“Even those with no voice are able to read the words aloud,” Umiliana says tartly, in what may or may not be a reference to Zuana, who everyone knows arrived tone deaf and ignorant of everything but her remedies. “We were told that her singing was a marvel. Suora Benedicta has been beside herself, waiting for her to arrive.”
“Indeed she has.” The abbess smiles. “Though our dear choir mistress is no stranger to such a …heightened state, glory be to God, and the welfare of the convent is dear to her. The wedding of the duke’s sister already brings noble audiences into our church, and it would be a fine thing if this new young songbird could find her voice in time for the Feast of Saint Agnes and Carnival. Which I am sure she will.” Her voice is now as deliberately soothing as the novice mistress’s is agitated. “We have come through these heavy seas before. It was barely two summers ago that young Carità spent her first weeks soaked in tears. And look at her now: the most eager seamstress in the convent.”
Umiliana frowns and her face collapses further into itself. In her eyes noble weddings bring only distraction, and Suora Carità’s dexterity with her embroidery needle is as much about fashion as the solace of prayer. This is not, however, the time to mention such things.
“Madonna Abbess? If I might suggest …?” She keeps her eyes to the ground, so that unless the abbess sees fit to interrupt her she will go on anyway. “I would like to separate her from the rest of the novices for a while. That way she will have time to contemplate her rebellion, and her intransigence will not infect others.”
“Thank you for that thought, Suora Umiliana.” The abbess’s smile is immediate and full. “I am confident, however, that under your tutelage such a thing would not happen. And isolation at this stage might agitate rather than calm her.” She pauses. Zuana drops her eyes. She has witnessed it before, this quiet battle of authority between the two women. “Indeed, I think perhaps we should leave any further instruction until she has recovered from the effects of Suora Zuana’s potion.”
Zuana feels Umiliana stiffen, though her expression remains impassive. Within the rule of Saint Benedict, the first degree of humility is obedience without delay. “As you wish, Madonna Chiara.”
“I think at this stage nothing of what happened last night need go any farther than these walls. With all the dictates and instructions from the last meetings of the council at Trento, our dear bishop has far more important things on his plate than a rebellious novice. Perhaps you might make that clear to any novices who have family visiting, Suora Umiliana.”
The novice mistress bows her head, then hesitates, waiting for a sign from Zuana that the two nuns will leave the room together.
“Oh—and Suora Zuana, would you stay for a moment longer? I have dispensary business to discuss with you.”
ZUANA KEEPS HER head down until the door closes. When she looks up, the abbess is rearranging her skirts and drawing her cape farther around her. “Are you cold? You could come closer to the fire.”
Zuana shakes her head. Lack of sleep is beginning to overcome her, and she needs the chill to keep her mind alert.
“Perhaps you should tell me about the draft.”
“It is possible that I put too much poppy syrup in it.” She remembers her father’s words. “A few extra drops is a little, but it can be a lot.”
“Well, do not blame yourself too fiercely. She was making an awful din, and I doubt even Suora Umiliana’s prayers could have quieted her on their own.”
“I did say psalms while the draft was taking effect.”
“You did? Which ones?”
“And they cry unto God in their trouble: Who delivereth them out of their distress—”
“—For He maketh the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof are stilclass="underline" and He bringeth them to their haven”. Her voice joins in, melodious and soft. “One hundred and seven. A great solace and very apt. Are you sure you are not cold? Did you rest?”
“A few hours before Prime. Enough.”
The abbess looks at her for a while. “So. It seems we have a problem. Do you think we are looking at greensickness?”
Zuana frowns. It is a slippery illness, greensickness, since although it arrives with the onset of menstruation, many of its symptoms—rage, despair, excessive exhilaration—can come naturally to young women and pass without any treatment at all. “No. I believe she is just angry and frightened.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“Only that she thinks her dowry was a bribe to get us to accept her.”
“Oh! There is hardly a dowry that isn’t a bribe these days, whoever the husband. She would need to be a simpleton not to know that. Still, she is right about its size. The city agent says the rent on the commercial properties alone will bring in an extra hundred ducats a year—which makes it a substantial sum indeed.”
Substantial enough to make the vote in chapter unanimous when the abbess had announced it. Honor, breeding, a fat dowry, and a superior choir voice. What reason could there have been for refusing her? Did it matter that much if she needed a little coaxing? Hadn’t most of them? While it might damage their sense of charity to admit it, there was a certain satisfaction to be had from watching others pass through the same flame.
Zuana waits. The silence grows. With Umiliana gone they are comfortable in each other’s presence, these two brides of Christ. They have known each other for many years and have more in common than at first glance it might appear. Though one was born to the veil, with all the appetite for politics and gossip that convent life entails, and the other was unwillingly inducted, they both have a leaning to the life of the mind as much as the spirit and an enjoyment of the challenges that come with it. It was a bond forged early, when a newly appointed assistant novice mistress befriended an angry grieving novice and helped her through the tempests of convent entrance.
Since Suora Chiara’s elevation, the strength of their connection has loosened, as it must, given the shift in their relative status. No abbess who cares for her flock should be seen to show favoritism, and as head of her family faction in the convent she has support enough to call on should she need advice. Nevertheless, Zuana suspects there are times when Chiara mourns the freedom she enjoyed before the weight of such responsibility, just as Zuana herself misses the informality, even the companionship, that they once shared. Whatever the abbess chooses to say now, they both know Zuana’s lips will remain closed. With plants and invalids as her closest companions, whom would she tell anyway?
“Her father insisted that she had been bred for the veil.” She clicks her tongue. It is a sound Zuana recognizes well; it comes when she is frustrated with herself. “He made a most convincing case for Ferrara as a better home for her than Milan. Certainly her voice will be better used here. It seems that Cardinal Borromeo is turning out to be more of a reformer than the pope himself. From what I hear, if he has his way all the nuns of Milan will be singing plainchant with barely a few organ notes for accompaniment.” She laughs. “Imagine how our city would react to that! Half of our benefactors would desert us immediately. Though I daresay you would find the settings easier to follow,” she adds, almost mischievously.
Zuana smiles. When it comes to the glory of music, her reputation for having cloth ears is well known, and over the years she has grown used to the teasing. “I still don’t understand. Was her father hiding the truth? Was she really expecting marriage and not the veil?”
“If she was, I have heard nothing about it.” The abbess gives a sharp sigh. While her information is extensive in church matters, Milan is a long way away when it comes to domestic gossip, and clearly she is worried that she might have missed something. “There is another daughter, younger. To marry them both he would need a fortune. Eight hundred is a fine dowry for a nun but it wouldn’t buy much on the Milan marriage market. What? You look surprised.”