The Falconer's Knot by Mary Hoffman Page A

he looked at her sympathetically. Shock. It did strange things to people. He might have expected this gracious and beautiful lady to weep and she did not do that. But turning pale and gulping wine and pressing her hand to her exquisite forehead were all good enough signs of grief.
    ‘Stabbed, you say?’ she said at last. ‘Who did it?’
    ‘Alas, Madama, we do not know. The Abbot has undertaken to investigate but I left before he reached any conclusion.’
    ‘I must come to him,’ said Isabella, more calmly than she felt. ‘I must bring his body home. But I have things to arrange here first. I suppose I must see a priest, arrange the funeral. And I must tell the children.’ Her voice cracked.
    ‘There is no need for you to travel, Madama,’ said Brother Landolfo. ‘We can arrange to have him brought home if that would help. I believe the sisters from our neighbour convent have prepared the body.’
    ‘Thank you; you are kind. But I must go and bring him myself in his own carriage.’ Isabella looked down at her green dress with the yellow silk bodice. ‘And I must change into more suitable clothes.’ She rose. ‘Please stay as long as you wish. Ring if there is anything you need. Let my servants bring you food. But you must excuse me. There is so much to do.’
    And as she climbed the stairs to her children Monna Isabella felt bowed down by the weight of all her responsibilities. She did not wish Ubaldo back; she had often dreamed of this moment, not daring to hope it would come when she was still young enough to benefit from it. But now that it had, she felt no pleasure. Only apprehension and a terrible searing loneliness.

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    CHAPTER SEVEN
    Illumination
    S ilvano sensed the change as soon as he joined the brothers in the chapel next morning. There was nothing specific: a few friars perhaps looked at him more closely than usual. But there was something in the air – a feeling that he was the subject of speculation. It wasn’t until breaking their fast after Prime that anyone said anything direct.
    His fellow-novice Brother Matteo whispered to him, ‘Is it true? You are not really a novice?’
    ‘Silence in the refectory!’ called the Novice Master, saving Silvano from the need to answer.
    But he caught up with Matteo on their way to the colour room.
    ‘Who says that I am not a novice?’ he demanded.
    ‘Everyone,’ said Matteo, not unkindly. ‘We had all wondered, what with you being allowed to go hawking and keeping your horse. But now everyone is saying that you came here because of a murder.’ He hesitated. ‘A knifing in Perugia – like the one here.’
    Silvano sighed. First his interrogation by the Abbot and now the common knowledge of his secret. It had been good not being under suspicion these last weeks, but it had obviously come to an end.
    ‘I am guilty of neither crime,’ he said and saw Matteo’s worried expression clear. ‘The man in Perugia I found dying and it looked bad against me because he was killed with my dagger. And,’ he swallowed, ‘I had been paying attention to his wife. But I did not kill him. And this man Ubaldo was completely unknown to me. I did not exchange a word with him. Why would I want to kill him?’
    ‘Brothers,’ said the Colour Master, appearing out of nowhere behind them, ‘do not dawdle. We have much time to make up in the colour room if we are to keep Ser Simone supplied.’
    It was a relief to return to work. Most of the friars had spent the day before in idleness and it did not suit them, as well as being against the rule of their founder. The lack of activity had bred speculation and gossip, which was no doubt how the word about Silvano had spread. He was aware of the glances of the other friars in the room and had to try hard to concentrate on the pigment he was making.
    ‘We need large quantities of terra verde – green earth,’ said Brother Anselmo, just as if no one had been horribly murdered in the friary the day before. ‘Ser Simone