Sacred Hearts (51 page)

“Be careful with it.”

Apollonia has been generous with her face powder. “Take it as a thank-you for what you did for my sister,” she had said. “Though I must say, I never expected to find you in need of such things. But many of us are changing our behavior now. You should join us for a concert one evening. They may not continue much longer.”

Serafina—or rather Isabetta, for now that the food is working in her that is how she is beginning to think of herself again— opens the pouch and slips her finger in, then dusts the white powder across her cheeks.

“You must use it sparingly. Umiliana, in particular, can spot makeup from halfway across the choir stalls.”

Zuana takes the other pouch and puts it on the cot.

“As to this, I have measured the amount exactly. You remember the proportions for the water?”

She nods.

“Good. It is vital that you go ahead only if and when you have the sign. And that you do and say exactly what we have discussed. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“No more, no less. There will be no second chance.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” She is jumpy tonight. They both are. “You think it will come to this?”

“I don’t know. But if it does, she will need to see that you have the will and the stomach to carry it further.”

Zuana hands her the sharp little knife with which she had once cut and peeled the figwort root. Ah, how long ago was that?

“You are sure you can do this?” Zuana says.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” Along with the color in her cheeks there is now a flash of brightness to her eye. “It can hardly hurt more than my gut.”

THE NEXT MORNING
Zuana goes to the abbess. There are no pleasantries between them on this visit, no offer of wine or a place by the fire.

“I have come to confess my disobedience, Madonna Chiara. Against your wishes I have been visiting the novice at night. And in doing so I have broken the Great Silence repeatedly.”

“Yes. Perhaps you might tell me something I do not know. How much she is putting into her stomach, for instance. She looked half dead at Lauds.”

“It was constipation, a necessary side effect of eating again. The fast is ended. And with it Umiliana’s influence over her.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Zuana takes a breath. She is more nervous than she has ever been in her life. “Madonna Chiara, I would give anything to protect this convent. I rejoice in the sustenance and comfort it brings me and many women like me—”

She starts quietly but the words ripen fast and fall over each other in their eagerness to get out.

She stops and gathers herself.

“The novice is equally loyal to you. Though she is strong-spirited, there is no spite in her. She was brought into Umiliana’s orbit by despair. But if we help her, she will reject her. And she will keep her silence until the grave. Anything and everything that has gone on inside these walls—or outside them—she will forget as if it had never happened.”

She stops. She can feel a fine sweat on her forehead. The abbess’s gaze is cool, even cold.

“What a passionate speech, Suora Zuana. Not like you at all. So tell me about this
help
we must give her to buy her silence. That is what you mean, isn’t it? From what I see she has food, nursing, and, it seems, the attention of half the convent. Pray, what more
help
could she require?”

Zuana does not flinch. “That she be allowed to leave this place and start a life with that young man, somewhere a long way away from here.”

The abbess stares at her for a moment. “My! Her wits have returned fast. Unless the idea did not come from her directly—”

“I have given it a great deal of thought, Madonna Chiara. And there is a way—”

“Oh, there are many ways,” she says, cutting across her. “I could open the gates for her this evening. Or perhaps I should let her petition the bishop so the shame can bring an inspection down upon us. Let me guess. You have had the arrogance to take it upon yourself to examine the body of Santa Caterina and you find—what?—some kind of
remedy
for its ills. I daresay your father has given you some help in this.” And her voice is cruel with sarcasm.

“My father does not speak to me anymore,” Zuana says quietly. “These thoughts are mine and mine alone.”

“In which case you are more at fault than I imagined. It seems you are the one with greensickness, even if you are too old for it. Has she turned your head, too? Seduced you as she has all the others, so that now you are willing to ruin the convent for her sake?”

“No, that is not how it is.” Zuana’s voice is clear, without quaver or fear now. “I love this place as much as you do.”

“You will forgive me if I harbor some doubt of that.”

“I would—”

“Be quiet!”

Zuana does as she is ordered. The abbess is silent for a moment, hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if she understands that she has overreached herself. Finally she raises her head.

“Our audience is finished. Your penance—”

“Madonna Chiara—”

“You will not interrupt me further!” For now she sees enemies all around and will have none of it. “Your penance is that from this moment on you are confined to your cell until I have decided what to do with you.”

There is nothing more she can do. Zuana bows her head to denote her obedience.

“And the novice?” she says quietly.

“If she needs further assistance, I will give it.”

BY THE OFFICE
of Compline it is clear that something has happened to Zuana. Her choir stall has been empty since Sext. If it was illness, the abbess would surely have said something before the Great Silence so that she might be included in their prayers. Instead, she appears to be curiously oblivious to the absence.

As the assembled nuns settle themselves, Isabetta lifts her head toward the empty place. Her face is drawn and deathly pale in the twilight. Not all of its pallor is a result of powder.

Zuana’s instructions had been very clear.
“If I am there, then
just before the office begins I will bring my right hand to my forehead and hold it there, as if I am suffering some pain. That will be the signal for you to go ahead. ”

“And if you are not there?”

“If I am not there …you must take my absence as your sign. ”

Benedicta sings the first notes and Isabetta follows her lead. When she was at her weakest it had been all she could do to hold on to the order of the office, and her thoughts had often strayed into the shadows at the edges of the candlelight, where Umiliana’s stories had been at their richest: angels moving in and out of the smoke, and a young nun pierced with the joy of the Lord, her tears and blood mingling in full sight of them all. There had been moments when she had felt her own palms prickling in longing, only to discover later that she had been digging her nails into herself, leaving pathetic red weals in the skin.

