I looked at her, stupefied. I was still emerging from my drugged haze. “Hitch up a donkey?”
“To carry the vegetables to the storehouse, girl. You will drive the cart.”
“Asino?” I said. “Sorella, I know nothing of donkeys!”
“We hear you claim you rode the Palio,” mocked the nun. Now I saw the mean spirit in the flash of her buckteeth. “You must know horses well. Surely you can manage a donkey,” she said through her tight lips. “Let us pray to God for the bread you eat and your safe deliverance to his service here at Sant’Antonio.”
I stared at the bread in my wooden trencher while she prayed aloud.
“Our Father, we give thanks for your bounty and mercy upon our new postulant, Silvia,” she said, her eyes squeezed tight in piety.
Silvia? I thought. Who is Silvia?
“May this food sustain her this day so that she may serve you, our Lord.” When she had finished, she looked to me to make the sign of the cross. My hands flew from my forehead to my breastbone, left and right. I seized the chunk of bread, ravenous with hunger. I tore savagely at the crust with my molars—it was too hard for my front teeth. Still I could not tear it.
“Dip it into water,” said the nun. “It is easier.”
I stared at her yellowed teeth. Maybe they were useful after all with bread this stale.
“I leave you to your repast. Recover your strength and wits. In our lord Jesus’s name, and us to his service.”
I rose from my straw pallet, smelling the cold, damp stones surrounding me. I used the terra-cotta chamber pot to relieve myself, squatting in the darkness. The rattle of my urine echoed in the tiny room.
I stumbled to the window, not much larger than an arrow slit, and pressed my face against the stone, breathing in the air of freedom beyond. I heard birdsong in the gardens. The potion di Torreforte had given me had worn off, and I was fully aware—and lost in despair.
“You are awake at last,” said a voice.
I whirled around. It was not one of the magpies, dressed in black with a white wimple, but a conversa, a lay laborer at the convent. Her white head scarf was tied tight, hiding her hair. She carried a clay pitcher of water.
“I am Margherita, your serving girl. It is part of your dowry that I should serve you in order to better serve God.”
“My dowry? I—no! I am not a postulant. I am a horse trainer!”
Margherita averted her eyes as if she were speaking to God.
“Give me patience to help serve you,” I was sure she was saying.
“If we hurry with your ablutions, you will be groomed and ready for your audience with the abbess before Sext.”
“Audience? Sext?”
“Of course you must speak to the abbess, who has graciously accepted you as a postulant at Convento Sant’Antonio. Sext is the noon prayer. There are eight prayer times when we cease our work in the convent. You shall learn them quickly.”
“Eight? Santa Madonna!”
“Oh, no!” she whispered, her face tight in horror. “You mustn’t use the Virgin Mary’s name in vain. Ever again, I beg of you.”
“Eight prayer services?”
“Yes, I shall teach them to you. But first, let me pour water in your basin.”
Her hands gently tilted the spout of the pitcher toward the washbasin. The splash of water was strangely comforting.
“We will comb the knots from your hair and wash your face,” she said, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You must be clean and presentable for our abbess. I will fetch more water.”
Margherita disappeared before I could say anything.
As soon as she was gone, the bucktoothed nun—her name was Adriana, I soon learned—appeared in the doorway.
“You were given a potent draught, Postulant Silvia. Your family must have good reason to deliver you to our convent.”
“My name is Virginia Tacci. I was kidnapped!”
“You are in safe hands now, Postulant Silvia. You have been delivered into God’s care. He will drive the demons from your soul.”
“No! I must get back to Siena. My horse—he is lame. I must tend him.”
