The lay sister had been admiring two pilgrim seals the widow had placed beside her bed, of St Godelieve from Ghent and St Hubert from Brussels; she undertook to mention the groom to Sister Ancilla at least. Sister Benedicta was failing fast, and the drugs that soothed her pain required Mother Luca’s particular skill in the delicate adjustment that would allow her to give her soul into God’s hands in consciousness.
Sister Giuseppe and the widow crossed themselves at that thought. The sister left, aware that she had stayed longer than was necessary with their new guest who, in spite of the pathos of her condition, was somehow a little disturbing.
It was after Mother Luca’s round, at the tune for Tierce, when the widow took her chance. She left her room.
The corridor had been washed down and was still damp. She paused in thought before placing her footprints, so betrayingly large, but it was to be hoped the stone would dry before they could be seen, or that they would be brushed over by her skirts. She went first to the Madonna and paused again there, listening. Risks had to be taken.
Cosima was alone, and less drowsy than yesterday. She smiled and, though her voice was faint and anxious, she spoke. ‘Have you come to pray for me, Sister? Am I getting worse?’
‘You are well, Cosima. All that is wrong with you is the drink Mother Luca gives you. It’s that which makes you sleepy and confused.’
Cosima’s eyes widened. ‘Mother Luca says I need sleep, to recover from what happened, and my illness — the fever.’
‘I think you never had fever. Did you wonder why your father sent no letter, no messenger?’
Cosima’s fingers struggled in the warm grasp. ‘Mother said news has been sent. He knows I am safe.’
‘In his villa in the country? No. He believes you have been snatched away by his enemies. He does not know where you are.’
Cosima brushed her eyes with her fingers as if to dispel cobwebs. ‘I don’t understand. I was rescued from robbers.’
‘A trick. The sisters may believe it, but it was all arranged, to hide you from your father so that he may suffer.’
Her eyes were thoroughly alive, and frightened. She made an effort to sit up. ‘I must tell Mother Luca. She’ll help me.’
‘Mother Luca is not your friend.’
‘Who are you? How do you know all this? How can it possibly be true?’ She fell back on the pillows, breathing hard, bewildered. The widow turned her head, listening to a distant door, and then spoke in haste, still keeping her voice from its natural depth. ‘I’m your father’s cousin Caterina. I saw you at your christening. That cross you wear was my gift. Your groom Benno is here, and together we will take you back to your father. But, if you wish to see him, you must do what I tell you, and
say nothing
, of me, of all I have said—’
‘Benno? How did he get here? Did Father send him?’
‘Tell no one what I have said.
No one
.’ The widow rose, and pressed a forefinger to the girl’s lips. There was barely time to whisk into the corridor. Mother Luca and Sister Ancilla coming from the dormitory found the widow on her knees before the Madonna.
‘You are recovered, daughter, I see.’ Mother Luca’s eyes, so sad under the fold of their lids, were perfectly observant as she stood, hands clasped in her sleeves, looking down at her patient.
‘Oh Mother, thank Our Lady you have come. I was wondering how I could reach my bed without help. I thought I could pray here, ask Our Lady’s help to make me better; I was foolish. I can’t get to my feet.’ She extended her arms to be helped, and both sisters responded; but she got up more with the aid of strong leg muscles than they could realise; they thought she leant all her weight on them. The husky babble continued in a voice that weakened as she shuffled between them to her room. ‘My dear husband had so special a love for the Virgin... he had her name on his lips as he died... I am so afraid...’
‘Of what are you so afraid?’ Mother Luca, trying for the widow’s pulse, was prevented by her sudden clasping of her hands, half hidden by the long sleeves, to her mouth.
‘That I shall die. I’m so weak.’
‘Of course you will not die, daughter. It is true that you are weak, but this is often seen after undergoing danger.’ She reached for the pulse again, and the widow stumbled; at this moment a nun appeared in the doorway.
‘Mother Luca. Sister Benedicta.’
Mother Luca did not hesitate. ‘Daughter, rest. Do not stir from this cell. I shall send you a draught.’ It was a voice, not raised but accustomed to command obedience, and it held a trace of irritation. The widow must be prevented from rambling about so freely. The great silly was something of a nuisance.
