The Road to Damietta (15 page)

Rains, followed by weeks of black fog that crept up from
the lowlands and shrouded the city so that day was turned into night, delayed our journey. A rash of robberies on the road to Venice delayed it further.

During this month and more I continued work on the Old Testament. I also wrote three missives to Francis, none of which I sent, for the reason that not a word in all those long days came back in answer to the last message I had sent him.

My father owned a large warehouse in Venice, which gathered paintings, manuscripts, and tapestries from various countries around the Mediterranean Sea, even those with whom the Church was at war, and from places as far off as Mongolia. These things were sold in cities to the north—such as Milan, Florence, Bologna—and to princes and kings, including the pope in Rome. The most profitable part of the enterprise, however, was comestibles that only the very rich could afford.

The merchandise was distributed by a caravan that made the trip between these various cities three times during the year. Since it passed through Assisi on the way to Venice, my father changed his mind about sending me north in fashionable style and decided that I should accompany the caravan. He then had to change his mind once more when the caravan was lost while crossing the river Arno.

At last, after more than a month of delays, Raul brought word that we were to leave the next morning. He would lead the group.

It was toward evening when he came to the scriptorium. I was working on the fourteenth chapter of Exodus, drawing decorations for the twenty-sixth verse, where the Lord commands Moses to stretch out his hands over the sea, that the water may come back upon the Egyptians. He stood looking over my shoulder at the decorations, complimenting me on how real the sea waves looked.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"I've been ready for weeks. All packed, except for my brushes," I said.

"You seem anxious to go, which surprises me, considering that you're going to a strange city, far from home, for a year at least, perhaps longer."

"Not anxious. I just want to put all of it, everything that's happened, behind me."

"You are not religious, though you do have stray Christian
thoughts now and again and when in trouble you call upon God or Christ. But you don't realize how rigorous life in the monastery may be. The prioress is a relative, but your father has given her instructions to treat you like the rest of her flock."

The copyists had left for the day and we were alone in the scriptorium. I was baffled by his words. He was advising me to disobey my father, to not go to Venice. Why? Suddenly, as he put a warm hand on my shoulder, I sensed the answer.

For months now, after dinner when I had my hair done on top of my head in a coronet and wore a gown that displayed my budding figure, I had been aware of his glances. He never uttered one word of praise at these times or later. But he didn't need to. His glances spoke boldly for themselves.

"You'll be a prisoner in Venice," he said.

"I'm a prisoner here."

"You need not be," he said, his hand heavy now on my shoulder. "Tomorrow, as soon as we come to Perugia, we'll take the road that leads to Granada. To my family. They will like you and you will like them."

He went on about the work we would do together, how we would be married in the beautiful mosque and travel to Fez in Morocco and visit the great library there.

After he had finished with his dream and I had washed out my brushes and put them in their box, I said, "You have been the finest of teachers. Since I was seven, you have crammed my head
with more knowledge than it could possibly hold. You have put up with my sulks and tantrums. You are a loyal friend, the dearest I have or will ever have. Yet..."

Raul said nothing.

We rode out of the courtyard at dawn. We went at an early hour because Father deemed it best that we leave unnoticed, while the city still was asleep. Before we left Piazza San Rufino, however, people were staring down from their windows, and a gaggle of boys and a small spotted dog were following at our heels.

Accompanying us were six men, four of them armed guards, a cook and his helpers, three serving girls, an older woman, Constanza, with sharp eyes, and a brace of strong varlets. Though I carried a crested peregrine on my wrist, it was not an impressive train, nothing to compare with the one we passed soon after we left Assisi: a Roman princess traveling north to Paris, there to wed a prince in the basilica of Notre-Dame. By Raul's count, her entourage presented nine ladies-in-waiting, a male secretary with pen and paper at hand, two elderly chaplains, an assortment of varlets, servants, cooks, two tailors carrying a pennon of crossed needles, a reader of books who was reading to the princess as they moved along, thirty muleteers, one cardinal, and two bishops—all in fur-trimmed robes though the day was warm—plus one hundred and three soldiers, two Spanish clowns, and fifteen trumpeters with jeweled trumpets.

