Bianca (8 page)

“My father . . .” Bianca said softly.

“I am hiding you in the convent of Santa Maria del Fiore, just outside the city’s walls,” Orianna said. “Your father shall not know where you are until I can make him see reason, my child. You will have sanctuary and the protection of the Mother Superior, who is my distant kinswoman. Come now!” She took Bianca’s arm.

“I am his wife,” Bianca said despairingly. “His possession. He can do what he wants with me,
Madre
. He has told me a thousand times since our wedding day. If he finds me, he will surely kill me.”

“He will not find you,” Orianna assured her child. “Now let us hurry. Agata, come, for you must be hidden too.”

The three women left Bianca’s apartment and hurried to escape the house. Antonio was keeping the door that afternoon. Seeing the trio, he opened the portal of the palazzo and then turned his head the other way. The trio exited, but Orianna said to the servingman, “Leave this place with us. I will take you into my personal employ.”

“
Grazie
, gracious lady,” Antonio replied, closing the door behind them and following them out into the street. He helped the lady and his young mistress into the waiting Pietro d’Angelo litter. Then, walking beside Agata, the servants followed along.

The litter made its way to a busy market square, where it was set down.

“There are litters for hire here,” Orianna said softly to Agata. “Find a bearer called Ilario and tell him Signora Pietro d’Angelo is in need of his services.”

“At once,
signora
,” the servingwoman responded and hurried off. She returned a few minutes later with two litter bearers carrying a single chair litter.

The grizzled older man in front was smiling from ear to ear.
“Signora!”
he greeted Orianna. “It has been a long time. How may I serve you today?”

Orianna stepped from her family litter. “You may take me home,” she instructed him. “Antonio, you will attend me, please. Agata, get in with your mistress.” Then she murmured lowly to her head litter bearer. “Take my daughter and her servant to Santa Maria del Fiore. Tell them she is a kinswoman to the Reverend Mother Baptista, and seeks both shelter and sanctuary. Say I will come to speak with the Reverend Mother myself tomorrow.”

The Pietro d’Angelos’ head litter bearer nodded silently. Orianna climbed into her hired transport. With Antonio by its side, it was borne from the busy market piazza while her family’s vehicle took off in another direction, the four bearers moving quickly through the noisy, narrow streets towards one of the city’s gates. Seeing the city for the first time, Bianca was fascinated in spite of herself. The noise was incredible, the smells many and varied. Some pleasant, and some not so. Vendors hawked their wares. Children played in the puddles, and on the cobbles. Dogs, some mongrels, some with expensive collars, roamed freely. Her bearers never broke stride but moved swiftly along through one of the city’s gates. Down the highway and around a curve, they then stopped before a walled enclosure. The litter was set down, and the head litter bearer rapped on a small, almost invisible portal.

A tiny grille opened in the door. “Yes?” a voice inquired.

“I come from Signora Pietro d’Angelo, who is kin to the Reverend Mother Baptista. She wishes the lady I bring to you, and her servant, to have sanctuary. She will come herself tomorrow and speak with the Reverend Mother.”

“Wait!” the voice commanded.

Several long minutes passed, and then the small portal opened and a tall, austere nun stepped forth. She went to the litter, drew the curtains aside, and asked, “Who are you, my child?”

“I am Bianca Pietro d’Angelo, Reverend Mother,” Bianca replied.

“You are Orianna’s eldest daughter?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“The wife of Sebastiano Rovere?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“You wish sanctuary for yourself and your servingwoman?”

“Oh yes, please, Reverend Mother!” Bianca’s voice shook.

“Come in, then, my child, and your woman too,” the nun responded.

“Oh, thank you!” Bianca cried. “Thank you!”

Agata climbed from the litter and helped her mistress out, and together the three women entered through the gate into the convent proper.

“Tell your mistress,” Reverend Mother Baptista said to the head litter bearer, “that I shall very much look forward to her visit. And certainly you and your fellows know not to tell anyone where you have been.”

“We have served our master and mistress for over twenty years, Reverend Mother,” he told her. “We understand what is expected of us.”

“God and his blessed Mother be with you, then,” the nun said, blessing them.

