Bitter Greens (39 page)

I woke in the dullness before dawn, my skull rattling with nightmares. I had not thought of my humiliation by the Marquis de Nesle in many years, locking it away in the darkest cellar of my mind. He had married some dimwit with a sizeable dowry and gone on to gamble it all away. It disturbed me that his memory still had the power to upset me.

I heard a thin whistle, then a slap, followed by a low moan. The sound repeated itself. Whistle. Slap. Moan. I crept out of bed and put my eye to the crack in the curtain between my cell and Sœur Emmanuelle’s.

The novice mistress was kneeling on the floor, her clothes folded down onto her hips, whipping herself with a knotted cord. Her naked back was very thin, the bones of her spine and ribs protuberant, the pale skin marked all over with criss-crossing welts and scars. The knotted cord flailed her once more, and a fresh welt sprang up, beaded with blood. Her moan was as much rapture as pain.

The church bell rang out. Sœur Emmanuelle folded up the knotted cord and stowed it away, crossing herself and mumbling a prayer before she rose with difficulty to her feet. Then she drew up her clothes. I had to catch back a gasp as I realised that she wore a hair shirt under her robe, drawing its roughness up over her lacerated skin. No wonder her shoulders were always so hunched, her face so awry. Sœur Emmanuelle was in pain all the time. Pain she had inflicted on herself.

I stumbled back before she turned and saw me peering at her through the crack. I felt sick and cold. That poor woman. What demons resided inside her that she felt could only be driven out with a whip?

As we went out into the garden after chapter, I asked Sœur Seraphina as tactfully as I could for Sœur Emmanuelle’s history.

Sœur Seraphina sighed. ‘I don’t know much, I’m afraid. All I know is what Mère Notre told me the night she came. Apparently, Sœur Emmanuelle had been betrothed to marry some nobleman. Her trousseau was all sewn and the wedding date set. Then her father told her that her brother had gambled away the family’s entire fortune. She was brought here that very night, the abbey being so poor that they would accept her with the few
louis
her father could scrounge together.’

I nodded, filled with pity for her. One day, a young woman with her future bright before her, the next an unwilling acolyte in a run-down old abbey with nothing to look forward to at all. No wonder she was so unhappy.

Sœur Seraphina lifted her worn old face to the sunshine. ‘It is a great shame. She was brought here against her will, and so never found her way to acceptance and peace. Her soul is locked away as securely as her body, behind bars of her own making.’

I bit my lip, sure that I too would never find my way to that peace Sœur Seraphina seemed to have found. The hag-ridden dreams of the night before still haunted me – mocking laughter, the faces of devils, the scald of my humiliation. I drew a deep breath of the clean air and squared my shoulders. Here, perhaps, in this enclosed square of garden, with honest labour of my body, I could at least drive the memories away.

I bent to crush lavender leaves between my fingers, breathing in its calming scent. ‘The girl … in the tower,’ I prompted. ‘Did she ever escape?’

La Strega wanted Margherita to love only her.

She wanted Margherita to kneel at her feet and throw her arms about her waist, burying her face in her lap so La Strega could stroke her hair and chide her. She wanted Margherita to cuddle up to her in bed at night, kissing the nape of her neck and fitting her small narrow feet into the shape of La Strega’s longer ones. She wanted all Margherita’s tenderness to be for her, and only for her.

As the years passed, Margherita prayed to Minerva, the goddess of the rock, for help. She dreamt of escape, of rescue, of love in many different forms. But still the heavy braid of hair dragged at her temples, still the invisible fetters bound her to the tower, still day followed day with monotonous predictability, till she was sixteen, skinny, bony, ungainly, only her rebellious red curls refusing to submit to the witch’s authority.

One summer morning, when La Strega had climbed down the ladder of hair and ridden away, Margherita took advantage of a new sack of flour to make herself fresh bread with honey, and climbed up on the windowsill to eat it, her bare feet tucked under the hem of her dress.

It was mid-morning, and a cool wind was blowing from the north. The lake glittered with white-edged wavelets, and the snowy heights of the mountains were sharp against a blue sky. Margherita sat on the windowsill and ate her
warm bread slowly, savouring every mouthful. No matter how careful she was with her supplies, she was always running short by the end of the month. And La Strega liked to keep her thin. She liked to be able to count Margherita’s ribs and complain about how sharp her knees were in bed.

Margherita often daydreamt about feasts. Tables groaning with food, servants bringing her platters laden with golden-skinned chicken, carrots roasted in honey, cakes encrusted with sugar. Like so many of her daydreams, imagining food was as much a torture as a delight.

Yet it was the dreaming that kept her sane. While she had dreams, she had hope. Margherita clung to that stubbornly.

