‘Mother Luca, the infirmarian, is at Nones this half hour, but she will, I don’t doubt, be with you before Vespers. This sister will take you to the infirmary and there you will be looked after until Mother Luca comes from chapel. She will be told of your arrival as soon as Nones is done.’
The widow, very grateful, made an effort at a smile, and thanked in a husky whisper. The portress watched her set off across the great court, leaning on Sister Rosa, whose robust arms, strengthened by years in the vegetable garden and in the laundry with its heavy woollen robes, she trusted would be able to support their guest. With a jangle of keys, the portress sat down in her chair, breathing the musky scent the widow moved within, and suppressing worldly speculation as to the Venetian gentleman, not surprisingly dead, who had dared take her to wife.
The infirmary was of a size befitting such a famous and well-endowed foundation; there was first the chapel, from which the sound of chanting came. Sister Rosa remarked that Sister Benedicta was very ill and constant prayers were being said. She supported their labouring guest across the long dormitory. The chanting came very clearly here through the window that opened onto the chapel. ‘The sick have the benefit of the Blessed Presence,’ Sister Rosa said. Incense smoke also drifted in.
‘What a comfort!’ whispered the widow. She glanced at the tall stone walls, the beds enclosed in wooden boards giving them considerable resemblance to coffins, a helpful
memento mori
for the sick. ‘I shall not have to stir far to make my prayers for my dear husband’s soul...’
The infirmarian’s assistant nun came towards them just as the murmur continued ‘...and make offerings for thanksgiving at having been brought to a harbour of kindness after such travail...’
The sister took the widow in charge with respectful care. Here was a woman of substance in more ways than one. The widow paused to gaze at the huge crucifix on the wall and her lips moved silently.
She was escorted to a small private room as suitable to her status. There again was a lack of show, no more than a narrow cot curtained, a small scrubbed table beside it for candlestick, Book of Hours and medicines, a stool for a visitor, and another crucifix, on a more economical scale, opposite the bed to concentrate the sufferer’s last gaze. The widow sank upon the bed as though her legs would take her no further, gave a great sigh and, fixing her eyes upon the crucifix, wiped away what must have been a tear.
‘I thank God I have been permitted to reach this haven.’ She joined her hands and said an Ave in which the sister took part. Then, with a curiously sweet smile on a face which was not prepossessing she murmured, ‘I have escaped so many dangers. A great number of travellers must be grateful for this protection. I cannot be alone in finding it at this time.’
‘You are the only one to arrive today, madam, but we have another — ah, here is Mother Luca herself.’
The sudden nervousness of the infirmary assistant did not appear to be justified by the mild sweetness of Mother Luca’s greeting, but it did not escape the attention of the widow. A thin hand pressed her down as she attempted to rise; she fell back, gasping with exhaustion.
‘I can see you are over-taxed, madam. You must rest.’ The hand was laid lightly on the brow under linen band, and skimmed to what part of the cheek was not covered. ‘No fever, I see, so I shall prescribe a draught to strengthen the blood. Sister Ancilla, bring our guest a cup of the wine that is mulling for Sister Benedicta. Be sure that it is not too hot.’
Once the nun had gone, gliding with as much haste as the Rule would permit, Mother Luca, slipping her hands inside her sleeves, turned all her attention to the widow. Even the plainest face can gain distinction from the simplicity of a nun’s headdress, but the Infirmarian’s face, though no longer young, would have turned heads anywhere. The olive skin had still a glow, though the dark eyes under the melancholy fold of lids looked as if they had seen a good deal of sorrow, whether in the world or here. Her smile, however, when it came, as now it did, was charming enough to put heart into her patients.
Her assistant reappeared with eager speed.
‘When you have drunk this wine,’ Mother Luca said, offering the cup with quiet authority, ‘you must eat. I will have a minestra prepared for you. With lettuce, which will be sedative. Later perhaps a draught of valerian.’
‘You are so kind, Mother. I think I am almost too weary to eat.’ The long sleeve concealed most of the hand the widow placed on her midriff; the husky murmur faded under the reproof of Mother Luca’s raised eyebrows.
