The day was warm when we drove to Montefalco, the “balcony over Umbria,” where in the 13th century Emperor Frederick II destroyed a Roman town and built this new-now-old one in its place.  Streets radiate down from a central plaza on the crest of the hill through medieval gateways to wide views of the valley beyond.  Crooked lanes curve around stone buildings to tiny unexpected piazzas.  Maurice selected a flowered doorway in a small plaza to paint; his criteria for the day was that he sit in the shade while he worked.  I headed off to explore the town.  I knew there were medieval paintings and I’d heard rumors of mummies.

The art was magnificent.  Even the faded forms, chipped frescoes and isolated fragments retained their beauty and truth.  Worn by time and careless remodeling, still Mary beamed serenely, the Italian countryside charmed, angels fluttered aloft and Jesus suffered for my sins.  I was glad Maurice was doing his own painting so I could spend as much time as I wanted soaking in the Romanesque arches and graceful artwork of a long-ago century.  Here are some favorites:

The lovely pink-cheeked Santa Lucia on a wall in her tiny church

At the San Francesco museum:

St. Margaret in prison (late 14th c.)

Everyone, even the angels, crying in a crucifixion by Niccolo de Liberator known as L’Alunno (late 15th c.)

Soldiers mocking Jesus (from Foligno, about 1450)

Mary raising a spank spoon. Or is it a bat? Was she punishing Jesus for an imagined misdeed? It turns out the devil had gotten hold of Jesus and she was chasing him away. Apparently this was a popular subject in central Italy in the 15th century and spoke against delaying baptism. (Melanzio, late 15th c.)

The apse of the church of San Francesco contains twelve scenes from the life of St. Francis painted by Benozzo Gozzoli in 1451-52, so well preserved they glow like they were just finished.  In one scene Francis renounces all his father’s possessions, even discarding his own clothing, and is covered up by the bishop.

Lunch was inside the main gate at Il Verziere.  Every inch of wall and ceiling space was decorated with colorful and intriguing collections of paper money, credit cards, knives, corks, records, corkscrews and whatever else would fit.  The ceiling was hung with keys and musical instruments.  Unfortunately this year the proprietor was not pouring limoncello gratis after the meal.

Sant’Agostino, the church Jerry had told me the mummies were in, was right up the street from the restaurant, and open, so in I went to meet the ancient residents.  Dear Chiarella and Blessed Illluminata, expired in the early 14th century, were lying side by side in repose, hands folded, recently (as centuries go) dressed in fresh clothing, circlets of dried flowers around their desiccated but still skin-covered tootsies.  In the next case was an unknown Spanish pilgrim who had died leaning against the confessional. He was immediately buried–several times–but kept escaping from his grave in the night, so they put him in the bell tower.  A hundred years later he and his clothes still looked good.  They popped him into a large urn for an unknown length of time and somehow here he is today.

The sun was hot but I had to see it all so I walked to check out a few more churches.  The 16th-century church named for Santa Chiara of the Cross did not appeal to me, but hidden away and only open at certain times was the beautifully painted apse of the original church built in 1333 shortly after her death.  An information leaflet related the story of Chiara’s short and holy life, for the last two years of which she had repeated, “I have Jesus Christ crucified in my heart.”  The narrative said some of her remains were in the main church.  I had given the nave such a cursory glance that I hadn’t even noticed the elevated and richly ornamented altar against the right wall, but there was 700-year-old Chiara under glass with faded skin and fresh habit. It must be a thing in this town.  But that wasn’t all.  To one side was a reliquary with her heart; it looked like a brown dishrag.  On the other side was another reliquary containing her three gallstones (for the Father, Son and Holy Spirit) plus (OK, turn aside now if this is already all you can stand about corporal peculiarities) two dark-colored artifacts of the crucifixion found in her heart: a rough cross (maybe an inch and a half high) and a flagellum (even longer), the whip used to scourge Jesus.  Aside from the incredible bizarreness of this find, my first question is, what would make anyone decide to excise and dissect the organs of one’s mother superior?  There was no further explanation, except for the signs in front of the reliquaries instructing “no foto,” and since in my wanderings I had already been eyed suspiciously by several severe nuns, I decided I’d better behave.