“Postulant Silvia,” said the suora, her voice cold and toneless. “You must learn to control these evil spirits that possess you. You are a girl, a shepherdess. Not a horse trainer. That is a man’s profession. A woman astride a horse is—”
“I am most certainly a horse trainer. I rode the Palio just days ago!” For a moment I was almost struck speechless, even in my anger, as the memory of that ride, the memory of the Palio, filled my mind. The colors so bright, the noise so loud, the cheers still ringing so clearly in my memory. Though I had not won, I had ridden—and that was a triumph they could not take away from me. Except that they had. They had taken everything bright—my life, my horse, my triumph. They had taken it all and imprisoned me here in this cold, damp darkness. My anger flared, and I almost shouted.
“Do you not understand? I was kidnapped! Granduca Francesco of Florence had a hand in this! That man who brought me—he is a relative of the de’ Medici. This is all a plot to keep me from riding another Palio.”
Suor Adriana breathed deeply, consuming all the air in the room. She expelled it noisily from her flaring nostrils like a dragon. I waited for her to shout, but the toneless pronouncement was even more chilling.
“Here, under the holy roof of God, we will purge you of these devil dreams.”
She turned on her heel, nearly upsetting the bucket of cold water Margherita was bringing to my cell. The conversa set the bucket on the floor.
Once the door was closed, she bent near my ear. I felt her warm breath on my face.
“Suor Adriana is prone to anger,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “She can make your life miserable. Speak little in her presence. Your words are her weapons, sorella. She will be sure to use them against you to the abbess.”
I raged, pleading with the conversa Margherita.
“I am held prisoner here! I am a free maiden, I earn my own keep. I train horses in a village just outside the walls of Siena. I belong to no one!”
The conversa continued brushing my hair. It was so dusty and matted from the long coach ride from Siena—and the dust from the Palio—that she could barely work a comb through it. She dampened her fingers in the basin of water, trying to free the knots with her hands.
Her silence infuriated me.
“Are you deaf? Have you no reaction? I am a prisoner. I was kidnapped by the Granduca of Tuscany!”
Margherita’s fingers pried apart a particularly treacherous snag of hair.
“I am not knowledgeable in these matters,” she said in a loud voice. “My mission is only to serve you and the convent. Here—lean over the bucket so I can rinse the dirt from your hair.”
She beckoned me with a crooked finger. When I knelt beside her, she whispered in my ear.
“Let me teach you the prayer times, Postulant Silvia. They are listening for compliance. They assign spies who report to them. It will go better for both of us if you allow me to teach you, for they will punish me, too.”
She straightened up and spoke loudly and clearly. “Lauds are the early morning prayer, before dawn.” Margherita supported my head with the palm of her hand, lowering my hair into the bucket. “Prime will be an hour later. Terce are midmorning. Sext is at noon—the abbess will expect you to see you there today. Nones are the midafternoon. Vespers before dark. Compline are just after dark and before retiring to your cell in the evening.”
She swirled my hair in the water.
“Then we sleep? We have spent the whole day praying!” I protested.
“You can sit up now. Allow me to dry your hair.”
Margherita shook out a white cloth embroidered with a family crest I did not recognize. She patted my hair between the linen folds.
“Oh, no. There are chores to be done throughout the day. When you return to your cell, you will be tired, but you must spend time in contemplat
ion and personal prayer. Then you will extinguish your candle and sleep until Matins.”
“Matins?”
“I had not gotten to that yet. Matins are the eighth prayers of the day. At two hours past midnight.” She smiled. And, despite the harsh thought of prayers at two in the morning, her smile was the first moment of real warmth I had felt in this cold stony place. “They are the hardest for young postulants. But you will grow used to them with time. And it is the quietest, most spiritual hour of prayer, when the rest of the world is asleep.”
She moved the basin of water to me.
“Now please wash your face. Bring back the radiance that God has bestowed in your pure heart.”
I did as I was told. I was beginning to understand the rules in the Convento di Sant’Antonio.
The morning breeze carried the sounds of Ferrara through the narrow slit of my window. I could hear the tolling of bells beyond the convent, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the rattle of carriages.
