Bitter Greens (7 page)

With that last comment, my laughter died, as I remembered that I was no longer the confidante of the King’s daughters, nor even permitted to write letters. I felt my misery return.

‘I will call you when it comes time for the bees to swarm,’ Sœur Seraphina said. ‘It truly is a magnificent sight. Magnificent and terrifying.’

‘Rather like the court,’ I answered, trying to smile.

‘Indeed. Maybe the beehive is a true symbol of the court after all. If so, perhaps you are better away from it. It can be as much a prison for the soul as a convent, you know.’

This was true. I looked at her in interest. She was an intriguing woman, this nun, with her brilliant, honey-coloured eyes and her worldly wise conversation. Not at all what I had expected of an apothecary in a small poverty-stricken convent in the depths of the country.

‘When it comes time for the queen to lead the swarm, you must help me catch them. I do not want to lose any of my bees,’ the old nun said. ‘Come, let us light a fire and boil a kettle for some tea before we begin to dig and hoe. I don’t know about you, but the food they serve here never seems to truly fill the hole.’

Since I had had nothing but a cup of milk for hours, I gladly helped Sœur Seraphina kindle a fire in the hearth of the little hut, and then looked about me with interest.

Herbs hung from the beams, and the shelves were laden with jars filled with dried leaves and flowers and curious powders of red and sulphur yellow and chestnut brown. There was a scarred wooden table and two stools in the middle of the hut, and, against the back wall, a small bed
covered neatly with a crazy patchwork counterpane, the most colourful and chaotic thing I had seen since coming to Gercy-en-Brie. A heavy marble mortar and pestle stood on a bench, its interior stained dark brown.

‘Let me see, what tea shall I make us today? St John’s wort to make us happy; rosehips and elderflowers to make us healthy; motherwort to make us wise; and a spoonful of honey to make us sweet.’ Sœur Seraphina scooped dried leaves and flowers from various jars and added them to a squat clay teapot, then poured in boiling water from the kettle.

‘Nothing to make us wealthy?’ I asked.

‘What need do we have of money?’ she answered, her hazel-golden eyes bright with humour. She poured the pale fragrant brew into two earthenware cups and spooned in some honey.

‘If I had money, I could buy my freedom. I wouldn’t have to be locked up here at the whim of the King. I could go wherever I wanted and fear nothing.’

Sœur Seraphina filled up the kettle again from the barrel of rainwater outside the door and put it back on the fire, before replying gravely, ‘Yes, I can see that it would make a difference to you. Me, I’ve been wealthy, and I can promise you it does not lead to happiness.’

‘Neither does poverty.’

She passed me one of the cups. ‘No, that is true, of course. Come, let’s go out into the sunshine and drink our tea. Would you carry my basket for me?’

Carrying the steaming kettle in her other hand, she led the way out into the garden again. We perched side by side on one of the low walls, and tentatively I sipped my tea. It was quite delicious and warmed me through.

‘Look, the bees are already foraging.’ She pointed to a few golden striped insects busy in the pale-blue rosemary flowers. ‘They’re glad spring is here too.’

I smiled and drank my tea, and ate a small sticky ball made from honey and nuts and fruit that Sœur Seraphina passed me from a jar. With the sun on my back, the bees humming and the hot cup in my hands, I felt comfortable and at peace for the first time in months.

‘Now the danger of frost has passed, we can plant the first seeds.’ Sœur Seraphina rummaged in her basket. ‘Cabbage and leeks, broad beans and peas, parsley and borage and thyme. Let us do the parsley first – it takes the
longest to germinate. You know they call parsley “the devil’s seeds”?’ She pulled out a small calico bag with ‘
prezzemolo
’ scrawled on it.

‘No, why?’ I asked, putting down my empty cup.

‘I’m not sure why. There’s a legend that parsley first grew where the blood of some Greek hero was spilt. And so the Greeks used to put bunches of it on graveyards, and sprinkle it onto corpses.’

‘Why? To hide the stench? I didn’t think parsley had a strong smell.’

‘It probably had more to do with its symbolic meaning: parsley self-seeds, which means it can spring up again from where the mother plant died. Though it takes a while to germinate, like I said. When I was a child, people said that’s because the seeds travelled to hell and back seven times before sprouting.’

