Sacred Hearts (14 page)

A murmur runs like a breeze through grass. A castrato in the parlatorio? Whatever next? The novices, who attend chapter and can even speak if they have the courage, though they are not yet allowed to vote, can barely contain their enthusiasm at such a level of drama. Zuana locates Serafina among them. She had started out the meeting with her usual closed expression, but even she is visibly interested now.

“I am against it, Suora Apollonia—as you should be— because our duty is to serve God humbly and quietly without worldly distraction, not be blown off course by each and every scandal or petty novelty. And Carnival is a living source of such temptation, as this convent knows only too well. It is bad enough that in the lead-up to such debauchery we will have to suffer every would-be minstrel of Ferrara parading around the walls, serenading chaste women who do not want to hear them.”

Protecting her novice flock from the contamination that she sees seeping like rotten damp through the convent walls has become Suora Umiliana’s lifework. Certainly, without her, chapter would be a more mundane, even boring affair.

“Oh yes, indeed. In fact it has started already.” Where the novice mistress goes, Suora Felicità is never far behind. “Surely I am not the only one who was kept awake last night with the noise? Two of them, one with a voice as deep as the chapel bell, marching up and down, howling like lovesick puppies. But at least theirs were proper men’s voices, created by God, not the barber’s knife. Our novice mistress is right. Such a ‘half-man condition is an abomination of nature. Wouldn’t you agree, Suora Benedicta?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, I simply cannot say, for I have never heard one of them.” Zuana has to drop her eyes now, she is so close to smiling. Caught between her passion for new voices and the desire not to have her choir’s thunder stolen by some foreigner who has given up his genitals in the service of court employment, Santa Caterina’s radiant choir mistress is floundering. She sighs. “From what I hear, they have the ability to reach and sustain the highest notes with miraculous ease, but whether they can deliver the
passaggio
or the subtlety of decoration of a good soprano— well, those who witness them all say different things.”

Zuana glances toward Madonna Chiara, but the abbess’s expression gives nothing away. She sits with her fingers curved perfectly over the ends of the carved mahogany arms of the great chair, her head bent to one side, then to the other, the better to follow the discussion. The more seriously she is seen to take each and every opinion, the less those who lose the argument might feel they have not been listened to.

“Then how wonderful if we might be able to make up our own minds. It is Carnival, after all. We cannot pray
all
the time and can hardly avoid hearing what goes on in the streets.” Suora Apollonia is so excited there is a hint of color spreading through her whitened cheeks. “If seeing him is so corrupting, he could just come to the gate and we could stand inside and listen.”

“I agree.” Suora Francesca from the embroidery room is already aglow with the prospect of so much cleansing joy and laughter. “Other convents go much further than this. Everyone knows that last year when Corpus Domini performed their Carnival play they ‘accidentally’ left a portion of the main door open so that half the men in the city could see in.”

“Hargh!” In the silence that follows Umiliana’s strangulated bark, everyone waits for the intercession of the abbess. A series of glances move like crosscurrents through the room. Zuana seeks out Serafina again. Oh, yes, now her eyes are shining. It suits her, she thinks, such unguarded pleasure.

The silence grows. One, two …Zuana finds herself counting. Three, four …She is good at timing, is their spiritual leader. Five, six …

“You are absolutely right, Suora Francesca.” The voice, when it comes, is deep and commanding. “Corpus Domini indeed did as you say. And ended with a severe reprimand from the bishop for their pains—and the imposition of a penance that means this year they will perform no play at all.”

She pauses to let the words sink in.

“When it comes to music, I have no doubt that this ‘creature’s’ voice would be most interesting, though from what I have heard, Suora Benedicta is right and what he gains in range he gives up in subtlety. However, in this matter I think we should be led by our most reverend novice mistress. We would not want to be seen to be so eager for praise that we seek out competition from such a dubious source. I do not have to remind you that it was not so long ago that the good bishops at Trento ended their Herculean labors of purifying the church in the face of the grossest heresies by directing their attention to convents.” And here she looks directly at Suora Apollonia. “While we are blessed that our own dear bishop has seen fit to protect us from the fiercest of their restrictions, it would be unfortunate indeed if some ‘misdemeanor’ on our part drew attention to that which should be beyond reproach.”

