Read Online Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici by Carolyn Meyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carolyn Meyer
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haunting story Suor Immacolata had told me about the infant sheâd left at a convent and wondered about Maddalena. Questions began to trouble me:
Had the child been left here? And what about the other lay sisters who were our servants? Who were their parents? Was one of them my
sister?
These were questions I couldnât ask anyone. But they were questions I couldnât seem to forget.
I had arrived at Le Murate during Advent, the month-long penitential season just before Christmas when the altars were hung with violet silk and everyone abstained from eating meat, eggs, milk, and cheese on certain days. Even with those regulations, the simple meals served in the large, bright refectory were delicious. The professed nuns ate first. When theyâd finished, the young girls and a few elderly widows who made their home here entered for the second sitting. The novices and lay sisters ate last. The polished wooden benches and tables smelled of beeswax, and beautiful paintings of the Holy Virgin and the Christ Child hung on the whitewashed walls.
Within a week of my arrival, my strength returning, I began to explore my new home. In room after room, the nuns produced goods that were sold to support the convent. The scent of cinnamon drew me to the kitchen, where the sisters made sweets of honey and nuts and dried fruits, and there was a room where they filled pomander balls with dried rose petals and spices. Looms clattered in a weaving room, producing fine linen for altar cloths and damask tablecloths. Nuns stitched dainty sleeping shifts and undergarments of embroidered silk, trousseaux for wealthy girls about to be married. They spun fine gold thread for costly embroidery and worked delicate lace for vestments and altar hangings. When the bell rang in the tower, signaling the next hour for prayer, the nuns put down their work and hurried to the oratory. I went with them.
The chapel was close to the dormitories where the professed nuns slept, private spaces Iâd been told were out of bounds to the rest of us. The door to one of these dormitories stood ajar, and, curious, I looked in when no one was around. At the end of the room stood an altar with a painting of the Annunciation, from which the convent took its name, Annunziata.
I knew that I should not go in there, but the calm face of the Virgin drew me to her, past the long rows of narrow cots made up with plain covers of unbleached wool. I knelt before the painting and gazed up at the scene: The Angel Gabriel has just told the Blessed Virgin that she will give birth to the Son of God. What must it have been like to receive such a piece of news? Mary had been just a young girl, like many at Le Murate. She must have been frightened, not knowing what was going to happen, having only her faith to sustain her. The Virgin would have understood how I often felt, swept along by events that I couldnât control.
My eyes were still fixed on Our Lady when I realized that I could no longer hear chanting.
How long ago had they stopped? Would I be missed? What if I were found here, where I didnât belong? When it was discovered that Iâd broken a rule, would I be told to leave?
Hearing footsteps, I dropped to the floor and wriggled under the nearest cot. A plain wooden box took up much of the space. I pulled my knees up to my chest. My heart thumped much too loudly. Dozens of pairs of feet hurried by but two pairs paused and entered. One pair soon left, but the other pair limped, one foot dragging, and stopped near where I lay. I squeezed my eyes shut, scarcely breathing, hoping the owner of the feet wouldnât see me.
Mary, Mother of God, help me.
After the nun had shuffled softly away again, I crept out of my hiding place, vowing to explore only the parts of the convent where I was allowed.
The week before Christmas I discovered the scriptorium. Here, in a series of small cubicles on the upper floor, a dozen nuns sat at slanted desks and copied manuscripts,
Had the child been left here? And what about the other lay sisters who were our servants? Who were their parents? Was one of them my
sister?
These were questions I couldnât ask anyone. But they were questions I couldnât seem to forget.
I had arrived at Le Murate during Advent, the month-long penitential season just before Christmas when the altars were hung with violet silk and everyone abstained from eating meat, eggs, milk, and cheese on certain days. Even with those regulations, the simple meals served in the large, bright refectory were delicious. The professed nuns ate first. When theyâd finished, the young girls and a few elderly widows who made their home here entered for the second sitting. The novices and lay sisters ate last. The polished wooden benches and tables smelled of beeswax, and beautiful paintings of the Holy Virgin and the Christ Child hung on the whitewashed walls.
Within a week of my arrival, my strength returning, I began to explore my new home. In room after room, the nuns produced goods that were sold to support the convent. The scent of cinnamon drew me to the kitchen, where the sisters made sweets of honey and nuts and dried fruits, and there was a room where they filled pomander balls with dried rose petals and spices. Looms clattered in a weaving room, producing fine linen for altar cloths and damask tablecloths. Nuns stitched dainty sleeping shifts and undergarments of embroidered silk, trousseaux for wealthy girls about to be married. They spun fine gold thread for costly embroidery and worked delicate lace for vestments and altar hangings. When the bell rang in the tower, signaling the next hour for prayer, the nuns put down their work and hurried to the oratory. I went with them.
The chapel was close to the dormitories where the professed nuns slept, private spaces Iâd been told were out of bounds to the rest of us. The door to one of these dormitories stood ajar, and, curious, I looked in when no one was around. At the end of the room stood an altar with a painting of the Annunciation, from which the convent took its name, Annunziata.
I knew that I should not go in there, but the calm face of the Virgin drew me to her, past the long rows of narrow cots made up with plain covers of unbleached wool. I knelt before the painting and gazed up at the scene: The Angel Gabriel has just told the Blessed Virgin that she will give birth to the Son of God. What must it have been like to receive such a piece of news? Mary had been just a young girl, like many at Le Murate. She must have been frightened, not knowing what was going to happen, having only her faith to sustain her. The Virgin would have understood how I often felt, swept along by events that I couldnât control.
My eyes were still fixed on Our Lady when I realized that I could no longer hear chanting.
How long ago had they stopped? Would I be missed? What if I were found here, where I didnât belong? When it was discovered that Iâd broken a rule, would I be told to leave?
Hearing footsteps, I dropped to the floor and wriggled under the nearest cot. A plain wooden box took up much of the space. I pulled my knees up to my chest. My heart thumped much too loudly. Dozens of pairs of feet hurried by but two pairs paused and entered. One pair soon left, but the other pair limped, one foot dragging, and stopped near where I lay. I squeezed my eyes shut, scarcely breathing, hoping the owner of the feet wouldnât see me.
Mary, Mother of God, help me.
After the nun had shuffled softly away again, I crept out of my hiding place, vowing to explore only the parts of the convent where I was allowed.
The week before Christmas I discovered the scriptorium. Here, in a series of small cubicles on the upper floor, a dozen nuns sat at slanted desks and copied manuscripts,
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