As she spoke, Sœur Seraphina was raking aside the half-rotten straw and making shallow grooves in the dark soil beneath. She then sprinkled tiny black seeds into the grooves. ‘It could just be because they are the very devil to strike,’ she said. ‘Would you pass me the kettle?’

I did as she asked, wrapping the handle in my apron so I did not burn my hand. Sœur Seraphina then poured a stream of boiling water from the kettle over the seeds. ‘They like it hot,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘Here, you have a go now.’

Kneeling beside her, I copied her movements. The fresh spring air smelt wonderful, of sunshine on new leaves and the first sweet blossoms. It took me back to my childhood, for my mother could be found in the small walled garden at the chateau in her rare moments of repose. In her simple grey gown, she would walk along the brick pathways, scissors in one hand and a basket over her arm. She would pick flowers for the chateau and healing herbs for her simples room.

‘Here, Bon-bon, smell this,’ she would say, picking a pale purple spike of lavender. ‘It is the best thing for headaches. You soak two handfuls of the flowers in boiling water and a few drops of lavender oil, and then let it cool. Then all you need to do is soak your handkerchief in it and lay it on your brow.’

Many times, I would limp to her, weeping, with a grazed knee or bruised shin after falling from my pony or being knocked down by my dog. She would sit on the carved wooden bench and draw me into her lap, examining the bruise with grave attention. ‘Never mind, my Bon-bon. I have some ointment made from wolf’s bane that will soon fix that. Do you remember
which one is wolf’s bane? Yes, that’s right, the yellow flower there, like a little sunflower. It’ll draw all the pain away, just like the sun draws away the clouds. By tomorrow, you won’t be able to tell where you hurt yourself.’

Looking about the convent’s walled garden, I saw that buds were about to burst open on the apple trees and a few tender green shoots were just nudging aside the straw. Pale hellebores swayed on their delicate stems under the trees, and the white-spotted heart-shaped leaves of lungwort were bursting out all around the mossy base of the well.

I took a deep breath and said impulsively to Sœur Seraphina, ‘I’m so glad I’m out here in the garden with you.’

‘I thought some fresh air and exercise would do you good. You were looking rather pale,’ Sœur Seraphina replied.

‘I felt as if the walls were closing in on me.’

‘I was counting on Sœur Emmanuelle viewing gardening as a punishment, not an escape. She comes from a noble family, and she found the rule that we all must work difficult to obey. To her, grubbing about in a garden is peasant’s work, and so she hoped to humiliate you. She does not understand that it is a joy to work in God’s garden, and the best cure for any ill of the body or soul.’

‘It’s certainly better than emptying chamber pots, which is what she normally tells me to do. I’ll have to pretend that I hated it, so she’ll allow me to come out again.’

‘I had another card up my sleeve if I needed it. Only married women or widows are meant to plant parsley seeds. Any virgin who does so risks being impregnated by Lucifer.’ Sœur Seraphina laughed. ‘So, you see, they’d have had to let you come and help me. There’s not another woman in the place who is not still
virgo intacta
.’

I laughed too. I could not help it. Her amusement was so infectious. And once I started laughing, I could not stop. I could just imagine Sœur Seraphina in chapter, her hands piously folded in her sleeves, solemnly telling Mère Notre that only a known
cocotte
like me could possibly help her plant parsley seeds. Sœur Seraphina laughed as well. With her hat pushed back on her brow, showing tendrils of pale reddish-grey hair, and her mud-stained apron and gloves, it was possible to forget that she was a nun and I was incarcerated in a convent, and
imagine myself just a normal woman, laughing in a garden with a friend.

‘So … does that mean that you too …’ I faltered, not knowing how to frame my question without being offensive.

‘Have had lovers? Oh, yes, my dear, many. I have not always lived in a convent, you know. Like you, I came to the cloisters later in life. I think sometimes it is better that way. So many of the women here have never tasted life. They feel sick with longings they do not understand, and so it is hard for them to find peace. I came to the shelter of the abbey after a long life of joy and sorrow and many, many sins, I fear, and so I am content here with my garden and my bees.’

