might be living as a beggar, roaming the countryside beyond the City.
All her prayers, all her tears were for Ippolito.
Six months passed in the gloom of Santa Lucia. She hated the sombre nuns
in their stale-odoured garments; she hated the interminable hours of prayer.
‘Ippolito!’ she would cry. ‘Where are you?’ She would whisper to the
figures of the saints: ‘Tell me, where is Ippolito? Only let him be safe and I will never sin again.’
Outside the walls of the convent the plague had come to Florence. In the
streets, men, women, and children were dying in their hundreds. Was Ippolito one of these?
Then, like a sinister fog, the plague crept into Santa Lucia.
Caterina de’ Medici was too valuable a hostage to be allowed to run the risk of being taken by the plague. There was one thing left for the Government of Florence to do with this valuable little girl. On the other side of the city stood the Convent of Santa Annunziate delle Murate ― the only spot in the whole of Florence that had escaped the plague. So one night three men called at the Santa Lucia and Caterina was summoned from her cell to learn of her departure; and without ceremony, a concealing cloak wrapped about her, Caterina, in the
company of these men, set out to cross the plague-stricken city.
She saw terrible sights on that night. She saw bodies of men and women
stretched out on the cobbles, some dead, some dying; she saw doctors in masks and tarred coats bravely doing all they could for the stricken people; the black-clad Misericordia passed along the streets carrying a litter in which was a victim of the dreadful disease; she heard the jangling of the dead-cart, and the voices of the priest saying prayers for the departed as he walked ahead of the cart. She heard people carousing in the taverns; she saw women and men making love in a frenzy of impatience, as though they wished to snatch at every enjoyment they could find, since tomorrow they might have their place in the dead-cart.
It was fantastic, that journey; it seemed unreal to little Caterina; she felt numbed by the suddenness of change that touched her life and shattered it. She felt she could only wait for horror to overtake her. She tried to see the faces of those muffled in their cloaks. She was in the streets of Florence. What if she came face to face with Ippolito?
But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow
streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.
The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the Santa Inunziate delle Murate . Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.
But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend
Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.
One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.
‘Dear little Duchessina , welcome!’ said this nun.
Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’
Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright,
her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa
‘Our little Duchess will be tired and hungry. Let us give her food; then she may go to her cell and rest. In the morning, Duchessina , we will have a talk.’
It was confusing, and she was bewildered. So many strange things had
happened to her that she could no longer be surprised. She was given a place of honour at the long refectory table; she noticed that the soup had meat in it, and she remembered that this day was a Friday; the fish was served with sauces; it was more like a meal in the Medici palace than in a convent. There
All her prayers, all her tears were for Ippolito.
Six months passed in the gloom of Santa Lucia. She hated the sombre nuns
in their stale-odoured garments; she hated the interminable hours of prayer.
‘Ippolito!’ she would cry. ‘Where are you?’ She would whisper to the
figures of the saints: ‘Tell me, where is Ippolito? Only let him be safe and I will never sin again.’
Outside the walls of the convent the plague had come to Florence. In the
streets, men, women, and children were dying in their hundreds. Was Ippolito one of these?
Then, like a sinister fog, the plague crept into Santa Lucia.
Caterina de’ Medici was too valuable a hostage to be allowed to run the risk of being taken by the plague. There was one thing left for the Government of Florence to do with this valuable little girl. On the other side of the city stood the Convent of Santa Annunziate delle Murate ― the only spot in the whole of Florence that had escaped the plague. So one night three men called at the Santa Lucia and Caterina was summoned from her cell to learn of her departure; and without ceremony, a concealing cloak wrapped about her, Caterina, in the
company of these men, set out to cross the plague-stricken city.
She saw terrible sights on that night. She saw bodies of men and women
stretched out on the cobbles, some dead, some dying; she saw doctors in masks and tarred coats bravely doing all they could for the stricken people; the black-clad Misericordia passed along the streets carrying a litter in which was a victim of the dreadful disease; she heard the jangling of the dead-cart, and the voices of the priest saying prayers for the departed as he walked ahead of the cart. She heard people carousing in the taverns; she saw women and men making love in a frenzy of impatience, as though they wished to snatch at every enjoyment they could find, since tomorrow they might have their place in the dead-cart.
It was fantastic, that journey; it seemed unreal to little Caterina; she felt numbed by the suddenness of change that touched her life and shattered it. She felt she could only wait for horror to overtake her. She tried to see the faces of those muffled in their cloaks. She was in the streets of Florence. What if she came face to face with Ippolito?
But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow
streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.
The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the Santa Inunziate delle Murate . Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.
But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend
Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.
One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.
‘Dear little Duchessina , welcome!’ said this nun.
Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’
Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright,
her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa
‘Our little Duchess will be tired and hungry. Let us give her food; then she may go to her cell and rest. In the morning, Duchessina , we will have a talk.’
It was confusing, and she was bewildered. So many strange things had
happened to her that she could no longer be surprised. She was given a place of honour at the long refectory table; she noticed that the soup had meat in it, and she remembered that this day was a Friday; the fish was served with sauces; it was more like a meal in the Medici palace than in a convent. There
Similar Books
![Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/559646/thumbs/152x264/praetorian-series-3-a-hunter-and-his-legion.jpg)
