“Monna Trovato has produced a letter written by Ser Giovanni de’ Medici during his imprisonment.” The judge directed his next words to the clerk. “Please read the document aloud, so the assembled may hear the evidence presented therein.”
The clerk read into a silence so complete that I could hear him swallow. “‘I am being held in a cell awaiting trial for the dispatch of that night watchman who presumed foolishly to block our way. If he had known that it is wiser to let a businessman go about his business undisturbed, he might still be alive today.’”
Everyone started talking—the clerks, the spectators, even the guards flanking Gabriele. The judge had to call for order, and it was several minutes before the room was quiet again.
“Monna Trovato, please explain how you came to be in possession of this document, and why it was not previously brought into evidence at the Medici trial.” The silence in the courtroom felt like the lull before a hurricane hits, when the sky turns green and trees are weirdly still.
How I came to be in possession of this document? I had not prepared for that question, so extemporized.
“I discovered it in the pages of another book, Ser, unexpectedly. A tax record collected for an entirely different purpose. When I laid eyes upon the letter, its relevance to the case in question became clear, and I brought it with me today, for examination by the court.” I brought it further than you could imagine, Mr. Iudex, in your wildest dreams.
The judge put the tips of his fingers together and regarded the shape he’d made with his hands, as if it were the most fascinating structure in the world. “The nature of the evidence presented suggests that the denunciation must be reconsidered, and the indictment held for the present. I will review the matter after we adjourn today. Is there any further testimony you would care to provide, Monna Trovato?”
My opinion of Gabriele’s character seemed superfluous, but I didn’t want to miss any opportunity to keep him from hanging. “I would like to affirm Messer Accorsi’s honesty, gentleness, and good character, if it would have bearing on the case.”
The judge nodded once. “Noted. This session of the court is now adjourned. Messer Accorsi will remain in prison until the verdict, which will be announced at Terce tomorrow.” Gabriele filed out between the guards. He had an odd look on his face, halfway between wonder and amusement. It was remarkable that I could have come hurtling through the centuries, arriving just in time to provide evidence to support Gabriele’s innocence, and then, having done that, not even have the opportunity to say hello.
When Umiltà and I were reunited, she grasped both my hands in her powerful grip and looked up at me. “We have matters to discuss, Beatrice,” she said firmly. “Come with me now to my studium.” She held my sleeve as we filed out with the crowd. As we headed down the stairs, I answered under my breath.
“Matters to discuss? That’s the understatement of the fourteenth century.” Umiltà didn’t seem to hear.
PART XI
THE CHIEF SCRIBE
As Umiltà and I crossed the Campo, my mind moved toward critical overload. Was some Medici responsible for Gabriele’s false arrest, with Signoretti as part of the plan? If so, which Medici? Did Umiltà really just offer me a new job? And what did she mean by calling me Gabriele’s “intended”? I stopped walking. The slight hill of the Campo looked much steeper than I remembered.
“I have to sit down,” I said to Umiltà, who never had to sit down.
She sighed and appraised me as if I were a lame horse some swindler had tried to sell her. “I suppose we can postpone further discussion until you have rested. Where shall I send a messenger to collect you?”
“I’m not staying anywhere,” I said, and hearing how forlorn that must have sounded, amended slightly. “I just got here. I don’t even know where to lie down.”
Umiltà’s eyes widened. “You mean to say that you sought me out within minutes of entering the city gates, with minutes to spare before your testimony was required on Messer Accorsi’s behalf? God must certainly have set these events in motion.”
The timing had turned out awfully close. “Suor Umiltà, if I don’t find a place to rest soon, I’ll have to lie down in the middle of the Campo.”
“Of course, of course.” She sounded more solicitous, now that she didn’t think I’d returned to Siena without letting her know. “Your former chamber is still available. Once you begin your new role as chief scribe, in place of Fra Bosi, bless his departed soul, you will need more suitable lodgings, but this will serve in the interim.” It was not so much a job offer as a statement of fact. In that way,Umiltà reminded me of Lugani. I wondered what had happened to him, and his suspicious second in command.
“I’ll take it,” I said, not clarifying which “it” I was taking—job or lodgings. I managed the walk back to the Ospedale and to my familiar little cell.
* * *
I’d forgotten to ask what had happened to Clara. Back in the room where I’d first met her, the sharpness of her absence made my chest ache. Nothing had changed since I’d left on that September morning. There was the wooden chest, the bed, the inginocchiatoio in the corner where I’d attempted my first medieval prayer, and the small wooden table. But now the room was bitterly cold, the closed shutters doing little to mitigate the draft. I eyed the bed I’d threatened to lie down in, but now that I was alone, the urgency for sleep had subsided. I put my bag down on the floor and started unpacking.
All my possessions fit easily into the chest. The inginocchiatoio beckoned silently and I walked over to kneel at it, familiar with the motion after my months of medieval life. I closed my eyes and imagined my first-grade catechism teacher, Sister Amelia. I’d come to her once for help crafting a prayer to ask for a dog for Christmas. I remember the way she lowered herself to my six-year-old level until her eyes met mine.
“Prayer is not currency, Beatrice. We pray to God not to bargain for favors. Prayer is an act of praise. We pray to express our devotion to God.” It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but I sat with her and tried to learn what she was trying to teach me. I never did get that dog.
It was not an easy task to praise rather than ask, under the circumstances. I couldn’t help the thoughts that crept in, particularly one refrain that was clearly more plea than praise. Don’t let them hang him. PLEASE don’t let them hang him.
I felt the cold draft as the door to my room swung open.
“Is that truly YOU?” The high-pitched voice pulled me onto my feet.
“Clara?”
She looked much as I remembered her, round face flushed pink under the white of her coif. She stood in the doorway with her feet planted wide and her mouth wide open to match.
“Monna Trovato? I thought you were dead!”