The Falconer's Knot (18 page)

This sudden change of subject perplexed Bernardo even more. He hadn’t heard of women running trading businesses and now here apparently there were two! Did this formidable lady want to train Chiara up to follow in her footsteps?

‘I shall need a manager,’ Isabella was saying. ‘And I wondered if you’d be interested in working for me?’

Bernardo was stunned. This was the answer to his prayers. Since Isabella’s husband must have had business premises, he could sell his own small trading post and pay off his debts. Monna Isabella must surely be his guardian angel! And if she wanted to be Chiara’s too, so be it.

The Minister General was on the road out of Giardinetto. He was profoundly disappointed in his mission. In spite of rigorous questioning, intimidation and threats of eternal damnation, he still had no idea who the murderer was. He wrestled with his feelings, knowing that it was more the idea of his diminished authority that distressed him, than the absolute failure to identify a murderous brother.

He was silent on the journey back to Assisi and his chaplain was grateful; he had heard enough words in the last two days to last him for a long time.

They encountered a lone horseman, who raised his hat, passed them, stopped and turned and retraced the horse’s paces.

‘Forgive me, Father, but are you Michele da Cesena?’ the stranger asked.

A curt nod encouraged him to continue. ‘I believe you have been investigating the merchant Ubaldo’s murder at Giardinetto? I am Umberto, his younger brother. May I ask if you have had any success?’

‘I have not,’ said the Minister General, with a brow of thunder.

‘Perhaps I could offer you a piece of information?’ suggested Umberto.

And there on the dusty road he told the Minister General what he had heard about Brother Anselmo at Giardinetto.

Michele da Cesena had heard the same story from Anselmo’s lips: his youthful passion, the loss of his beloved and his nearly twenty years of devotion to the religious life since; his shock at seeing Ubaldo at the friary and hearing his wife spoken of; his decision not to confront the merchant but to let sleeping dogs lie.

But now, away from the influence of Anselmo’s own sincere voice and truthful eyes, it sounded different. A sordid story of jealousy, sexual rivalry and revenge.

Striving not to show that he had been taken in by one of his own friars, the Minister General listened carefully to what Umberto had to say.

‘Thank you for your help,’ he said stiffly at the end of the bereaved brother’s tale. ‘I shall go back to Assisi and ponder what to do. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like to have this.’

He took from a sack at his saddle the dagger belonging to the murdered man. Umberto looked at it in fascinated horror. He took it from the Minister General, bowed and turned his horse’s head back towards Gubbio.

Brother Anselmo went to celebrate Mass at the convent, unaware that the Minister General had already done so. If he had stopped to think, he might have realised it was likely, but he was still too distracted by his own recent interview with Michele da Cesena.

The Abbess explained the situation tactfully and offered him nettle tea in her room.

‘How is everyone at the friary?’ she asked.

‘Still reeling from our visitation,’ said Brother Anselmo ruefully. ‘It was a punishing experience. But I do not think it has shed any light on our problems.’

Mother Elena was a sympathetic listener. ‘Perhaps the murderer has repented under questioning?’ she suggested.

‘Even if that is so, he will always be a danger as long as he is at large,’ he said. ‘Murder is not the kind of sin that can be absolved through confession without also being punished.’

‘A life for a life,’ said the Abbess.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Whoever it is cannot hope to be allowed to continue in our Order. Imagine what Saint Francis would have thought of that!’

‘How is young Silvano?’ asked Elena.

‘Why him particularly? He is no worse than the rest of us. Bruised by his encounter with our Minister General, I imagine. He is not a gentle questioner.’

‘Do you know that our youngest novice, Orsola, has been offered a home by Monna Isabella?’

The apparent change of subject showed Brother Anselmo that the Abbess saw more than most people realised. She had noticed, as he had, the growing attraction between the two young people. He had to steady his voice and control his expression in speaking of Isabella.

‘So Sister Orsola will leave the convent?’

‘She is considering it,’ said Elena. ‘You see, she has no vocation. And I have no desire to keep her here against her will.’

And Silvano will leave one day too, thought Anselmo. There will be nothing to stop them finding love together. A wave of pain and regret swept through him, followed instantly by remorse that he should begrudge any young couple their happiness, particularly two people he was fond of. But suppose they found that happiness under Isabella’s roof? Wouldn’t that remind her of her own lost youth and love? Anselmo couldn’t help feeling that it would be a source of painful pleasure to her.

He took his leave of the Abbess in pensive mood and arrived back at the friary to find a message for him from the Abbot. The subject of his thoughts had sent to say she would like to visit the friary on the following day to discuss her business affairs with Abbot Bonsignore. And she had requested a private meeting with Anselmo.

Umberto had been tempted to stop at Giardinetto again on the way home and confront this scheming Brother Anselmo on the spot. But he didn’t even know which friar he was. And he could hardly ask the Abbot to introduce him to the man he wanted to kill.