But now the chapel is simply a place for nuns to pray and the office is just more words. Now she knows the only way she will draw blood from her own hands is to use a knife. Across the pews she sees the abbess, standing tall and firm. Look at her: this is a woman who knows how to use knives to get what she most wants. How much does Isabetta hate her? It is not something she has let herself feel. But she tastes it now, and it is so strong it makes her almost giddy.

Yes, she can do this.

BACK IN HER
cell, at the appointed time, she gets out the pouch and, using a dark corner of the floor as her palette, mixes water into the small heap of granules. Then she takes out the knife. If she hesitates, it is only for a second, before she plunges the blade point into her flesh, letting out a hiss of pain as it penetrates the layers of skin. She shifts the knife to the damaged hand and does the same, though with more difficulty this time, to the other palm. In the candlelight the blood oozes, both bright and dark. She conceals the blade, then moves over to the corner where the mixture is wet and presses her palms hard into the puddle. When they come up they are saturated with red.

She moves back to the outer bedchamber, blows out the candle, and begins to scream.

The convent is dead asleep, but three people are fast out of their cells. The watch sister is first, but before she gets to the door the abbess is halfway across the cloisters, ahead of Suora Umiliana, who arrives as fast as her older, creakier limbs can carry her.

The watch sister waits by the cell door but does not open it or say anything. The Great Silence is more powerful than any noise.

“Benedicta. ”
It is Umiliana who offers the word, breathlessly, bowing her head quickly to the abbess.

“Deo gratias.”

“This need not disturb you, Madonna Abbess. I will see to her.”

“No, Suora Umiliana.”

“She is a novice under instruction. It is my du—”

“
I
will see to her.”

“But—”

“But nothing. You do not run this convent yet, Suora Umiliana. That is my privilege and burden.” The tone brooks no argument. “You will go back to your cell.”

And because there is no other way, except by physically barging past her, Umiliana turns back, and as the watch sister steps aside, the abbess goes in.

Inside, the girl is standing in the corner with her back to her, the howling now muted into a single high note, vibrating on what feels like an endless breath.

Madonna Chiara lifts her candle into the darkness. “So, novice Serafina. What is this nonsense that you break the Great Silence for?”

There is a small pause. Then Isabetta turns to face her, lifting up her hands as she does so and opening her palms. Dark red blood drips down onto the floor around her as, quietly, without hysteria or malice, she says what it has been decided that she will say.

“Madonna Chiara, I was put into this convent against my will. And against my will I have been kept here. I mean you no harm. And if you let me go, I swear I will keep silent until my dying day. But if I am forced to stay here, I promise I will bring chaos down upon all your heads.”

As she says these words, the abbess pushes the door closed behind her so there will be no chance of their being overheard.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“
YOU ARE CALLED
to see the abbess.”

Letizia is fluttery with agitation. Zuana, who has not slept, has been ready, waiting for hours. As they cross the courtyard she deliberately does not look in the direction of the girl’s cell, though she cannot help but notice the figures in the upper-floor window of the embroidery room. Suora Francesca, who is not able to impose silence when the chatter has nothing to say, will be presiding over a hum of gossip now. The starving novice had started screaming in the night and the abbess—the abbess herself—went to see her. Beside this news, how can they sit quietly embroidering yet another letter E on another pillowcase? But even pillowcases, humble though they are, have their place in the great scheme of things. And Zuana has made it her business to know that they are working on the last pieces of a trousseau for a young woman from a lesser branch of the d’Este family, which must be ready for delivery soon so that there can be time for fittings and further alterations before the wedding ten days after Easter. The ingredients are almost all gathered.

The head pops back from the upper window as Letizia moves past the door of the abbess’s cell without stopping.

“Where are we going?”

“She told me to bring you to the chapel.”

Zuana has worked with this girl for as long as Letizia has been in the convent. She would dearly like to ask her now what she knows. But Letizia is too anxious, and as soon as they reach the chapel she scuttles away.

Zuana enters as quietly as the great door allows.

Once inside, the reason for the abbess’s presence there becomes obvious. On the flagstones beneath the altar is the great, newly repaired crucifix, lying in all its glory, ready to be lifted back into place. In between the choir stalls a tower, hoist, and pulley are waiting to start the process.

The abbess is on her knees to one side of the cross, prostrated upon the ground, her body reaching out toward His own. His sculpted flesh is so close that if she were to put out her hands any farther she would surely touch it.

Zuana hesitates. She has seen her often enough in chapel, where she always makes the prettiest picture of a nun at prayer, but as she watches her here it appears that she is at a deeper, private devotion. She finds herself almost embarrassed to be watching.

After a while, as she turns toward the door, the voice says, “Sit, Zuana. I will be with you soon.”

Perhaps not so private after all.

From her vantage point in the choir stalls, Zuana now studies the sculpture. On the ground, Christ’s figure seems larger than life-size. Along with making repairs to the crossbar and the hand, the workmen have cleaned and revarnished the body, removing a century of candle smoke and grime so that the surface of His skin seems to glow.

At last the abbess straightens up. She sits back on her heels for a moment, staring at the body, then leans over and kisses the wood of the cross before getting to her feet.