Free The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese

acutely aware of his imposing size and recalled the force of his anger.
    â€œI’ve spoken out of turn, Chaplain. I apologize.” She resisted theurge to speak hastily. “My worry over your request has loosened my tongue. Today, in these wretched times, a novitiate can ill afford any stain connected to her name.”
    â€œYou needn’t worry, Madre,” Fra Filippo responded stiffly. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
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    R eaching the grand palazzo of Ottavio de’ Valenti, where Ser Francesco Cantansanti was staying, the painter stopped to catch his breath. The building’s beautiful orange and blue tiles glowed in the dusky light and Fra Filippo admired their rich glaze as he lifted the brass knocker and waited for a servant to open the door.
    â€œYou’ve come with good news, my friend?” The merchant wore a costly black tunic trimmed in silk, and his arms were outstretched as he strode down the grand staircase.
    â€œ Si, si, your painting is completed,” the monk said assuredly. “The final touches of cinabrese are drying now.”
    â€œFabulous, maestro.” The thick-haired merchant clasped a bejeweled hand over the painter’s own. “I know my wife’s spirits will be lifted when she sees your exquisite work. Please, I was just about to take my midday meal. Won’t you join us?”
    Fra Filippo was gratified to see Ser Francesco Cantansanti at the table in de’ Valenti’s inner courtyard, surrounded by potted lemon trees, flowers, and a bubbling fountain. The monk greeted Ser Francesco with the necessary bows, which the emissary accepted with an arched eyebrow.
    â€œOnly a day has passed,” Ser Francesco said. “Surely you haven’t finished the altarpiece already?”
    â€œNo, but I’ve found my inspiration, Your Emissary,” the monk said. “You will have a masterpiece fit for a king.”
    The large table was laden with roasted fowl, fresh fruits, artichokes, cheeses, and bowls of thick bread soup. The monk joined the men as they ate, drank wine far richer than any Fra Filippo could secure for himself, and spoke of business in Florence and Rome.
    â€œAll the world waits to see who will take the place of Pope Callistus III, now that the depths of his illness have become apparent,” de’ Valenti said, eyeing Cantansanti. He poured more wine for the emissary.
    â€œIn Florence, the Medici family is grooming Enea Silvio Piccolomini, Bishop of Siena, for the seat,” Cantansanti said easily, raising the wine to his lips. “They’re expecting Piccolomini’s detractors will propose the Archbishop of Rouen, but d’Estouteville is a weak candidate.”
    Fra Filippo listened closely to the discussion of papal politics. Whoever held the power in Rome also held the church’s ample purse strings. It was well known that the sitting pope, Callistus III, had no great interest in art. But a pope with the Medici’s backing would surely favor the family’s beloved painters, and Fra Filippo counted himself among them.
    â€œAnd you, Brother Filippo, what do you hear from the Carmelites?” Cantansanti looked across the table in a pleasant manner, and Fra Filippo answered in a way that could offend no one.
    â€œI hear nothing but the prattle of the prioress, I’m afraid,” he responded, tucking his belt up under his full belly as he spoke. “I hear only the worries of the nuns, which are the petty concerns and small jealousies of women everywhere. Vanity follows them into the convent, my friends, never believe otherwise.”
    The men chuckled.
    â€œOf course, I also hear the daily groans of the provost,” Fra Filippo said, rolling his eyes. He knew Inghirami irritated de’ Valenti, and that Cantansanti had little admiration for the skulking man, either. “He’s forever complaining that the parishioners aren’t generous enough, my