Then she turned back, going through the small door in the convent wall. It closed behind her. She now turned to her waiting guests. “I will take you to the guesthouse that is reserved for ladies remaining with us for a time, as I expect you will be here a while. The convent grounds within these walls are safe for you to walk. Meals will be brought to you. You are expected to join us for the morning Mass and for Vespers in the evening. Are you skilled in sewing or embroidery, my child?”

“Both, Reverend Mother,” Bianca answered. “And my Agata too.”

“Good,” the nun said. “You may help us with certain pieces that our convent is commissioned to do by wealthy families and churches. Or if you are able, you are invited to join those of this flock who garden, but neither you nor your servant will be permitted to be idle while you are here. Too much slothfulness will not help you to grow strong again, and if you are your mother’s daughter, you are a strong woman beneath that aura of frailty and fear now surrounding you.”

Bianca was rather startled by the nun’s practical and candid speech. She had not thought that a woman from a convent far removed from the world would be so. She had always believed they spent their days in nothing more than prayer and fasting. She was quickly disabused of these notions in the days that followed.

The guesthouse to which she and Agata were shown was comfortable without being ostentatious. The furniture was sturdy and sensible. There were two bedchambers, a small dining room, and a salon. The bed in her bedchamber was hung with simple blue linen curtains. It had a trundle for Agata. There were two casement windows looking out upon an herb garden and a tiled fireplace. The floor was wood and had a woven rush rug.

On one of the whitewashed walls was a beautifully carved wooden crucifix. It was a simple but comfortable chamber.

The lack of bedding was solved in the early evening when her mother’s own servant, Fabia, arrived, bringing with her a feather bed, linen bedding that was fragrant with the scent of roses, a coverlet, and a small wooden trunk filled with fresh, clean garments, most of which Bianca recognized as her own, left behind for her wedding finery months before. There was even a hairbrush of smooth pear wood studded with boar’s bristles and a matching comb. Fabia hugged Bianca with the familiarity of an old family retainer, and greeted the younger Agata, who was her niece.

The bell for Vespers chimed, and Bianca hurried off to join the nuns in their chapel for the evening service. She knew she might have been excused this first night, but she was so relieved at having been rescued so swiftly that she felt a strong need to go and give thanks. She had also not been allowed the comfort of any religious service since her marriage, as her husband did not want her speaking with any priest, even though Sebastian Rovere knew the seal of the confessional could not be broken. There were ways of getting around any law. Even Church law, and no one knew that better than the best lawyer in all of Florence.

Left behind, the two servingwomen spent their time making the room comfortable for Bianca. Fabia had even brought a small glass vase and a few roses from the Pietro d’Angelos’ gardens. When the bed and the trundle had been made, the plain linen curtains hung on the window, the little wooden trunk set at the foot of the bed, and the few garments hung in the small wooden wardrobe, the two women talked.

“Did the lady tell you?” Agata asked.

Fabia nodded. “Although how much of it, I do not know,” she answered.

Agata quickly recited what she knew, her brown eyes filling with tears as she spoke to her aunt. “She never confided in me,
Zia
. She told her mother she was too ashamed, as if she were to blame for what happened to her, as if it were her fault.”

Fabia made the sign of the evil eye. “A curse on Sebastiano Rovere, although I am certain it is not the first plague sworn against his house. My mistress told the master after the meal, and the uproar has been considerable. He shouted that she would bring about the destruction of their house. She shouted that if Master Marco had used the intelligence God blessed him with, her daughter would not have been sacrificed to the devil.”

“Rovere did not come?” Agata said, surprised.

“There was a messenger just before I left,” Fabia replied. “My mistress will not tell the master where the lady Bianca is hidden. He will shout and fume, but eventually she will get him to see her way in the matter.”

But it was late into the evening before Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo was able to fully absorb what his wife had told him and agree with what she had done. Sebastiano Rovere had sent an angry message to the silk merchant, threatening him with dire consequences if his young wife was not immediately returned to his palazzo. He sent Rovere’s messenger back with a brief message telling him he had no idea where Bianca was, but invited his son-in-law to come in the morning and discuss the matter. Then he went to bed.

