Sister Maria Christina was roused from her evening prayers by the strident knocking of Sister Magdalena on her cell door. The infirmaress who waited impatiently was a thoroughly unpleasant woman who looked upon the sick and elderly with distaste and as her assistant it was often Sister Maria Christina's duty to attend to those who were soon to die. Sister Magdalena peered into the room as though expecting to see some impropriety. Finding none she pressed her lips together and said in her harsh voice, "Sister Maria Lucia has asked for someone to sit with her this night." Sister Maria nodded and followed her through the halls of the Convent of Corpus Domini.
The aged nun lay on her cot, protected from the chill of the evening by a thick wool blanket over the gray tunic and white scapular of her vocation. Her gaze turned from contemplating the cross upon a low table when the two sisters entered the room. Sister Maria Christina placed the candle that had guided their steps next to the flickering taper that bathed the room in a muted glow.
Sister Maria Lucia was, by far, the eldest bride of Christ at the convent. She was called "The Holy Sister" by some of the other nuns and there were tales beginning to spread throughout Ferrara of the miraculous healing brought about by the intercession of a woman so beloved by God that she had been allowed to live far beyond the normal span of years. Other tales abounded, of course, for the sisters loved and craved gossip and tales of the outside world more than bread or wine. Some said that she was the illegitimate daughter of a prince or a king. Another said that the Sister had once spoken to her of living in New Spain for a time, far across the ocean where the blood of martyrs still cried out for justice. Sister Maria Christina had never conversed with her, for she was too humble in the hierarchy of the convent to warrant a private conversation with the venerable lady but she always made sure to be close enough to hear her sing at prayers. Sister Maria Lucia's voice was fragile and soft, but it still maintained a fair measure of a beauty that must have once made her sound like an angel.
Sister Maria Lucia smiled and effortlessly dismissed the infirmaress. "Thank you for bringing her, Sister. I will trouble you no longer this night."
Sister Magdalena left the room with an audible huff. AS soon as the door had closed Sister Maria motioned to the stool placed close to the bed. She looked at the younger woman with a twinkle in her eye. "She offered to sit with me but that woman has the face of a hatchet."
From outside the room they heard a muffled gasp and the sound of rapid footsteps departing. Sister Maria Christina clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress an inappropriate burst of laughter.
Sister Maria Lucia smiled broadly, which caused the wrinkles in her face to spread like cracks in a parched field. "I thought that she might be listening. She is a mean sort of woman. I have often thought that her patients die so rapidly simply to be freed from her tender care."
Sister Maria Christina could no longer contain herself and the two women spent several minutes laughing together.
"Have you recently taken your vows?" Sister Maria Lucia asked her when their laughter had abated. She nodded. Beneath her veil the newly shorn hair still felt peculiar, as though she were a soldier who had lost a limb. "What is the name given to you at birth?"
Sister Maria Christina hesitated. Although it might be a sin she could not yet think of herself by the name she had taken with her vows. In her heart of hearts she was still Marietta, who used to run through the fields near her home with the butcher's son. "Marietta," she whispered.
"Then for this night I will call you Marietta and we shall converse like old friends. I do not wish to be alone this night."
"Would you have me send for a confessor, Sister?" Marietta rose from her stool, ready to rouse the priest who served the convent if the Holy Sister wished it.
"I confessed a few days ago and what few sins have taken residence upon my soul are so inconsequential that it hardly seems necessary to bother Father on a blustery night such as this." The nun was silent for a second and then laughed softly. "When I returned to the church my confession lasted half a day and my confessor fainted. I have only recently finished the novenas he set me as penance."
"You..returned to the church? You can not mean that you put aside your holy vows Sister?" Marietta could not keep the shock from her voice. While it was not unheard of for a sister to engage in affairs of the heart or even to give birth to children while still brides of Christ few put aside the veil.
"It is something of a family tradition." An enigmatic smile played across the deeply wrinkled face. "Would you like to hear my story? Matins has not yet been sung and I need little sleep. If the Angel of Death finds me this night I would prefer to greet him as a friend, with my eyes open wide. But be warned. It is not a gentle story that will comfort a sister who had only begun her life in the church.
Marietta nodded eagerly, unwilling to speak lest the sister rethink her decision.
"Bring me the box." The sister pointed across the cell to a small table which held the crucifix and an ornate wooden box. It was small, made of dark wood, and in places the carving had been worn smooth. When Marietta had placed the box on the bed she reached under her white scapular and removed a heavy golden chain from which hung an ornate key. Her hand shook, and it took several attempts before the sister could fit the key into the lock and open the box.
It smelled of roses. Dried petals crumbling to dust littered the top of the box, shielding the contents from sight. Sister Maria brushed them away gently. "The roses were so beautiful, pink Castilian roses that bloomed for months upon that rocky hill." She murmured, and began lifting each piece from beneath its fragrant covering.
There was no rhythm to the collection, no unifying force that drew them together except in the mind of the old woman whose smiles and laughing eyes suddenly made her appear much younger. Marietta looked closer at the face that was lit with memory, drawing the bones behind the fragile skin and seeing the delicate nose and lovely eyes that were golden in the light of the candle. She was very beautiful once, Marietta thought, with a surge of jealously that she was immediately ashamed of. How could such a thought cross her mind in the presence of a sister whose piety and devotion to the church were revered by all? That she herself had always been plain made no difference now.
There was a sheaf of papers tied with a ribbon, knotted around two ornate pearl rings, one black and one white. A shell. A set of wickedly sharp looking daggers. A feather, long as her arm, and vibrantly green in color. Several of the other pieces were jewelry. A cross caught her eye. It was set with a brilliantly clear stone that shone in the light, as large as a robin's egg.
"Is that a..." Marietta could not finish the sentence. This cross was the treasure of a prince, not a nun who had taken a vow of poverty.
"A diamond? Yes. It was a gift from a king who was once a great man. One of the two men that I loved." She searched through the box and pulled out a golden ring that was set with green stone. "This was from the other, and had he lived I would never have returned to the church." There were tears on the nun's face now as the memory of her life overwhelmed her.
Sister Maria wiped the tears from her cheeks and untied the sheaf of papers. She held the two rings in her hand and touched the pearls that shone with the life of the water that had given them birth. "They belonged to my mother and my father." She unfolded the first piece of parchment and showed Marietta the sketch, drawn in red chalk, which glowed with vitality despite the simplicity of the work. In a few strokes the artist had caught the likeness of an extraordinarily handsome man with long, curling hair and a stern expression. "My father, Cesare Borgia, who was also called Duke Valentino." Sister Maria looked up at Marietta's gasp. "You are familiar with this name, I see."
Marietta nodded. There was scarcely a person alive who had not heard of the infamous Borgia family. Duke Valentino had left the church that his father ruled as pope and blazed a bloody trail across Italy that had almost succeeded in uniting it into one kingdom.
The second piece of parchment was also a sketch done in red chalk. The rendered woman had a sweet, gentle face with full lips and curls that were tumbling down her shoulders. "You?" Marietta asked.
Sister Maria Lucia smiled but shook her head. "No, although we had a strong resemblance. My mother, Lucrezia Borgia." The sister laughed at the expression on Marietta's face. "Scandalized now, I see. Close your mouth, my dear, before an ill humor enters your body." Sister Maria picked up the shell and showed it to the young nun. It was no different from the thousand other shells washed up on sandy beaches throughout Italy, white with a delicate pink center.
"I was born Lucia Borgia and I was raised near the town of Grosetto, close to the sea."