During the next hour, her dying sister claimed all Mother Luca’s attention. Other problems receded. She sent Sister Giuseppe to pour the girl’s medicine and to return swiftly; Sister Benedicta must be supported in the only position that for the moment eased her pain. Mother Luca must go to the dispensary. Sister Ancilla must inform Reverend Mother. Sister Benedicta must be persuaded to take the stronger draught prepared. To Mother Luca’s practised eye, tonight would see Sister Benedicta’s joyful departure from this agonised body. Tonight, the Lord in His mercy might, as so often He did, grant a complete recession of pain so that the nun could go from this life as she ought. Father Vincenzio would be here then.
The widow had to pass the door of Sister Benedicta’s cell to reach Cosima. The afternoon light shone clear and the door of the sick nun’s cell stood ajar. Nevertheless the bulky figure went soundlessly along, pausing as before at the shrine to check whether anyone had noticed her. She went into the girl’s cell with a finger to her lips.
The eyes were open. Cosima once more struggled to sit up. Indeed, she succeeded although the arm on which she propped herself trembled.
‘Is Benno really here?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t understand. And I did have fever; I saw Father here, and thought I was at home, and Biondello — and the robbers killed him.’
The widow pointed to the cup. ‘That made you see visions.’
‘I didn’t drink it this time. I said I would, and Sister Giuseppe was in such a hurry she didn’t wait. I wanted to think. Why is Benno here? Why didn’t my father send all his men?’
‘These people have hidden you. Your father does not know where you are. They would have denied you were here.’
‘I have been thinking. It’s the Bandini, isn’t it? They carried me off. Who else? They don’t want the marriage with their Leandro any more than we do.’ She fell back on the pillows and clenched her fists. ‘Ugh! The very thought.’
‘More urgent is the need to get you away from here. Can you walk? I doubt it; let’s see.’
With no need for modesty before the widow, Cosima pushed back the covers and managed to get her feet to the floor. The widow’s left arm supported her, and she clung to the right hand through its sleeve.
‘I don’t seem to have any legs,’ Cosima reported, breathless. She was lowered to the bed again.
‘A little practice. But at the sound of anyone approaching, to bed. You must appear confused and half asleep. You must practice. I can support you, but to carry you—’ the widow smiled demurely — ‘would look suspicious, wouldn’t it, if we were seen? There’s a journey ahead of us. You will need all your courage.’
‘Can’t we get Mother Luca to help? I’m sure that she would. She’s understanding, and kind.’
The widow looked intently at Cosima.
‘What would you say if I told you she was a Bandini?’
A strengthening draught, and mutton broth so thick with vegetables as to be almost pottage, were duly supplied to the widow and found their way to Cosima during Nones. It was also during Nones that a cheerful whistle sounded all along the courtyard side of the infirmary, and the widow, in her own room, stood on the wooden stool and slit the oiled paper of her window. After a moment during which she allowed the knife blade to show beyond the outer embrasure, the whistler came to a halt outside and Benno coughed.
The widow peeled back a comer of the paper and in a vigorous mutter informed him that Cosima was found, but was in no state to travel as anything but a parcel. The widow made enquiries about the stables and Benno, leaning idly against the wall, replied. The widow gave directions, and he listened.
‘There’s a couple of the servants,’ he said at the end, ‘that don’t have no duties. They’re not visitors like me. They get fed here and they go in and out, to the city. One of them came in soon after daybreak and was over here right off like he had news. Reporting to this Mother Luca, eh? Because a tall nun came over and put a new bandage on his wrist and talked to him all the time without looking up, and he kept nodding, and then he left. By all accounts the servants give, she runs the whole place and Reverend Mother just nods.’
Biondello, who had been ranging the purlieus, returning always to his idol and source of all earthly delights, now noticed that Benno was talking and stood still, cocking his ear and giving an enquiring whimper.
‘?’
‘
That
one’s going to be noticeable no matter how the rest of us disguise,’ remarked the widow.
‘We could dye him brown.’
‘And cut off the other ear? Keep an eye open for those doubtful characters, Benno. Do you all sleep in one room over there?’
‘I thought if we was to move off on the quiet, the servants’ loft is the last place I should be. I sleep with the horses.’
‘Good,’ said the widow, and tucking back the oiled paper as neatly as was possible, she descended from her perch as Benno went off, circled rapidly by Biondello.
