by Scott O'Dell
"I am Abbess Sibilia," she said and added a few names of her own to let him know that she, too, came from noble stock. "May I ask what you so ardently desire that you beat upon the gate and raise your voice like a varlet?"
"I come for Clare di Scifi," he said, "who is now behind your walls."
"For what reason?"
"Because she's a runaway. And I, her brother, am here to take her home. She left her family to follow a ragged group of misfits, led by the wastrel Bernardone. You have heard of him?"
"I have," the abbess said, "and favorably."
To my relief, in answer to my prayers, she then slid the bolt and opened the gate, and Manaldo swaggered in, followed soon by the other Scifis, dozens of them, dressed in fur-trimmed velvet. A baby in its nurse's arms clutched a rattle encrusted with pearls.
It took Manaldo some time to quiet the Scifis, to caution them to obey the rules of the monastery, to curb their tongues, to display none of the fury they so rightfully felt. When at last he herded them to the chapel, they stood silent and tight-lipped but with blazing eyes.
The abbess produced Clare, leading her down the aisle like a shepherd leading a lamb. The family stirred. Someone coughed. The baby began to cry.
As Clare and Mother Sibilia reached the altar and the candlelight fell full upon them, as the family saw for the first time the girl they adored fully revealed in gray robe and sandals, a loud gasp—everyone must have gasped at once—seemed to suck up all the air.
Clare knelt and prayed and everyone was quiet. But when she rose and took off the white cloth that bound her head, when it was revealed that her golden hair had been shorn to a stubble, a prolonged cry rose from every throat.
The family descended upon her, all talking at the same time. Ortolana spoke of the great love she felt for her daughter, of the grief and dishonor she had suffered because of Clare's madness. The two sisters reminded her of all the favors, the happy hours, the bountiful life she was renouncing. Everyone had words to say. But she responded to no one, to none of the questions and pleas.
An uneasy silence came over the family. The silence deepened. Someone called upon God in a frightened voice. Some began to mutter. Suddenly a furious storm broke loose. Clare was encircled by a shouting pack who plucked at her, heaped abuse upon her and upon Francis Bernardone, the madman who had ensnared her. The culprit who had defied the rich, the ancient nobles, the very heart of Assisi itself—he was attempting to dethrone the powerful, to make a laughing stock of their daughters. Vilitas, gross vulgarity, base ignorance, villainy! they shouted. Manaldo clutched at the hem of Clare's skirt. She pulled away.
A cloth, symbolizing the sheet that had concealed Christ's body, covered the altar. In one swift moment, Clare reached out and grasped one corner of the holy cloth. By this symbolic act she received the protection of the Church. Now no one dared touch her, save those who would scorn its wrath.
Manaldo stared, torn between violence and fear.
"Your presence here is a sacrilege," the abbess said to him. "In the name of Christ our Lord, leave us in peace."
Manaldo glanced toward his brothers, who stood against the wall, hands on their swords. He sized up the Franciscans gathered nearby, a burly lot, who carried clubs and were watching. He glanced at Francis Bernardone, who stood among them, holding a cross. He appeared to be comparing one side against the other. But it was not, judging from the awkward way Manaldo bowed to the abbess, from his shaking voice as he answered her, the fear of bloody battle that held him back. Instead, it was the fear of God's punishment.
Mumbling an apology, he strode up the aisle, followed quickly by the other Scifis. Not until they were outside the gate did they utter a sound. Frustrated, enraged, they then raised knotted fists and swore revenge upon those who had held them up to scorn.
From the steps of the monastery we watched the Scifis go. My spirits sank, for I had prayed that somehow, if even by violence, they would take Clare away with them.
The abbess said, "She is safe now from the Scifis and also from that wretched Bernardone."
"How can that be?" I said.
"Clare was brought to San Paolo for our protection. And we shall protect her. We shall not give her up to one or the other. She shall live with us and worship God in the proper way."
