The Falconer's Knot Read Online Free

escape. Chiara would suffer enough humiliation having her hair shorn off; she wouldn’t add to it by struggling. She took off her simple white veil and stood quietly while Sister Eufemia, who was rather short, stretched up to cut her hair into a ragged halo. The curls, no longer held down by their own weight, sprang even more wildly about her face. She felt literally light-headed and a bit cold. She was glad of even the flimsy veil to protect her vulnerable neck.
    Poor child, thought the Abbess, looking at the luxuriant hair on the floor while Sister Eufemia took her charge off to instruct her. She bent down impulsively and gathered up handfuls of the glossy dark curls, feeling their weight and texture before casting them out of the window. ‘Let the birds build their nests with them,’ she murmured.

    Tommaso the sheep farmer was puffing up the hill from the market-place to his home. He was humming to himself; his fleeces had fetched a good price earlier in the summer and now his vegetables were doing well. And he had another little business that was thriving too. He would have significant wealth to leave to a son. Now that Angelica had let him back into her bed he was hopeful that he might have a son at last.
    It was early afternoon and there were few people about; most were taking their midday meal or were already enjoying their rest. It was not the time of day to fear attack and, when he heard light footsteps behind him, Tommaso paid no attention. Even when he felt the blow at his side, he thought that some young bravo had just bumped into him by mistake.
    He turned to curse the careless youth and saw someone running back down the hill. His legs felt weak and, looking down, he saw red flowering from his tunic. He put his hand to his side uncomprehendingly, and sank to his knees. It didn’t hurt, but there was a silver dagger-hilt sticking out from between his ribs. He grasped it and then the pain began.
    He was a few doors from his house. He roared like a bell-wether. He looked up and saw a face he thought he recognised, a good-looking face. Tommaso clutched at the young man’s arm, not caring that he was splattering blood on the other’s clothes.
    ‘Murder!’ he whispered, feeling his voice gurgling in his throat.
    ‘Murder,’ echoed Silvano, gazing stunned at his lady’s husband dying in the street.
    And then there was the sound of running feet all around him and a woman started screaming.

    ‘This is where we grind the colours,’ said Sister Veronica. She was tiny, several inches shorter than Chiara, with the bone structure of a twelve-year-old and hands and feet to match. She was neat and deft in all her movements and Chiara understood why she was valued by painters.
    As she was shown round the pigment room, Chiara discovered that the preparation of colours was a serious business. Elisabetta the novice worked there already, as did two older fully professed sisters, Lucia and Felicita. But there was plenty of work and Chiara could see why Sister Veronica needed another pair of hands.
    The sisters sat at a long wooden table, like the one in the refectory, but instead of a wooden platter, each had in front of her a square slab of a red veined stone.
    ‘Porphyry,’ said Sister Veronica, following Chiara’s glance. ‘It is harder than marble and ideal for grinding colours. You take another piece – like that one Sister Lucia is using, see? – and grind the natural minerals on the slab until they are a fine powder. Then you add fresh spring water and mix them together.’
    Chiara looked round the room and saw shelves lined with little bottles, each stoppered with a cork and labelled in spidery writing. She went to take a closer look, fascinated.
    ‘Vermilion,’ she spelled out. ‘Terra verde, azurite, dragonsblood. Dragon’s blood?’
    ‘Not much of that, you see,’ said Sister Veronica. ‘It is not used by the fresco painters in Assisi. The friars use it for illuminating manuscripts.’
    ‘But is