Not wanting to feel sad today, with the sun shining and a pantry full of supplies, she reached for her lute and began to strum softly, singing a lullaby she thought – she wished – she might have learnt from her mother.

‘
Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola, mai si stanca, gira qua, e gira la – poi si resta sopra un fiore, e poi si resta sopra un fiore.
’ Butterfly, beautiful and white, fly and fly, never get tired, turn here and turn there – she rests upon a flower … and she rests upon a flower.

She could remember so little. The tower blotted out the past. Her childhood was like a secret walled garden that she couldn’t enter. Sometimes, she smelt an enticing perfume, like cinnamon, and a flash of memory came, brief and tantalising. Most of the time, the past was a great blur. All she knew was what the sorceress had told her.

Was it true that her parents had sold her for a handful of bitter greens? Surely it was not easy, to give up your daughter to a witch. Had her parents been very poor? Had they been starving? To sell her for a chicken or a pig would have made more sense. Salad greens soon wilted and made only a mouthful or two, nothing of substance there to keep a starving couple alive. Was it the threat of punishment? La Strega had said once that thieves in Venice had both their hands cut off. That would be hard to face. If it was up to her, would she choose to keep her baby but lose both hands, or would she rather keep her hands and give up the child? What if the penalty was death? La Strega said thieves were hanged if caught stealing too often. Surely no one would hang a man for plucking a handful of greens?

Maybe her father had been afraid of the sorceress? Margherita could understand that. She was afraid of La Strega. Even now, after all these years, she watched the moon swell with a sick feeling of dread in her stomach, even though the coming of La Strega meant the coming of food, and company, and conversation.

Or had her parents decided to give her up simply because all children must grow up at some stage and make their own way in the world, and so being taken by La Strega was simply another choice? She could have been sent into service, apprenticed to a craftsman, enclosed in a convent or, in time, married – all of these were different types of imprisonment. She knew, because La Strega told her often how lucky she was to be saved from them all.

There were no answers to any of these questions. Margherita could not ask La Strega, since any mention of her real parents filled the sorceress with rage. She could only ask herself and try to understand.

All the while Margherita was thinking, she was strumming her lute and singing.

Then a voice called to her from far below. ‘Petrosinella, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair.’

Margherita jumped to her feet, her lute falling from her hand. Instinctively, she looked for the moon, but it was broad daylight and the sun was high in the sky.
But she left only this morning. She never comes back
.

‘Petrosinella, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair.’

The voice was deep. It sounded like it had laughter in it. Surely that was not La Strega speaking? But who else could it be?

Her heart beating rapidly with shock and dread, Margherita unfastened her silver snood and uncoiled her braids. Pressing herself close to the wall, she wound the upper part of the braid around a hook driven into the stone and tossed the remainder out the narrow window. In a few moments, she felt the end of the hair seized, and gritted her teeth as someone began to climb. Every jerk brought tears to her eyes. She clung to the braid with both hands, up near the base of her skull, trying to ease the pressure on
the roots of her hair. Jerk, jerk, jerk. The pain grew intense. Just when she thought she must scream, the climber reached the windowsill. Margherita backed away, her hands at her mouth, as a complete stranger stepped through into her tower room.

He was tall, with curly black hair and lively black eyes. He was dressed in skintight hose embroidered with gold thread, a fitted doublet with full sleeves, slashed to show the sheer white fabric of his shirt, and a richly embroidered red velvet cape. His curious glance took in Margherita, the plait wound about the hook and snaking over the windowsill, the tiny room with its narrow bed, the hipbath, the richly coloured carpet and the hooded fireplace with coals glowing orange, and the lack of a door or a stair.

‘Merciful Mary, what is all this?’ he demanded.

Margherita only stared at him. As he stepped closer, she flinched back, throwing up a hand to keep him away.

‘Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm. I was just curious.’ He spoke in a soft gentle voice, keeping his distance from her. ‘We were sailing past, up the lake, and I heard singing. Such singing! It enchanted me. So when we came to port, I told my men I planned to ride north again. My uncle must have the owner of that voice for his
concerto delle donne
, I thought. They did not approve so I pretended I wanted to go hunting.’

He spread his hands ruefully. He wore a curious ring with a shield on it, emblazoned with five red balls. ‘But though we asked in the village, they knew of no singer. A siren in the lake who sings to lure men to a watery death, one said. A witch who lurks in an old abandoned tower and turns into a wolf howling at the full moon, said another. A goddess who walks the woods, singing and collecting flowers for her ancient shrine, said someone else. Just my imagination, said most. I knew it was not my imagination, though. Was not this mysterious songstress singing a lullaby my nurse used to sing to me?’ He hummed a few bars, then sang, ‘
Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola
…’

Margherita did not speak, though her heart leapt like a hunted hare at the sound of her song on his lips.

