Sarah Dunant - Sacred Hearts

There are some for whom the text feels like a commentary on Santa Caterina itself.

“All that honored her despise her, because they have seen her shame. ”

IN THE EVENINGS, hardly any nuns visit Apollonia’s cell anymore, they are too busy on their knees in their own. A kind of stillness descends on the convent, heavy, cloying, like the stillness before a storm. A further chapter meeting passes without incident. Though the atmosphere remains charged, no one seems to have the energy for further drama. It is announced that the great crucifix is repaired and will be returned to the convent and rehung within the week. Even this news is received quietly. Umiliana, who is more of a politician than she herself knows, says nothing. Yet her soul remains taut as an overstretched lute string, and every evening she continues to pour her longing into the novice’s ears. She is waiting. As are they all.

WHILE IT WILL take at least a month for there to be enough change in her body for anyone to notice, after nearly two weeks of refeeding the girl’s face is altering a little: the great hollows under her eyes are growing less dark and there is a touch of color in her cheeks. It is time to add the next ingredient. The abbess must be brought into the plan.

Zuana is under no illusion as to how daunting a task this is. She knows how angry she will be. How angry she is already. Since their last meeting, Madonna Chiara has spent an increasing amount of time in her chambers, seeing visitors or writing letters. Those with sharp eyes would say she looks tired. Zuana knows better. A woman who is used to being in control of the world around her is watching it fall out of her grip. No, she will not want to hear this plan. It is therefore all the more important for Zuana to find ways to convince her.

That night, along with the usual food, Zuana brings two small pouches to the girl’s cell. After they have eaten she hands her the first one.

“Be careful with it.”

Apollonia has been generous with her face powder. “Take it as a thank-you for what you did for my sister,” she had said. “Though I must say, I never expected to find you in need of such things. But many of us are changing our behavior now. You should join us for a concert one evening. They may not continue much longer.”

Serafina—or rather Isabetta, for now that the food is working in her that is how she is beginning to think of herself again— opens the pouch and slips her finger in, then dusts the white powder across her cheeks.

“You must use it sparingly. Umiliana, in particular, can spot makeup from halfway across the choir stalls.”

Zuana takes the other pouch and puts it on the cot.

“As to this, I have measured the amount exactly. You remember the proportions for the water?”

She nods.

“Good. It is vital that you go ahead only if and when you have the sign. And that you do and say exactly what we have discussed. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“No more, no less. There will be no second chance.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” She is jumpy tonight. They both are. “You think it will come to this?”

“I don’t know. But if it does, she will need to see that you have the will and the stomach to carry it further.”

Zuana hands her the sharp little knife with which she had once cut and peeled the figwort root. Ah, how long ago was that?

“You are sure you can do this?” Zuana says.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” Along with the color in her cheeks there is now a flash of brightness to her eye. “It can hardly hurt more than my gut.”

THE NEXT MORNING Zuana goes to the abbess. There are no pleasantries between them on this visit, no offer of wine or a place by the fire.

“I have come to confess my disobedience, Madonna Chiara. Against your wishes I have been visiting the novice at night. And in doing so I have broken the Great Silence repeatedly.”

“Yes. Perhaps you might tell me something I do not know. How much she is putting into her stomach, for instance. She looked half dead at Lauds.”

“It was constipation, a necessary side effect of eating again. The fast is ended. And with it Umiliana’s influence over her.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Zuana takes a breath. She is more nervous than she has ever been in her life. “Madonna Chiara, I would give anything to protect this convent. I rejoice in the sustenance and comfort it brings me and many women like me—”

She starts quietly but the words ripen fast and fall over each other in their eagerness to get out.

She stops and gathers herself.

“The novice is equally loyal to you. Though she is strong-spirited, there is no spite in her. She was brought into Umiliana’s orbit by despair. But if we help her, she will reject her. And she will keep her silence until the grave. Anything and everything that has gone on inside these walls—or outside them—she will forget as if it had never happened.”

She stops. She can feel a fine sweat on her forehead. The abbess’s gaze is cool, even cold.

“What a passionate speech, Suora Zuana. Not like you at all. So tell me about this help we must give her to buy her silence. That is what you mean, isn’t it? From what I see she has food, nursing, and, it seems, the attention of half the convent. Pray, what more help could she require?”

Zuana does not flinch. “That she be allowed to leave this place and start a life with that young man, somewhere a long way away from here.”

The abbess stares at her for a moment. “My! Her wits have returned fast. Unless the idea did not come from her directly—”

“I have given it a great deal of thought, Madonna Chiara. And there is a way—”

“Oh, there are many ways,” she says, cutting across her. “I could open the gates for her this evening. Or perhaps I should let her petition the bishop so the shame can bring an inspection down upon us. Let me guess. You have had the arrogance to take it upon yourself to examine the body of Santa Caterina and you find—what? — some kind of remedy for its ills. I daresay your father has given you some help in this.” And her voice is cruel with sarcasm.

“My father does not speak to me anymore,” Zuana says quietly. “These thoughts are mine and mine alone.”

“In which case you are more at fault than I imagined. It seems you are the one with greensickness, even if you are too old for it. Has she turned your head, too? Seduced you as she has all the others, so that now you are willing to ruin the convent for her sake?”

“No, that is not how it is.” Zuana’s voice is clear, without quaver or fear now. “I love this place as much as you do.”

“You will forgive me if I harbor some doubt of that.”

“I would—”

“Be quiet!”

Zuana does as she is ordered. The abbess is silent for a moment, hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if she understands that she has overreached herself. Finally she raises her head.

“Our audience is finished. Your penance—”

“Madonna Chiara—”

“You will not interrupt me further!” For now she sees enemies all around and will have none of it. “Your penance is that from this moment on you are confined to your cell until I have decided what to do with you.”

There is nothing more she can do. Zuana bows her head to denote her obedience.

“And the novice?” she says quietly.

“If she needs further assistance, I will give it.”

BY THE OFFICE of Compline it is clear that something has happened to Zuana. Her choir stall has been empty since Sext. If it was illness, the abbess would surely have said something before the Great Silence so that she might be included in their prayers. Instead, she appears to be curiously oblivious to the absence.