Luca caught snippets of conversations. All the talk was about the young woman struck by the lightning bolt. He learned she was an orphan, abandoned shortly after birth, and left hanging in a basket in the olive tree in front of the abbey. The nuns had taken her in and raised her.
As the wine flowed, speculation increased. Some believed the lightning strike had been a random act of God upon a poor innocent. Others argued she was being punished for being a bastard or for some sin she might have committed. One glassy-eyed whore argued that Olivia was a witch who had learned to harness the powers of hell by summoning lightning.
Merda! He’d had enough! He rose and loomed before the wretched woman, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet. “One more word of such talk and I’ll see to it you never utter another word again.”
The old bitch paled, shut her mouth, and fled to another table, but the damage had been done. Luca watched incredulously as people touched the crucifixes that hung on chains around their necks, or stuck their thumbs between their index and middle fingers in the age-old sign of protection against evil. Against Olivia. Against innocence. Disgusted, he returned to his seat, downed his wine, and when the serving wench glided past, he tossed her a coin. People were cruel. How easy for them to believe ill of people they did not know and how hard to believe it of others they did know.
Olivia. He was still getting used to her name, still getting used to the unusual urge to protect her. As he left the fetid-smelling room, he wondered why he cared so much for a woman he barely knew.
50
The next day, the weather cleared and the races resumed; but distracted by all that had happened, Luca was in no mood to compete. He did his best to concentrate, and although he was successful in all races but one, his thoughts never strayed from Olivia. All he could envision was her beautiful profile in the precious seconds before the lightning bolt swallowed her up and hurled her like a ragdoll into the air.
When Luca completed his final race, he tossed his mount’s reins to his groom and rushed to his tent. Although fatigued, he shed his clothes to wash away the dirt, sweat, and smell of horse from his body. After drying off, he dressed in a fresh linen shirt, new breeches, and his favorite over-tunic the color of the sky at night. Refreshed, he made his way to the abbey, eager to check on Olivia’s welfare, hoping her condition had improved. He knocked at the wooden gates and waited. Long moments passed before the small aperture in the thick oak door slid open. The wrinkled face of an elderly nun peered out at him.
“Buon giorno, Suora, I have come for word on how the young woman struck by lightning fares.”
The old nun’s features drooped with sadness. She shook her head and crossed herself.
Before Luca could utter another word, she slammed the opening shut; the only sound was that of her shoes crunching on the gravel as she walked away.
“Please, Sister, I wish to know,” he called after her, but the nun entered the abbey and closed the door behind her. He slammed his palm against the iron gates and groaned.
He waited in the hot sun, pacing or sitting beneath the olive tree out front. Yet no one came out of the abbey and the windows and doors remained closed.
Only when darkness fell, did he reluctantly leave.
Undeterred, Luca returned the following day. The same nun slid back the tiny wooden portal. At his inquiry, she again shook her head, but this time, before she could slide the wooden panel shut, he blocked it with his hand.
She jumped back, her eyes wide.
“Please, Suora, may I see Olivia? I was the one who carried her here.”
“You are not permitted.”
“All I want is to learn of her state. Does she fare well?”
The woman’s eyes softened. “There is no change.”
Like a sword to his gut, her words pierced him. He removed his hand from the aperture. In an instant, the portal slid shut again. This time, however, with a little less force than before.
51
For five days and nights, Sister Vincenza sat in a chair by Olivia’s bedside. Her charge slept on, emitting only an occasional mutter or moan. Olivia had opened her eyes once, but she seemed confused, and after thirstily sipping the water spooned into her mouth, fell back into unconsciousness. It boded well to see her awaken, if only for a few moments, and Sister Vincenza remained hopeful, praying for her to resume awareness. Her heart constricted as she studied Olivia’s wounds. Reddish-brown, feathery skin lesions appeared on her face and arms. Sister Agata had assured her they were signs the body fought to heal itself, and with time, would disappear.