‘That is precisely the time when one must force oneself, my daughter. Discipline is needed for many things in this life, and the recovery of health is foremost for you. Now you must sleep.’ She extended a hand for the cup, from which the widow had drunk in genteel sips, making little appreciative sounds at the healing warmth.
‘May I go to chapel, Mother? I cannot sleep till I have prayed.’
‘Tonight you shall pray here, madam. I shall come to see you after Compline and by then I trust you will have recovered from the worst effects of your journey.’
Smiling, Mother Luca wafted her assistant before her and shut the cell door softly but with decision.
Left alone, the widow straightened from her drooping docility and sat for a moment or two listening intently. Not far away, chanting came more loudly for a moment, then was cut off by the sound of a door shutting. The widow rose, gathering her skirts, and prepared to disobey the Infirmarian.
The arched corridor was deserted. To one side, the door just closed by Mother Luca or her assistant led to the big dormitory and the chapel. To the left were three other doors beyond the widow’s, and opposite them, two long thin windows like arrow-slits but filled with fine grey glass. Most of the illumination came from a candle inside a small lantern in front of a Madonna between the windows.
When, on her arrival, the widow had been led through the dormitory, only two patients had been lying there; both had lain on their backs, hands crossed on their breasts in the fashion proper to a sleeping nun. On both, divested of their veils as of their outer garments, the white cap made their faces more sickly yellow by contrast. Neither had been young. If Cosima di Torre were in this convent, she was not in the main dormitory. She might be in the guest quarters, but the widow believed in looking under one’s hand. She softly lifted the latch of the door next to hers.
The room replicated her own. The narrow cot held only a bare straw mattress.
The next room held an occupant, evidently the Sister Benedicta for whom the prayers were being said. Privacy was hers probably because she was about the business of dying. She too lay flat, hands crossed and eyes closed, but she was even more pale than her sisters, with grey shadows in the hollow face. Candles stood by her head as though to anticipate that final state in the chapel where Sister Benedicta would be surrounded by candles saved by her on each Feast of the Purification against her lying there in death. At the foot of the bed, her back to the door, a nun knelt, rosary moving silently. The table by the bed held flasks and a cup; a scent of herbs lay heavy among the scent of wax. The widow crossed herself and withdrew.
The last room also had an occupant. Lying with eyes closed, but with hands at her sides, was what at first sight seemed to be a boy, because of the cropped hair. The face, smooth and ivory pale, was that of a girl of perhaps seventeen. The widow smiled, moved forward and shut the door as softly as if it were a shadow.
The girl did not stir when the widow bent over her, close to her face. She did not even wake when the cup on her table was picked up for the widow to sniff that also. The flask beside the cup was examined, a drop tipped from it onto the widow’s finger and licked. As the flask was set down again the girl’s eyelids flickered and the widow sank onto the stool and took the limp hand. In spite of the brazier burning in the room, the girl’s fingers were cold, not responsive to the encouraging pressure of the broad hand.
‘Cosima?’
The eyes were hazel, more green than brown, all the larger in the pale face for the dark shadows beneath. Her gaze held only mild surprise.
‘Is it time for supper, Mother?’ She frowned a little, as though trying to bring her thoughts together. ‘I’m sorry... it’s not Mother Luca... Are you a new sister?’ A nun’s dress, being adapted from that of a widow, was easily mistaken. Her voice was slow and confused, unable to adjust to the waking world. The widow patted her hand, and spoke low, with cautious urgency, alert for any noise outside.
‘Cosima. What do you recall about coming here?’
The girl was puzzled. ‘I can’t... I was brought in by travellers... Mother says they rescued me from robbers. I was very ill. A fever. They cut all my hair,’ she added plaintively.
‘Are you ill now?’
The girl’s eyelids drooped. She was beginning to tire. ‘But, Sister, didn’t Mother tell you?’
The widow’s ear had caught the sound of a distant door. With agility astonishing for one of her bulk and so voluminously beskirted, she was at the door, putting a finger to her smiling lips as she turned for a moment towards Cosima. She had just time to shut her own door behind her before Sister Ancilla went past to see how far Sister Benedicta had loosed her soul from its earthly moorings. The widow, anticipating a check on her own condition, sank to her knees by the pallet and set up a flow of prayer in a husky murmur.