We wound down the mountainside, held to a turtle's pace by
farmers and their carts on the way to market. At the first bridge over the river, where the road branches, one branch trending west toward Porziuncola and the other north toward Venice, a brief argument took place when I suggested that we go by way of Porziuncola and there pray to God for a safe journey.

"But its a full hour out of our way," Raul objected. "There are shrines along the road where we can pray."

"Dozens of them," said Constanza, the sharp-eyed one. "And I have already spoken to God."

Since they knew why I was determined on Porziuncola and both were opposed to it, I suggested that they travel ahead. "I have a good horse and I'll catch up with you by noon." With this and a small apology, I rode off before they could say more.

The church doors were open, bedecked with twists of wild flowers freshly picked, and from inside came the sound of a voice, either preaching or in prayer, which I recognized at once as that of Francis Bernardone.

After a long pause, I was surprised to hear the hesitant voice of Clare di Scifi raised in song, the words Francis had written in celebration of spring, that I had heard him recite in the cathedral:

"
Praise be to Thee my Lord for Brother Wind
For air and clouds
Clear skies and all the weathers
Through which Thou sustaineth all Thy creatures
For the time of spring and flowers.
"

I was shocked. The anger of the seven Scifi brothers had cooled somewhat since Clare had taken the vow—this I had heard. But I was certain that she was still where I had left her, behind the stout walls of San Paolo delle Ancelle di Dio, in the protecting arms of Mother Sibilia.

She was not only in Porziuncola and not behind the monastery walls with the nuns of San Paolo, she was with Francis. Beside him, exulting in his presence, singing words he had written about God's creatures and spring.

I had come here to ask him about the letters that I had written and that he had not answered—and to free the peregrine perched on my wrist. It was the last of the hawks. The rest I had already freed, beginning on the day after I had freed the first in San Rufino Square. They were unloosed over a period of months—secretly, so as not to arouse my father's ire.

The one on my wrist I intended to free in front of Francis, after I had spoken of the letters. At the moment I left him, I would let the falcon loose. In his eyes, it would surely be a graceful act, but more, much more, it would be the proof of my undying love.

I was thinking about riding away when lanky Brother Giles appeared. He strode toward me, shouting. I would have run him down had the horse not reared.

"We've been talking about you," he said. "We knew you were coming. Francis had a vision two nights ago that you would come to Porziuncola. And here you are." He grasped my
gloved hand and kissed it. "The Lord has sent yon. Praise the Lord!"

As I sought to quiet the peregrine, uncomfortable at this onslaught, Clare came out of the church.

"Sister Clare," Brother Giles shouted. "She's here. Look, the angel is here."

I got down from the horse and we embraced. She smelled of sweat and hard work.

"I know what you have endured," she said, clinging to me, tears in her eyes. "I have never thanked you, dear Ricca, for all you have done. I know that you are being sent away because of the help you gave and the great sacrifice you made for me."

A twinge of conscience, sharp as a bodkin, ran through me.

"I am sorry that I never thanked you," she said.

"But the Lord has," Brother Giles said. "In His divine thoughtfulness He has brought you to Porziuncola. To loving care and rest and heavenly peace."

He kissed my hand again. He pointed to the flowers that bedecked the church door.

"Everything," he said, "awaits the wedding. Even the flowers. See how they nod their pretty heads in sweet anticipation. With your permission, I'll impart the wonderful news to Brother Francis. He'll be delighted. His vision has been fulfilled. Praise the Lord!"

I looked at Clare. In the harsh light of day, with her golden
hair shorn, her ears revealed, the delicate bones in her head clearly seen through a thin layer of fuzz, her figure hidden by a coarse gray robe too big for her, there was nothing left of the woman she had been. She looked like an innocent, a young, awkward boy.

She was silent until Brother Giles had gone. Then she said, "He's a little enthusiastic. Does he frighten you? I hope not."

