She had to pray for long enough for the sub-infirmarian to visit both the other occupied cells; then a tap on the door preceded her entrance, followed by a lay sister carrying a board with a covered dish, the soup ordered by Mother Luca. The widow, rising, confessed herself to be a little better but suffering from great agitation of the heart. She was not altogether surprised to hear that Mother Luca had already prepared her a calming draught with her own hands and would, as she had promised, be coming to judge of its effect after Compline.
There was no time to waste.
Left alone, the widow drank her soup, considered the calming draught, disposed of it in the necessary under the bed and, holding the pot under her robes, added to the contents by way of disguise. All this had taken but a short time, and she was then ready to slip along to Cosima’s room. It was all but dark now on this winter afternoon, the narrow windows showed blackly by contrast with the lantern’s red reflection on the walls. The bell over the chapel rang for Vespers and the nuns would be in chapel, except for the one by Sister Benedicta and those, like the sub-infirmarian, with permission to stay at their work; and Sister Ancilla had just visited her patients and was not likely to be back for a while.
In Cosima’s cell, the brazier’s coals had been replenished and, unfortunately, so had her cup. It was empty now and Cosima lay motionless and dumb. The widow, even by shaking her, could win no response. She did not linger, but returned briskly to her own room where she sat for a time on the bed, deep in thought. Then she removed, and folded on the stool, her outer garments and veil and got into bed, pulling the coverlet up to her cap strings, snuffing out the light and closing her eyes to wait for Mother Luca’s visit in a few hours. Only those without resources waste time in repining and, before minutes were out, the widow’s sleep was genuine. When at length Mother Luca and her night lantern went round, she left the widow in satisfaction with the efficacy of her draught.
The widow was accustomed to sleeping lightly and to waking when she chose. She heard the chapel bell for Matins at two in the morning; for Lauds at five. As the bell began ringing again for Prime, she calculated the hour at not long after seven, by the faint grey round her window shutter strengthening to daybreak. She had established that before each Office, Mother Luca or Sister Ancilla, sometimes both, made the rounds of their patients. They passed along outside the cells almost without a sound, and only sharp hearing would have detected the raising and drop of latches on each door. A nun’s training to be noiseless in performance of her duties was demonstrated finely in the care of the sick.
The widow had also discovered, by the most acute listening, that the nuns who prayed by the dying sister would be relieved before an Office was due.
Mother Luca was pleased to hear that the widow had slept well, but concerned that she found herself still weak, indeed hardly able to stand.
‘It seems, I fear, that I must trespass upon your patience. Indeed, I intend to remember this house of succour in my will as well as in my prayers. And I can pay for such things as you may think necessary, any drugs, and food. The robbers, I thank God,’ she directed pious eyes briefly towards the ceiling, ‘were driven off enough for us to escape before they could take what I carried.’ She produced a small, chinking bag from her robes.
‘You may do whatever God puts it into your heart to do, daughter, but this foundation is, thanks to Him, well able to carry out the duty to relieve and serve. We do not ask payment. God be praised that your life was spared, let alone your possessions.’
Sister Ancilla began to say that indeed robbers were a danger to all, to other — and perhaps she would have spoken of the other traveller so close by, but Mother Luca’s calm tone, without emphasis, rode her down.
‘I shall send you a carminative to strengthen the vital energies. You will like to wash, and hot water will soon be provided before you break your fast.’
She left, Sister Ancilla a flustered second after. Mother Luca had saved her from useless talk.
It was important for the widow to have time to use the hot water before any sister arrived with food. What she did in the interval required haste, skill, the temporary removal of her headgear and a razor-sharp knife. By the time the lay sister came with bread and half a cold fowl and wine, and took down the shutter to let in daylight, the widow reclined fully clothed and the wimple in place over cleanly shaven cheeks. She lay back exhausted and feebly expressed anxiety over her groom’s care of her horse. She felt a responsibility for the lack-wit and would be glad if she might see for herself how he did. The lay sister doubtfully suggested that permission might be given for the lady’s groom to come to the porch of the infirmary, if the lady were only strong enough to walk there. The widow professed complete confidence in her recovery with the help of Mother Luca, and suggested that her groom might be summoned when the noon meal was in progress and he might be less likely to disturb devout eyes.
The lay sister had been admiring two pilgrim seals the widow had placed beside her bed, of St Godelieve from Ghent and St Hubert from Brussels; she undertook to mention the groom to Sister Ancilla at least. Sister Benedicta was failing fast, and the drugs that soothed her pain required Mother Luca’s particular skill in the delicate adjustment that would allow her to give her soul into God’s hands in consciousness.
Sister Giuseppe and the widow crossed themselves at that thought. The sister left, aware that she had stayed longer than was necessary with their new guest who, in spite of the pathos of her condition, was somehow a little disturbing.
It was after Mother Luca’s round, at the tune for Tierce, when the widow took her chance. She left her room.
The corridor had been washed down and was still damp. She paused in thought before placing her footprints, so betrayingly large, but it was to be hoped the stone would dry before they could be seen, or that they would be brushed over by her skirts. She went first to the Madonna and paused again there, listening. Risks had to be taken.
Cosima was alone, and less drowsy than yesterday. She smiled and, though her voice was faint and anxious, she spoke. ‘Have you come to pray for me, Sister? Am I getting worse?’
‘You are well, Cosima. All that is wrong with you is the drink Mother Luca gives you. It’s that which makes you sleepy and confused.’
Cosima’s eyes widened. ‘Mother Luca says I need sleep, to recover from what happened, and my illness — the fever.’
‘I think you never had fever. Did you wonder why your father sent no letter, no messenger?’
Cosima’s fingers struggled in the warm grasp. ‘Mother said news has been sent. He knows I am safe.’
‘In his villa in the country? No. He believes you have been snatched away by his enemies. He does not know where you are.’
Cosima brushed her eyes with her fingers as if to dispel cobwebs. ‘I don’t understand. I was rescued from robbers.’
‘A trick. The sisters may believe it, but it was all arranged, to hide you from your father so that he may suffer.’
Her eyes were thoroughly alive, and frightened. She made an effort to sit up. ‘I must tell Mother Luca. She’ll help me.’
‘Mother Luca is not your friend.’
‘Who are you? How do you know all this? How can it possibly be true?’ She fell back on the pillows, breathing hard, bewildered. The widow turned her head, listening to a distant door, and then spoke in haste, still keeping her voice from its natural depth. ‘I’m your father’s cousin Caterina. I saw you at your christening. That cross you wear was my gift. Your groom Benno is here, and together we will take you back to your father. But, if you wish to see him, you must do what I tell you, and say nothing, of me, of all I have said-’