*
Umiltà’s messenger came to fetch me just as I was wiping the inside of the poratta bowl with a slab of bread. I’d hardly gotten through Umiltà’s doorway before she started talking. “First we shall address the matter of your employment.” Umiltà sat at her high desk behind a stack of parchment, an account book, and, incongruously, a small wooden spinning top. I wondered whether she played with it. “It has been extraordinarily difficult to manage the scriptorium in your absence, and Egidio, though able to copy a few lines now and then—thanks to you, he tells me, remarkably, whenever did you have the opportunity to teach him?—is no equal to you, nor to our Fra Bosi, may his soul rest in eternal peace. Your payment will of course be commensurate with your new level of responsibility. Before the Mortalità your appointment might have been questioned, for reasons not limited to your sex and your origins, but in these sparse times with so many dead or fled to the contado, few complain when anyone steps forward to do a job that needs doing. Do you concur?”
“Of course.” Chief scribe of the Ospedale? My medieval dream job.
Umiltà began straightening items on her desk. I wondered whether this might be the time to bring up the subject of vendetta, Signoretti’s testimony, and the Florentine threat. Just as I was formulating a sentence,Umiltà took a deep breath and thumped her hands on the desk loud enough to make me jump. “Now, let us speak of Accorsi.” Her words made me blush.
“What about him?”
“With the document you produced, Accorsi’s case was much strengthened. I am hopeful they will pardon and release him.”
Amen, Sister, I thought silently. “The person to whom that letter was addressed—Iacopo, Giovanni’s son. How difficult would it be to find him?”
“Why would you seek out the son of a twice-confirmed, once-hanged, Florentine murderer?” Put that way, it was a tough question to answer sensibly.
“What if Iacopo de’ Medici had something to do with Gabriele’s arrest?”
Umiltà narrowed her eyes. “Are you so quick to heap the father’s ills onto the son, knowing nothing about the man other than his parentage? And why would Messer Signoretti consort with a Medici criminal? Accusation is a dangerous business, Beatrice, and oft goes awry. You might be punished yourself for false denunciation, particularly against such powerful individuals, and might lead me to be suspected as well. Have you evidence to support your suspicions?”
Evidence? There was the other letter, the one from Ben’s room. But with no signature.
. . . send me word when it is done . . .
I would have to figure out another strategy.
“Thank you for your wise advice, Suor Umiltà,” I said meekly.
She looked at me closely, knowing my rapid compliance should be viewed with suspicion, but I gave her a deferential smile. She accepted the gesture at face value.
“Now, let us move on to betrothal,” Umiltà said.
My heart sped up suddenly. “Betrothal?”
“To Messer Accorsi, of course. Marriage to an honest woman can save a condemned man from the gallows. Have you no such procedures in Lucca? You are a widow, not a virgin, but your virtue has no taint upon it, so the effect ought to be similar.” That was an interesting legal argument. “Do you find the match beneath you? You are the former wife of a notary, and he an itinerant artisan.”
“He’s an artist, not an artisan. And he travels for commissions. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You defend him very prettily.”
“I’m just being accurate.”
“Indeed.” She looked at me again with that penetrating gaze. “Beatrice, please be seated. My neck tires from staring up at you.” I lowered myself onto an uncomfortable bench, wondering whether it was especially designed to put claimants visiting her studium at a disadvantage. “Do you agree to the match, should Messer Accorsi’s innocence be confirmed by the court?”
“You think he’ll be released?”
“The evidence is in his favor.”
“He’d marry me just because I served as a witness in his defense?” My nervousness, as usual, made me resort to sarcasm, which Umiltà, as usual, missed.
Umiltà leaned forward over her desk. “Beatrice—the painter has proclaimed his love for you on the facade of the Ospedale. Are you not his dark angel?” For a few seconds, all I could hear was my own pulse in my ears. I couldn’t respond. “Ah, well. You need not answer now, Beatrice. Your words will not change the truth.”
Umiltà picked up the little wooden top on her desk, rolling it between her fingers. “The practical matters are of some concern, since there is no paterfamilias to arrange the marriage.” Umiltà placed the top on the desk and spun it briskly. “The painter’s mother died in childbirth, and his father followed less than a year later.” The top slowed and toppled onto its side. “His uncle, alas, was buried in the early days of the Mortalità, when there was still someone to record the deaths.” I imagined Martellino’s broad smile and floury hands. Umiltà was unaware of the blow she had delivered. “And have you no father, nor other family to offer your hand in marriage, even in Lucca?” I shook my head. “Then I can stand in the stead of family you have lost.”
I absorbed the simultaneous news of Martellino’s death and Umiltà’s offer to act as my adoptive parent. “I’m very grateful. But Ser Accorsi may not survive to marry anyone.”
“I agree it is premature to consider Messer Accorsi seriously as a bridegroom until his release. Report to me tomorrow after Terce when we will know the verdict and can act accordingly. I trust you will be well rested by then.”
“I’ll be there,” I said and turned to leave. It appeared that I had just discussed letting Umiltà arrange my marriage to Gabriele, who might be convicted of murder tomorrow unless my evidence could save him. I staggered back to my room in the women’s hospice. This time I collapsed fully dressed on the narrow bed and sank into oblivion.
* * *