The day wore on. More nuns were now with Sister Benedicta. The low murmur of prayers, now said aloud, pervaded the annexe. When the widow, pausing as before at the shrine, took her supper to Cosima, she found her lying just as she had first seen her; but at her approach the eyelids fluttered and Cosima sat up.
‘I knew your scent,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Cousin Caterina, I’ve been listening, and thinking — and look!’ Once more she pushed back the covers, swung her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘I’ve been walking. There’s no room, and it was dreadful at first, I kept falling — I longed for you to come and help me — but see.’ She walked to and fro; then lay down again far too thankfully for her boast to be true. The widow gave her the supper and watched as she ate it. ‘I’m so hungry! I’m not allowed much, because of the fever, but I didn’t mind until today. What are
you
eating, cousin?’
‘Oh, they gave me plenty,’ said Cousin Caterina, with a benign smile. She was used to fasting.
Cosima ate. She had been on a low diet and this was a stew with roborant herbs and spices.
The widow took plate and spoon, and stowed them about her person. As Cosima finished the wine, she asked her, ‘What would you do, cousin, if Sister came in while you were walking?’
Cosima unfocused her eyes. She bore, of a sudden, quite a resemblance to Benno at his most vacant. ‘Like that. I shall pretend I don’t know where I am.’ She handed over the cup and lay back.
The widow gave a soundless chuckle. ‘Cousin Jacopo didn’t get his riches by being a fool,’ she said. ‘You’re his daughter.’
Cosima’s small face under the cropped hair became fierce. ‘That Bandini woman shall
not
get the better of me.’
Cousin Caterina nodded and turned to go. The door opened, no warning tap being necessary for a drugged girl, and Mother Luca stood there. Her hand still on the latch, she stared at them. Cosima lay as one dead, her eyes closed, her face washed of meaning, and the widow stumbled forward, catching herself from a fall by grabbing the inner side of the latch, jarring Mother Luca’s grasp of it. Her eyes showed the whites hideously.
‘Oh Mother, at last. I went to the shrine... I felt so strange... How did this girl come to be in my cell? Is she dead?’
Mother Luca’s face expressed quite plainly that she would have been indifferent had the widow herself been
in extremis
. She summoned up a smile that gave new meaning to the words ‘lip service’ and stuffed her hands in her sleeves as if to spare the widow a box on the ear.
‘Go to your cell, daughter. This is not it. Go to your cell and remain there. I will send you medicine to calm you. This child is gravely ill, but, if she is not disturbed, she will not die.’
The widow, almost whispering her apologies, her thanks, made her way out, helping herself along by the wall as Mother Luca stood aside to let her go. The door was shut. She could only speculate on what Mother Luca was making of Cosima’s state. The medicine she should have taken was in the chamberpot and suitably diluted.
Once in her cell, she listened acutely, but the drone from next door overcame all other sounds. It would be unwise to visit Cosima again until the final time.
The day drew early to its ending. Dark clouds slowly obscured what remained of the daylight, which in these cells was never strong. Doors opened and shut. A distant chanting made itself heard, drawing nearer, and there was an impression rather than an actual noise, of a lot of people in the corridor outside. Someone pressed against the door. A small bell rang, and the widow opened her door and knelt, and remained so. The sisters were escorting the priest who brought the Sacrament to Sister Benedicta.
Nothing could be better.
Sister Ancilla appeared, her veil a little awry as if she had come through a press of people, and looking more distracted than was compatible with the Rule. She carried in both hands a horn cup, rather full. She gave hurried instructions that this medicine was to be drunk immediately and that the widow must lie down and rest. She did not stay to see it drunk but turned to collect a candle from a sister waiting at the door, who carried two. The door closed. The widow, sniffing the cup, raised her eyebrows and slowly nodded, pursing her lips: a draught for meddlers indeed. Father Vincenzio might have had to look in here when he had finished in Sister Benedicta’s room.
A shuffling next door initiated a general exodus, the procession reversed. The widow, opening her door a minute crack, watched Sister Benedicta, her bed carried by her sisters, on her way to the chapel in a dazzle of candlelight. As they processed into the dormitory, the widow was out of her own door and along to Cosima’s.