He had convinced himself that Anselmo was his brother’s murderer and that the Minister General, in giving him Ubaldo’s dagger, had been entrusting him privately with a mission to see justice done. Umberto knew nothing of the religious life and had no idea that Michele da Cesena would have been horrified by any such interpretation.

His brother’s dagger, tucked into his jerkin, burned Umberto with an almost sacred flame. He had all the evidence he thought he needed of Anselmo’s guilt, the blessing as he saw it of the Church on his enterprise and the appropriate weapon with which to carry it out.

When he next returned to Giardinetto, it would be as an avenger. And he relished like a sweetmeat in his mouth, the prospect of telling Monna Isabella how her lover had died.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Digging up the Past

A
very nervous man was being shown into Baron Montacuto’s private room. He was pale and sweating and refused to give his name. He would say only that he had been sent by the person investigating Tommaso the sheep farmer’s murder for the Baron. Such an introduction ensured his admission.

The Baron was eager to hear whatever the man had to say; as an experienced huntsman, he could sense that the prey was almost his.

‘Whoever you are, tell me what you know about the sheep farmer and his moneylending,’ he commanded.

‘I am a younger son myself,’ the man began nervously. ‘And I was unwise with the allowance I had from my father. Gaming, drinking, women – your lordship knows how it is.’

The Baron nodded encouragingly and poured the man some wine, even though he despised anyone who did not live within his means, whatever they were. He had the good fortune of never having been short of money for his needs and he had husbanded his land and resources well. There would be more to leave to Silvano than Bartolomeo da Montacuto had received from his father.

‘Well,’ said the informer. ‘I heard through the grapevine that there was a man in the city who would lend money at interest, even though it was against the law. When one is desperate, one will do anything. I was ashamed of my debts and did not want my father to find out about them, so I went to this man.’

‘And he was?’

‘Tommaso the sheep farmer. He had a lucrative second business in lending money illegally. Because the loans were without security, he could and did charge extortionate rates of interest – thirty per cent and more. I was soon in even more difficulty.’

‘How did you extricate yourself?’ asked the Baron, noticing that the man was reasonably well clad and did not look ill-fed.

‘I had a stroke of luck,’ said the informer, bitterly. ‘My father died.’

He stopped to drink and Montacuto could see he was hiding the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, pulled himself together and continued.

‘There was just enough money for me to pay Tommaso off. I thought I was a free man at last, even though a poor one. I had used all my patrimony and was without work. My family . . . no one had needed to earn his living before but I had wasted all my inheritance on old debts contracted when I was young and foolish and the interest charged by the sheep farmer had made matters worse. Still, at least I could hold my head up with my family and I began privately to seek honest work.’

‘What happened?’

‘Tommaso came to me and said that if I did not find him more debtors, he would tell my mother and older brother what my past had been.’

The Baron held his breath; he could smell his quarry now.

‘When you have lived the life I did, you know who is gaming too deep and spending money he does not have. It did not take long for me to find another youngest son who was in debt.’

‘And that was?’

‘Are you sure that my name can be kept out of this?’

‘I do not know your name,’ said the Baron. ‘You will be paid well for this information and you may have to repeat it to the Council. But if the man you name today proves to be Tommaso’s murderer, he will not be a future danger to you. You can remain under my protection until his execution.’

Montacuto knew that he risked scaring away his prey but it was a calculated risk; he sensed that this disgraced man longed to redeem himself and he was giving him a chance.

‘I do not wish him ill,’ said the informer. ‘I only wish he had killed Tommaso before I fell into his clutches. Or that I had had the courage to do what he did. The moneylender was evil, fattening himself on the misery of others. But it isn’t right that your lordship’s son should suffer when he is innocent.’

‘The man’s name?’ pressed Montacuto.

‘Gervasio de’ Oddini.’

The Baron let out a great breath of relief. He poured himself some wine and offered the informer more. At this moment he felt like clutching him to his breast and kissing him on both cheeks.

‘De’ Oddini?’ he said, as casually as he could manage.

‘Gervasio, the youngest son,’ said the man. Now that he had named him, it seemed that his tongue had been loosened and he couldn’t tell Baron Montacuto enough. ‘I knew he was in debt and I happened to tell him one day in the inn that I knew a way he could borrow money. He knew about the interest – I didn’t deceive him – but he was desperate, as desperate as I had been.’

‘You know that he is about to marry the moneylender’s widow?’

‘Yes. That was another reason I was willing to come and see you. It’s not right. I can understand his killing the old bloodsucker, but it doesn’t seem right he should take the man’s wife and money as well.’

‘And you know that he is the murderer?’

‘I’m almost certain. You see, Tommaso had a list of debtors, how much money he had lent and what the repayments had been. All of us who were in his clutches knew about that list. He never let it off his body except when he had it out to make marks on it.’

‘It was not found on him when he was killed.’

‘No. The murderer knew exactly where to find it and took it after his dagger pierced Tommaso’s heart.’

‘Except that it was not his dagger,’ said the Baron grimly. ‘It was my son’s.’

‘De’ Oddini had time to retrieve only one thing.’

