by Gian Bordin
Did not one of Lorenzo’s skits have the lover escape dressed up as a woman when the husband arrived unexpectedly? Could she change clothing with somebody else? The only person coming regularly to her room was that woman attendant, and she was short and rather plump, nor did Chiara want to get her in trouble. It would work better if the exchange were with a man, provided … yes, provided many things: same size, similar girth, same hair color or the hair completely hidden under a deep hat or hood, no beard. A long cape or overcoat would also help. The only type of man that would match most of these features was a priest or a monk, and some of them even she might be able to overpower.
She reached to her left boot and checked that the small knife Antonia had given her was still in place. It had been a complete surprise. Having lost her knife on the Santa Caterina — she wondered who had it now — she always needed to borrow somebody else’s, and then, one day after massaging Antonia’s shoulder as she regularly did every evening, the old woman rummaged through her chest and pulled out a pair of almost new boots.
"Here," she said, "somebody might as well get the use of these. Try them on for size."
They fitted almost perfectly. All they needed was bees’ wax to make the leather supple again. Then she handed Chiara that small knife.
"And you better take this too, so you don’t always have to beg for one."
The blade was as sharp as could be. On the handle the letter S was carved in deeply.
"It was my daughter’s, Serena. Yes, it’s the best steel you can find," she added proudly. "Make sure you don’t lose this one. There’s a sleeve on the inside of the left boot for it. It can be handy to have a knife hidden away."
She had been touched by this unexpected generosity and had kissed the old woman on both wrinkled cheeks.
The knife was still firmly in place. She left it there. It was better to pretend not having one. They might otherwise take it away. Receiving the visit of a priest would be a request the Podestà could hardly refuse.
That night for the first time in two weeks, in the state between waking and sleep, the image of the blonde sailor floated in her mind, and she wondered whether he too was in Pisa. Had he forgotten her? She wished he had not.
* * *
Luck was definitely on her side. The priest who visited her in the afternoon of the following day was young, slim, about the same height as she and without any facial hair. He was probably too young to grow a decent beard yet. The only difference was that the bit of hair that showed was a darker brown than hers with no reddish hue.
She felt it would be prudent to reach her goal in small steps over two or more visits. She imagined herself as the fourteen-year-old, innocent girl back on Elba and slipped into that role. She even stuck almost to the truth. She confessed her plight to him, of having lost her brother and the only male heir of the family, of a father forced by greedy relatives to give her in marriage to a man she loathed, her wish to devote her life to the service of Christ rather than submit to that marriage, and then her eternal shame of having been raped by her future father-in-law and her escape. And after all these trials being now accused of having injured his only good eye. A few tears reinforced her sad tale. Twice she caught herself hearing Maria’s or Alda’s voice and imitating their gestures and realized that she was adapting the script of one of Lorenzo’s plays.
The effect on the young priest almost frightened her. As she spoke, sometimes haltingly, sometimes in fast bursts, he took her hand and began to stroke it. When she shyly wanted to skip over parts of her tale as too shameful to tell, he urged her not to hide anything from him. At the end, he swore that he would talk to the bishop and plead for his intervention as soon as he would have an opportunity to visit him in his summer retreat.
She begged him not to make her plight his cause, that she needed to gain strength to see it through on her own. This only increased his fervor. He promised to bring her a bible, so that she could gain spiritual strength and, God willing, divine consolation.
The second time she received him, she remained lying on her bed, pretending to be sick of distress over the injustice of her plight. He kneeled next to her bed and led her in prayer, where he implored God to give her courage through his divine love and grant himself strength to present her case to the bishop. After the prayer, she moved a bit to the far side of the bed, and, as she had hoped, he sat at the edge, taking her hand again. She sat up, looking deeply into his eyes, and suddenly his arms were around her in a tight embrace. His lips searched hers. It felt strange, but not unpleasant, and she resisted the instinctive response of drawing back and let him kiss her.