"But how can you ever protect her? How?"
"The walls of San Paolo are strong. And so are my beliefs. With patience and a little of God's help—He sometimes seems a bit contrary—we will find a way."
The abbess stood with her feet apart, holding her coif against the morning breeze; she seemed as formidable as San Paolo's fortress walls.
Nicola, whose awe of Mother Sibilia had tied her tongue, managed to say, "Is it true that you must have a dowry to come and be a Benedictine? I have heard this."
"It is a custom, long established," the abbess said. "But for you, your pretty smile and dancing eyes are dowry enough. We have a plenitude of ill-favored faces."
Nicola blushed. The abbess smiled and gave her a quick hug, at the same time glancing toward a group who had come out from the chapel. It was Francis Bernardone and his men with their knotty clubs.
He was close. I could have reached out and touched his robe, given him the letter, but my hand was shaking so much I held back.
"You will protect her?" he asked Mother Sibilia.
The abbess smiled bleakly and replied in her frosty voice, "We shall indeed. Meanwhile, since she has grown pale and thin unto death, we'll see that she has food and that she eats it."
"Likewise," Francis said, "give her counsel. Her youthful ears have been filled with blasphemy and untruth and threats. It is a dangerous time for her. She could be tempted to flee San Paolo and return to her family."
I might have said something at that moment to shock them both. It was in my mind and on my tongue to say, I have known Clare di Scifi since childhood and I know that she has never been religious nor is she now. The truth is, she's infatuated. She has fallen under your spell, Francis Bernardone. Someday, all too late, she will regret it.
"Clare is safe. We'll protect her against the rabble," the abbess said, glancing at Francis and his men. "If she is unhappy with us, we'll relinquish her. Unhappy nuns are an offense. Especially to God, who has enough troubles without them."
The abbess had more to say, but Francis smiled and came blithely out the gate. As he was about to pass me, I handed him the letter.
Without looking at it, he put it away and gave me a small nod of his head in the way of thanks, went on walking, and began to sing in the same stirring voice that had enthralled me on the nights in Piazza San Rufino. It was not the words of a love ballad that drifted back to me now, yet a ballad nonetheless, one that bespoke the change that had overtaken him:
"All praise be Yours, my Lord,
Through Sister Moon and Stars;
In the heavens You have made them,
Bright and precious and fair."
With beating heart, I watched him take the road to Porziuncola, breasting the wind that he loved, through trees streaked by sun and shadows.
19
The wind shifted as we rode homeward, and the rain changed to a light fall of snow that melted as it fell.
"What is it that we say to your family?" Nicola asked. "I can't think of a single excuse, not one."
"There are no excuses for what's been done," I said.
"But we've been gone for days."
"Only a day and a night."
"We'll be outcasts—at least I'll be. Shall I get on my knees and beg to be pardoned?"
"Stand on your feet," I said bravely, sounding much braver than I felt. "You are not a serf, so don't act like one."
As we approached the Roman wall, horsemen burst forth from San Rufino Square. They rode at a gallop and carried the blue and gold pennons of the house of Davino di Montanaro. Without a word, without so much as a smile, I passed them by, nor did I move faster when they turned about and followed us.
The family was not at home. Where t
hey had gone, a servant who had not gone with them would not chance a guess. From her uneasy look, I knew that everyone was abroad, searching for me in the streets.
The family came at suppertime and sat down at the table and began to talk in a cheerful way. But they talked among themselves, not to me, as though I were not there, as though nothing had happened. I did notice, however, that my fathers hands shook when he washed them, my mothers eyes were red from weeping, and Rinaldo's voice had an angry edge to it. Only Raul spoke to me that evening and then not in their presence.
After I had eaten—alone, despite all appearances—I went to the scriptorium and began a letter to Francis Bernardone. This one was symbolic like the others, dealing again with the unhappy love between Abelard and Heloise, which continued to disturb me.