I looked down at my muddy leather gloves. ‘I don’t think I’ll find peace here.’

‘Not at first, but perhaps with time you will. Time heals what reason cannot.’

‘I don’t think so.’ My voice was harsh.

She was silent for a long moment. ‘I know you find your banishment from court hard, but, believe me, it could be much, much worse. This is not a true prison. You can come out here to the garden and see the sky and listen to the birds singing and the bees humming in the flowers. You can work with your own two hands and see things you have planted grow and bring beauty to the world. You can eat what you have grown, and that is a joy too. Then there is the music and the singing, which is a balm to the soul, and the convent itself is filled with beauty, the soaring pillars and the windows glowing like jewels and the embroidered tapestries. And you will make friends too. You are not alone. Trust me, it is much harder to endure such things if you are alone.’

I shrugged one shoulder, not willing to believe her. She sat back on her heels, looking down at the bag of parsley seeds she held in her hands. ‘I knew a girl once who was kept locked away for years, all by herself. It’s a wonder she didn’t go mad.’

I leant forward, eager for a story as always. ‘But why? Who locked her up?’

‘Her parents had sold her to a sorceress for a handful of bitter greens.’ Sœur Seraphina ran one hand through the tiny black seeds in the bag. ‘Parsley, wintercress and rapunzel. When she was twelve, the sorceress shut the girl up in a high tower built far away in a forest, in a room without a door or stair. The tower had only one narrow window, with its shutters locked tight so she could not see the sky …’

These three things were true:

Her name was Margherita.

Her parents had loved her.

One day, she would escape.

At the worst times, when the walls of the tower seemed to press upon her ribcage, Margherita would repeat these three things over and over again, like sorrowful mysteries muttered over a rosary.

She had been locked away in this one small stone room at the age of twelve. Fifty-one full moons had passed since then, shown by the scars on her wrists. If she did not escape soon, surely she would die.

Margherita first met the sorceress on the day she turned seven.

Ordinarily, on the way home from market, Margherita would have been skipping along, singing at the top of her voice, or walking precariously along the narrow edge of the canal, arms spread wide. Today, though, she walked slowly, her tongue curled sideways and set in the gap where her
front teeth used to be – a sign of intense concentration. Margherita was carrying a small, warm, precious cake in her hands. It smelt fragrantly of cinnamon and sugar. She lifted it to her nose, then quickly licked the edge of the cake. The taste was an explosion of sweetness and richness in her mouth.

It was hard not to cram the whole cake into her mouth, but Margherita’s mother had trusted her with its purchase and safe return. Last year, Margherita’s birthday had been in the middle of Lent, and she had not been allowed to eat any meat, or milk, or eggs, or anything delicious at all. This year, her birthday fell on the day after Easter Sunday, so her mother, Pascalina, had decided to hold a special feast for her birthday. Margherita resisted temptation, revelling in the warmth between her hands and the fragrance in her nostrils.

The canal beside her was murky green, its undulating skin glinting like scales of silver, reflecting ripples of light all over the stone walls on either side. Far above the flapping lines of washing, the narrow slice of sky was misty blue.

As Margherita turned into the narrow
calle
that led to her father’s studio and shop, a woman stepped out of a shadowy doorway in front of her. She seemed to shine in the gloom like a candle. Her dress and cape were of cloth of gold, worn over a sheer chemise with a high ruffled collar that framed her face like a saint’s halo. She was tall, taller than Margherita’s father, taller than any woman Margherita had ever seen before.

‘Good morning, Margherita,’ the woman said, smiling down at her. ‘Happy birthday.’

Margherita stared up at her in surprise. She was sure she had never seen this woman before. It was not a face that would be easily forgotten. The woman had skin as smooth and pale as cream, and her hair was almost as red as Margherita’s. She wore it hanging loose like a maiden’s, though so artfully curled and coiled and plaited it must have taken an hour to create. On the back of her head was a small cap of golden satin, sewn with jewels and edged with gilt ribbon. Her eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair.
Like a lion’s,
Margherita thought. Lions were everywhere in Venice,
standing proud on pillars, carved in bas-relief around doors, or painted on the walls of churches. Lions with hungry golden eyes, just like this woman who knew Margherita’s name.

