The Madonna of the Almonds (19 page)

Bernardino had dreamed of Elijah, the boy with the dove in his hand. He did not know why the memory troubled him now. All his dreams were of his time in Saronno, but mostly he slept in the slim circle of Simonetta’s arms. He did not dream of the paintings he had done, or the friendships he had made. Only of her. After his troubled and early awakening he left his cell at dawn and walked through the cloister, thinking of the boy as he had clung to him when he carried him from harm. He had never felt a connection to a child in his life before, yet this one had struck him to the heart. Though it was yet daybreak he could hear the sisters’ song from the Hall of the Nuns and marvelled at the steadfastness of their devotions. Then he smiled at himself, for was not he rising early to follow his own religion?

He walked straight into the Hall of the Believers and took up his brushes. As he mixed his pigments he remembered again, as the dream faded, the sweet face of Elijah. The tow head and the smiling eyes when he caught Bernardino
uttering an oath he should not have spoken. Bernardino shivered as he drew the face from memory. He hoped the boy were not dead, for he knew well that the dead visited in dreams. Dead or in danger. If so, this would be his memorial. The charcoal lines grew into an angel, wings sprouted from the shoulders and a loveable
putto
formed – not a lofty cherub with a heavenly countenance to sit in the fabled ranks of the seraphim, but a human child with a human expression. Bernardino worked till noon, laying shadow and colour. He placed two long white ceremonial candles in the child’s hands where they weighed like the scales of justice. Lastly the same tallow-white provided highlights to burnish the gold curls. Bernardino stood back and rested his chin on his aching hand. He remembered when he had met Elijah, that the boy had instinctively trusted Bernardino and told him his true name before correcting himself with the Christian version ‘Evangelista’. This gave Bernardino pause. The boy was a Jew. Did he have a right to depict the child here, among the Christian Saints, watched over by a God that was not his own? Without knowing precisely why, he mixed a thick blood-scarlet and adorned the wing feathers till they were a rich red. Should posterity question, the red wings marked him out – an angel apart.

Amaria and Selvaggio went into the woods. As soon as they were under the cover of the trees, they clasped hands, as was their custom when none of the townsfolk could see. Today she felt the pull of his hand as he led the way. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

He slid his leaf-green eyes sideways and smiled. ‘You’ll see.’

She asked no more. She was happy, holding his hand, going wherever he would. Now and again she looked at him – his beloved serious face dappled by the leaves under the sun, now light, now dark.

Selvaggio looked back at her, and rejoiced in her beauty. On this shining day she seemed all of a piece with the coming of spring – she could be the goddess
Primavera
herself. Her skin glowed with health, her hair shone in its carefully dressed loops and coils about her ears and neck, studded today in reverence for the spring with white and yellow days-eyes. Her gown was the same green as the sward,
cut from a bale of cloth that he had bought her with his earnings, made up before the fire by Nonna. Her dark eyes sparkled with animation and promise. She was so
alive
, so fecund. Selvaggio could see her lying above and beneath him, laughing, her abundant hair spread on a pillow. He could imagine her carrying his child, his children – the curves of her body growing in amplitude with the passing months. Sun-spots danced in his eyes and desire beat in his chest so hard that he thought he might lose consciousness. He wanted her
so
much, wanted her not just as his lover, but as the root of his family. She had brought him back from death and made him live again. She was as a fruitful vine, and he wanted to live to see their children’s children.

They walked through the glades and the clearings, following the crystal brook till they came to the
pozzo dei
mariti
. As Amaria saw the wells and heard the splashing of the falls she gasped in delight. ‘’Tis where we first met!’ she said.

Selvaggio smiled, and led her to the nearest pool, where a fish leaped and dropped with a sudden flash of silver. When the surface had settled again, mirror bright, they looked into the pool together, his hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you know what they say of this place?’

Amaria blushed. ‘They say that…if you look into the pool, you can see the face of…your husband.’ She spoke falteringly, as if in a dream.

‘And is it true?’

She looked closely at him, mindful of his teasing. But his face was serious, and she suddenly saw that he was not playing a game. ‘You tell me.’

‘I think it is.’ He turned her to face him, and her heart leapt too, like the fish they had seen jump. ‘I love you, Amaria Sant’Ambrogio.’ He said the words she had first taught him; ‘
mano
,’ as he took her hand, ‘
cuore
,’ as he placed her hand on his heart, ‘
bocca
,’ as he kissed her, tenderly, on the mouth.