Raul came in cautiously, afraid, I presumed, that I might fly at him. He spoke about the flowers that were blooming in the snow.
"I think they are lilies," he said. "But I am not certain. Lilies with little scarlet waves around their rims. Do you know their name?"
I did, but I shook my head and didn't look up.
"Spring in Assisi is a laggard," he said. "Spring in Granada comes soon."
I went on with my letter, calmly awaiting the lecture that was sure to come, presuming that my father, too outraged to trust himself, thinking of his futile lectures in the past, had chosen Raul to speak for him.
To my surprise, Raul went on with his observations about the flowers of Granada and Assisi. He recited a funny parable that had nothing to do with my escapade or much of anything else. He concealed the discomfort he must have felt and bade me goodnight with his warmest smile.
The family masquerade—the ordeal by silence, of pretending that I had not gone to Porziuncola ever, and that although I was visibly among them I really wasn't there—lasted for a week, or perhaps twice that long or longer. It ended abruptly just as I had begun to think that I didn't exist and if I did exist I had gone insane and would have to be exorcised again.
We were at supper. A special supper—Bishop Pelagius was there in his regal trappings. The table steamed. Flush-faced servants raced back and forth, keeping it filled with platters of turbot, roast goose, dove and duck, spring lamb racked in beds of minted jelly, beef raw and lean, stacks of hot breads, and bowls of brown gizzard gravy. It went on and on; first my father talked about business, then the bishop, mopping the perspiration from his domed brow, talked about souls and such.
In the midst of all, while I sat enmeshed in silence and all that could be heard was the crunching of teeth, driven to desperation I rose from the table and fell upon my knees. In a halting voice I begged forgiveness for all the unforgivable sins I had committed, those of late and those of long ago when I was a child, since that day when I pinched my baby brother (who now was dead), causing him to scream at the top of his lungs, and then myself denying all knowledge of why he had screamed.
Scarcely had the words left my lips when my father said in his gentle voice, a small frown between his eyes, "We have made plans for you to go on a journey. You're to leave us and travel north to Venice, to the monastery of San Andreas, where the prioress is your Aunt Sofia, whom you know of but have never met."
I gasped.
"And so blithely dishonor," Rinaldo added.
He was the angry one. The others were only humiliated. He gladly would have hunted Francis Bernardone down and run him through, had it not been for the dire consequences—banishment from the city for a year, at least.
"You will be happy there with Aunt Sofia," Mother said. "She loves you very much and will look after you as she would her own daughter. Mother Sibilia says that the sisters there will love you and you will love them."
Did the abbess have a voice in the decision to send me off to Venice, as far from Francis Bernardone as possible? If so, it was cruel of her! Had Bishop Pelagius also lent his voice?
I presumed he had and was certain of it when he wiped the web of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead and gave me a careful smile, as much as to say, You see, dear signorina, that the prophecies I made some months ago have now, alas, come true. But do not despair. I will pray for you and God will hear the words I speak in your behalf.
Reaching out, Father gave me a gentle pat. "You'll have time to gather a number of things for the journey," he said. "Modest oddments and such things as brushes, pens, ink, colors, things that pertain to copying—an art that I hope you'll pursue in Venice as diligently as you have pursued it here. You'll not be leaving tomorrow or the day after. You'll have time, therefore, to gather your things and yourself as well."
Anger suddenly took the place of my long hours of humility. Defiantly, I rose from my knees and glared at him. "I'll leave at this moment," I cried. "I'll change clothes, but that is all, and leave this house tonight."
"You will not leave this house tonight," he said.
"Then at dawn."
"Nor at dawn. And when you do go, it will not be alone. I am assembling an escort. You will have guards. Serving women will accompany you, as will Raul de los Santos, who has visited the north on several occasions and knows the roads to travel and the most likely places to stay the night."
Not trusting myself to say more, I mumbled an excuse and fled. Safe in the tower, I flung myself on the bed and wept, not the inconsolable tears of grief, but the salty tears of frustration.