"Oh Chiara, my angel. This is surely God’s hand that has brought us together. Our love is so pure that there can be no sin between us."
He fumbled with her tunic, trying to lift it. She immediately saw her chance. Once they were both undressed, it should be easy to subdue him with the threat of her knife. She did not even feel embarrassed being naked in front of him. Off came the cross hanging around his neck, and she helped his frantic effort to shed his cassock and removed his mutande, a sort of drawers, little more than a loin cloth. His skin was a sickly, pallid white, in contrast to her own pale olive complexion she had inherited from the Moorish side of her mother. In spite of his ardor, his penis was flaccid. When he wanted to draw her down with him onto the mattress, she reached for the knife in her boot and held it to his throat.
"Not a sound," she hissed, "or I will push it in."
His eyes almost popped from their sockets and his hands fell limply to his side.
"No harm will come to you if you do what I say, otherwise …," she left the sentence hanging. She doubted that she would in fact be able to hurt the poor fool. "Now, turn on your stomach and hold your hands behind your back."
He trembled, his eyes riveted on her knife.
"Do it! Now!" Although she murmured, her tone was sharp.
With a whimper he lay on his stomach, and she used part of the new cord of her tunic to tie his hands on his back. She did the same to his ankles. Next she made a ball with one part of her hose and ordered him to open his mouth. When he did, she stuffed it in firmly and bound the other part of the hose over his mouth. Then she retied the silk breast band over her bosom, put on her breeches and tunic, and finally donned the cassock over it all. Its skirt almost touched the floor. She pulled the hood firmly over her head, hiding most of her face. A quick glance at her reflection in the window pane confirmed that in the dim light of the corridor she should pass a casual inspection of the guard. She hid the small knife again inside her boot and, taking the bible, went to the door. She was just about to knock when she cast another glance back at the naked priest. That would not do. If the guard looked into the room when he opened the door, he might see him. She returned to the priest and, moved by his frightened eyes, stroked his locks and whispered: "I’m sorry to have to do this to you, you poor lad. And quiet now!" Then she covered him totally with the woollen blanket.
She was ready. She adjusted the hood once more, held the bible in her right hand in front of her chest and knocked. When the door opened, she was fingering the crucifix with her left, murmured: "Grazie," and passed by the guard with her head lowered. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed that he briefly looked into the room and then locked it again. Walking down the corridor, she made an effort to take big steps, imitating the gate of a man. At the far end of the corridor, she almost bumped into the woman attendant who came around the corner and greeted her with "Buona serata, Padre." Chiara’s pulse took a leap. It took all her presence of mind to mutter "God be with you", forcing the pitch of her alto voice as low as she could while turning her head to the wall. She had forgotten about that woman. It meant that her escape would be discovered shortly. She had to get out of the building quickly and hide, but where? A church! Nothing would be more natural for a priest than to enter a church. She began to walk faster. There was only one other hurdle — the guards at the entrance of the Palazzo Comunale.
/> Luck was with her again. Both guards were talking to an officer. When she went past, they briefly looked at her and then continued their conversation. Where is the nearest church? she wondered, while walking briskly toward the next side street. Any time now the alarm would be raised. With close to one hundred churches in Pisa, one was bound to be nearby, she tried to reassure herself. Turning the corner, she saw two churches a few steps farther down. She entered the larger one by a side entrance. There were four side chapels where she could hide, pretending to pray. A priest, bent low by age, was just emerging from a confessional. The ideal hiding place! Lingering in the obscurity of a pillar, she waited for him to disappear and then entered the curtained confessional.
The small enclosed space felt claustrophobic, nor could she wait too long before making her way out of the city with the gates closing at sundown. She pondered whether it would be safest to keep up the disguise until she was outside — there were always hundreds of robed priests around — or if she should discard the robe. She was just about to leave the confessional, when the faint, but insistent, high-pitched ringing of a bell reached her. The alarm for her escape? She settled back on the hard bench. A girl’s voice startled her.
