Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (9 page)

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 couldn't 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 didn't belong? When it was discovered that I'd 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 wouldn't 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, missals and graduals and prayer books intended for private devotions. An elderly nun with gnarled fingers, her back twisted grotesquely, glanced up from her work and smiled. Her face was deeply seamed, but her eyes were a luminous blue green, shining with intelligence.

“I'm Suor Battista,” she said. “And you are Duchessina, are you not?”

I said that I was.

“A child possessed with great curiosity, I believe.”

I nodded, puzzled.

“I saw you hiding beneath my cot,” she said.

I stared at the floor, ashamed. “I wanted to see the painting of the Annunciation. It was as if the Blessed Virgin was calling to me. I promise I won't do it again,” I whispered.

“Of course you won't. And you're not supposed to be here, either, until you've finished your classes. But now that you are, let me show you the copyist's art. Silence,
per favore.
”

I stood behind her and watched her hand move unhesitatingly across the parchment, copying line after line of text, until the bell rang for prayer. “Will you teach me to do that?” I asked as we hurried to the oratory.

Suor Battista smiled. “Perhaps.”

B
Y
C
HRISTMAS
my cough had disappeared and my scabs were healed. The violet hangings on the altars were replaced with white damask embroidered with gold thread. During Mass in the convent church, the nuns sang in ethereal voices that I thought must be the way angels sounded. Afterward, the community of Le Murate feasted on roast meats and puddings as fine as anything I'd ever tasted at Palazzo Medici.

The next day I was allowed a brief visit from Aunt Clarissa. Convent rules prevented us from meeting face-to-face, but we could converse through the iron grille that separated those on the inside from those outside the convent wall. Although I couldn't see my aunt, it was a pleasure just to hear her voice again, to learn that her four sons were all well and that Betta had been taken into the Strozzi household to help look after the boys.

“I have wonderful news, Caterina,” Clarissa murmured close to the grille. “I am again with child. Perhaps this time it will be a daughter!”

Naturally I rejoiced with her, although I felt a pang of jealousy:
I
had always been her daughter!
Will she forget me when she has one of her own?
I fretted.

Too soon the abbess signaled that the visit must end. I squeezed back tears.

“Don't cry, dear Caterina,” my aunt said soothingly. “I shall come again, as soon as I'm allowed. But it will be difficult,” she warned. “The Medici are hated more than ever. An angry mob attacked Michelangelo's magnificent sculpture of David in the Piazza dei Signoria, believing the statue is a symbol of the Medici! I can't leave the palazzo without an armed escort, although my husband opposes my going anywhere at all these days. But I wanted a chance to speak with my darling Caterina.”

I recognized the dangers she faced. Over the past year I had been smuggled out of my home disguised as a boy, torn from my family's villa by soldiers, and rushed from one convent to another accompanied by men armed with pistols. “Be careful, Aunt,” I begged. “I couldn't bear to lose you.”

“Of course I will,” she said.

Her footsteps faded away, and I wept unashamedly.

D
URING THE JOYOUS
yuletide observances that lasted through the Feast of the Epiphany, I got to know the other girls who lived under the care of the nuns of Le Murate. These were girls from wealthy families whose fathers wanted them to remain at the convent until their marriage had been arranged. Until their wedding day was near, they were not allowed to leave, even for a short visit.

Most of the girls suffered from a painful separation from their families and wanted desperately to go home. They longed to be with their mothers and little sisters not yet old enough to be sent to the convent. They missed their fathers and brothers, although the boys' lives were mostly separate from theirs. When I told them that I was happy to be at Le Murate, they stared at me, incredulous.

“But you're
la duchessina!
” exclaimed Niccolà, a slender, rather bold girl. “Everybody knows Caterina de' Medici is the richest girl in Florence, and the pope is your uncle. How can you like being
here?
”

“Because my mother and father are dead,” I explained. “I have my aunt Clarissa, who loves me, but I didn't see her very often. My uncle the pope is far away in Rome and has no time to spend with me. Betta, my nurse, cares about me, but she has no say. Cardinal Passerini is supposed to be in charge of me, but I dislike him, and I'm sure he doesn't care about me. Before I came here, I was at Santa Lucia,” I told the girls, “and they hated me. Here I feel safe, and the nuns are very kind.”