After a moment, he went on: ‘So I came out last night to see if I could find the girl whose voice haunted me so. And what did I see but a tower without a door, and a woman calling up for a golden stair, and then such a stair come tumbling down, a rope ladder of purest rose-gold. So of course I decided I must climb that stair and see where it led. Wouldn’t you have done the same?’

All the time he had been speaking, the stranger had been walking around the tower room, picking up things and putting them back, lifting the curtain to stare in at the latrine, bending to pick up the heavy braid and weigh it in his hand. He kept his distance from Margherita, speaking in an easy conversational way as if he had known her for years. Margherita said nothing, only followed his movements with wide eyes, scarcely able to breathe. He wore a dagger at his belt, and the tightness of his clothes showed the strong muscles of his thighs and calves.

His eyes met hers. ‘Don’t be afraid. I really won’t hurt you. What is your name? Is it really Petrosinella? Doesn’t that mean Little Parsley? What are you doing in this old watchtower? How do you get in and out?’

‘I don’t,’ Margherita said in a croaky voice.

‘She speaks.’ The young man pretended to swoon in surprise. ‘I had thought you must be mute. Tell me, please! Was it you singing?’

Margherita nodded.

‘You have the most beautiful voice. But you must know that. Oh, the effect coming across the water at dusk, the mountains floating above the blue mist, the full moon just rising … it was magical. Spellbinding. I must tell my uncle, see if he can recreate it at home. Of course, we don’t have a lake – merely a river, but it’s pretty enough. Maybe a barge of young beauties at sunset, all playing the lute and singing. Is this your lute?’

Margherita nodded again. He bent and lifted it, examining it closely. ‘You play well. Where were you trained?’

‘At … at the Pietà,’ she answered, her voice coming almost naturally.

‘In Venice? Ah, that explains it. You’re one of the singing foundlings. I heard that their choirs sound like angels come down to earth. But you haven’t told me. What are you doing all the way up here?’

Margherita did not know how to answer. She had grown so used to silence. So used to being alone.

‘How did you come to be here?’

Because my parents sold me for a handful of bitter greens
. She could not bear to say the words. They had the power to make her heart catch with hurt.

‘Are you a prisoner? Why? Who keeps you here? Was it that woman I saw, the one who climbed your hair?’

Margherita spread her hands helplessly.

‘I’m sorry, I’m going too fast, aren’t I? My
nonna
says I always run when everyone else walks. Let us introduce ourselves. My name is Lucio …’ He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I come from Florence. What’s your name?’

‘Margherita.’ It sounded strange, speaking her name out loud. She had not shaped those four syllables in many years. They were so sharp they could cut her tongue.

‘So Petrosinella is not your name?’

She shook her head, then, with a burst of bravery, said, ‘It’s what
she
calls me.’ Immediately, she shrank back, aghast.

‘She?’ Lucio asked. ‘The woman who came last night? She’s the one who keeps you captive?’

Margherita nodded.

‘Who is she?’

‘La Strega.’

‘A witch?’

Margherita nodded again.

‘Does she have a name?’

But Margherita could not tell him.

‘But why did she lock you up in this godforsaken tower? What does she want with you?’

Margherita could not answer that question either.

Lucio set one hip on the table, grabbing an apple from her bowl. He crunched into it thoughtfully. ‘A mystery, by God. To think I cursed my
uncle for making me come all this way for nothing more than a bushel of lemons. What a bore, I thought. But instead I find a girl locked away in a tower by a witch. It sounds like a mad Persian fairy tale. How long have you been here?’

‘More than four years.’ Margherita thought of her tally marks. Fifty-two moons, fifty-two cuts on her arms. ‘I was twelve when she brought me here.’

‘Twelve! You look about twelve now. Are you sure you’re sixteen?’

She nodded.

‘You are so thin and so pale,’ he said. ‘Look at your skin – not a freckle on it anywhere.’ He took her by surprise by leaning forward and grasping her hand. ‘Look, just a few here, on your lower arm. Is this where you reach out into the sun?’

She could not move or speak, barely able to breathe.

He turned her hand over. ‘You truly are
bella e bianca
,’ he said in a low voice. Suddenly, he stepped away, dropping her hand. Margherita looked down and saw his gaze fixed on her scarred wrists. Abruptly, she hid them in her sleeves. He turned away, eating the apple, pretending not to have seen anything. He seemed so large, as if he took up the whole tower room. Lucio, his name was. It meant light, she thought. If so, he was well named. It was as if he had a lamp suspended over his head, casting its radiance upon him, while the rest of the room sank away into dimness.

‘Have you any more food?’ He pitched the apple with deadly accuracy at the latrine, then threw up his arms and cheered when it fell straight down the hole.