The abbess sits for a second, her fingers playing with the lion’s mane.
“Possibly you are right. Certainly whoever wrote them had read his Petrarch extensively—indeed, one might say, swallowed it whole.” She pauses. “I daresay they would make fine song settings.”
“What will you do with them?”
“I have not decided. Confiscation at this stage would risk burning them deeper into her memory.” She sighs, as if this too were a decision not quite yet taken. “For now, they are back in her chest.”
“And Suora Umiliana?”
Another stroke of the fingers. “She is busy with her instruction. I am sure that once she hears the girl’s voice praising the Lord she will forget what else she was brought up singing.” She pauses. “Indeed, it would be better for us all if this novice found her voice soon. We will have half the court of Ferrara in chapel on the Feast of Saint Agnes. Perhaps some form of penance might have more impact.”
“From what I know of her, I don’t think that will help.” Zuana’s own first taste of penance had been sour to the mouth as well as the souclass="underline" table scraps laced with wormwood followed by an hour spent prostrate by the refectory door with the sisters stepping over her as they came and went, a few of the sterner ones deliberately miscalculating their stride and crushing flesh along with cloth underfoot. Her tears had been as much to do with memories of her father’s balms as any new closeness to God. Ever since she took over the dispensary she has kept a pot of calendula ointment for those who might find themselves in need of it. “I will do what I can,” she says quietly. “I did not ask for this burden.”
“No, no, indeed you did not. I imposed it upon you—for your own welfare as much as hers.” She pauses. “But then again, as burdens go, I do not think it is overpowering you. On the contrary, I would say that your spirit seems quite full with it.”
Now as they meet each other’s eyes, the abbess smiles for the first time. “Well, we will not be downhearted.” She smooths her skirts. “At least we are not entertaining a gelding in the parlatorio. The bishop would have had need of more than your suppositories to cure the fit of colic that would have brought on. Though it is a shame in some ways.”
“Is his voice so remarkable?”
“It would seem so, yes. Apparently he holds the high notes so long he creates his own chorus of vibrating crystals from the chandeliers in the duke’s palace. Imagine that. Perhaps Our Lord will see fit to let a few of them enter paradise just so we can have the pleasure of making—” Her eyes dart off to the side. “Ah, Suora Felicità. I did not see you hovering there by the door.”
“I am sorry Madonna Chiara.” The nun moves sheepishly from the doorway inside. “I did ask earlier if I might—”
“Yes, yes, so you did. Though I thought we had agreed …well, never mind, you may come forward. The dispensary mistress and I have finished our business.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE IS COME! He has found her! He was here last night, outside the walls, singing while she was asleep. Oh, it had to be him. He said he would come and he has. Two voices, one as deep as a chapel bell, that was what she said. If the other had been a perfect alto she would have known for sure, for there are few enough men who can span all twenty-two notes from the bass to the treble with such ease. How stupid she was to have fallen asleep. If only she could find out the words of the song he was singing, she would know immediately. But she dare not ask the old witch Felicità. Anything said to her would get back to the novice mistress within seconds.
She is so excited she can scarcely keep her hands still as she holds the candle. The flame flares and sputters. She forces herself to put it down on the table until she can recover herself a little.
It had to be him. Except …except such things do happen at this time of year. That is what everyone said: that men—on their own or in groups—parade around the walls singing madrigals, love songs. She remembers the madness in the streets around their palazzo; sees herself and her sister (always less docile when she was out of her father’s gaze) leaning out from the upper loggia catching blown kisses and declarations of love until they are chased back to their beds by a tutting nurse, who has been enjoying it as much as they have. Carnivaclass="underline" the triumph of misrule and mischief.
Recreation hour after supper was full of Carnival tales tonight, like the one told by Suora Apollonia—getting her own back on Umiliana, no doubt, for stopping the concert. How, many years ago, a group of nuns and novices had taken baskets of dried rose petals from the fumigant stores up into the bell tower and thrown them down on the crowds below, so that all the young men had started serenading them, singing love songs to Our Lord’s pure and spotless wives—except that some of them were still only betrothed. A few of the men had tried throwing up purses, and in one case even a rope to help them climb down. It had been such a scandal that from then on the tower had been locked permanently, with only the abbess and the watch sister holding the key.
Oh, if she could only get hold of that key, the view from the tower would show her half the city. But there must be other ways. If she could work out the general direction of his voice— it must have been him—she could get to the inside of the wall there and throw a letter over. She could use the new, fatter stones. She could do that, tonight even. Yes, tonight. She would stay awake all night if necessary.
She is far too agitated to sleep anyway. Oh, when Suora Felicità had said those words, a voice as deep as the chapel bell, it was as if a great fist had got into her chest and was squeezing her so hard she thought she would faint. Had anyone noticed? No, no, she didn’t think so. Everyone was twittering and muttering by then. A castrato singing in the convent. You would think it was the devil come to share their pallets. Really, they are like children with all their bickering and flapping. A great family of beaked sisters squabbling like a sack full of crows.
Crows. Ah, no one had mentioned birdsong. Maybe it was not him. Because if it was, surely he would have brought the instrument with him. They had talked about it: how she would be sure it was him from the sound of birdsong soon after his voice. They had agreed, hadn’t they? Except she could no longer quite remember. Those last few encounters had been so blurred with tears. It had all happened so fast. So fast …
The truth was that it had never been her intention to defy them all. When she was small she had been as eager as the next little girl that the angel Gabriel should be the first to pierce her heart. But instead it was Cupid who slid in through the window, and her father who opened it for him. By then he had already decided on the man she would marry—or, rather, the family name the man would bring with him. It had never occurred to him that a talented music teacher with no name might fly in and grab the prize first. It had been nobody’s fault. Or if blame must be apportioned, surely it should fall on the wonder of his God-given voice and the beauty of his settings of Petrarch’s sonnets, for the words of a great poet always water the seeds of love.
By the time the sanctioned suitor himself came to visit, she was already so besotted that she could barely bring herself to talk to him, let alone offer him encouragement. He didn’t care. The hour in his company was chaperoned by her sister, who excelled in flirtatious coyness—so much so that after a sleepless night (or so he claimed) he returned to announce that he would prefer the younger daughter instead. Since it was his name that was doing the choosing (the dowry would follow either girl), her father had been sanguine. “Well, we had planned for the younger one to serve God, but if she is willing—”