Margherita handed me another linen cloth, again embroidered with a family crest. I noticed it was stitched with the initial T and realized it was the stemma of the di Torreforte family. I flinched. But wiped my face on it just the same.
Then I blew my nose in it for good measure.
I learned the routine of prayer quickly. My conversa, Margherita, taught me the life of the convent, the manners befitting a novice.
And I broke every rule there was. My audience with the abbess was the first revolt.
“You come here under the auspices of your gracious aunt,” began the abbess, who sat behind an enormous desk spread with correspondence in parchment and vellum. “Surely you must include her in your daily prayers.”
“My aunt? My aunt is a sheep-breathed fool who has begrudged me every day of my life!”
“She is generous beyond measure giving you this opportunity—”
“Zia Claudia is poorer than the dirt she treads on. She hates me—”
“Postulant Silvia! You will learn not to speak until I ask your opinion.”
“Silvia, who is Silvia? I am Virginia Tacci, and I will speak! I will shout until you give me my freedom! I am a horse trainer from Siena. I rode the Palio!”
The abbess gripped the edge of her desk. Like Adriana, she refused to raise her voice. But the low monotone of her utterance carried a lethal venom.
“We were warned of the demons that possess you, Postulant Silvia.”
I stood up, kicking the chair over.
“My name is Virginia Tacci. You will release me at once!”
The abbess sat back, a smile tugging at her bloodless lips.
“That certainly will not be the case. I am the only one in this convent who has a key to the doors, Postulant Silvia. And they shall not be open to you. Ever again. May God forgive you your sins. Sorella Adriana, please escort our new postulant to her cell. See that she prays for forgiveness.”
Suor Adriana put a hand on my arm. I slapped her away.
“Get away from me!”
The abbess rang a little bell with a fierce shake of her wrist. Adriana stepped outside, returning with four other nuns much larger than she. At once, they seized my arms.
“Leave me alone! Let go of me!” I screamed. I kicked, connecting with one, who buckled over in pain.
The others seized me even tighter, digging their short nails into my flesh. They dragged me from the abbess’s office.
“I am a fantino! I rode the Palio—I will never, ever be a nun!”
Conversa Margherita was cleaning her mistress’s cell while the young novice had her first meeting with the abbess. The servant shook out the dusty linen shift and overskirt, smoothing its folds with her hand. It was a coarse weave, not much different than Margherita’s own.
How strange for the niece of such a wealthy patroness to wear simple linen verge! Especially on the day of her internment . . .
A scent, earthy and animal, rose up, greeting her nose. Margherita bent closer to inspect the cloth in the dim light of the cell, pulling the cloth tight to her face.
The scent was strong in the folds of the linen. She sniffed it, then rubbed her fingernail across the pale yellow-brown stains, encrusted with coarse animal hair.
“Santo cielo,” she whispered. She scraped some of the bits of sticky hair into her palm to inspect it.
What is this?
She touched her tongue lightly to the cloth.
Salt.
The screams of her mistress, Silvia, being dragged across the convent courtyard made Margherita jump. She quickly pulled up the corner of her apron and brushed some of the hairs onto the fold of the cloth. She tied a knot in the hem, pulling the material tight with her teeth.
The nuns brought the girl into the cell, screaming and flailing.
“Get out of here, conversa!” Adriana commanded. “Take the clothes she wore last night and burn them at once. She will never need them again.”
Margherita cast a look at the struggling girl, her face red with rage. She bundled up the clothes and leather boots.
“Now! Go and throw them in the kitchen’s hearth!”
Margherita hurried out of the room just as the nuns pushed the young girl in, sending her sprawling to the stone floor.
“You will forever regret your behavior today!” said Adriana, heaving. Her hair, mousy brown and stringy, had been pulled out from beneath the wimple. The sister turned, pulling closed the door with a slam.
Margherita heard the key turn twice in the lock. With the scraping of metal, it seemed the new novice’s fate was forever sealed.
