The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,34
less about the silly Primavera and its silly secrets. What were they to me, Principessa of Pisa? I had found Eden indeed, but there was a serpent in my Paradise, in the shape of Brother Guido, lecturing me as if I had just munched the apple and caused the fall of man.
It was the nearest I had ever seen Brother Guido come to anger, after all that I had done to him. Even when he had heard his best friend’s head splash into the well of Santa Croce’s cloister, he had not reproached me for my stupidity. Nor had he ever blamed me for my inclusion of his own person in this dangerous escapade. My drink-addled mind ran through any transgressions that I might have committed that day, but came up empty. I thought I had been perfectly charming. “What do you mean?”
The answer was a surprise. “Flirting with my uncle like a common—” He stopped himself. “You are tempting him into sin and dishonoring the name of my aunt.”
“And where is your aunt? How have I injured her?”
“She has been dead these ten years past.”
Shit. I had made a gaffe, but that only made me even more bullish. “Ten years!” My exclamation came out as a neigh worthy of Pene. “Jesu, let the poor man have a little fun before his dotage! He has grieved enough. And in case you had forgot, I am, in fact, a common whore.”
He looked sad. “I hoped you may have left that life behind, that the one good to come from this whole misadventure might be that I could lift you out of that life, just as I intended when first we met.” Then the anger returned. “And whatever you may be, he is a respectable man, and overlord of this town. It is not seemly. You are damaging his position.”
“I’m just getting him to like me, so he might be more inclined to help us!” I lied, for I had enjoyed the male attention and the promise of more. If I couldn’t have the nephew, the uncle would do for now. I’d happily butter his trumpet for a few florins, but sensed I shouldn’t admit this. I swiftly turned the debate around. “And what about you? I thought we were concealing our presence to protect your uncle. We came from Florence in two days on a couple of old ponies—do you not think those that seek us might do likewise? Are you not placing him in danger by consorting so openly with him?”
This last came home to roost. Brother Guido sat on the coverlet, face drained of color, the humble brown stuff of his habit making a contrast with the silken sheets of the four-poster bed. He sighed the anger out of him. “You are right,” he admitted. “I have been most rash. I was so relieved to see him, and so thankful for his help, that I allowed myself to accept his protection openly, and his hospitality too. I have, indeed, placed him in danger, and broken my fast, and enjoyed the spectacle of the day when I should have been at prayer. I had no right to reproach you. It is I who have sinned. And God will scourge me for it.” He turned his blue eyes on me, now beseeching. “What are we to do?”
I sat beside him, feeling bad. “Take heart,” I said. “We are now under his protection, and under the protection of that pet mercenary of his.”
“Tok.”
“The very one. Let us make the best of it. We will feast tonight, or I will,” I amended hastily as he shook his head, “and when the guests have gone we will show your uncle the painting and ask him the best course of action. We are openly in his household; well, let it be known, and let us appeal to him for all the help that we may.”
He nodded. “You are right.” He stood and looked from my window into the dusk. The bells rang out in the darkening city and brought him out of his reverie. “They are ringing Vespers,” he said. “There are but two hours until the feast—make yourself ready as best you can, I will see you downstairs.” He pulled up his hood and made to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” I asked, suddenly panicked.
“To mass,” he said, “there is a little church, hard by here, called Santa Maria della Spina. There is a reliquary within, which bears one of the original spina.”