Borgo.”
“Startled by something in the crowd,” growled pomegranate face. I wondered who he could be, a man who could interrupt Duke Valentino with impunity.
“Doubtless,” said Cesare with a nasty smile.
“My lord duke, Don Michele, what is the meaning of this interruption? Have you no piety in your souls? Look at this woman.” Donna Lucrezia gestured towards Sister Osanna. Don Michele dropped to his knees as if felled and crossed himself extravagantly. Cesare merely glared at his sister.
“You knew of my invitation to Signorina Donata. What possessed you to cross me in this?”
Donna Lucrezia had scarcely opened her mouth to reply when Sister Osanna turned away from us to face Cesare, who was standing a little way behind her. I saw the flush of anger drain from Cesare’s cheeks and his skin turn as white as Sister Osanna’s wimple. His dog cringed, laid its face on its paws, and began to whimper.
“The kingdoms of men are but as a straw fire,” said Sister Osanna in her strange, strong voice. “How bright you burn, how utterly you will be snuffed out. Beware, little duke, beware the hand of the Great Avenger.”
Cesare swayed. I thought he would faint. I started from my stool to run to his aid, but Sister Osanna, even though she had her back to me, raised her hand in a stalling gesture, the bandages falling away to reveal a blood-crusted puncture wound. I stood, stunned, as though I had run into an invisible wall. The room felt suddenly colder, even the portraits on the walls seemed to shiver. I saw Father Eustasius chafe his upper arms as though he, too, felt a draught. Whatever script he and the abbess had written for Sister Osanna, the lines she had just spoken were not part of it.
Cesare’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. He tried again. “Twenty eight,” he said eventually, in a hoarse whisper.
“Twenty,” replied Sister Osanna, and for some reason, that made him laugh.
“You flatter me there, sister,” he said, and the spell was broken. Sister Osanna turned her back on Cesare, almost with contempt, it seemed to me.
“My bandages,” she commanded her attendants, though they paused, glancing from their abbess to Donna Lucrezia for direction. Donna Lucrezia nodded and they began to re-bind Sister Osanna’s wounds. Catherinella returned with the water, inscrutable in her blackness, or perhaps in her experience of serving Donna Lucrezia.
“Come on,” said Cesare, holding out his hand to me. “They have held up the boar racing until my return. You will miss nothing more.” I fancied Don Michele’s hand moved a fraction closer to the hilt of one of the daggers in his belt.
“Madonna…?”
“You may go, Donata. As Sister Osanna is to accompany us to Ferrara, you will have plenty more opportunities to benefit from her sanctity.”
I looked to see what effect this news might have on Cesare, but it was as though Sister Osanna was of no more consequence than any other nun he might encounter in the street or the public audience chambers of the Vatican. Tucking my hand under his arm, he began to trade odds with Don Michele, leaving me to luxuriate in the warmth from his body as he guided me through doorways, along passages, down staircases, until we reached a small, plain door I had never seen before. Don Michele unlocked this with a key Cesare gave him and stood aside to let us through. Cesare ducked to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. From one of the low, winding passages in the oldest part of the palace of Santa Maria, we stepped out into the cavernous, incensed space of the basilica, cool and silent save for the whispering footsteps of the priests making ready for the next service of the day. And now the spurred boots of Cesare and Don Michele, and my own shoes, as we crossed the nave and passed behind the altar to a second small door concealed behind a screen bearing a triptych of the martyrdom of Saint Peter.
“The hours I’ve spent on my knees in this place,”
“Startled by something in the crowd,” growled pomegranate face. I wondered who he could be, a man who could interrupt Duke Valentino with impunity.
“Doubtless,” said Cesare with a nasty smile.
“My lord duke, Don Michele, what is the meaning of this interruption? Have you no piety in your souls? Look at this woman.” Donna Lucrezia gestured towards Sister Osanna. Don Michele dropped to his knees as if felled and crossed himself extravagantly. Cesare merely glared at his sister.
“You knew of my invitation to Signorina Donata. What possessed you to cross me in this?”
Donna Lucrezia had scarcely opened her mouth to reply when Sister Osanna turned away from us to face Cesare, who was standing a little way behind her. I saw the flush of anger drain from Cesare’s cheeks and his skin turn as white as Sister Osanna’s wimple. His dog cringed, laid its face on its paws, and began to whimper.
“The kingdoms of men are but as a straw fire,” said Sister Osanna in her strange, strong voice. “How bright you burn, how utterly you will be snuffed out. Beware, little duke, beware the hand of the Great Avenger.”
Cesare swayed. I thought he would faint. I started from my stool to run to his aid, but Sister Osanna, even though she had her back to me, raised her hand in a stalling gesture, the bandages falling away to reveal a blood-crusted puncture wound. I stood, stunned, as though I had run into an invisible wall. The room felt suddenly colder, even the portraits on the walls seemed to shiver. I saw Father Eustasius chafe his upper arms as though he, too, felt a draught. Whatever script he and the abbess had written for Sister Osanna, the lines she had just spoken were not part of it.
Cesare’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. He tried again. “Twenty eight,” he said eventually, in a hoarse whisper.
“Twenty,” replied Sister Osanna, and for some reason, that made him laugh.
“You flatter me there, sister,” he said, and the spell was broken. Sister Osanna turned her back on Cesare, almost with contempt, it seemed to me.
“My bandages,” she commanded her attendants, though they paused, glancing from their abbess to Donna Lucrezia for direction. Donna Lucrezia nodded and they began to re-bind Sister Osanna’s wounds. Catherinella returned with the water, inscrutable in her blackness, or perhaps in her experience of serving Donna Lucrezia.
“Come on,” said Cesare, holding out his hand to me. “They have held up the boar racing until my return. You will miss nothing more.” I fancied Don Michele’s hand moved a fraction closer to the hilt of one of the daggers in his belt.
“Madonna…?”
“You may go, Donata. As Sister Osanna is to accompany us to Ferrara, you will have plenty more opportunities to benefit from her sanctity.”
I looked to see what effect this news might have on Cesare, but it was as though Sister Osanna was of no more consequence than any other nun he might encounter in the street or the public audience chambers of the Vatican. Tucking my hand under his arm, he began to trade odds with Don Michele, leaving me to luxuriate in the warmth from his body as he guided me through doorways, along passages, down staircases, until we reached a small, plain door I had never seen before. Don Michele unlocked this with a key Cesare gave him and stood aside to let us through. Cesare ducked to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. From one of the low, winding passages in the oldest part of the palace of Santa Maria, we stepped out into the cavernous, incensed space of the basilica, cool and silent save for the whispering footsteps of the priests making ready for the next service of the day. And now the spurred boots of Cesare and Don Michele, and my own shoes, as we crossed the nave and passed behind the altar to a second small door concealed behind a screen bearing a triptych of the martyrdom of Saint Peter.
“The hours I’ve spent on my knees in this place,”
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