Suicide Kings by Christopher J. Ferguson Page B

it still closed.
    Siobhan pointed. “The voice comes from ahead of us, not behind. The wall of the convent itself speaks to us.”
    Siobhan was right, in a matter of sorts. The voice, that of a woman, came from a small window set in a brick outlay from the main chapel. Diana approached and saw the face of a young nun in the window, the face ringed by the black and white of a habit. The woman’s face appeared familiar somehow, in a distant way, and Diana could not place it.
    “Diana Savrano,” the woman said again, and her face offered a welcoming smile. “Do you not recognize me?”
    As she came up to the window, Diana saw the room beyond was perhaps three feet by eight, not atypical for a nun’s cell. However there appeared to be no door whatsoever, only a second window looking in on the chapel. The woman had been trapped in the little room unless she was inclined to try to squeeze through either of the tiny gaps. Only a small cot, table and shelf of books furnished the chamber. A wooden cross hung on one wall.
    The woman must be an anchoress, Diana realized, a nun who had taken vows to live in complete isolation, even from the other sisters. In reality, such women were hardly isolated, of course. The other sisters, and even citizens from the city would come to seek the religious, and even practical advice of an anchoress, as such women were considered to be both exceptionally blessed and wise.
    Diana regarded the anchoress and studied her face. The woman was a few years older than herself, with an angelic face of red lips and fair skin. Her eyes were blue and the few strands of hair that escaped the headpiece were light brown. Her light features would have been prized in Firenze or Roma, and yet she had chosen to waste them here. Diana did not recognize the woman and told her so.
    “We met some years ago,” the anchoress persisted. “Several times, in fact. My father is Signore di Lucca. Your family attended several balls my father held before I entered the convent. You were, as I remember, being pursued by a Frenchmen at the time.”
    Diana looked at the ground. “That was a long time ago. You’ve been here since then?”
    “I have,” she said, no hint of regret in her voice. “My name is Francesca. We didn’t know each other well, but I remember you.”
    Diana mumbled some apology for her own poor recall. In truth, Diana didn’t know what to say. Her inclination was to express sympathy for Francesca’s imprisonment, but the older woman did not seem distressed by it. Indeed she radiated a certain holy contentment that simultaneously impressed Diana and made her nervous.
    “You’ve come here for guidance?” Francesca asked.
    “Of a sort,” Diana replied.
    “Give me your hand,” Francesca commanded, her voice gentle but firm.
    Diana hesitated a moment, then allowed her hand to pass through the window of the little cell. She felt like she was reaching into murky water in search of a coin without being sure that some hungry beast awaited her fingers down in the darkness.
    Francesca took her hand and turned it palm up, then placed her own across it. Francesca’s hand was warm, soft, like a baby’s. Yet she gripped Diana’s fingers in a firm embrace. Francesca closed her eyes and began to chant, “Oh heavenly father, I beseech you to be with us today as we seek out your grace and your guidance…”
    Diana looked over at Siobhan, but found the Irishwoman with her head bowed, hands clasped reverently in front of her. Diana felt both isolated and trapped between the two women, but there was little that she could reasonably do but to allow these events to play out.
    Francesca continued her intonations and her voice became faster and softer as if she were barely breathing between the words. Diana thought Francesca had changed to speaking Latin and she could no longer closely follow what was being said. Francesca shook and swayed at her own voice, her hand on Diana’s contracting painfully at times, only