Decameron, along with other great works—”
I let this pass, as I had patently never heard of it. “Saw some woman in a church here in Naples—”
“Apparently Maria d’Aquino, Princess of Aragon.”
“And started writing about her.”
“She became his muse.”
“And in his books he called her the Lady Fiammetta.”
“Correct.”
“And the one you’ve got there is Fiammetta’s life story.”
“It’s the Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta—the Elegy of the Lady Fiammetta.”
“And you think Maria d’Aquino, or Fiammetta, or whatever you want to call her, is the dead woman we’re looking for, the woman in the Primavera?”
“The ‘Naples’ Grace. Yes,” he said simply, unfolding the cartone from the pouch at his chest, and staring intently at the left-hand Grace.
I took the painting from him and did likewise. “So what are you looking for now?” His long fingers were riffling through the pages of the book in a practiced fashion.
“Anything. A description. A clue. Listen.” One of his long digits rested on a line of dialogue. “ ‘Her hair is so blond that the world holds nothing like it; it shades a white forehead of noble width, beneath which are the curves of two black and most slender eyebrows . . . and under these two ro guish eyes . . . cheeks of no other color than milk.’ ”
“All right,” I conceded. “It sounds like her. Now what?”
“I propose to stay awake and read this volume tonight. Then by daybreak I may have found something.”
I looked at him and then the book. It was a slim volume, but even a fast reader would take hours to chew through it. And he suddenly looked desperately tired, the excitements and dangers of the day telling on his face.
“Or,” I suggested, “we could just find out the name of the church where they met and start there.”
He smiled relief. “Once again, your practicality conquers my intellect. You are right. Let us rest, for I sorely need to sleep, as do you.”
I stood in the door long enough for him to have to ask.
“In your own bed,” he said with emphasis.
Worth a try. I backed out and closed the door. When I returned to my solar I took a last look out of the window at the bay below. The moonlight turned the necklace of Naples to pearl. The moon seemed to shine unnaturally bright tonight—I hoped it was not an ill omen.
22
First thing in the morning we sought Santiago. We tracked him down to the long gallery, where he fixed us with his perpetual oily smile. Now that we were honored guests nothing was too much for us.
“My good fellow,” began Brother Guido imperiously. “Signorina Vetra and I are minded to attend mass, to pray for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s upcoming nuptials. His Majesty Don Ferrente mentioned a certain church last night—where a local legend took place, to do with the writer Boccaccio, with whose work you were kind enough to furnish me.” He spoke casually, his offhand reference to the writer pitched to excite no suspicion. “Could you tell me, is the place far?”
Santiago, however, nodded and smiled with great significance. If he had been a less subtle creature I could swear he would have winked at this point. As if Brother Guido had asked him to procure him a small boy, he answered archly, “Ah, yes, of course. My lord and I expected you might like to see . . . the church,” he said with a knowing emphasis. “ ‘Tis not far into the city, to the northeast. Take the Via Nilo, for there lies an interesting Roman statue—a representation of Old Man Nile, who is said to speak to beautiful ladies as they pass.” The majordomo sketched an elegant bow at me. “In the face of your charms, Doña, he cannot possibly remain silent.”
My smile matched his for insincerity.
“And the name of the church, once again?” Don Ferrente had, in fact, never mentioned the name, and once again I marveled at Brother Guido’s skills as an actor.
“San Lorenzo Maggiore,” supplied Santiago with a heavy significance.
“Ah, yes.” Brother Guido nodded. “I remember yestereve, that the church seemed a fitting place to offer our prayers, as it is dedicated to the saint that named both il Magnifico, and his cousin that is to be married.”
Santiago bowed so low that it was impossible to see his reaction to this. He left us with a flourish, but turned at the door. “One thing, my lord.”
We both held our breath.
“The wedding party leaves for the north at the Angelus.” And he