The list would have implicated him, and the dagger my son,’ said the Baron. ‘That would not have been a real choice to a man like Gervasio.’

‘He must have made it in an instant but he was in too deep. He had killed Tommaso to cancel his debt and he needed that list.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘The night of the murder, Gervasio was in the inn. He was excited and was drinking heavily. He claimed to be upset about your son’s exile. ‘It looks bad for my friend,’ he kept saying. But as the night wore on – and he was buying all the drinks, this young man with debts – he mentioned one or two other names on the list as possible suspects.’

‘Did all of the debtors know each other’s names?’

‘No. Tommaso was very secretive about it. I didn’t know any others apart from Gervasio, of course, because I had introduced him myself. But I was suspicious when he mentioned other debtors by name because he wouldn’t have known any either – unless he had the list.’

‘And who were they?’

The informer mentioned two names, one of which was one of the debtors the Baron had tracked down himself. He sat back, satisfied. This was enough to convict Gervasio and bring back Silvano.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You have given me back my greatest treasure.’

It was hard to say which of them was the more nervous. Abbot Bonsignore had offered to be present at their meeting but both Isabella and Anselmo had preferred to face each other alone. It was a meeting that both of them had known would happen ever since they had seen each other in the friary yard at Giardinetto.

All through the earlier conference with the Abbot, Isabella had been distracted, thinking of what was to come. Brother Anselmo had been in the colour room, making terra verde again; it was the most soothing job he knew. But after Nones, he got the message from the Abbot that Isabella was ready to see him.

They met in the Abbot’s cell. When Anselmo entered, they were both flustered, not knowing how to greet each other. Isabella offered him her hand and he took it as if he would like to kiss it but thought better of it. She said ‘Domenico,’ by mistake, even though she had been practising ‘Brother Anselmo’ in her head for hours.

‘This is extremely awkward,’ said Anselmo, after they were both seated. ‘I never expected to see you again.’

‘And yet Giardinetto is not far from Gubbio,’ said Isabella. ‘You must have thought about that when you accepted a place here.’

Anselmo acknowledged it. ‘I felt safe from any encounter as long as I could avoid visiting my old town. I never dreamed that you would come here.’

‘And was it so very terrible to see me? Have I changed so much?’ asked Isabella in a small voice.

‘It is precisely because you have not changed at all, except to become even more beautiful, that it was – is – so very terrible,’ said Anselmo seriously.

‘So, you still have some feelings for me?’

‘More than any friar should have for a woman.’

Isabella sensed her fate sounding in her ears like a tolling bell.

‘You don’t ask about my feelings for you,’ she said.

‘I have no right,’ said Anselmo. ‘I cannot ask for what might be a balm to my ears as a layman, since I am a religious and have made binding vows.’

‘It is not unheard of for a man to leave the religious life, even after he is professed,’ said Isabella.

‘And is that what you would have me do?’

She was silent, unable to speak.

‘You have no idea,’ said Anselmo, bitterly, ‘what I have been through to rid myself of my love for you. Do you think it is easy for a man to make those vows I have made to Saint Francis and to God? Poverty was not a great trial, though it has sometimes irked me not to have my own books. I have continued my scholarship through the library here and at my previous houses. Obedience has been harder – you know I was not a very compliant man even from my youth. But I have wrestled with it and submitted myself to the Order and to my Abbot. Bonsignore has made that easy here.’

He got up and walked restlessly round the small room, so that his back was to her and his voice muffled when he spoke again.

‘But chastity! I had to give up my dearest hopes of our love and come into the brotherhood while I was young and lusty, knowing that you spent every night in bed with that man. Night after night I wrestled in agony with my thoughts of the two of you together!’

Isabella could not bear it.

‘Stop,’ she implored him. ‘Do not torment yourself and me. Every night that I spent with Ubaldo, and believe me they became less and less frequent as the years went by, was as much a torment to me as it was to you. You can’t believe that I ever came to love him, or to enjoy his embraces!’

‘It does not matter,’ said Anselmo. ‘Men are different from women. It was not desire I was struggling with, at least not alone. It was jealousy. Had you loved Ubaldo and rejected me for him, I might have found it easier to bear and perhaps to forget you but, as it was, I could only suffer.’

‘My poor Domenico,’ said Isabella.

‘But I did suffer and I offered my suffering to God,’ he continued. ‘I battled through the stormy seas of longing and jealousy for years and at last came into calm water. I am now reconciled to my loss and to my life as a religious. I no longer suffer in body or mind.’

‘So you do not wish to come back to me?’

‘I cannot.’

‘Then I shall not mention it again,’ said Isabella. She struggled to contain the grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

Brother Anselmo was no more composed. Several times it seemed as if he would say more but in the end he sat with his eyes cast down and it was the widow who brought their interview to an end. She rose and went to the door.

‘Goodbye, Brother Anselmo,’ she said. ‘I see that Domenico is gone for ever.’

She did not look back or she would have seen Anselmo stretched prostrate on the cold floor, like a man who had barely survived an ordeal by torture.