The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ cell, a pair of nuns were carrying out a third. The last was completely rigid, and her sisters had lifted only her head and feet, as if she were a plank of wood. The two nuns glanced up at us, their forbidding gazes intended to silence all questions.

      As they passed, Tommasa quickly crossed herself, and rest of us followed suit. We held our tongues and our places until they had disappeared down the corridor.

      “Did you see that?” Lionarda, the oldest girl, hissed.

      “Dead,” one of the others said.

      “Frozen,” I said. But at the refectory, as we were waiting to have our bowls filled, one of the novices in front of us fainted and was taken away. I thought little of it: I swept floors and patched worn habits, unflinching when I pricked my chill-numbed fingers with the needle. I didn’t worry until that evening at vespers, when I noticed that the chapel was only half full.

      I whispered to Tommasa, “Where are the other sisters?”

      “Taken sick,” she answered. “Some sort of fever.”

      That night, I counted five separate times that the nuns hurried up and down the corridor. In the morning, four of us rose from the mattress. Lionarda did not.

      Her breath hung as white vapor in the frigid air above her face; despite the cold, her forehead shone with sweat. One of the other girls tried to wake her, but neither shouting nor shaking could make her open her eyes. We called for the nuns, but no one came; the cells near ours were empty.

      Tommasa and I stayed with Lionarda and sent the other two girls to get help. Half an hour later, a novice came in her white veil and black apron. Silently—for it was during an hour the nuns did not speak—she slipped her hands beneath Lionarda’s nightgown and ran them swiftly over her neck, collarbone, armpits. She then reached under the gown to feel the area around Lionarda’s groin and drew back with a spasm of fear.

      She lifted up a corner of the nightgown to reveal a lump the size of a goose egg at the top of the girl’s thigh, encircled by a dark purple ring, like a perfectly concentric bruise.

      “What is it?” Tommasa breathed.

      The novice mouthed an answer. I looked up too late to see it, but Tommasa gasped and lifted her hand to her throat.

      “What is it?” I echoed, directing the question at Tommasa.

      She turned toward me, her eyes and nose streaming from the cold, and whispered:

      “Plague.”

      After they carried Lionarda away, Tommasa and I went to the refectory for the morning meal, then headed to the common room. Sister Violetta normally assigned us our chores there at that time. But the room had become a hospital, with a score of women lying on the floor—some groaning, some ominously quiet. An elderly sister intercepted us at the doorway and gestured for us to return to our cell. There we found the other two boarders, Serena and Constantina, sewing shrouds.

      “What happened to Lionarda?” Serena demanded, and when I explained, she said, “Half the sisters were missing from the refectory this morning. It’s plague, all right.”

      We huddled on the bed, our conversation anxious. I thought of Aunt Clarice, of how devastated she would be to learn that I had died in a squalid hovel, of how Piero would cry when he learned that I was gone.

      After two hours, the elderly sister appeared in the doorway to tell Tommasa her brothers were at the grate—and to warn her that she was not to speak of the sickness at the convent. Tommasa left, and within the hour returned, her eyes bright with a secret. She said nothing until midday, when she rose to go to the water closet and gestured surreptitiously for me to join her.

      After we entered the foul-smelling little room, she drew her fist from her pocket, then slowly uncurled it.

      A small black stone, polished to a sheen, rested in her palm. I snatched it from her and thought of how Aunt Clarice had looked at me when the Wing of Corvus and the herb had dropped from my gown, how she had gazed thoughtfully at me as I bent to pick them up.

       Did Ser Cosimo give you those? Keep them safe, then.

      Only Clarice could have known that I had left the stone at Poggio a Caiano. Only Clarice could have found it and returned it to me to let me know I was not forgotten. My heart welled.

      “Who gave this to you?” I demanded of Tommasa.

      “A man,” she said. “My brothers were leaving and I had just lowered the veil over the grate. The man must have looked through the bottom grate and seen the hem of my skirt.”

      “What did he say?” I asked.

      “He asked me whether I was friend or foe of the Medici,” Tommasa replied. “And when I said neither, he asked me if I knew a girl named Caterina. I told him yes, you were my friend.

      “He offered me money if I would bring you that”—Tommasa nodded at the stone in my hand—“but speak of it to no one. Is it a family keepsake?”

      “It was my mother’s,” I lied. Tommasa could clearly be trusted, but I needed no accusations of witchcraft to add to my troubles. “Did he say anything else?”

      “I told him to throw the money through the lower grate into the alms box, as an offering to the convent. And I asked him whether he had any message for you, and he said, ‘Tell her to be strong a little longer. Tell her I will return.’”

      A little longer… I will return. The words made me giddy. I tucked the stone between my apron and dress, nestling it near the fabric sash that served as my belt.

      I looked up at Tommasa. “We must never speak of this, not even to each other. The rebels would kill me or take me away.”

      She nodded solemnly.

      Despite the presence of plague and the relentless winter, I walked Santa-Caterina’s halls with growing joy. Each time I slipped my hand beneath my apron, I fingered the stone, and its cold, smooth surface became Clarice’s embrace.

      The next morning, we four remaining boarders rose to discover that the refectory had been closed. The cooks had fallen ill, and the remaining healthy sisters were overwhelmed by the added work of caring for the sick. No doubt there were more shrouds to be sewn, but the convent’s routine had been broken, so we were forgotten. We returned to our cell and sat on the lumpy straw mattress, hungry and frightened and cold, and tried to divert one another with gossip.

      After a few hours, sounds echoed in the corridor: a nun’s sharp voice, feet scurrying against stone floors, doors being opened and closed. I peeked down the hallway and saw a sister madly kicking up dust with a broom.

      “What are they doing?” Serena called. She sat cross-legged on the bed next to Tommasa.

      “Cleaning,” I replied in wonderment.

      More doors were closed; the frenzied sweeping stopped. I could hear Sister Violetta issuing orders in the distance but could see no one. After a time, we girls went back to our stories.

      Sister Violetta suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

      “Girls,” she said crisply and beckoned at them with her finger, even though СКАЧАТЬ