In the very early morning, before the silk merchant was even awake, his wife slipped out of the house. It was still dark, and the summer air was heavy and still. Careful to be sure that her son-in-law had not yet put a watch on her home, she crossed the piazza and sought Father Bonamico at Santa Anna Dolce. The priest was already at his morning prayers. She knelt and waited for him to recognize her.

Finally, the white-haired priest rose. Turning, he smiled. “Good morning, my daughter,” he greeted her. “You are up early, so I must assume there is a purpose to your visit. Come, and we will talk privily.”

She followed him from the church and into a small study, where she knew he met those who sought his advice. Sitting in the straight-backed chair he offered her, Orianna Pietro d’Angelo told him everything that Bianca had told her the day before. She held back nothing. The priest had to understand the seriousness of the situation if he was to help them. Several times, she halted as her voice caught in her throat. She wept without even realizing it, slow tears slipping down her beautiful face.

Father Bonamico listened. His face, which had been serious before, grew shocked, horrified, and then angry by turns. He was more than aware of the evil man could do, having listened to many a confession over his forty years as a priest. Several times he murmured a soft imprecation and then crossed himself. He had been frankly surprised when he had learned of Bianca Pietro d’Angelo’s betrothal to Sebastiano Rovere, for the man’s reputation for depravity was hardly a secret, although rarely discussed publicly. Now Orianna told him of the reason Bianca had been sacrificed.

“I know,” she said, “that my husband did what he did to save Marco, to protect the family name. I did not want such a marriage for Bianca. My father had already begun discreet inquiries among the important families in Venice for a suitable husband for his eldest granddaughter. But then Giovanni made this decision. He was certain that despite Sebastiano Rovere’s reputation he would treat our daughter with respect, for aside from the faint rumors of murder when his previous two wives had died, he had treated them properly. At least in public.

“I worried when he would not let me see Bianca these past months, but Giovanni said it was because she was young and beautiful that he did not wish to share her with anyone, especially her family. My husband believed that awful man had fallen in love with our child. And Bianca! Ah, my poor daughter! When she learned that I had been forbidden her company by her husband, what she did to gain his permission to see me!”

Orianna continued on in her tale.

“And as soon as you learned the abuse she was suffering you removed her from her husband’s house?” Father Bonamico asked.

“I did! I could not leave her there, good priest. I could not!”

“Where is she?” he wanted to know.

“At Santa Maria del Fiore,” Orianna replied. “Even my husband does not know. The Reverend Mother Baptista is a kinswoman of mine.”

“Good! Good!” the priest told her. “She has sanctuary there, and even if Rovere should learn her whereabouts, he would not dare break the laws of sanctuary.”

“I think he would dare anything,” Orianna said. “I would go to her now before Rovere puts a watch on the palazzo. Then I shall be back in time for his visit. He will not delay in coming, I am certain.”

“How will you get to the convent?” The priest’s face showed his concern for her.

“I know a litter bearer in the nearby market square. I once saved his wife and child from illness. He has been devoted to me ever since,” Orianna replied. “If you will permit me to slip through the church’s back garden, no one will see me.”

“Come back through the church when you return,” Father Bonamico advised. “You must take no chances, my daughter, that anyone believes you were anywhere but here, praying and attending Mass. Kneel now, and I will bless you and your endeavors. You must tell Bianca you have spoken with me, and that I will come to hear her confession later today. After that, we dare not attempt to see her. Rovere is a determined man. He will want her back, and will turn the city upside down to find her. We must be cleverer and quicker than he is.”

Orianna knelt to receive his blessing. Before she rose to her feet again, she took the priest’s two hands in hers and kissed them. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“For your peace of mind, my daughter, know that these conversations you and I have had, and will have, are under the seal of the confessional,” he told her.

Orianna left the church then to slip through its garden and out a little gate at the garden’s rear. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her light auburn hair, she hurried through the narrow, winding streets to the nearby market square, where she found Ilario and his litter already waiting for business. She climbed into the single-chair vehicle and instructed him, “Santa Maria del Fiore.”