The Falconer's Knot (4 page)

In that moment he knew that there was one person in Giardinetto who would never believe he was a Franciscan novice. But it did not alarm him; he found it comforting, as if there would be someone in his new home who could be a friend.

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CHAPTER THREE

Sanctuary

T
ommaso the sheep farmer was buried with great pomp and solemnity for someone of his station. His widow Angelica hid her relief and excitement by paying, out of what were now her own full coffers, for a Requiem Mass in the Cathedral and elaborate black mourning for herself, her mother and her two younger sisters. Even her father had a new black velvet hat.

After the service, the few mourners went back to the fashionable town house, where Angelica had ordered a feast. Truly, there was not much mourning being done, except by Tommaso’s two nephews, who had hoped that Fate might have removed their uncle’s second wife before him and given them the farm and the fat flocks of sheep.

But Fate had not leant kindly in their direction; she had instead decided to favour the unhappy bride, at least for the time being. In spite of the sudden and violent manner of Tommaso’s death, Angelica had to concentrate hard on not skipping for joy. The thick black widow’s veil was invaluable in disguising her smiles.

Her family were equally far from desolate. Angelica’s parents were hoping to move into the palazzo soon; the bargain with poor, rich, dead Tommaso had been their idea and they looked forward to gaining handsome interest from their small investment of a child.

Angelica had different ideas. She didn’t mind helping her parents and sisters a little but she had become increasingly fond of her own way the less she had been allowed to exercise it, and was getting ready to be equally fond of having her own money. When the period of mourning was over, she would emerge as a woman of business, familiar with her late husband’s account books. And that would be the time to welcome a second suitor.

Sanctuary was a blessed-sounding word, thought Silvano. He felt safe, protected from the summary justice that the Council would have meted out to a man caught red-handed beside the body of his enemy – especially one whose dagger was in that enemy’s chest.

He had been a counterfeit novice for a week but his mind was far from thoughts of prayer and repentance. Over and again he relived the moment of finding Tommaso bleeding to death in the street; it troubled his dreams and even by day he found himself checking his hands to see if they were free from blood. As well as the ghastly image of a man’s bloody death, he was haunted by what had followed – the screaming of a woman (had it been Angelica?), the running feet and his own decision to leave the scene as quickly as possible.

Should he have stayed and defended himself? With the blood dripping from his hands and his own dagger in Tommaso’s chest, he just couldn’t have risked it. Not that he knew it was his dagger straightaway. But it had looked familiar and as soon as he returned home he saw that his own was missing from its sheath.

When he wasn’t thinking of Tommaso, his mind strayed to Angelica. Did she know he was supposed to have killed her husband? Did she hate him? Did she miss him? Did she even think of him at all? How he wished he could get a message to Gervasio in Perugia and ask him to plead his cause with the beautiful young widow!

These people, the characters in the most interesting story of his life so far, were more vivid to him than the grey-clad friars who lived at Giardinetto. He found it hard to take in the new names when everyone dressed the same. But gradually they became clearer to him. Father Bonsignore, the Abbot was easy to remember. He was kind with a round face and a steel grey tonsure fringing his head.

Brother Ranieri, a tall thin friar, was the Novice Master. He knew Silvano’s true story but was as welcoming to him as if the young man had been a genuine novice, with a calling to follow Saint Francis. As far as Silvano was aware, no other friar knew of the fate he had come to Giardinetto to escape.

He was friendly with the real novices like Brother Matteo, and the younger professed friars like Brother Taddeo, who was Assistant Librarian, but most of the others were still just a grey blur of names and titles to him.

Chiara had a week or so’s advantage of Silvano and there were fewer Poor Clares to remember than there were friars next door. Gradually she had settled into the routine of the convent and was surprised to find how little she missed her previous life in Gubbio.

There were still things that irked her, of course. The poor food for one and the keeping of silence between Compline after supper and Terce after breakfast the next day. She was always forgetting that Poor Clares must also not speak in the dormitory or refectory or in chapel except to say the words of the Office.

But for one who liked to chatter and to hear gossip all around her, it was surprising how easily she had given it up. She missed her sister-in-law Vanna, of course, and her little niece and nephew. But the grey-robed sisters were not unfriendly or unkind and she positively liked the other novices, Elisabetta, Cecilia and Paola, even though she was constantly shocking them with her bold behaviour.