When at last they broke apart her eyes were filled with tears. She was beautiful as she laughed with pure joy. ‘Come home,’ she said, ‘we must tell Nonna.’ They hurried back through the woods and across the river, and this time Amaria held Selvaggio’s hand all the way through the town so that all may see, as if she would never let it go.

Bernardino suffered a troubled night. He twisted on his pallet of straw, and opened his eyes to horrible visions that marched across the roof of his cell. Fire, screams and Simonetta in danger. He slept at last, but the visions lived then behind his eyes, and he awoke to the grey day with his cheeks wet, in a panic of consternation that he could no longer remember Simonetta’s face. He headed for the lay hall to begin his work, and as he heard the nuns finish the songs of Terce he waited for Sister Bianca’s footsteps. He knew she would come, as she always did before she began the day’s offices. She took his instruction seriously, and he welcomed her company, more than ever today when he was afraid to be alone with his own forebodings.

Presently he knew she was there, though she had entered on silent feet; and he felt rather than heard her seated behind him, knew he would turn to see her with her hands piously crossed, watching with wonder as a heathen painted a Holy scene as if he believed every story and symbol. He
felt the comfort of her presence, not as a mother figure nor yet a sister, but as something apart from every woman he had ever known. He had never felt such indifference to the female person, and yet such a warmth of friendship, without the difficulties and challenges that normally beset men and women in their discourse. His mother, frequently jug-bitten or absent with this lover or that, had had little time for him. Simonetta he had loved with his whole heart and she had sent him away in the name of her God. But Sister Bianca asked nothing from him, yet gave her time and her knowledge, her comfort and solace.

‘Today’s subject?’ her gentle tones reached him.

‘Saint Ursula.’

‘Ah, Saint Ursula.’

‘Tell me. I know only that she is depicted with arrows. I should like to know why.’

She told him then, speaking as a mother who tells a tale to her children, as his mother had never done. As in the best tales there was happiness but also sorrow, and there was evil as well as good. She spared him nothing. ‘Once, in the land of Brittany, there lived a good king whose name was Theonotus. He had one daughter who was the sun in his sky. He taught her well, and she soon knew all there was to know about the lands of the earth, the elements that it held, she could name each flower and bird, each heavenly body, and which countries lay in the breath of the four winds. The princess grew to be as beautiful as she was wise, and
she was soon sought in marriage by Conan, son of the king of England across the sea, which was at that time a heathen country which had not accepted the Christian faith.’

As before, when the Abbess spoke, Bernardino saw the scenes she described to him appear on the blank panel he was to paint. He did not understand what had happened to him to make him see in this way, that he was now brother to those seers, or scryers or soothsayers of the pagan world, or even the religious visionaries of the Holy one. He knew only that what came to him was real. He saw now the golden princess, growing in beauty and learning, kneeling to kiss the papery cheek of her greybeard father.

‘The king was saddened that his daughter may leave him,’ the Abbess went on, ‘but the girl agreed to the match on three conditions.’

Bernardino watched the scene as Ursula drew herself up to address the English emissaries, tall and straight as a willow wand. ‘“I would have the prince send to me ten of the noblest ladies of your land to be my companions and friends; and for each of these ladies and myself, a thousand handmaidens to wait upon us,” said Ursula. “Secondly, he must give me three years before the date of my marriage so that I and these maidens may have time to affirm our faith by visiting the shrines of the Saints in distant lands. And thirdly, I ask that the prince Conan shall accept the true faith and be baptized a Christian. For I cannot wed even so great and perfect a prince, if he be not as perfect a Christian.”’

Bernardino smiled to himself at the resolute nature of the young woman he now watched. He lowered his voice as if Ursula were actually there. ‘So she witheld her person so that he should convert.’

‘In truth she believed that her conditions would be too much for Conan and she would remain free,’ replied Sister Bianca. ‘But Ursula was fairer than any lady that walked the earth – her skin was pearl; her hair was gold, and her eyes were as blue as the Virgin’s robe.’