"Padre, I have sinned."
For in instant, panic gained the upper hand before she caught hold of herself and murmured the phrase her old confessor had said to her so many times: "My child, confess and repent and the good Lord will absolve you."
"Padre, I’ve met Giovanni in secret and I let him kiss me."
As the girl spoke, shouts and the noise of boots on the cobblestones outside the church distracted her. The front door opened, creaking loudly, and she could distinguish individual voices. Summoning up all her wits, she responded to the girl.
"Child, do you love him?"
Quick footsteps resounded down the main aisle.
"Yes, Padre."
"Then you have done no harm. But be strong and remain pure until you are wedded."
The footsteps came to a halt.
"No penance is needed," she added after a pause.
"Thank you, Padre. May I go now?" The girl’s voice sounded joyful.
"Yes, my child. God bless you."
The footsteps resounded once more, the door creaked again, and then silence. She started breathing deeply and slowly and let her pulse calm down, silently thanking the unknown girl.
She remained sitting another while before she mustered the courage to abandon her hiding place. In contrast to earlier, the street was busy with folks of all ages and walks of life. She almost retreated again into the church when it occurred to her that the more people around the less she would be noticed. Holding her bible to her chest, she joined the crowd. The sun was close to setting, and she welcomed the anonymity bestowed by the dim light filtering down from the thin strip of sky between the tall buildings. Sticking to narrow alleys, she went past Monte di Pietà and reached the main street leading to the Porta a Lucca, the northern city exit. She hastened her step as the gate came into view.
Guards were pushing the huge doors closed while she was still more than three hundred feet away. She was not going to make it and started running, almost dislocating her hood. Out of breath, she reached the gate just as the guard wanted to give the door a last push.
She called out: "Messer officer, I have to get outside to administer the last rites to a dying man." For once her quick wit did not let her down.
"Padre, you came just in the nick of time. I’ll open it enough for you to get through, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to come back in again," the guard replied, chuckling, and added: "You’re mighty young for such an onerous duty."
"Grazie," she said, bending forward to hide her face, as she slipped through the narrow gap.
7
On the road to Lucca, early July 1347
Looking back, I still marvel at how simple it was to deceive people — the young priest, the woman attendant, the multitudes in the street, and particularly the guards who are supposed to protect us against the likes of me or worse. Was I not a thief? Didn’t I steal a precious book from my father? And now I was carrying away a valuable crucifix, a bible, and a cassock, all belonging to a naive, young priest. I am convinced that I ruined his opinion of women for the rest of his life. If I, an unsophisticated girl from Elba, could fool them, how much more easy it must be for the real crooks and scoundrels? Oh, at that moment, as I hurried away from the city that almost delivered me a fourth time into the clutches of Sanguanero, I was glad that it was that way. What disturbed me, and still does, is that I did not feel any guilt, just an immense gratitude that I had not relinquished control over my life, and a smug sense of victory. Maybe I was born wicked. Had it not started with playing tricks on my brother, leading to disobedience of my father’s wishes and escalating into defying the authority of those who govern us?
I also wondered whether the Podestà had already dispatched the letter summoning my father to Pisa and hoped he had not. What would he think now of his "precious" daughter? He must despair over my behavior and blame himself for having failed in raising me to an obedient young woman who knew her proper place. My throat constricted and tears welled in my eyes. How I despaired that each day the gulf between us was widening because of my actions! Deep down I still longed to be his daughter, but I feared that I would be too ashamed to face him again.
Thinking of his little book reminded me of Niccolo Sanguanero’s reference to a ‘treasure’. What was this all about? It made no sense, and I was as puzzled as before.
But whenever I thought of that young girl whose confession I had heard, I could not help smiling. How fortunate that I had been her confessor rather than some old and embittered priest who would have chided her severely for an innocent act. I wished her good luck. Nor did it bother me in the least that I had usurped that sacred role. There definitely was a streak of wickedness blackening my soul, and I was making no effort to atone for it. For almost a full moon now I had not prayed a single time nor gone to confession.