Sister Vincenza picked up the clay cup from a table by the bed. She dipped two fingers into the salve and gently applied it to Olivia’s face. Made of crushed alder bark, dried figs, henbane for pain, and the petals of tiger lilies, the salve seemed to be working.
Olivia’s eyes flicked open briefly, and shut again.
Sister Vincenza stopped and put the salve down.
Olivia’s eyes opened. She tried to speak but her hoarse voice made her words sound unintelligible.
“Hush, try not to say anything.” Sister Vincenza raised a cup of water to Olivia’s lips. “Drink slowly,” she urged, and took the cup away as soon as her patient sputtered. She set the cup down and took Olivia’s hand in hers. “Oh, child, you had us so worried, but grazie a Dio, He has seen fit to return you to us.”
Olivia’s hand shook and she snatched it away. She opened her mouth to speak but could only croak. She tried again, and again, but each attempt failed.
She attempted to sit up, but Sister Vincenza nudged her back down. “Olivia, cara, please, you must remain calm.”
Olivia’s body shuddered, but she kept trying to speak until finally, she rasped, “Where am I? Who are you?”
52
Day and night, thoughts of Olivia haunted Luca: the vision of her naked beauty in the moonlight, her graceful profile as she reached out to touch his buckler, the sight of her burned body in a heap on the grass, her vulnerability as he raced through the rain-drenched streets of Sant’Andrea Montecchio with her body in his arms. This woman whom he barely knew had, through no deliberate act of her own, infiltrated his mind, his heart and soul.
He was familiar with women. They found their way to him with little effort on his part. His success at racing and the fact he was not unpleasant to look at the chief reasons. Yet, for all the women he had met and bedded, none had intrigued him as much as Olivia did.
Each day, he knocked on the abbey gates to inquire about her health, only to be turned away with no information. No matter how much he pleaded, the porteress refused to utter a word about Olivia’s condition.
Then one day, his fortunes changed. When he inquired anew, the porteress smiled and swung the gate open. “The abbess wishes to speak with you. Please follow me.”
Luca led his gelding through the gate and tied him to a metal ring embedded in the wall. After unlacing a large leather pouch from his saddle, he slung it over his shoulder and followed the nun down the tree-lined gravel path to the front doors.
The moment he stepped inside, the entrance hall’s serenity enveloped him, calming his racing heart. At the opposite end of the space, a statue of the Virgin Mary, rows of flickering candles at her feet, reposed in a niche in the wall. Corridors led off in two directions on either side of the holy figure.
The nun turned right and proceeded into an open doorway. They entered a receiving room with a long table taking up most of the space. A tray laden with a quarter of cheese, bread, and several goblets rested beside a clay pitcher on a neatly embroidered cloth at its center. A tapestry of the birth of Jesus was the room’s only other adornment. The tidy room bespoke of the women’s orderliness.
Dressed in a habit of parched wheat, the abbess stood looking out of the only window. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned to face him. In the maturity of her features, he glimpsed the great beauty she had once been. Her face was expressionless as she gestured with a boney hand for him to s
it at the trestle. He chose the nearest chair and set the leather pouch on the floor beside him. The abbess took the chair opposite.
She clasped her hands, rested them on the table before her, and scrutinized him. Wisdom glimmered from her dark brown eyes. Her small smile faded slightly, lending an air of seriousness to her appearance. Youth’s splendor still lived in her oval shaped face, but now, in her middle years, prettiness had evolved into an air of elegance and grace.
Just as he was about to say something, the abbess glanced at the porteress. “Thank you, Suora. You may go. Please leave the door open when you leave.”
The porteress bowed her head and quietly stepped from the room.
Luca swallowed at the uncomfortable silence that followed.
The abbess cast him a small but gracious smile. “Can I offer you some refreshment? Wine perhaps?”
