Orphan of the Olive Tree - Historical Romance Saga

by Patzer, Mirella Sichirollo

  Unable to sleep, Cosma remained aware of Vincenza lying near her the entire night, but in the morning, when the sun had fully risen, a maidservant came to help Vincenza dress for the funeral of her father and son.

  Vincenza walked from the room as stiff as a statue, without speaking a word or turning to glance back at her. The door closed behind her and Cosma was utterly alone.

  Time passed slowly. A fly buzzed about her face and finally came to rest on her forehead. It roamed freely over her cheek, over her nose, and then toward her left eye. Her body hopelessly paralyzed, she could not swat away the annoying insect. This minuscule torment caused all the emotions she had kept at bay to erupt. Grief, frustration, anger, regret, fear, all melded together in a deadly mix that spewed forth in a flood of tears so intense, she could barely draw a breath. The flow ran down to her ears, and soaked the uncomfortable pillow her head rested on. She wept until she could weep no more. When she stopped, the sun had risen high in the sky, signifying morning was fast becoming afternoon.

  The double click of the door latch sounded. Her eyes darted to the door. Cosma fully expected the maidservant, for it was midday and time for her broth. What she saw caused her blood to freeze.

  Prudenza loomed in the doorway, still as a statue. Fists poised at her hips, her eyes glowing with iciness.

  Cosma caught her breath. This was Prudenza’s first foray into this woeful chamber. She had counted that as a blessing, but now the woman appeared before her, larger than life. Cosma swallowed in readiness for the confrontation bound to ensue.

  “Look at you, old woman,” Prudenza taunted as she stepped farther into the room and sat calmly on the edge of Cosma’s pallet. “You are too feeble to dry your own tears or wipe your own arse.”

  Cosma opened her mouth to speak, but only a hoarse ululation came out.

  “Save your breath.” Prudenza adjusted the bedcovers around Cosma and smiled. “Nothing could please me more than seeing you silenced forever.” Prudenza leaned forward, bringing her face so close that Cosma felt her breath upon her cheek. “My servants tell me you cannot speak. That is my good fortune. However, such a blessing comes too late. You have already told someone about my first-born daughter, haven’t you?”

  Cosma moved her eyes from side to side in denial.

  “Don’t lie to me, strega. Why else would that beggar woman in front of the church on the day of Giustina’s baptism have uttered such a horrible curse?” Her words slithered from her mouth like a snake uncoiling.

  Again, Cosma moved her eyes to deny this new accusation. However, inside her immobile body, her heart fluttered with satisfaction at such coincidental justice. She willed her arms to protect her face from the blow that would soon come, but her limbs could not obey any more than she could will her earlobes to move.

  “What did you do with my baby?” Prudenza’s eyes darkened. “At first, I thought the baby the horse killed was mine, but after it had been laid out and washed, I saw it was a boy. My eldest daughter lives, doesn’t she?” She narrowed her eyes and pressed her face even closer. “What did you do with her? Where is she? Did you do as I asked?”

  Cosma met Prudenza’s sharp stare and saw fear flaming deep within her eyes. Fear of what? Fear for her child? More likely fear of someone discovering she had birthed twins and given one away. Fear that she would be socially ostracized if the truth came out. That must be it. Prudenza was truly the devil’s consort, possessed by Satan, eager to do his bidding. The small seed of hatred in her belly she had harbored for Prudenza fully blossomed throughout her frail body. Cosma grinned on the right side of her face. With Prudenza’s face still close to hers, Cosma brought up phlegm and spat. Although feeble, and without the ability to aim, the spray struck with amazing accuracy.

  Prudenza’s eyes widened, and she grimaced with disgust. She swiped away the spittle with the corner of Cosma’s blanket. Her face reddened and her eyes bulged. She raised her hand to strike Cosma.

  Again, Cosma puckered her face to achieve an insolent, if uneven grin.

  This incensed Prudenza even more. She grabbed the pillow from the other cot and raised it above Cosma’s head. Her eyes radiated malice as she lowered it.

  “What are you doing?” Vincenza screamed as she burst into the room, her face still red from crying after the burials.