As part of my penitence, I was forced to lie across the threshold to the refectory. The nuns walked upon my body as if I were a mat. The nuns who dragged me to my cell after the rebellious audience with the abbess trod on me the hardest. Suor Adriana ground her heel into the place where my neck met my spine, her full weight lingering there.
The floor smelt of vinegar and old women. As I contemplated the odors of the convent, the lingering stench of nightly chamber pots was not masked by the incense of the adjacent chapel. The conversas scrubbed the tiles and stones, but the stale odor of enclosure still clung to the air. It seemed as if the old nuns died and disintegrated, clinging desperately to the air and stone and brick of the convent, refusing freedom even in death.
The young novices chattered like excited starlings as they entered the refectory, for a few seconds chasing away the moldering spirits that haunted the convent.
“Silence!” snapped Suor Adriana. “You enter the refectory to nourish your body in order to sustain your spirit. Enter with reverence.”
“Sì, Sorella Adriana,” they murmured. “Forgive us.”
Most stepped lightly over my prostrate body, barely the weight of a bird. They had heard my screams of pain.
“Brava,” whispered a novice above me. “You disobeyed.” I made a mental note of the lovely young voice above me.
I would find her, this kindred soul.
Suor Maria had charge of all novices’ education. She eyed me warily at our first audience, having heard of my rebellious nature.
“I trust the conversa has instructed you on the schedule of prayer. You must listen for the bell and not arrive late for the service, or you will pay penitence.”
No, I will not be late. Until the day I find a way to escape.
As if she were reading my thoughts, Suor Maria said softly, “Do not try to escape, Postulant Silvia. Dozens of others have tried; there is no way out. The walls are too high to scale, and there is a watch night and day. I tell you this so that you will not harm yourself in a failed attempt to flee.
“Receive our holy savior Jesus here in our abbey. Only then shall you receive peace.”
No, Sorella Maria. There will be no peace until I regain my freedom.
The little gray donkey was shaggy and docile. I buried my nose in his neck. Not quite the smell of horse, but an equine, a cousin at least. My eyes welled with tears as I breathed in his scent.
&nb
sp; He turned to nuzzle me. My fingertips touched his velvety softness, felt the warm puff of his hay-sweet breath.
“His name is Fedele,” said the old suora, sitting in the shade of a fruit tree. “Mine is Suor Loretta. He likes you, I think.”
She raised her body slowly from the iron stool. I heard the creak and snap of her joints.
“I heard of your tale. You profess to love horses. As did I in my younger days, before I was interned in the convent. Nothing else existed for me.”
“Davvero?” I said.
“Yes, but I had to forget all that,” she said, looking at the donkey. “And so will you. You are here, Silvia, because I requested your assistance.”
“I know nothing of donkeys,” I said stubbornly. “I ride horses, large and beautiful. Not asses.”
She looked at me as if I had slapped her. “Do not dare insult Fedele! He is a handsome fellow and earns his keep. So shall you, postulant.”
“But I—”
“Come. I shall show you how to harness my donkey,” she said, as if she did not hear me. “My arms have become too weak to lift the heavy yoke. I shall be grateful for your help. I will teach you what you need to know about the donkey and its care.”
I nodded my head. A donkey was hardly a Palio horse, but I said nothing.
Suor Loretta was devoted to her four-legged charge, running her fingers through his scraggly mane as I had Orione’s. She whispered in his long ears and kissed his donkey cheeks. I watched her harness and unharness the donkey. Her arms trembled with the weight. I stepped in and took that weight from her.
“Let me, Sorella Loretta. I am a quick learner.”
“I can see that,” she said, trying to recover her breath. She put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. “Silvia, thank you.”
I did not correct her. I wanted no confrontation here. The sweet hay and smell of golden oats in the tiny stable made me feel at home.
“I procure the best oats in Ferrara for Fedele,” she said, pointing to string sacks.
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 28