“Thank you, but no. I have recently eaten.” Luca’s nerves were in such tumult that eating or drinking was the last thing he wanted.
“I am Reverend Mother Maria. How should I address you?”
Luca felt the heat rise to his cheeks at the realization he should have introduced himself first. “I am Luca Ventura.”
“From where do you come from?”
“My family resides on the outskirts of Costalpino on a modest but successful farm. I have been traveling as a horse racer, competing everywhere from Genoa to Milano, and even as far as Roma.”
“I see.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am told that you are the young man who acted swiftly and carried our Olivia to safety.”
“Instinct and concern drove me, Reverend Mother. My only regret is that I was not there in time to prevent the mishap.”
Her face gentled. “It was an act of God, and something no one could have prevented.”
Luca nodded and paused. “How does she fare?”
“You have come to the abbey every day to ask about her.” The abbess leaned forward slightly. “Why are you so interested?”
Luca understood then that she was assessing him. The knowledge helped ease his nerves; he knew he must prove himself to her. This he could do, of that he was certain. “I feel responsible for what happened.”
“Responsible for a bolt of lightning? Such things are beyond anyone’s control.”
“What I meant is that the young woman was standing at the foot of the tree of bucklers. Her hand was on my buckler when lightning struck. The force threw her into the air and she landed thirty paces away from me. I can’t help thinking that if she hadn’t been interested in my buckler, she would never have come to harm.”
“I understand, but you may rest easy. She is doing remarkably well. Her burns were superficial and will heal. Constant headaches plague her, but they are becoming less frequent. Unfortunately, she has lost her memory. Sister Agata, our infirmarian, assures me that it may be possible for her to make a full recovery one day.”
“I am relieved to hear that.” Luca looked down at his hands. The worry that had consumed him the last few days lessened. He leaned back in his chair. “You cannot know how concerned I have been.”
“Commendable, considering you have never met her.” Her eyes were questioning.
Luca swallowed and kept his face expressionless. Did she know about their late night encounter? “May I speak with her?”
The abbess positioned both palms flat on the table. After a brief pause, she nodded. “Olivia remembers nothing of what happened. When we explained it to her, and told her of how you came to her aid, she asked to see you so that she could personally thank you.”
“It would reassure me to speak with her directly.” Luca breathed a sigh of relief, for if the abbess had known about his and Olivia’s first meeting, she would have performed miracles to keep them apart.
“Sister Vincenza has also asked to see you.” She gestured at the food. “Please help yourself to some refreshments while I fetch them. I will return shortly. Afterwards, we would like to thank you for your aid. We have prepared a meal in your honor.”
“You need not thank me, but your invitation pleases me. I would be happy to share a meal with you all.” Humbled, Luca stood while the abbess made her way to the door.
At the threshold, she glanced back at him. “Mention of the accident disquiets Olivia, as does any mention of the injuries to her face and arm. Please take care not to upset her.”
“Be at ease, Abbess. I am merely here to wish her well.”
The woman smiled, and then left him.
Had he spoken true? Was he here only to wish her well? Why did he feel this way towards Olivia and not Giustina, his betrothed? His passion for Olivia seemed to live in the beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood.
He paced the length of the room, ignoring the small repast offered, not wanting Olivia to find him seated when she entered. Why did it even matter? All he knew was that it did. He wanted to make a good impression. He wanted her to like him. The intensity of his emotions perplexed him. Ever-confidant, why was he now so nervous? It was wrong, for in a few months he would be a married man. Perhaps after he spoke with Olivia, and seen for himself that she was recovering, he could forget her.
Anxious, Luca glanced at the door. What was taking them so long? He looked out of the window at the courtyard. His horse stood quietly, one rear leg bent, a sign that his mount dozed in the warm sunlight.
The memory of the first time he met Olivia at the pond flashed through his mind. He regretted the mortifying encounter and wished he had met her in a more civilized circumstance. What must she think of him? Deep in such thoughts, he sensed her presence even before he could turn around.