Bernardino swallowed as he thought of Simonetta, for she had eyes that could be described so. Again he struggled to see her as clearly as the Saint before him. Of her he needed no such description, as he could clearly see the princess on the wall before him; he began to draw Ursula’s face as Bianca spoke with quick and accurate strokes. ‘The English sent letters to all points of the compass, to Ireland, Scotland and Wales, bidding all knights and nobles to send their daughters to court with their attendant maidens, the fairest and noblest of the land. Ursula gathered the eleven thousand maidens about her, and in a green meadow with a silver stream she baptized all those that had not yet accepted God. They set out for Rome to visit the shrine of the Saints, and their journey through the icy mountains was so hard that our Lord God sent six angels to help the eleven thousand on their way. Presently they descended into Italy and journeyed past the great lakes of our own dear Lombardy where the white mountains gaze at their twins in
the looking-glass water. At last they reached the Holy City and there Conan followed, to be reunited with his lady at the end of the three years and be blessed by the Pope himself. Great was the rejoicing of the pair at their reunion, for despite her initial reluctance Ursula had come to love her betrothed. He had received instruction in the Christian faith and caused himself to be baptised, and as he had bent himself to her will and fulfilled her conditions, she accepted him with her whole heart in the sight of God.’

Once again Bernardino’s sight was filled with a vision and the wall came to life. As he watched the transfigured scene he knew that such happiness invited doom, the doom he had seen in his dream. All sweetness faded to death and despair, as his own love for Simonetta had done. He knew Conan and Ursula would not remain united, and as he watched the happy pair kneel at the fabled shrines, he felt a shiver of pity.

‘They worshipped at the shrines of Peter and Paul then set out for Cologne to continue their pilgrimage. But the barbarian huns that laid siege to that city were troubled by their coming. They knew that such a company of fair pilgrims would likely settle in the city and in a short time would marry and convert their husbands – and so the whole region – to Christianity. So the huns fell on the defenceless pilgrims and turned their deadly bows upon them. Prince Conan was the first to fall, pierced by an arrow, at the feet of his princess. Then the savage soldiers fell upon the gentle
maidens like a pack of wolves, and these eleven hundred white lambs were slain, every one.’

Once again, Bernardino saw the carnage carried to him by the nun’s sweet voice. He looked among the fallen for Ursula. He knew she must be there, but needed to know her fate. ‘Ursula stood brave and steadfast through it all, with courage and fortitude. Her beauty and courage shone forth so brightly that she was spared by the barbarians. And when she stood alone over the dead they took her to their king. He was so taken with her beauty and courage that he offered her marriage. She refused with such scorn and censure that he bent the bow that was in his hand, shot three arrows through the heart of Princess Ursula and killed her instantly. But Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins defeated death; for they became famous in their martyrdom, and Ursula, in losing her earthly crown, attained the crown of heaven. She is still the Saint of intercession for all those who die by the arrow; a plentiful company I’m afraid, in these times.’ The nun fell silent at this, no doubt in the hope that Bernardino would reflect on her words.

Bernardino clenched his fists. He fought to resist the piety of the tale, the pat conclusion of inevitable martyrdom. How foolish had he been to hope, to think that Ursula could survive, as her end was painted on every chapel in Christendom. But then he thought of Simonetta, of her courage; not in battle but in everyday life, the way she had come to him, chin high, for the money to save her house,
her fortitude when the townsfolk censured her in the church, the way she had faced him and sent him away when everything but God’s law cried out for them to be together. He thought of the times she had told him of her daily hunts with her bow, the way she had honed her aim from day to day, thinking of the Spaniards that had shot her husband. Did she know this tale? Did she pray to the patron Saint of arrows? He now gave Ursula a robe of gold and white, and a cloak of purple and red. Her hair was twisted back but red-gold curls still framed the lovely face. He worked long after Sister Bianca had gone, till Ursula held a sheaf of arrows in one hand and a palm leaf in the other. The brush in his hand led the Saint’s eyes down to the red winged angel on the panel below, and he completed the depiction with a cruel death barb protruding from the Ursula’s bosom. The eyes, serene with hooded Lombard lids, remained unmoved despite the sticking arrow; bent on the child Elijah, as if the dying woman could see the future in children. Finally Bernardino mixed his whites and golds and placed a crown of heaven on her head, a crown of gossamer light filigree, with fleur de lys and circlets of silver and gilt. He wondered if Simonetta too would show such courage in the face of a true life or death conflict. He could not shake his sense of impending darkness, as if night was falling around him as it did outside. He climbed down from his platform and, in an awkward genuflection, knelt on the cold stone. He began to pray for the first time in years. His language was halting, his
tones unaccustomed. He did not address anyone, not a Saint or Deity, not Father, Son or Holy Ghost. He just fervently asked that the day that would ask so much of Simonetta and her arrows would never come.