“It's in the normal course of things for a young girl to leave her family,” Giulietta, the oldest of my new friends, said knowingly. “Once the choice has been made for a girl—marriage vows or monastic vows—she no longer belongs to her family of birth. She belongs to her husband or to God. That's what my mother always told me.”

“Do you really believe that, Giulietta?” asked serious-minded Tomassa.

“‘One must accept it. It isn't easy, but it is life,'” Giulietta replied. “That's what my mother said, and I guess I believe her.”

E
PIPHANY HAD ALWAYS
been my favorite feast day, celebrating the arrival of the wise men at the manger in Bethlehem. This year it reminded me of the chapel at Palazzo Medici with the frescoes of the journey of the magi. I wondered if I'd ever see the palace and those vivid paintings again, and I suffered a bout of missing my old life. Even the trays of pastries from the convent kitchen didn't cheer me. But then Giulietta sailed in with an announcement that excited us all.

“Beginning tomorrow, we're to be tutored in the virtues,” she said. “We must learn how to conduct ourselves at all times in order to be proper wives. The nuns will instruct us.”

“But how can the nuns teach us to behave like proper wives?” I asked. “What could they know about it?”

My question wasn't meant to be disrespectful, but my friends erupted in shy giggles.

The four of us, all recent arrivals at Le Murate, were assigned to a class with several girls who had been there for some time and didn't pay much attention to the awkward newcomers. Instruction was conducted by Suor Paolina, whose beauty couldn't be hidden even by a nun's long tunic and veil. Her skin was smooth as ivory, her eyes the color of violets. Her slender fingers gestured as gracefully as birds in flight.

“Young ladies, your attention,
per favore,
” she said in a voice as silvery as a flute. “It is important that you discipline your body to move in only the most refined manner. You must walk at a measured pace and with a bearing that bespeaks the dignity of your gender and your station in life. Like this.” Suor Paolina glided silkily across the room.

“It's as if she has wheels instead of feet,” Niccolà whispered, not softly enough.

A tiny frown creased the nun's forehead. “Signorina Niccolà,
per favore,
let us see you walk from here to there.”

Niccolà tried so hard to be dignified that she tripped over her own feet. The older, more experienced girls permitted themselves the hint of a smile, but I made the mistake of laughing out loud. The nun swiftly turned her attention to me.

“Signorina Caterina, the first thing
you
must learn is not to laugh in such a barbaric manner. Now, all of you, notice that my steps are never hasty, that my hands are lightly but firmly clasped and do not flap and wave about, that my eyes are lowered modestly, and that my mouth remains closed.” Suor Paolina gazed steadily in my direction. The older girls smiled as though their lips were stitched together.

We new girls tried hard to do as we were instructed, but it didn't come easily. “Mouths closed
gently,
young ladies!” Suor Paolina reminded us. “Do not grimace!”

Tomassa seemed to possess effortless poise. Suor Paolina often used her as an example to the rest of us—especially me. I was short and still too thin, no matter how much I ate, and I was not naturally graceful. Giulietta, on the other hand, had trouble disciplining her eyes. Like me, she was always gazing about, and this brought constant reprimands from Suor Paolina.

“Do not regard anyone with your eyes, young ladies,” Suor Paolina lectured us, although this was mostly aimed at Giulietta and me. “Keep them fixed and firm, lowered modestly. You must never,
ever
look at a man directly! Do you understand me?”

“But why not?” asked Niccolà, who already had made a reputation in the convent school for asking too many questions. They were often the questions I wanted to ask, but Niccolà saved me the trouble. “Why must we not look directly at a man?”

“Because your look is likely to inflame their carnal appetites, causing them to fall helplessly into sin. And surely, Signorina Niccolà, you would not want to be responsible for that!”

Niccolà had to agree that, indeed, she would not want such a thing. Afterward, though, we discussed among ourselves what Suor Paolina could possibly have meant.

“Lust,” explained Giulietta, and we nodded knowingly, although we knew next to nothing about the subject.