‘I have a present for you,’ the woman said. As she bent towards Margherita, her heavy perfume overwhelmed the fragrance of the little cake. It seemed to smell of hot exotic lands. Margherita took a step away, suddenly afraid, but the woman only smiled and slipped something about Margherita’s neck. She saw a flash of gold, then felt an unfamiliar weight on her chest. She squinted downwards and saw that a golden pendant was now lying upon the rough brown fabric of her dress.

‘But … who are you? How d’you know my name?’

The woman smiled. ‘Why, I’m your godmother, Margherita. Has your mother not told you about me?’

Margherita shook her head. The woman touched her nose affectionately. ‘Well, we shall soon be getting to know each other much better. Give your mother my regards, and tell her to remember her promise.’

‘
Si
,’ Margherita answered, though it came out sounding like ‘
Thi
’ because of the gap where she had lost her two front teeth.

‘Run along home now. I will see you again very soon,’ the woman said.

Margherita obeyed, breaking into a run in her eagerness to get home and show her mother her present. She looked back over her shoulder as she went and saw a huge man in a dark robe step out of the shadowy doorway. He held out his arm to the mysterious woman in cloth of gold, and she laid her own hand on it, accepting his help to negotiate her way over the uneven cobblestones, her other hand lifting her wide skirts so that Margherita had a quick glimpse of the extremely high
chopines
she wore.

For a moment, the man and woman were silhouetted against the light at the end of the alley. The man was dark and massive, head and shoulders taller than the woman.
He must be a giant,
she thought with a painful jerk of her heart, and her steps quickened. The next moment, she tripped and fell. The cake flew from her hands and smashed on the cobblestones. Margherita began to cry. She bent to pick up the pieces of cake, trying to squash them back together again. She cast a look of appeal back towards
the end of the
calle
, but the woman and the giant were gone. There was only the dazzle of the sun on the canal, and the high walls of stone, punctuated by doorways and window frames and shutters. Margherita was alone.

She stumbled home, all her happiness in her birthday cake gone.

Her father was a mask-maker, and the downstairs room of their home was his shop and studio. The shutters stood open, giving a glimpse into a cave of glittering treasures. Masks hung from hooks all about the window and covered every wall – plain white masks with inscrutable eye slits and veils, harlequin masks in gold and red, weeping masks and laughing masks, masks fringed with peacock feathers, masks edged with precious jewels, masks framed with golden rays like a rising sun, and white masks with sinister beaks like a sacred ibis, worn during times of plague.

Margherita’s father sat on his wooden stool, a papier-mâché mask held in one hand, the other holding a fine-pointed brush. He was painting delicate golden swirls and curlicues all over the mask, his touch deft and sure. He turned as Margherita came limping in, laying down the mask and brush so he could open his arms to her. ‘What is it,
chiacchere
? What on earth is the matter?’

‘I broke my cake,’ she sobbed, as he lifted her onto his lap. ‘I was being careful, I truly was, but then I tripped …’

‘Ah, well, never mind. Accidents happen. Look, it’s broken into three pieces. One for your papa, one for your mama and one for you. We would have cut the cake so anyway. All you’ve done is leave a few crumbs for the poor hungry mice and birds.’

Margherita’s father was a handsome man, with heavy dark eyebrows, a large noble nose and a neat dark beard. When he laughed, his teeth flashed white against his brown skin. Margherita loved it when he lifted her high and threw her over his shoulder. While she squirmed and shrieked with delight, he’d rotate about, pretending to be puzzled, saying, ‘Where has Margherita gone? Has anyone seen my
chiacchere
? She was here just a moment ago.’

‘I’m here, Papa,’ Margherita would shriek, kicking her legs against his chest and banging his back with her fists.

‘I can hear a mosquito buzzing in my ear, but not my
chiacchere
.’ Her papa called her
chiacchere
because he said she chattered away all day, just like a magpie. He had all sorts of funny names for her:
fiorellina
, my little flower;
abelie
, which meant honeysuckle; and
topolina
, my sweet little mouse. Margherita’s mother only called her
piccolina
, my little one, or
mia cara Margherita
, my darling daisy.

