Iacopo managed, in his meetings, to keep the voices in his head at bay, though afterward his headaches raged, pulsing in his temples and sending a vicious stabbing to lodge behind one tearing eye. At the end of a week, when Baldi’s answer had still not arrived, Iacopo made his way back to Florence, where he waited for news and tried to avoid his mother’s watchful gaze.
Iacopo expected an invitation for the confraternity’s next meeting, where he might be rewarded for the success of his mission, but no message came. As the days passed, he grew anxious, inventing dark possibilities in his head—perhaps the plot had been discovered, and they all risked death by hanging. One afternoon when the wind blew cold off the Arno and through Iacopo’s heaviest cloak, a messenger at last arrived, requesting that Iacopo call upon Ser Albizzi at home, rather than in the Brotherhood’s usual meeting place. Albizzi bid him enter, for caution’s sake, through the servant’s entrance where he might not be seen.
Ser Albizzi welcomed Iacopo in his studium and motioned him to sit. As Albizzi waved his manservant out, Iacopo’s head filled with the triumph of all he had done. Now, finally, I will have my due. I have proven myself worthy beyond any expectations, and the leadership of the Brotherhood shall be mine, as it was my father’s.
When the servant was gone, Albizzi cleared his throat to speak.
“You have done well. Remarkably well.”
“Thank you, Ser. Your praise is most welcome.” Iacopo waited for what would surely come now, the announcement of his new role within the group, and plans for tightening the conspiracy against Siena under his leadership. But instead, Albizzi was silent. The fire in the hearth crackled, and a log fell suddenly with a small shower of sparks. One errant ember landed on the slate before the hearth and glowed briefly before going out, fading red to black.
Albizzi leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “Iacopo: I shall speak quickly and briefly. When I am done, we shall not mention anything that transpired here again. Nod your head to show me you have understood.” Iacopo nodded mutely. “I speak to you in honesty now because I respected your father, and now that he is gone, he cannot protect you.” Iacopo’s heart began to pound with apprehension, as if it were trying to exit from his chest. Protect me from what? Albizzi dropped his voice to a whisper. “Your knowledge is dangerous to the Brotherhood now.”
Iacopo could not restrain his response. “Dangerous? The remaining brothers, thank God for their survival, know as well as I what plans were formed, and how they were realized. What has changed?” Iacopo’s voice rose in pitch as his fear did, breaking on the last word.
“Your failure with Ser Signoretti is known to the confraternity, and its leadership no longer trusts you. I fear they will make it certain that you will not reveal the conspiracy’s secrets—permanently. You are not safe here any longer, Iacopo. Am I understood?” It was all Iacopo could do to keep silent while his mind raced. All that I have done, for them and for Firenze, has come to this?
“When we are finished here you will leave as you entered. Keep your hood up, and do not let yourself be seen on your return home. I have done all I can for you. Is this clear?” Iacopo rose, his legs trembling. It was clear—frighteningly clear.
*
Of course I knew nothing whatsoever about medieval weddings. Since I’d already theoretically married the imaginary notary from Lucca, I should have been better informed than your average newlywed. I just kept my mouth shut and let Umiltà and Clara take over.
The next step was the delivery of the receipt for the dowry in the presence of the notary.
“I have arranged your dowry with Ospedale funds,” Umiltà said, briskly. I was itching to find out my bride price but couldn’t bring myself to ask. “Now we require a notary.”
“What about the Ospedale notary?”
“Dead,” Umiltà said, grimly. “Since the Mortalità few remain, and many are charlatans. Transactions came to a near standstill in this awful year, and those that transpired were terribly mismanaged. God be praised that the winter has brought some relief from the contagion.” I had a nasty thought about what the spring thaw might bring. Gabriele and I should be immune, but that wasn’t true of most people.
“Compose an announcement to be read by the criers in the morning. I shall choose among the candidates,” Umiltà said. I went back to the scriptorium to write out a medieval classified ad.
Three days later Clara came to my room before dawn and shook me out of sleep. I rolled out of bed and onto the floor, which was freezing cold. When Clara set her lantern on the table I could see she was smiling broadly. “He’s sent your ring.”
“The wedding is today?”
Clara laughed. “I do wonder how a widow like yourself can be as unknowing as a babe sometimes.” I knew she was not as innocent as she looked. “The notary presides over your mutual consent and exchange of rings. The painter had this made for you, but Umiltà worries that it may not fit your hand.” Clara held out a small velvet pouch. I took it from her but didn’t open it. “Though I don’t doubt the painter knows every bit of your body perfectly, at least, the parts he can see.” She giggled. Definitely not innocent.
I opened the pouch and looked inside. “Oh, Lord.”
“Is it not lovely? Messer Accorsi had the goldsmith work yours especially.” The ring was engraved with a pattern of intertwining vines and flowers, the center of each flower a polished unfaceted dark red stone.
“It is lovely.” I slipped the ring on my finger—it went from cold to warm. I hesitated before giving it back to Clara.
“You’ll have it back soon enough, Signora, and before you know it, more than a ring will be wrapped about you.”
“Clara!” I’d never heard her like this.
“You are no stranger to the joys of marriage, nor am I,” she said pertly. “Now, let me help you with your gown and hair.” I didn’t mention that my familiarity with those joys had nothing to do with marriage.
* * *
The notary looked at least ninety years old. His features were surrounded by a sea of wrinkled skin, and when he wrote, his hand and the excess flesh of his face and neck trembled with the effort. Umiltà presided over the event, as usual. Gabriele arrived with a young man as witness, someone I’d never met. Gabriele introduced him as Tommaso Barocci, a fellow painter and friend from Martini’s workshop.
I didn’t know you had any friends, I thought silently. But of course there was a lot I didn’t know about Gabriele. Tommaso greeted me graciously, and I returned the formal greeting. When Clara entered she was not alone—a familiar bulky shape followed her through the door.
“Provenzano!”
He bowed, his wide face creasing with pleasure. “I would have come sooner to see you, but I’ve been in Arezzo on business. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Monna Trovato, for your advice that sent me to the contado, away from the lash of the Mortalità. And an even greater debt for lending me your lovely maid. I’ve kept her, to our mutual pleasure.” He put his arm around Clara, who was approaching his width as her pregnancy advanced.