  Prudenza spun around to face the door. She dropped the pillow onto Cosma’s stomach and rose to her feet. “I came to check on her and was merely going to arrange another pillow beneath her head. It will soon be time for her broth.”

  Cosma heaved a sigh and her heart stopped its panicked racing. Although she welcomed death, she did not wish to die at the hands of this vile woman.

  Cosma saw Vincenza hesitate, her brow furrowed, her eyes tapered. “I buried my father and my son today. Cosma is all that I have left in this world. It would please me to unburden you of any responsibility for her care. I will tend to her alone.” Vincenza spoke with such firm authority it sounded almost like a threat.

  Prudenza hesitated as she studied Vincenza with cold, assessing eyes. Then she gave a slight nod, and with a swish of her garments, swept from the room.

  Vincenza knelt at her side. “You are safe now.” She laid her hand on Cosma’s forehead and then ran her fingers lovingly over the thin grey wisps of her hair.

  Cosma studied the woman she loved like a daughter. Her eyes were sunken and listless, her skin sallow. For the first time, Cosma noticed streaks of grey in her hair which were not there before. Her heart constricted. Soon, Vincenza would be completely alone in the world.

  “It is not safe here. We must leave as soon as possible,” Vincenza said. “You must get well, so we can go home.”

  Cosma closed her eyes and kept them so for a little longer to signify the unlikelihood.

  “I heard everything,” Vincenza whispered. “The child my father found in the olive tree was hers, wasn’t it?”

  Cosma paused, uncertain whether to break her promise and reveal Prudenza’s secret. Then she blinked in acknowledgement.

  “Now I understand why you kept the child’s parentage a secret. I shall make certain that Prudenza never learns where her daughter is. As long as I live, I will protect the child from her baleful mother. You have my word.”

  Cosma’s guilt dissipated like vapor in the warm sun. She had done the right thing in revealing the truth to Vincenza and breaking her oath to Prudenza.

  “And I will protect you too,” Vincenza said as she took Cosma’s hand.

  “Irr lud oo,” Cosma slurred.

  “I love you, too. You have been like a mother to me.” Gently, Vincenza moved Cosma over slightly, and then lay curled beside her on the pallet.

  There, Vincenza succumbed to the day’s grief. Her anguish poured forth in a torrent of emotion.

  Cosma could neither speak words of condolence nor enfold Vincenza in her arms, but their physical closeness served as a balm to Cosma’s soul. With every beat of her faltering heart, her mind tried to relay these things to Vincenza.

  Cosma lay awake until the sun faded from the sky and Vincenza’s weeping vanished into the sanctity of sleep. Tranquility overcame her. Soon, sleep would come. Only this time, when she slept, she knew she would not wake to see the morning.

  35

  Grief tore at Vincenza’s heart as she trudged behind the horse-drawn wagon that carried Cosma’s coffin. To lose her entire family was too much for any woman to bear. She would never be the same person, never experience the same degree of happiness as before the tragedies. Now she must suffer Cosma’s loss too – Cosma, whom she had come to love as a mother, Cosma, who would have helped her learn the healing arts and given her a means to support herself and her son, Cosma, a kind, vulnerable old woman who had never harmed anyone.

  She looked at Felicia, who walked at her side, arm linked through hers in support. Carlo and Enrico also accompanied her. Only Prudenza had not come. It did not surprise Vincenza in the least that Prudenza cited a headache to excuse her abs
ence. Although she could not prove it, she believed Prudenza had intended to smother Cosma with that pillow. She had grown to hate that contemptible woman with every drop of blood in her body. Best to stay far away from that shrew!

  A silent crowd of sombre-faced villagers and peasants fell into line behind them, many of the women weeping openly. The large numbers were a strong testament to Cosma’s long years of devotion to healing and birthing.

  Tears welled at the joy of her former life. She once had a happy home, a husband who loved her, a beautiful child at her breast, a gentle, spirited father. Now, nothing remained except her irrevocably shattered spirit in the empty shell of her body. She walked numbly, as if in a trance, her eyes unwavering from Cosma’s wooden coffin ahead.

