The infirmarian’s assistant nun came towards them just as the murmur continued ‘…and make offerings for thanksgiving at having been brought to a harbour of kindness after such travail…’
The sister took the widow in charge with respectful care. Here was a woman of substance in more ways than one. The widow paused to gaze at the huge crucifix on the wall and her lips moved silently.
She was escorted to a small private room as suitable to her status. There again was a lack of show, no more than a narrow cot curtained, a small scrubbed table beside it for candlestick, Book of Hours and medicines, a stool for a visitor, and another crucifix, on a more economical scale, opposite the bed to concentrate the sufferer’s last gaze. The widow sank upon the bed as though her legs would take her no further, gave a great sigh and, fixing her eyes upon the crucifix, wiped away what must have been a tear.
‘I thank God I have been permitted to reach this haven.’ She joined her hands and said an Ave in which the sister took part. Then, with a curiously sweet smile on a face which was not prepossessing she murmured, ‘I have escaped so many dangers. A great number of travellers must be grateful for this protection. I cannot be alone in finding it at this time.’
‘You are the only one to arrive today, madam, but we have another — ah, here is Mother Luca herself.’
The sudden nervousness of the infirmary assistant did not appear to be justified by the mild sweetness of Mother Luca’s greeting, but it did not escape the attention of the widow. A thin hand pressed her down as she attempted to rise; she fell back, gasping with exhaustion.
‘I can see you are over-taxed, madam. You must rest.’ The hand was laid lightly on the brow under linen band, and skimmed to what part of the cheek was not covered. ‘No fever, I see, so I shall prescribe a draught to strengthen the blood. Sister Ancilla, bring our guest a cup of the wine that is mulling for Sister Benedicta. Be sure that it is not too hot.’
Once the nun had gone, gliding with as much haste as the Rule would permit, Mother Luca, slipping her hands inside her sleeves, turned all her attention to the widow. Even the plainest face can gain distinction from the simplicity of a nun’s headdress, but the Infirmarian’s face, though no longer young, would have turned heads anywhere. The olive skin had still a glow, though the dark eyes under the melancholy fold of lids looked as if they had seen a good deal of sorrow, whether in the world or here. Her smile, however, when it came, as now it did, was charming enough to put heart into her patients.
Her assistant reappeared with eager speed.
‘When you have drunk this wine,’ Mother Luca said, offering the cup with quiet authority, ‘you must eat. I will have a minestra prepared for you. With lettuce, which will be sedative. Later perhaps a draught of valerian.’
‘You are so kind, Mother. I think I am almost too weary to eat.’ The long sleeve concealed most of the hand the widow placed on her midriff; the husky murmur faded under the reproof of Mother Luca’s raised eyebrows.
‘That is precisely the time when one must force oneself, my daughter. Discipline is needed for many things in this life, and the recovery of health is foremost for you. Now you must sleep.’ She extended a hand for the cup, from which the widow had drunk in genteel sips, making little appreciative sounds at the healing warmth.
‘May I go to chapel, Mother? I cannot sleep till I have prayed.’
‘Tonight you shall pray here, madam. I shall come to see you after Compline and by then I trust you will have recovered from the worst effects of your journey.’
Smiling, Mother Luca wafted her assistant before her and shut the cell door softly but with decision.
Left alone, the widow straightened from her drooping docility and sat for a moment or two listening intently. Not far away, chanting came more loudly for a moment, then was cut off by the sound of a door shutting. The widow rose, gathering her skirts, and prepared to disobey the Infirmarian.
The arched corridor was deserted. To one side, the door just closed by Mother Luca or her assistant led to the big dormitory and the chapel. To the left were three other doors beyond the widow’s, and opposite them, two long thin windows like arrow-slits but filled with fine grey glass. Most of the illumination came from a candle inside a small lantern in front of a Madonna between the windows.
When, on her arrival, the widow had been led through the dormitory, only two patients had been lying there; both had lain on their backs, hands crossed on their breasts in the fashion proper to a sleeping nun. On both, divested of their veils as of their outer garments, the white cap made their faces more sickly yellow by contrast. Neither had been young. If Cosima di Torre were in this convent, she was not in the main dormitory. She might be in the guest quarters, but the widow believed in looking under one’s hand. She softly lifted the latch of the door next to hers.
The room replicated her own. The narrow cot held only a bare straw mattress.
The next room held an occupant, evidently the Sister Benedicta for whom the prayers were being said. Privacy was hers probably because she was about the business of dying. She too lay flat, hands crossed and eyes closed, but she was even more pale than her sisters, with grey shadows in the hollow face. Candles stood by her head as though to anticipate that final state in the chapel where Sister Benedicta would be surrounded by candles saved by her on each Feast of the Purification against her lying there in death. At the foot of the bed, her back to the door, a nun knelt, rosary moving silently. The table by the bed held flasks and a cup; a scent of herbs lay heavy among the scent of wax. The widow crossed herself and withdrew.
The last room also had an occupant. Lying with eyes closed, but with hands at her sides, was what at first sight seemed to be a boy, because of the cropped hair. The face, smooth and ivory pale, was that of a girl of perhaps seventeen. The widow smiled, moved forward and shut the door as softly as if it were a shadow.
The girl did not stir when the widow bent over her, close to her face. She did not even wake when the cup on her table was picked up for the widow to sniff that also. The flask beside the cup was examined, a drop tipped from it onto the widow’s finger and licked. As the flask was set down again the girl’s eyelids flickered and the widow sank onto the stool and took the limp hand. In spite of the brazier burning in the room, the girl’s fingers were cold, not responsive to the encouraging pressure of the broad hand.
‘Cosima?’
The eyes were hazel, more green than brown, all the larger in the pale face for the dark shadows beneath. Her gaze held only mild surprise.
‘Is it time for supper, Mother?’ She frowned a little, as though trying to bring her thoughts together. ‘I’m sorry… it’s not Mother Luca… Are you a new sister?’ A nun’s dress, being adapted from that of a widow, was easily mistaken. Her voice was slow and confused, unable to adjust to the waking world. The widow patted her hand, and spoke low, with cautious urgency, alert for any noise outside.
‘Cosima. What do you recall about coming here?’
The girl was puzzled. ‘I can’t… I was brought in by travellers… Mother says they rescued me from robbers. I was very ill. A fever. They cut all my hair,’ she added plaintively.
‘Are you ill now?’
The girl’s eyelids drooped. She was beginning to tire. ‘But, Sister, didn’t Mother tell you?’
The widow’s ear had caught the sound of a distant door. With agility astonishing for one of her bulk and so voluminously beskirted, she was at the door, putting a finger to her smiling lips as she turned for a moment towards Cosima. She had just time to shut her own door behind her before Sister Ancilla went past to see how far Sister Benedicta had loosed her soul from its earthly moorings. The widow, anticipating a check on her own condition, sank to her knees by the pallet and set up a flow of prayer in a husky murmur.