Her tone had changed. It was no longer the tender voice she had used a few moments ago. It reminded me now of her religious mother.

"With the help of Brother Francis," she said, "I have started a sisterhood. We take the same vows of poverty. We are Friars Minor together, brothers and sisters, following in the footsteps of our Lord." She paused and said softly, "Francis had a vision where you appeared—Brother Giles just spoke about it. In the vision you came to Porziuncola and joined us."

Seeing the clear outlines of a trap, I said, "Your sisterhood takes the vow of poverty. Does it also take the vow of chastity?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

She spoke with fervor, with a touch of the arrogant tone of the Scifis. Francis might love her soul, hidden beneath the ugly gray garb, but never, never, could he love the woman.

"I'm not ready to leave the world," I said.

"You won't leave it at all. On the contrary, you'll enter the world. The world of true love."

Francis was watching us from the church steps. He made a cross
with his arms and asked Clare if she would tend the altar candles, saying to me, as he eyed the falcon on my wrist, "In the vision I had of you I did not see the falcon. I thought you set all of them free."

"All but Black Prince," I said.

"Why do you hold to the Prince?"

"I came here to set him free."

"And to join Clare and her new sisterhood, I hope."

"Until today, only a few minutes ago, I had never heard of Clare's sisterhood."

He smiled and, to hide his disappointment, spoke to the falcon, not in words but in bird sounds, which caused it to ruffle its feathers and chirr. Forgetting me, fascinated with the hawk, he began to praise its barred plumage, its amber eyes, its cruel, scimitar beak, and finally he plucked it from my fist. Black Prince had never suffered a stranger to touch it, but now it settled upon his bare hand like a sparrow on an olive branch.

Bold enough to intrude, I said, "I've written two letters to you, sir, and neither have you answered."

"I've meant to."

"Have you read them?"

"Yes. What artful pictures you draw and what a beautiful hand you write. It flows like, like ..."

"Honey?"

"Not honey. The questions you ask are bitter. Beyond your age, perhaps. Which do you wish me to answer?"

"If you must answer only one, tell me, please, why Abelard
had a child by Heloise, to whom he gave the endearing name Alcete—as you know, Alcete means Light of the World. And then, swearing her to secrecy, aware that his career in the Church would be harmed if it were known that he had fathered a child, he secretly married Heloise. Only to force her, as he grew tired of her, into a nunnery."

"What you have just said is what you said before. What is the question?"

"In his place, would you have done the same?"

"I am not certain. But I can say that at one time in my life I was fully capable of being Abelard."

"At one time in your life, but not now."

Francis made a cross of his arms, raised his eyes to the heavens, and was silent.

I didn't press him for an answer. "Is the Song of Solomon," I asked, "a poem about two lovers, the Rose of Sharon and Solomon, or a love poem between Solomon and the Church?"

"It can be one or the other. Or both."

"Which do you prefer?"

He was silent, smiling to himself, perhaps at some memory.

"When you were younger," I said to remind him, "running about at night from tavern to tavern, singing under windows, which did you prefer?"

"In those days, I hadn't heard of the Song. If I had, then surely, surely, I would have made up a pretty tune about it."

"And sung it under my window?"

"Yes, to the sounds of lutes and violins."

He was an agile young man, slippery as the eels that glided around in our leather tank at home.

I waited, thinking that he might bring up, without being reminded, the last message I had sent him, the one in which I had openly confessed my love.

"I wrote you a letter weeks ago," I said, "and sent it by armed messenger to be certain you received it."

"Oh, yes, it came," he said. There was an odd look on his face. Was it pain or puzzlement?

"Perhaps you think that it was brazen of me, but once you sang love songs beneath my window, like this one:

'Put out my eyes!
Blind me!
Let me never again gaze upon thy beauty
For my heart it crucifies.'

"Do you remember?" I asked.

"Of course, dear friend. Memory is a moon that never sets. But now, by the grace of God I sing under the window of the Virgin Mary."