‘She’ll learn,’ said Sister Eufemia, any time one of the other novices drew Chiara’s failings to her attention. ‘She’ll have to.’

And it really seemed as if she might. Already the routine of trooping into the little chapel to say the Hours of the Office seemed normal and her life as a young girl in the outside world was slipping away.

The highlight of Silvano’s days now was to go to the stables every morning and rub down his horse and take Celeste out in the yard to fly for her daily ounce of meat. Sometimes he met a kindly friar called Brother Anselmo there. He seemed to like horses and was interested in Silvano’s falcon.

‘Falcons need exercise,’ Silvano told him, tying a piece of meat to a lure on a long length of cord. ‘Celeste must fly every day or her feathers will go out of condition. It gives her just enough exercise when I swing the lure for her to fly to. But she should really fly further.’

He might have said the same of himself. The life of a religious brother was very alien to him. This was the other side of the rich coin of sanctuary: even after a week, he was missing his hunting and riding, his regular visits with his father to inspect the work on their farms. Here he had no more exercise than the walk from dormitory to chapel, from chapel to refectory, and he missed the sun on his back and the breeze in his face.

He had to get up with the dawn to say prayers and his meals were scanty and without meat. At least his hair had not been tonsured; he thanked God for that. But his coarse grey robe and bare feet were a long way from the elegant clothes and soft leather boots he was used to. Truly he felt his own feathers drooping like a mewed hawk.

Once, on one of his limited journeys within the walls of the friary, he had seen the bold-eyed girl again. She was walking in the convent garden, with two other novices, gathering herbs. The others put what they culled swiftly and efficiently into their baskets but this girl stopped and sniffed every leaf and branch. He caught her eye, as she crushed a verbena leaf and held it to her face, inhaling in a kind of ecstasy.

When she saw his eyes upon her, she turned away in confusion, dropping the verbena and all the other herbs from her basket. The novices knelt to gather them up with little cries like those of the grey doves their robes made them resemble, while the bold girl remaining standing, turned away, her shoulders drooping. It pained Silvano to see her dejection, since it mirrored his own.

‘I have a commission for you,’ a voice broke in on the young man’s thoughts. Father Bonsignore, the Abbot, was making an unaccustomed visit to his stables. ‘How would you like to hunt some fowl for the brothers’ table?’

‘I thought you didn’t eat meat,’ said Silvano, startled into abruptness, his mind still on the dove-grey girl with the drooping shoulders.

‘
We
, Brother Silvano,’ said Father Bonsignore, ‘do occasionally treat ourselves to flesh, especially on Holy Days and High Festivals. And Brother Rufino likes to keep a few delicacies in the infirmary for the older or ailing brothers.’

‘And could I really take Celeste out?’ asked Silvano. It was a blessed vision of liberty under blue skies amidst the safe but grey life among the holy brothers.

Father Bonsignore sighed. ‘You are here as our guest, Silvano, and we have no wish to confine you. You may take your horse and hawk once a week to bring back fowl for Brother Bertuccio’s kitchen. But you must not stray far from the walls of our house. Remember that you are still suspected of a terrible crime. Our protection covers you only within these walls. Still, a few hours early in the morning once a week, while the brothers say Prime, should not be too risky.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Silvano fervently. ‘I shall be careful. When may I go?’

‘You may start tomorrow,’ said the Abbot. ‘But you must be back in time for breakfast. Now I think it’s time I assigned you some work to do.’

The huge silver epergne in the shape of two dragons fighting sat in the middle of one of the finest dining tables in Gubbio. Monna Isabella gave silent thanks for it, as she did at every meal, while her husband said grace. ‘Thank you, God, for putting it into Ubaldo’s mind to buy that hideous great thing when we married. And for saving me the sight of him for twenty years.’

It was not a very pious prayer, but deeply heartfelt. Ser Ubaldo was an immensely rich merchant, who had been wealthy even when he first set eyes on the lovely Isabella. And then he had decided he must have her as an ornament for his home, just as he might have determined to buy a large silver decoration for his table. It hadn’t mattered a jot to him that she had been promised to a young scholar. The promise had been made by the lady herself and not sanctioned by her family. The scholar was poor and Ubaldo was rich. That was the end of the matter.