“Ah, I knew it. Even the pets are sick here.”
Zuana says nothing. She strokes the dog gently. It bares its teeth a little, then gives up and drops its head heavily on her hand.
“Surely God would not punish us so.”
“What do you mean, sister?”
“Felicità says there is a convent in Siena where the inspectors took away the sisters’ dogs and drowned them in a sack in the river.”
Since the chapter meeting, the floodgates have opened on such stories.
“Oh, I can’t believe they would do such a thing.”
“I can. I think Suora Felicità herself would do it if she could. Last week in the cloisters she kicked him.”
“I’m sure she did not mean to.”
Ysbeta will have none of this, either. “Oh, yes, she did.” She nods her head vigorously. “They are so pleased with themselves, she and Suora Umiliana. Just because they can live without comfort they think everyone else must be the same.”
Zuana has never seen Ysbeta so passionate before. “Well, a kick did not cause this. Nor do I think it punishment for any sin. The fact is that the tumor will have been growing in his body for some time now.”
She stares down at the little animal. “So you cannot do anything?”
“I could give him something to make him sleep, so he would not feel it so much.”
“What about the girl? Might she save him?”
“Which girl?”
“The novice, Serafina.” She hesitates. “I …they are saying that Suora Magdalena passed her powers on to her when she died. That was why the cross did not fall on her and why she fainted afterward.”
Indeed? Is that what they are saying? Zuana thinks. What kind of spy am I if I do not hear even the noisiest rustles in the grass?
“Who is saying such a thing?”
She shrugs. “Oh, some of the choir nuns …Would you ask her? I mean—she is close to you.”
Zuana smiles gently. “Suora Ysbeta, I am sorry, but there is nothing she or any of us can do. Your dog is dying. It is the way of nature.”
The old nun bows her head, nodding slightly. She moves to the worktop and, tender as a mother with an ailing child, starts wrapping up the shaking body again, taking care not to touch the animal’s stomach as she does so. Zuana stares at her. Christ dolls, pets, babies in the parlatorio …some women find the barrenness of marriage to God so hard to bear.
She reaches for the poppy syrup.
SHE IS THINKING of the dog and how the convent has grown restless inside the winds of gossip as she sits at her dispensary desk that same afternoon, marking down the remedies and essences that need replacing, when the knock comes at the door.
“Suora Zuana, the watch sister has sent me.” Letizia, bright and efficient as always. “There is someone to see you in the parlatorio.”
“To see me?”
“Yes. The watch sister says it is the wife of one of your father’s pupils whom you have met before. Her husband is very ill, and she is come to ask you to pray for him.”
Zuana frowns. At the beginning she received a few visits from people who had known her father, women from the court whose children or husbands he had healed, but it has been many years since anyone bothered to look her up and she has no memory of such a woman. Falling crucifixes, ailing dogs, and dying living saints. And now a visitor for a nun who knows no one. These are strange times indeed.
Inside, the parlatorio is humming. While not as ornately decorated as for Carnival, it is still welcoming. Someone has cut a few green fronds and placed them in a vase on a table in the middle, and many of the separate groups have ceramic plates of biscuits and jugs of wine and water for the visitors to eat and drink. There must be close to twenty nuns (not counting the chaperones) entertaining, some with only a few guests, others with what seem like whole families gathered around. The noise level is high, partly because of the children, of whom there are maybe half a dozen: two babies and the rest toddlers, climbing onto the nuns’ laps and playing with their crosses or tottering around the room clutching sticky biscuits.
Zuana’s visitor is sitting on her own close to the wall. She is a middle-aged woman, modestly dressed and a little self-conscious in such surroundings. Clearly she is not of noble birth, but she has made an effort with her clothes, with clean shoes and her hair up as befits her married status, and a simple but stylish veil pinned at the back and falling to her shoulders. Zuana has never seen her before.
“Hello, I am Suora Zuana.”
“Oh, it is a pleasure—” She starts to rise and holds out a hand as if unsure of the correct greeting for a noble nun.
“Please, don’t get up. Forgive me, but do we know each other?”
“I …no.”
“But you are the wife of one of my father’s pupils?”
“Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“You are sure I am the one you are looking for?”
“Oh, yes, if you are Suora Zuana… My husband did know your father. We keep an apothecary store near the west gate of the city, in Via Apollonia. When he was a boy he met your father often when he used to come in. He said he was a wonderful man.”
The woman is nervous. She smiles. It is a good smile: one that crinkles her eyes and, without the restriction of a wimple, lights up her face.
“So, how can I help you? He is ill, I hear?”
She takes a breath. “There is illness, yes. But I am come on behalf of a gentleman.”
“Not your husband?”
“No, my husband—oh, it’s not what you think. My husband knows I am here. This gentleman—he has been a patient. My husband found him. He was injured, badly injured. We helped him. Without our help he would have died.”
While she is nervous, she is also determined. By rights, Zuana should not be listening further, for there is no connection here to justify the visit, but there is something about the woman that she likes. Or maybe it is the novelty of being here in this room, with a hubbub of people around her, as if it were not a convent at all but a receiving room in some great house where people gather to enjoy ordinary life. The chaperone nuns are moving between the groups. One of them looks over at Zuana; it is unusual to have the dispensary sister here. Zuana smiles and nods at her. She smiles back and moves on.
“Perhaps you should tell me what happened,” she says to the woman.
“Yes, yes, thank you. Some weeks ago my husband was coming back into the city from collecting plants in the country. His horse had gone lame and he had had to walk the last miles, so it was late at night. He heard shouting on the riverbank, and when he approached he disturbed an attack. Some men ran away but there was another on the ground. He had been stabbed and they had tried to cut his throat. My husband stopped the blood as best he could—they had not severed any vital artery—and brought him back to the house. For many days we thought he might die, for he had bled a great deal, but my husband used case wort and yarrow on the wounds and he began to recover.”
“You help your husband with his work?”
The woman blushes. “Yes. A little. We have no children; I was not able, so—well, it is cheaper than an assistant.”
“You like it?”
She gives a little laugh. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Zuana nods. Father, husband, even sister. Someone to talk to. Someone who is as interested as you are. It is all she has ever really wanted.
“And what is it about this story that has brought you here to me?” she asks gently.
“The young man told us that the men who tried to kill him had been his friends, people he had met when he came to the city, for he is a stranger here.”
“Then why did they try to kill him?”
“He didn’t know. My husband said he must go to the city watch, for he could recognize his attackers. But he said it would be no use as they were from noble families and he would not get justice.”