Papa picked up his painting rag from the bench and found a clean corner so he could wipe away Margherita’s tears. It was then he saw the golden pendant about her neck. He stiffened. ‘Where did you get that?’

Margherita touched it. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. A lady gave it to me. For my birthday.’

Margherita’s father dropped her on the floor and twisted her about so he could stare at the pendant. ‘Pascalina,’ he shouted.

Margherita was frightened. Her father hardly ever called her mother by her real name but by nicknames such as
bellissima, cara mia
and
pascadozzia.

Pascalina came running, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, Margherita had always thought. Her hair was the colour of new bronze, her eyes were periwinkle blue, her skin was fair and softly freckled, and her figure was soft and plump and comfortable. Pascalina sang all the time: as she rolled out dough, as she swept the floor, as she washed the dirty clothes in the tub, and as she tucked Margherita up in bed at night.

Oh, veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda
, she would sing.
Lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda, oi ninì ninna vò fa
. Oh, come, sleep from the little mountain. The wolf’s devoured the little sheep, and oh, my child wants to sleep.

Pascalina looked white and sick when she saw the necklace. She gripped Margherita by the arms. ‘Who gave it to you?’

‘A lady. She said it was for my birthday.’ Tears sprang to Margherita’s eyes.

‘What did she look like?’

‘What did she say?’

Margherita looked from her father’s stern face to her mother’s anguished one. She did not know who to answer first. ‘A beautiful lady,’ she faltered. ‘Dressed all in gold like a queen. She said she was my godmother. She said to give you her regards, Mama, and that you were to remember your promise.’

A groan burst from Mama’s white lips. ‘Alessandro, no. What are we to do?’

Alessandro put his arms about his wife and daughter, drawing them close. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps, if we pleaded with her …’

‘That’s no use. She has no mercy. No, we must go. We must flee from here.’

‘Where?’ Alessandro asked. ‘I’m a mask-maker, Pascalina. It is all I know how to do. Where else in the world could I make a living? They don’t have Carnevale in Bologna or Genova. For all I know, they may not even have the
commedia dell’arte
. I’d be a man without a craft. We’d starve in a month.’

‘But we cannot stay. If she should accuse you … you cannot make masks without your hands, Alessandro.’

All this time, Margherita had been crying and begging her parents to tell her what they meant. ‘Who is she? What do you mean?’ At this final comment of her mother’s, she gave a little scream of terror. ‘Papa!’

Her father remembered her and squeezed her close. ‘Never fear,
topolina
, don’t cry. All is well.’

‘Your hands, Papa. What did Mama mean?’

‘Nothing. All is well.’

‘But who was she, Papa? Who was the lady? Why is Mama crying?’

‘She’s a witch. And a whore!’

‘Alessandro!’

Margherita stopped crying out of sheer amazement to hear her father say such things.

‘It’s true. What else am I meant to call her?’ Papa took a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk to her. She has everything, we have nothing but our own little treasure. Surely she could not be so cruel?’

‘She could,’ Pascalina replied with absolute certainty.

‘Come on.’ Alessandro stood up. ‘It’s our girl’s birthday. Let’s go eat this delicious cake and give Margherita her presents.’

He took Margherita’s hand and led her through the door and up the steps to the
portego
. This was a long narrow room with windows at either end, one set overlooking the
calle
, the other overlooking the little canal. The
portego
was sparsely furnished, for Margherita’s parents were poor, but Mama had embroidered some cushions to soften the hard bench, and a rather shabby carpet was hung over the table, its red fringe faded to a soft pink. On one wall was a wonderful tapestry, showing ships in a harbour. On one ship, a party of people in gorgeous robes of blue and crimson and orange was sitting down to a feast of fruit and roast fowl and wine in strangely shaped jugs; another ship was being loaded with barrels and boxes; yet another was setting off to sea, its unfurled sails billowing with wind. Margherita had always loved this tapestry and liked to imagine that she too would one day set sail to faraway lands, where she would see extraordinary things and have marvellous adventures.