While the words are mild, the message is clear. Apollonia’s perfect eyebrows meet now to form a perfect frown. But she bows her head and holds her tongue. When one is outmaneuvered in chapter, it is better to give in graciously.

“Besides,” the abbess says, more lightly now, “I have it on good authority that his Carnival calendar is fully booked. I daresay the only people outside court who will hear him will be those passing the open windows of Palazzo Schifanoia.”

A few stray titters rise up from the room. Palazzo Schifanoia is notorious for its great salon filled with paintings of pagan gods and goddesses enjoying the world—and at times each other. Though the rule of Saint Benedict is clear on the corrosive nature of careless laughter, it is also true that a healthy convent is a delicate mix of the sweet with the sour. It is a skill the abbess excels in, Zuana thinks: offering tidbits for those who thirst for novelty while at the same time supporting those who disapprove of it.

In contrast, Suora Umiliana remains stony-faced, seemingly unmoved by her victory. Recently she has started to find public fault in every chapter meeting. While the abbess has both the power and the strength of character to overrule her, she seems to be giving more ground than usual.

Zuana glances around the room. How many others, she wonders, are aware of the change? If the last election had not been a foregone conclusion, based as it was on the power of family factions within the city, it is conceivable that Umiliana might even be abbess herself now, for she is not without a following. Had that happened, Felicità would no doubt be her novice mistress, and together they would be tougher on all the souls in their care. There are a few, no doubt, who might be brought to a deeper comfort by their rule. But for the rest, all those noblewomen for whom these walls were never a free choice, it would be much harder.

As it was, Madonna Chiara had won with an indisputable majority, and the post of novice mistress had been Umiliana’s consolation prize. While no one had expected it to silence her, in a well-run convent it is better to have opposition inside rather than outside the fold. Zuana has begun to wonder if Madonna Chiara would still agree with that.

“Well, if that covers the entertainment, perhaps we might discuss the refreshments. Suora Federica, as cellarer, perhaps you will tell us your requirements? You will be needing to order extra stores, I think.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Federica, a florid-faced woman who runs the kitchens as if they were her own vassal state, has been waiting patiently for her moment. “For the cakes and puddings we will need two sacks of flour, extra sugar, vanilla, and at least three dozen extra eggs. Those expecting more than eight visitors must supply eggs from their own birds, as the convent chickens will be hard pressed to lay enough.” She directs this remark to Suora Fortunata, who keeps half a dozen hens in and around her spacious ground-floor cell and has a reputation for being insufficiently generous when it comes to donating their produce. “Also I will need more coloring dyes for the marzipan fruits. Suora Zuana?”

Zuana bows her head. In the years since she has been given an extra room to house her distillation equipment, Santa Caterina’s Carnival fruits have become famous around town for the veracity of their colors as well as their taste. “I will look through my stores for you.”

“Most particularly the red. The strawberries disappeared in no time last year.”

As much into the mouths of the nuns as the visitors’, Zuana thinks uncharitably. “I will do my best, but that dye comes from the bishop, not the distillery, and I have almost none left.”

She catches Serafina’s eye. They have already spoken of this in the dispensary: how in the outside world the cochinilla dye is a prized possession from the New World, traded at exorbitant prices by the Spanish: so expensive it is only since the convent took over as the bishop’s apothecary that Santa Caterina can rely on an occasional “gift” from the palace. Its reputation is well earned, for it turns everything it touches—from cardinals’ robes to women’s mouths—the most vivid shade of red. Federica, no doubt, has her head too much in her own ovens to notice how those nuns who gorge on her marzipan strawberries enter the first days of Lent with lips the same color as those of court ladies.