  Vincenza’s painful breasts, engorged with the milk that had sustained her son, throbbed and leaked with every step. Although she had padded and bound herself tightly with cloths, it did little to alleviate the discomfort. Already, beneath the sun’s heat, she could smell the sourness in the damp binding. A desire to die, so that she might reunite with those she loved in the afterlife, came to life within her.

  Yet God, for whatever reason, had spared her life. Why? For what purpose? Vincenza believed it had something to do with the child abandoned in the olive tree. The one Cosma had risked her life to protect, the child Prudenza had so coldly discarded. Vincenza believed God wanted her to dedicate what remained of her life to that child. Her milk would help the baby to survive. One day, the woman would come to pay dearly for all the hurt and destruction she had caused. Of that, she was certain.

  The funeral procession arrived at the church. Not until they lowered Cosma’s coffin into the dark earth of the graveyard behind the church, and all the mourners dispersed, did she allow herself to weep. The first tears came as the gravedigger began to fill the hole. When he completed his dreadful task and walked away, shovel flung over his shoulder, Vincenza stood at Cosma’s grave. She had wept all her tears. All emotion had drained away, leaving behind only an all-encompassing numbness.

  Vincenza knelt beside the grave and rested both hands on the sun-warmed dirt. “Do not worry, dear friend. Your death shall not be in vain. I shall keep the secret of the child and watch over her for you. This I vow to you.”

  Deep in thought and prayer, Vincenza did not know how long she knelt on the soft dirt, but the sun had begun to set when she finally rose. She dusted off her tunic and straightened, wincing at the painfulness of her engorged breasts. Her head held high, she walked slowly toward the abbey.

  At the iron gates, Vincenza pulled the rope, which tolled a little bell. After a brief wait, a nun passed through the large wooden door of the abbey and crossed the courtyard to where she waited. The sister’s wrinkled face peered out at Vincenza through the narrow wrought-iron bars.

  “Please, Sister, I wish to become a bride of God,” Vincenza said.

  The nun continued to scrutinize her. Then her eyes observed the wet stains at her breasts.

  Self-consciously, Vincenza stared down at her dirt-stained garments and hands.

  The sister’s face gentled and she lifted the inside latch. The gates swung open with a loud creak that shattered the silence of the peaceful evening’s sunset. Before Vincenza crossed the threshold into the abbey, she turned to look behind her for one final look at the outside world, one last glance at the village where she once laughed and flourished with her loving family.

  The sun’s dying rays were brilliant against the darkening sky. Her gaze took in the town with its many buildings and snug homes, the verdant valleys and rich orchards beyond. The sight seemed more beautiful than ever before. Yet despite the splendor before her, her soul was empty and she knew the outside world no longer held any promise of future happiness.

  “Signora?” the nun asked.

  Vincenza took one last look, seared the vision into her mind, and then followed the sister into the abbey. The door clicked shut behind them. Total silence enveloped her. The moment Vincenza stepped inside she experienced an intense peace that flowed into her with every pulse of her heart.

  The sister gestured to two chairs on either side of a long narrow trestle table set against the stone wall. “Please wait here while I fetch the abbess.”

  Vincenza nodded, sat, clasped her hands on her lap, and studied the austere hall. A small altar with a statue of the Virgin Mary on it faced the entrance doors. Two large tapestries hung on opposite walls from each other. One depicted the Virgin Mary seated with baby Jesus on her lap. The other was also of the Virgin Mary with her son, but as a grown man, dead, his bloodied head resting on his mother’s lap. She stared at the image, unable to look away. Vincenza knew how it felt to hold a dead child. Only a mother could understand the desolation in the Virgin’s eyes; the same desolation that rotted away inside her own spirit. Nevertheless, an opportunity to be a mother still survived. Prudenza’s baby needed her; they needed each other.

  Before long, someone tapped her gently on her shoulder. Vincenza glanced up. Lost in her own thoughts, she had not heard the abbess approach. She rose to her feet.

  The abbess took in her appearance from head to toe, and like the sister who had opened the gate, regarded the wetness drenching her gown across her breasts.

