Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

Alessandro and Ippolito were driven from the city; but the little Caterina― the only legitimate child of the house― was held by the new Government of Florence as a hostage and sent for safe keeping to the convent of Santa Lucia.

Here in the convent her life must be devoted to fasting and prayers; her room was a narrow cell with nothing bright in it but the silver crucifix which hung upon the wall; she must live the rough, hard life of the nuns. But it was not that which hurt her; it was not for the cold of stone walls and the hardness of her bed that she wept bitterly into her coarse sheets at night. It was for Ippolito― her beloved, handsome Ippolito, who was― she knew not where. They might have killed him, as they would have killed the Holy Father if they had caught him. He might be living as a beggar, roaming the countryside beyond the City.

All her prayers, all her tears were for Ippolito.

Six months passed in the gloom of Santa Lucia. She hated the sombre nuns in their stale-odoured garments; she hated the interminable hours of prayer.

‘Ippolito!’ she would cry. ‘Where are you?’ She would whisper to the figures of the saints: ‘Tell me, where is Ippolito? Only let him be safe and I will never sin again.’

Outside the walls of the convent the plague had come to Florence. In the streets, men, women, and children were dying in their hundreds. Was Ippolito one of these?

Then, like a sinister fog, the plague crept into Santa Lucia.

Caterina de’ Medici was too valuable a hostage to be allowed to run the risk of being taken by the plague. There was one thing left for the Government of Florence to do with this valuable little girl. On the other side of the city stood the Convent of Santa Annunziate delle Murate ― the only spot in the whole of Florence that had escaped the plague. So one night three men called at the Santa Lucia and Caterina was summoned from her cell to learn of her departure; and without ceremony, a concealing cloak wrapped about her, Caterina, in the company of these men, set out to cross the plague-stricken city.

She saw terrible sights on that night. She saw bodies of men and women stretched out on the cobbles, some dead, some dying; she saw doctors in masks and tarred coats bravely doing all they could for the stricken people; the black-clad Misericordia passed along the streets carrying a litter in which was a victim of the dreadful disease; she heard the jangling of the dead-cart, and the voices of the priest saying prayers for the departed as he walked ahead of the cart. She heard people carousing in the taverns; she saw women and men making love in a frenzy of impatience, as though they wished to snatch at every enjoyment they could find, since tomorrow they might have their place in the dead-cart.

It was fantastic, that journey; it seemed unreal to little Caterina; she felt numbed by the suddenness of change that touched her life and shattered it. She felt she could only wait for horror to overtake her. She tried to see the faces of those muffled in their cloaks. She was in the streets of Florence. What if she came face to face with Ippolito?

But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.

The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the Santa Inunziate delle Murate . Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.

But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.

One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.

‘Dear little Duchessina , welcome!’ said this nun.

Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’

Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa ‘Our little Duchess will be tired and hungry. Let us give her food; then she may go to her cell and rest. In the morning, Duchessina , we will have a talk.’

It was confusing, and she was bewildered. So many strange things had happened to her that she could no longer be surprised. She was given a place of honour at the long refectory table; she noticed that the soup had meat in it, and she remembered that this day was a Friday; the fish was served with sauces; it was more like a meal in the Medici palace than in a convent. There was conversation, whereas at Santa Lucia there had been a rule of silence during meals. But she was too tired to think very much about these matters, and as soon as the meal was over and prayers had been said, the two nuns who had greeted her on her arrival took her to her cell. She felt that the bed was soft, and that reminded her that they had eaten meat. The nuns were very friendly, respectful even; she could ask them why they ate meat on Fridays. She did.

‘Here in the Murate, Duchessina , we may eat meat on Fridays. It was a special dispensation from the Holy Father many years ago.’

They were shocked by the coarseness of the shirt she wore, and brought her one of fine linen. ‘This will be better for your delicate skin, Duchessina .’

‘At Santa Lucia,’ she told them, ‘all wore coarse shirts next the skin.’

‘That is well enough for Santa Lucia, but here in the Murate we are not of lowly birth, as many are in Santa Lucia. Here we temper godliness with reason.

For the glory of God, we wear our sombre robes, but for sweet reason’s sake we wear fine linen next our skins. Now sleep, dear little Duchess. You are among friends here.’

First one bent down to kiss her. ‘My brother is a member of the Medici party,’ she whispered. ‘He will rejoice to know you are safe with friends.’

The second nun bent over her. ‘My family await deliverance from the republicans.’

Caterina stared up at them and they laughed.

‘Tomorrow we will show you who are the supporters of your noble family.

There are many here in the Murate.’

‘And are there some for the republicans?’ asked Caterina.

‘Some. But that makes life exciting!’ said the nun who had first kissed her.

Caterina could not sleep when they had left her. She realized at once that life was going to be very different from what it had been in Santa Lucia.

‘Pray be seated,’ said the Reverend Mother.

How small the child looked in the big chair, her feet scarcely touching the ground. But what poise, what dignity! So rare in one so young. This child was going to be quick to learn and a joy to teach. For that very reason and because she was doubtless observant, it was imperative for the Reverend Mother to have a talk with her.

Yesterday Caterina had witnessed the entry of a young novice into the convent. There was a significant ceremony which always took place on such occasions, and from this ceremony the convent took its name. The novice arrived outside the convent walls accompanied by high dignitaries of the Church, who, with their own hands, broke down a section of the wall, and through the hole they made the novice pass. When she had done this, the wall was built up again. It was solemn and significant; the novice had passed behind the grey walls forever; she was built in and could not leave the Murate.

And little Caterina was puzzled. She had been for six months with the nuns of Santa Lucia, and Santa Lucia, with its fasting and strict observances, would seem what a convent should be. Here in the Murate there were amusement and laughter; the nuns were highly-born ladies, gay rather than earnest. It might seem to that logical little mind that, for all its ceremonies an outward show of piety, the Convent of the Murate was less holy than that of Santa Lucia; and it was very important what this little girl thought of the Murate, for one day she was to make a grand marriage and hold a very high position in the world. She must be made to understand that the Murate’s way of life was, in its comfort, as godly as that of the Santa Lucia its austerity.