The Tuscan Child(72)

“This is why the Germans never looted this chapel,” Sofia said, shining the candlelight on the thick blocks of stone around the steps. “See. This must have blocked the staircase from above, and now it has fallen. Perhaps this chapel has not been used for centuries. Or perhaps the monks had a secret entrance from their other buildings.” She went ahead of him, gazing up at the walls. “Look at this!” Sofia held up the candle to one of the paintings. “Is it not lovely? It shows the three wise men coming to visit the baby Jesus.” She moved on. “And over here is Saint Sebastian, poor man.”

Hugo turned away from the latter. He could see it was painted by a master, but the image of the corpse tied to a post and shot full of arrows was just too graphic.

“They must be very old,” Sofia said.

“Yes. Renaissance,” Hugo said. “I wonder if they are signed. The magi painting looks like the work of il Perugino.”

“Would that not be amazing? Works of the masters right here, and we are the only ones who know about them.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Amazing.”

Instinctively she put her hand on his arm, looked up at him, and smiled. “I am so glad we are sharing this moment together.”

He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he merely returned her smile. They continued around the wall, Sofia examining each tomb and reading out the Latin for him to translate. “Albertus Maximus, prior, 1681 to 1696,” he said of one of the inscriptions.

“You are such an educated man,” she said. “You know Latin.”

“We had seven years of it rammed down our throats at school,” he said. “But your Mass is in Latin. And you speak Italian, which is very close.”

She shrugged. “I don’t listen to what the priest says,” she said. “When Father Filippo gives me the absolution after confession, I have no idea if he’s saying I am forgiven or I am going to hell.”

“Have you told him about your visits to me?”

She hesitated. “Not really. Only that I found you and helped you once. Not that I come every day and feed you. Because it is not a sin, is it? Jesus said to feed the hungry and welcome the stranger, and I am doing both.”

“Quite right.” He started to move on.

“Look at this,” he called to Sofia, pausing at a small door recessed into the wall. “You were right. There is another way into the crypt. Those stairs have probably been blocked for ages.”

“Try it. See where it leads.” She reached for the handle before he did. She jiggled it but it didn’t move. “It’s locked,” she said in disappointment. “Who knows where it might lead?”

“Wherever it led is now only rubble,” he said, and started to move away. Sofia stayed staring at the door, as if willing it to open, then she sighed and came to join Hugo. At the back of the chapel was an intricately carved stone screen and behind it a small side chapel with an altar, still laid with an altar cloth and a prie-dieu before it. Above the altar was another painting. Sofia held up the candle, and this time they both gasped. It was a small painting in a gilt frame. The subject was an expected one: baby Jesus in the arms of his mother. But it was quite unlike any Renaissance painting Hugo had seen before. Instead of the stylised child, often proportioned like an adult and with an expressionless, rather mature face, this was a true baby. He had a round face topped with a mass of golden curls. His little face was alight with joy as he reached out chubby hands toward two adorable cherubs, their tiny wings fluttering as they hovered just out of his reach, almost as if they were teasing him.

It was Sofia who spoke first. “Oh, what a beautiful boy,” she said. “Isn’t he the most beautiful boy you ever saw?”

“Yes.” Hugo could hardly make the word come out, his throat was so constricted with emotion. “This is the most amazing rendition of Madonna and child I have ever seen. In some ways it is so modern, with the use of light and the realism. But you know, I’m wondering if it might even be Leonardo. The Virgin’s face has that wonderful serenity to it of The Virgin of the Rocks.”

“Leonardo da Vinci?” Sofia was whispering, too.

“It could be.”

“Then we must take good care of it. We must make sure the Germans never find it.”

“Yes, we must,” he agreed. “Could you maybe take it to your house and hide it in the attic?”

She looked horrified. “It is not mine to take. And what if the Germans decide to search the village and it is found? Then it will be lost forever. No, better to try and hide it here. Who would want to come here now when it is just a ruin?”

“All the same,” he said, thinking as he stared at the picture. “Perhaps we should block off the steps again and hide them.”

“But you should stay down here. It is dry and warmer than up above, and you will have the beautiful boy’s face watching over you while you sleep. We would have good warning if the Germans were coming, and you can think of a good place to hide the painting. Saint Sebastian over there they can have!”

He laughed at this. “Yes, I find him quite gruesome.”

“So you will stay down here now, no?” she asked. “You will be warmer and blessed by all these holy saints and by the Child Jesus.”

“I will try sleeping down here,” he said. “The wind has been so cold lately.”