These were some of the things that went through my mind as I walked into the gathering dark, hoping to find the players in San Giuliano, a leisurely half-day walk north of Pisa. Would they still welcome me after this? I fervently hoped so. They had become my life. Although I had always thought that my previous life on Elba had been free of compulsion, real freedom was life with the players.
After a brisk walk of two hours I reached San Giuliano, still wearing the priest’s black cassock which I figured hid me well in the darkness. I pulled its hood again firmly over my head and searched the houses for an inn. One of the last buildings along the street north had a small sign with the inscription ‘Taverna S. Giuliano’. I saw no lights. Like in the rest of the village, everything was dark. I had to knock twice before a middle-aged man in a night cap and holding a thick stick opened the door. My inquiry about Lorenzo’s troupe brought disappointment. They had already left early the day before, and he thought that they had gone north to Ponte al Serchio or even further to Vecchiano, on the other side of the river. Seeing my attire, he offered me a place for the night, warning that it was not safe to be out alone at night, but I declined and instead asked for direction to Lucca, figuring that the players might already be back on that road. I knew that Lorenzo planned to perform two or three weeks in that famous city, and I was eager to catch up with them before they reached it. I wanted to be part of their first performance. Besides the night was balmy and pleasant and I preferred the fresh air to the stale odor of the inn and the likely prospect of being bitten by fleas.
The road skirted along the foothills of Monti Pisani, the obstacle placed there by God himself, as the Pisans claim, so they would be spared the unpleasant sight of Lucca. It was past midnight when the Pisan fortress of Ripafrappa loomed dark on the banks of the Serchio which here had carved out a wide gorge. Again, all was dark and I continued.
I began to wonder whether I had been wrong. They might have spent more than a day at Ponte al S
erchio and I could then be ahead of them. I pondered if I should go back when I spied a glow through the trees. Could that be their camp? Alda had said that they occasionally slept in the open when caught between towns, particularly in summer when it was warm. But why would they still have a fire going that late at night?
I cannot tell you why I suddenly felt that something was wrong and, rather than follow the road, entered the cover of the forest and approached the fire soundlessly on the soft ground. As I got closer, I spotted the donkey cart, but its contents were strewn all over the small clearing. Two men I did not recognize were searching through it, occasionally picking something up. Another two, sword blades gleaming in the fire, stood over the players who cowered on the ground in a tight group.
Thinking now about it with hindsight, what I did next was outright foolhardy and dangerous, so foolhardy in fact that I will not recount it here since it may only entice you to imitate it should fate, God forbid, ever put you into a similar situation. Although at that time I did not yet believe that I am favored by luck, luck or the factor of surprise were on my side. Maybe the bandits believed that the black-hooded figure that burst into their midst was Satan himself. Two ended up with arrows stuck in their buttocks, ane was dead, and the other two fled in terror.
After that incident, there was no question that I had become a full member of the troupe. Carlo never treated me flippantly anymore, while Giovanni redoubled his efforts to entice me under his covers. And ’Il Spettacolo Magnifico’? It went from success to success, everywhere, Lucca, Pistoia, Prato, and I dare say, without boasting of undeserved pride, that I played no small hand in it.
* * *
Chiara saw Lorenzo looking toward her. For a moment, she was afraid he might have spied her and could give her away inadvertently. Maria sat next to him, sobbing silently. Anna was holding on to Pietro, hiding her face on his chest. One man lay sprawled on the ground. Antonia bent over him. Giovanni held a hand to his shoulder, as if hurt there. Pepe was facing away from her. She could not see Alda which worried her. Close to her left, on the very edge of the small clearing, a lad of fourteen or fifteen stood guard over five horses, while he observed the two rummaging through the props and clothing. Each horse had a longbow and quiver attached to the saddle.