  “Please, Reverend Mother, I wish to take the veil. I am a widow. My father and baby died only a few days ago. I am alone in the world.” Vincenza paused to swallow the lump of grief in her throat. “Salvo was my father.”

  The abbess’ face immediately softened. “Your father was a good man. All of us mourn his death.”

  “I wish to dedicate what remains of my life to God. My home and all its belongings can be sold for my dowry.”

  The abbess touched her shoulder with a consoling hand. “Fear not, for you are welcome here.”

  Vincenza breathed out a relieved sigh.

  Again, the abbess’ eyes came to rest on the milk stains at the front of her clothes.

  Vincenza’s eyes welled with tears. “Please...the baby my father found and brought to you, permit me to feed her.”

  The abbess nodded. “Come with me.” Her tone carried a measure of respite.

  Vincenza followed her down the corridor and around the corner to a stairway that led to an upper level. At the top, a long hallway lined with numerous doors on either side stretched before them. At the far end, Vincenza heard the baby cry. Milk immediately engorged and leaked from her aching breasts, wetting her garment anew. The farther down the hallway they walked, the louder the cries. The abbess stopped at the last door and pushed it gently open.

  A small brazier in the corner of the tiny chamber cast the only light. In a chair beneath the sole window, a nun sat with the wailing baby cradled in her lap. She looked up in surprise at their unannounced entrance, and then immediately returned her attention to the screaming infant. On the small table beside her was a small clay vessel filled with milk. She dipped a cloth into the milk and placed it in the infant’s mouth. The infant immediately closed her lips around it, but after the first suck or two, the milk was gone and the child wailed again. Shaking her head, the nun looked up at Vincenza and the abbess with absolute helplessness. “She is hungry and wants to suckle, but it is always so difficult. Only a few drops at a time with constant interruptions to re-dip the cloth, causes the infant frustration.”

  Weeks had passed since Vincenza had last seen the child. This method of feeding was so laborious and time-consuming, it was a miracle the baby had thrived. Vincenza approached the sister and reached out with both hands. “May I have the baby?”

  The sister glanced quickly at the abbess, who nodded. The nun rose from the chair and carefully arranged the baby in Vincenza’s arms. Intense love, mixed with grief, filled her soul at the familiarity of a babe in her arms. She would never hold her son again, and although this baby could never fill that void, there was room enough in her heart to love another child. Lovingly, Vincenza cooed to the wailing infant as she took the seat. She glanced around the small chamber
until she spied a pitcher and ewer. “Some water please, so that I may clean myself first.”

  The nun wet a cloth and brought it to her. By this time, Vincenza had opened the front of her tunic and kirtle. Her breasts felt as if they would explode. Milk dripped from her nipples. The baby’s cries increased and her head bobbed back and forth in search of a nipple to latch on.

  Vincenza wiped her breasts clean, and then dropped the cloth. With practice born from many feedings, she took hold of a bulging breast and urged the nipple near the baby’s mouth. Immediately, the baby seized hold and sucked. Blessed silence ensued, interrupted only by the odd smack of the infant’s lips as it fed.

  The physical relief to her aching breasts was so immediate and so exquisite it defied explanation. Vincenza leaned back and heaved a tremendous sigh. After a few moments, she changed the baby to the other breast to alleviate the ache in it. Lovingly, she caressed the baby’s head and began to hum a lullaby.

  The horrors and sorrow of the past few days evaporated. At this moment, it was as if there was no one else in the world but her and the child. She did not hear the abbess and sister quietly slip from the room and close the door behind them.

  36

  AD 1279

  Summer’s first storm hammered the closed shutters of the abbess’s private chamber. In one corner, a brazier produced warmth and light. The abbess sat on a chair between the neatly made bed and window with a blanket across her lap. Olivia sat across from her, a smile on her lips.

  Too moved for words, the abbess stared down at the open prayer book Olivia had just presented to her. Encased in fine leather, the prayer book’s vellum pages gleamed with illuminations scripted in inks of gold and burgundy.

  Olivia raised her voice above the howling wind and rain. “In honor of your sixtieth year, Reverend Mother. It contains the words of all your favorite hymns and prayers.”