She stood just inside the doorway with Sister Vincenza beside her. Her reddened face still looked a little scorched and blistered. A thick layer of ointment glistened on her cheeks. An awkward silence ensued. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. He saw that she clutched either side of her simple over-tunic of homespun wool.
“I am Luca Ventura of Costalpino.” He took a few steps towards her.
Olivia swallowed. She gave him a slight smile. “My name is Olivia, Signore.” She advanced into the room. Her lashes swept down, shielding her expression. Her single braid fell over her right shoulder and breast. Behind her, the sun sent yellow and gold beams through an open window. For an instant, it was almost as if a halo surrounded her head, and to Luca, it made her appear like a dark-haired angel.
Her skin still looked sore, though the burns were superficial. He noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was mysterious, according to those of Sant’Andrea Montecchio who had spoken to him about her – kind, yet naïve. For her entire life, she had been sequestered behind the walls of this abbey.
Remembering his manners, he bowed to Sister Vincenza. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again, Sister.” Then he faced Olivia. “It pleases me to see you well and walking.”
She bit her bottom lip and gave him the tiniest of smiles, all that she could manage, perhaps because of her burns. “I know I am lucky to be alive.”
“God’s hand and your quick actions saved Olivia,” Sister Vincenza said. “We are eternally grateful to you.”
“You are too kind, Sister. If there was more I could have done, I would have done so.” Luca reached down for his leather pouch and faced Olivia. “The lightning burned your mantle, so I brought you a gift.” He untied the flap, reached inside, and pulled out a carefully folded mantle, which he held out to her.
Olivia hesitated briefly before taking the light brown garment into her reddened hands. He watched, nearly breathless, as she ran her hand over the gold brooch pinned to it. It was a Roman blue agate and onyx cameo set in a triple border of gold filigree, and he had paid a shrewd merchant an outrageous price for it. The profile of the woman carved into the stone looked so much like her that he had felt compelled to buy it.
Sister Vincenza opened her mouth to speak. However, before she could protest, Luca withdrew a small square of stained glass set in an ornate wooden frame with the image of the V
irgin Mary and child at its center. “And this is for your chapel,” he said as he passed it to her. “It was crafted by skilled Venetian craftsmen.”
The nun studied the rare gift with a smile. “You are most generous, Signore, but we must seek the abbess’s approval before we can accept either gift.”
“I understand,” Luca said politely. One look at Olivia and he knew that his gifts had pleased her. Her smile caught at his heart as he watched her run her fingers over the cameo, seemingly enthralled by it. She looked into his eyes. “Thank you. It is truly beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as the signorina who will wear it.”
She blushed and glanced away.
“Come,” said Sister Vincenza. “A meal has been prepared for you in the guest hall. The abbess and the other sisters await us there.”
Sister Vincenza let Olivia lead the way. Luca followed the two women out of the receiving room to the guest hall at the opposite end of a long corridor.
All talk ceased when he entered the room. He felt as awkward as a stag in a room of gazelles. The abbess stepped forward to greet him. She took her position at the head of one of two narrow tables, and invited him to sit at her right. Olivia and Sister Vincenza sat to her left. At a glance, he judged there to be about twenty or so nuns seated in the room.
“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” the abbess said.
It took every shred of will for Luca to avert his eyes from Olivia.
“Thank you, Lord, for this food which is set before us. May we use it to nourish our bodies, and through Thee nourish our souls.” After making the sign of the cross, the abbess invited everyone to begin eating.
The first course consisted of a torte of sausage, spinach, cheese, and onions. It was served with mushrooms stuffed with salt pork and breadcrumbs, turnips with cheese and spices, and cabbage with fennel and apple. The meal ended with a tart filled with almonds, raisins, dates, and hazelnuts. The food was exquisite.
Orphan of the Olive Tree - Historical Romance Saga Page 18