She had to pray for long enough for the sub-infirmarian to visit both the other occupied cells; then a tap on the door preceded her entrance, followed by a lay sister carrying a board with a covered dish, the soup ordered by Mother Luca. The widow, rising, confessed herself to be a little better but suffering from great agitation of the heart. She was not altogether surprised to hear that Mother Luca had already prepared her a calming draught with her own hands and would, as she had promised, be coming to judge of its effect after Compline.
There was no time to waste.
Left alone, the widow drank her soup, considered the calming draught, disposed of it in the necessary under the bed and, holding the pot under her robes, added to the contents by way of disguise. All this had taken but a short time, and she was then ready to slip along to Cosima’s room. It was all but dark now on this winter afternoon, the narrow windows showed blackly by contrast with the lantern’s red reflection on the walls. The bell over the chapel rang for Vespers and the nuns would be in chapel, except for the one by Sister Benedicta and those, like the sub-infirmarian, with permission to stay at their work; and Sister Ancilla had just visited her patients and was not likely to be back for a while.
In Cosima’s cell, the brazier’s coals had been replenished and, unfortunately, so had her cup. It was empty now and Cosima lay motionless and dumb. The widow, even by shaking her, could win no response. She did not linger, but returned briskly to her own room where she sat for a time on the bed, deep in thought. Then she removed, and folded on the stool, her outer garments and veil and got into bed, pulling the coverlet up to her cap strings, snuffing out the light and closing her eyes to wait for Mother Luca’s visit in a few hours. Only those without resources waste time in repining and, before minutes were out, the widow’s sleep was genuine. When at length Mother Luca and her night lantern went round, she left the widow in satisfaction with the efficacy of her draught.
The widow was accustomed to sleeping lightly and to waking when she chose. She heard the chapel bell for Matins at two in the morning; for Lauds at five. As the bell began ringing again for Prime, she calculated the hour at not long after seven, by the faint grey round her window shutter strengthening to daybreak. She had established that before each Office, Mother Luca or Sister Ancilla, sometimes both, made the rounds of their patients. They passed along outside the cells almost without a sound, and only sharp hearing would have detected the raising and drop of latches on each door. A nun’s training to be noiseless in performance of her duties was demonstrated finely in the care of the sick.
The widow had also discovered, by the most acute listening, that the nuns who prayed by the dying sister would be relieved before an Office was due.
Mother Luca was pleased to hear that the widow had slept well, but concerned that she found herself still weak, indeed hardly able to stand.
‘It seems, I fear, that I must trespass upon your patience. Indeed, I intend to remember this house of succour in my will as well as in my prayers. And I can pay for such things as you may think necessary, any drugs, and food. The robbers, I thank God,’ she directed pious eyes briefly towards the ceiling, ‘were driven off enough for us to escape before they could take what I carried.’ She produced a small, chinking bag from her robes.
‘You may do whatever God puts it into your heart to do, daughter, but this foundation is, thanks to Him, well able to carry out the duty to relieve and serve. We do not ask payment. God be praised that your life was spared, let alone your possessions.’
Sister Ancilla began to say that indeed robbers were a danger to all, to other — and perhaps she would have spoken of the other traveller so close by, but Mother Luca’s calm tone, without emphasis, rode her down.
‘I shall send you a carminative to strengthen the vital energies. You will like to wash, and hot water will soon be provided before you break your fast.’
She left, Sister Ancilla a flustered second after. Mother Luca had saved her from useless talk.
It was important for the widow to have time to use the hot water before any sister arrived with food. What she did in the interval required haste, skill, the temporary removal of her headgear and a razor-sharp knife. By the time the lay sister came with bread and half a cold fowl and wine, and took down the shutter to let in daylight, the widow reclined fully clothed and the wimple in place over cleanly shaven cheeks. She lay back exhausted and feebly expressed anxiety over her groom’s care of her horse. She felt a responsibility for the lack-wit and would be glad if she might see for herself how he did. The lay sister doubtfully suggested that permission might be given for the lady’s groom to come to the porch of the infirmary, if the lady were only strong enough to walk there. The widow professed complete confidence in her recovery with the help of Mother Luca, and suggested that her groom might be summoned when the noon meal was in progress and he might be less likely to disturb devout eyes.