Before dawn, while the household slept, I locked myself in the scriptorium and wrote to Francis Bernardone. It was a long, confused letter penned in Gothic, using gold bordered with bright meadow-green, in celebration of spring, which was everywhere except in my thoughts. Of all that I wrote as the sun rose that morning, I remember this part especially, for it came burning from my heart:
In the last message, which I placed in your hands at San Paolo, I questioned you about Heloise's rapturous love for Abelard and their unhappy fate. Since, as I have said already, I leave soon for Venice and will have no chance to talk to you before I go, and since we are not apt to meet for some time to come, unless by rare good fortune your mission brings you to that far-off city, and since messages get lost and are poor at best, I wish to confess, as though you were my father confessor, a priest and not a member of a brotherhood that does not hear confessions. I confess that my letters to you are only attempts to gain your attention. And I confess that from the day I saw you first, the day of the running bulls, from the morning you stopped to embrace the leper, from the nights you sang in San Rufino Square, from the hour when you removed your clothes and gave them back to your father, since then and before then, I confess on my knees that I have loved you always.
I sealed the message with wax, marked it with a finger ring that showed a circlet of hearts, and before the house was awake, sent it off by messenger to Porziuncola.
20
Rains, followed by weeks of black fog that crept up from the lowlands and shrouded the city so that day was turned into night, delayed our journey. A rash of robberies on the road to Venice delayed it further.
During this month and more I continued work on the Old Testament. I also wrote three missives to Francis, none of which I sent, for the reason that not a word in all those long days came back in answer to the last message I had sent him.
My father owned a large warehouse in Venice, which gathered paintings, manuscripts, and tapestries from various countries around the Mediterranean Sea, even those with whom the Church was at war, and from places as far off as Mongolia. These things were sold in cities to the north—such as Milan, Florence, Bologna—and to princes and kings, including the pope in Rome. The most profitable part of the enterprise, however, was comestibles that only the very rich could afford.
The merchandise was distributed by a caravan that made the trip between these various cities three times during the year. Since it passed through Assisi on the way to Venice, my father changed his mind about sending me north in fashionable style and decided that I should accompany the caravan. He then had to change his mind onc
e more when the caravan was lost while crossing the river Arno.
At last, after more than a month of delays, Raul brought word that we were to leave the next morning. He would lead the group.
It was toward evening when he came to the scriptorium. I was working on the fourteenth chapter of Exodus, drawing decorations for the twenty-sixth verse, where the Lord commands Moses to stretch out his hands over the sea, that the water may come back upon the Egyptians. He stood looking over my shoulder at the decorations, complimenting me on how real the sea waves looked.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked.
"I've been ready for weeks. All packed, except for my brushes," I said.
"You seem anxious to go, which surprises me, considering that you're going to a strange city, far from home, for a year at least, perhaps longer."
"Not anxious. I just want to put all of it, everything that's happened, behind me."
"You are not religious, though you do have stray Christian thoughts now and again and when in trouble you call upon God or Christ. But you don't realize how rigorous life in the monastery may be. The prioress is a relative, but your father has given her instructions to treat you like the rest of her flock."
The copyists had left for the day and we were alone in the scriptorium. I was baffled by his words. He was advising me to disobey my father, to not go to Venice. Why? Suddenly, as he put a warm hand on my shoulder, I sensed the answer.
For months now, after dinner when I had my hair done on top of my head in a coronet and wore a gown that displayed my budding figure, I had been aware of his glances. He never uttered one word of praise at these times or later. But he didn't need to. His glances spoke boldly for themselves.
"You'll be a prisoner in Venice," he said.
"I'm a prisoner here."
"You need not be," he said, his hand heavy now on my shoulder. "Tomorrow, as soon as we come to Perugia, we'll take the road that leads to Granada. To my family. They will like you and you will like them."
