Read Online The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese - Free Book Online

But the emissary had come to see his progress on the altarpiece for King Alfonso of Naples, and no empty showing of methodical workmanship would make up for his procrastination now.
    â€œSer Francesco.” Fra Filippo flung open his door and greeted the emissary with a smile. “You’ve come for the festa !”
    â€œBrother Lippi . ” Cantansanti nodded. He cut an elegant figure in his farsetto and the bright calze, silk stockings. “Buongiorno.”
    Unlatching his cape, Ser Francesco stepped into the bottega. He smiled slightly, remembering the year the great Cosimo had ordered Fra Filippo locked into his country workshop so he would finish a commission instead of roaming the streets at the devil’s hour in search of prostitutes.
    â€œThe altarpiece?” he asked Fra Filippo without delay. “What is your progress? Cosimo wishes to set a date for Naples.”
    â€œYes, yes, there’s plenty of time to discuss these matters. First, my friend, can we share a glass of wine?”
    The monk held out his jug, but the emissary shook his head. Fra Filippo took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    â€œWell, what of it?” Cantansanti looked around the cluttered workshop. “They’re awaiting news of your progress in Florence. Where is it?”
    There was no use stalling. Fra Filippo knew from the past that gamesmanship would only anger the emissary.
    â€œIt’s not quite ready to be seen.”
    â€œNot quite ready?” Cantansanti raised his voice. “Why not? Do you think the Medici will wait forever?”
    â€œThe wings have been started.” To his own surprise, Fra Filippo sounded calm. He could see Ser Francesco scanning the room, looking for signs of the altarpiece. “Please, let me show them to you.”
    The painter pulled the draped linens off two rectangular panels, each half as high as a man.
    â€œLook,” he said. “I’ve done as Giovanni and Cosimo instructed. Saint Michael’s golden hair and silver armor shine like a Greek warrior’s.”
    â€œBella.” The emissary pursed his lips as he studied the carefully executed painting of Saint Michael, and the portrait of kindly Saint Anthony Abbot. “ Molto bene. And the Blessed Mother? Surely you’ve transferred the sketch onto poplar by now?”
    â€œNot yet,” the monk admitted. “But the sketches for the central panel have been expanded, and the disegno is finished.”
    â€œ Per l’amore di Dio, Filippo, stop stalling. I don’t wish to bring an ill report back to Florence.”
    He stared at the monk. Outside, the sun had burned through the morning haze, and the men heard the horse braying.
    â€œI’m staying at the home of Ottavio de’ Valenti until the Festa della Cintola. I’ll be keeping a close watch on you.”
    As Cantansanti walked slowly back through the bottega he paused in front of de’ Valenti’s Madonna and Child .
    â€œThis is splendid,” he said, leaning closer to look at the lines of the face, the clear blue eyes. “The Madonna is exceptional—you must do the same for the Medici, Fratello. Remember who your greatest patrons are!”
    Â 
    Fra Filippo sank onto a stool, the bottom of his cassock creating a pool of white as he lifted the jug of wine to his lips and emptied it.
    He felt the terrible weight of his obligations pressing down on him, and the painter recognized the feeling: it was exactly this burden that had plagued him the year before, when he’d been overwhelmed with commissions and in debt to his assistant for the grand sum of one thousand lire.
    With no way of paying Giovanni di Francesco de Cervelliera, Fra Filippo had issued a false payment receipt, and the indignant assistant had brought charges against him. Soldiers of the court of the Archiepiscopal Curia had come for the monk that Monday morning in May as he was getting ready to put the