Such transgression is not lost on Umiliana. But for now, at least, this is too trivial a battle for her to fight. She frowns at Zuana. She regards her as her enemy in this, and she is right, though for the wrong reasons. Zuana is as eager for the dye as Federica, but that is because she has recently come across accounts of remedies that use it—in particular, one for breaking fevers—and until she has the opportunity to try it she is loath to give up her remaining stock for the sake of a few Carnival delicacies.

“Can’t we get more?” The kitchen mistress addresses the remark to the abbess. “It would be worth whatever extra trouble it took.”

“Oh, yes. We heard nothing but compliments in the parlatorio for months afterward.” Suora Apollonia, uncrushed by her earlier defeat, is back in force.

“We shall do what we can,” the abbess says mildly. “Suora Zuana is already at work on the bishop’s next order. I am sure His Holiness will be bountiful again in his thanks. How are you doing with the remedies?”

“They should be ready within the next week.” Zuana pauses. “I am much helped in this by our new novice, who shows aptitude and dedication in her work.”

Some sixty or so pairs of eyes swivel to the novice benches, where Serafina sits. As they do so, Zuana catches a flash of anger in the novice mistress’s face.

“Well, that is good to know. It seems Our Lord moves in wonderful ways to bring His beloved young lambs into the fold.” The abbess’s voice drips like thick cream. “We can only hope her ailing voice might recover in time to join us for the Carnival concert. It would be a great shame for a young woman to be isolated and constrained in her cell while the rest of the convent is so joyfully employed. Wouldn’t you agree, my child?”

And Serafina, taken aback by the sudden attention, drops her head hurriedly to hide the rising color in her cheeks.

“
IT IS A
risky business, giving a novice cause for pride while she is yet to master humility.”

“I simply told the truth. She is clever and a fast learner.”

The chapter room has emptied, but Zuana has been motioned to stay behind.

“Yes, well, the rebellious ones often are. Nevertheless, it would be better for the convent if all this ‘aptitude and dedication’ could be redirected toward her throat. The two of you talk together, I assume.”

“When we need to, yes.”

“Only when you need to?”

Zuana notices the lion’s heads on the arms of the great walnut chair, the way the manes have been worn smooth under the movement of centuries of restless fingers. It is no small thing, guiding the fortunes of so many souls. “If she is to be of help to me—to the convent—there are things she must know, questions she must ask and I must answer.”

“And?”

She pauses. “Her voice is clear enough when she talks.”

The abbess nods. “It is interesting. Even Suora Umiliana has time for her. More than one might have expected. Perhaps it is the challenge. She says there is spirit but that her soul is closed as tight as a fist.”

“If anyone can prize it open, it will be our good novice mistress.”

“True enough,” she says dryly.

At another time it is something they might talk about— Umiliana’s disapproval and its possible influence on some of the choir nuns—but it is clear the abbess has other things on her mind.

“I have sent a letter to her father, informing him of her distress and asking if there is anything we should know about her that might help us with her reticence. But the family is away and not due back for some weeks. It seems there is the rumor of a marriage—the younger daughter and a noble from Florence.” She sighs, as if this was not what she wanted to hear. “Tell me, the first night when you tended to her, did you notice anything in her dowry chest?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Lyrics, poems.”

“I—er, there were a few sheets of paper inside her breviary.”

“You read them?”

“No.”

“And you did not think to mention them?”

Of course she has thought about it since. But had she reported them and they were confiscated as a result, Serafina would have known beyond doubt that it was she who had betrayed her and any chance they might have had to forge a relationship would have been destroyed. Was that why she had said nothing?

“I …She came to us as a singer, and I thought they might be copies of songs. Madrigals, perhaps. Why? Has someone else found them?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Of course. She should have known it. Augustina may have blunt hands but her head is sharp enough to know where the real power lies. Zuana can see her bent inside the chest, rummaging for things it might be profitable to mention to others. As for the abbess? Well, unless she knows the things that are concealed, how can she decide whether or not they should be exposed? There are times when Zuana wonders if there are convents where godliness has expelled all trace of unwarranted commerce. If so, she really cannot imagine how they work.