tempt me, Beatrice.”
“I’m trying to.”
In one swift move, Gabriele leaned in, pinning my hands between us. Then his mouth was close to my ear, his breath hot on my cheek. “I shall give you a taste of what this marriage will bring, Beatrice, but just a taste. And then I shall make you wait. For there is sweet torment in the waiting, and the relief will be all the more delicious when it comes at last.” He kissed me at the tender spot where my ear and jaw met, where my pulse raced under his mouth. Heat shot to a precise location between my legs. I heard myself moan, a sound I didn’t know I could make. The next kiss was lower, at the base of my throat. He pushed my cloak aside and his lips brushed the bare skin just above the neckline of my gown. He raised his head to look at me.
The Scribe of Siena Page 36