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window when he saw a member of his Order riding at full tilt towards the friary. It was unusual enough to see a friar on horseback; they were encouraged to walk everywhere, unless they were sick. Such a messenger must bring urgent tidings.
    The exhausted friar was shown into the Abbot’s room and given a blessing before being poured a cup of wine. He waited until he was alone with the Abbot before spilling out his message.
    ‘I come from the brothers in Perugia,’ he said. ‘My name in Christ is Ambrogio and I am sent by my Abbot. You know the Baron Montacuto, I think, Father?’
    ‘I do indeed,’ said the Abbot. ‘We were at university together in Bologna, more years ago than I care to remember. Bartolomeo da Montacuto has been generous to the friary here too.’
    ‘And now he begs a favour of you, Father,’ said Brother Ambrogio. ‘His only son is in mortal danger, accused of a murder he swears he did not commit. The Baron asks that you give the boy sanctuary here in Giardinetto until the real culprit can be found.’
    ‘Bartolo’s boy,’ said the Abbot, half to himself. He had not had much contact with his old friend in recent years but he knew of the many children conceived and lost by the delicate Baronessa, knew how much this boy – Silvio, Silvano? – meant to the friend of his youth. Titles, property, inheritance – these were all baubles the Abbot had renounced when he accepted God’s calling but he understood what his only son and heir meant to Bartolomeo da Montacuto.
    ‘We will take him,’ he said decisively. ‘If Montacuto says he is innocent, then he is and we shall shelter him until it can be proved.’

    Chiara was walking with Elisabetta back from the colour room to the living quarters, when she saw two horsemen riding into the yard of the neighbouring friary. She looked up with interest in spite of Elisabetta’s shushings and frantic gestures to turn her eyes away from the visitors. Both were dressed in the grey habits of the friars of Saint Francis, but Chiara was not so long out of the world not to recognise that the younger one was a most unlikely religious.
    His robe seemed to have been thrown on over some more fashionable clothes and he was wearing boots of fine suede. His horse was of a much better quality than his companion’s and there was a hawk on his pommel. Chiara peered through the dusk unable to believe her eyes, but it was true. There really was a hunting bird, probably a peregrine, tethered to this ‘friar’s’ saddle. It was the most interesting thing she had seen since entering the convent.
    Silvano looked up, as if aware of a gaze fastened on him. He saw two sisters of the Poor Clares, one modest, with downcast eyes, agitatedly trying to pull her companion away. The other stood boldly looking out towards the friary, frankly assessing him and his horse.
    In that moment he knew that there was one person in Giardinetto who would never believe he was a Franciscan novice. But it did not alarm him; he found it comforting, as if there would be someone in his new home who could be a friend.

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    CHAPTER THREE
    Sanctuary
    T ommaso the sheep farmer was buried with great pomp and solemnity for someone of his station. His widow Angelica hid her relief and excitement by paying, out of what were now her own full coffers, for a Requiem Mass in the Cathedral and elaborate black mourning for herself, her mother and her two younger sisters. Even her father had a new black velvet hat.
    After the service, the few mourners went back to the fashionable town house, where Angelica had ordered a feast. Truly, there was not much mourning being done, except by Tommaso’s two nephews, who had hoped that Fate might have removed their uncle’s second wife before him and given them the farm and the fat flocks of sheep.
    But Fate had not leant kindly in their direction; she had instead decided to favour the unhappy bride, at least for the time being. In spite of the sudden and violent manner of