from
your own conscience, which you must learn to silence, or you will put us all in
jeopardy. She is no longer your business. Do not give me cause to repent of my
belief in you, Bruno.”
I lifted my head and met his gaze. In his stern expression,
I saw anger tempered by a fatherly concern. I had thought I was being tested,
to see how much I was prepared to risk in the pursuit of knowledge. Now I felt
deceived; this had not been about the advance of science at all. What we had
done was all in the service of protecting a murderer and the name of San
Domenico. A murderer who might one day be the head of the most powerful
religious house in Naples. I wished bitterly that I had never thought to follow
Fra Gennaro last night. Not that my ignorance would have changed anything, but
I would have been spared the weight of this guilt.
From beyond the window, the chapel bell struck a long, low
note.
“You had better get yourself to Matins,” he said. He
reached a jar down from a cabinet to his right, unstoppered it, and pulled out
one of the ginger and honey balls he kept for throat complaints in winter. “Here.
Take one of these — I can smell the tavern on your breath. And Bruno …” he
called, softly, as I opened the door. I turned, expectant.
“Remember your oath.”
I nodded. But I also remembered my promise to Maria.
*
* *
At first light, shortly after Lauds, I crept out of my cell
again and crossed the gardens to the lemon grove. I scoured the ground,
fancying I could see here or there in the parched earth and scrubby grass some
sign of a struggle, but there was nothing conclusive. Nothing to say that the
girl had ever set foot here. I searched among the trees for almost half an hour,
in vain. Gennaro had deftly ignored my question about jewelry; perhaps he had
disposed of the girl’s locket in case it should identify her, or perhaps he had
never seen it. A necklace chain could easily be broken if you were fighting off
a pair of strong hands around your throat.
The bells had just rung for Prime when the sun slipped out
from behind its veil of cloud and I caught a metallic glint at the foot of a
twisted trunk. I knelt and fished out from among the dried stalks a chain with
a gold pendant. An oval, about the size of a large olive, faced with exquisite
filigree work and a finely wrought figure of the crucified Christ on the front.
I wondered if the girl’s father had made it. The chapel bell sounded its
sonorous note again , and I glanced up to see Fra Donato crossing the
grove toward me in rapid strides. With his bright hair lit by the early morning
sun, he looked like a painting of the newly risen Christ, if Christ had ever
glared at someone as if he wanted to burn them alive with his eyes. I barely
had time to slip the locket inside my habit and stand, hands folded demurely
into my sleeves, to greet him.
“Brother. Pax vobiscum .”
“What are you doing here, Fra Giordano? Shouldn’t you be at
prayer?” He had no authority over me, except that afforded by seniority and
birth, though he addressed me as if he were the prior himself. His cold blue gaze
swept over the lemon trees and seemed to comprehend the scene in a glance. He
had come in search of the locket too, I was certain.
“I am praying, Brother. I felt moved to speak to God
here among the trees, where I can meditate on the wonders of Creation.”
“Perhaps you should have joined the Franciscans.” He left a
pause. “Do you know, they say you are the most promising scholar San Domenico
has seen in a generation.”
I shrugged. “They do not say so in my hearing.”
“Well, of course not,” he said. “They would not want to
provoke you to the sin of pride.” He tilted his head to one side. There was an
intensity in the way he held my eye that made me understand why a woman might
fall under his spell. That and the remarkably fine features, the bones that
looked as if they had emerged from a sculptor’s vision of an archangel. “I hear
you
your own conscience, which you must learn to silence, or you will put us all in
jeopardy. She is no longer your business. Do not give me cause to repent of my
belief in you, Bruno.”
I lifted my head and met his gaze. In his stern expression,
I saw anger tempered by a fatherly concern. I had thought I was being tested,
to see how much I was prepared to risk in the pursuit of knowledge. Now I felt
deceived; this had not been about the advance of science at all. What we had
done was all in the service of protecting a murderer and the name of San
Domenico. A murderer who might one day be the head of the most powerful
religious house in Naples. I wished bitterly that I had never thought to follow
Fra Gennaro last night. Not that my ignorance would have changed anything, but
I would have been spared the weight of this guilt.
From beyond the window, the chapel bell struck a long, low
note.
“You had better get yourself to Matins,” he said. He
reached a jar down from a cabinet to his right, unstoppered it, and pulled out
one of the ginger and honey balls he kept for throat complaints in winter. “Here.
Take one of these — I can smell the tavern on your breath. And Bruno …” he
called, softly, as I opened the door. I turned, expectant.
“Remember your oath.”
I nodded. But I also remembered my promise to Maria.
*
* *
At first light, shortly after Lauds, I crept out of my cell
again and crossed the gardens to the lemon grove. I scoured the ground,
fancying I could see here or there in the parched earth and scrubby grass some
sign of a struggle, but there was nothing conclusive. Nothing to say that the
girl had ever set foot here. I searched among the trees for almost half an hour,
in vain. Gennaro had deftly ignored my question about jewelry; perhaps he had
disposed of the girl’s locket in case it should identify her, or perhaps he had
never seen it. A necklace chain could easily be broken if you were fighting off
a pair of strong hands around your throat.
The bells had just rung for Prime when the sun slipped out
from behind its veil of cloud and I caught a metallic glint at the foot of a
twisted trunk. I knelt and fished out from among the dried stalks a chain with
a gold pendant. An oval, about the size of a large olive, faced with exquisite
filigree work and a finely wrought figure of the crucified Christ on the front.
I wondered if the girl’s father had made it. The chapel bell sounded its
sonorous note again , and I glanced up to see Fra Donato crossing the
grove toward me in rapid strides. With his bright hair lit by the early morning
sun, he looked like a painting of the newly risen Christ, if Christ had ever
glared at someone as if he wanted to burn them alive with his eyes. I barely
had time to slip the locket inside my habit and stand, hands folded demurely
into my sleeves, to greet him.
“Brother. Pax vobiscum .”
“What are you doing here, Fra Giordano? Shouldn’t you be at
prayer?” He had no authority over me, except that afforded by seniority and
birth, though he addressed me as if he were the prior himself. His cold blue gaze
swept over the lemon trees and seemed to comprehend the scene in a glance. He
had come in search of the locket too, I was certain.
“I am praying, Brother. I felt moved to speak to God
here among the trees, where I can meditate on the wonders of Creation.”
“Perhaps you should have joined the Franciscans.” He left a
pause. “Do you know, they say you are the most promising scholar San Domenico
has seen in a generation.”
I shrugged. “They do not say so in my hearing.”
“Well, of course not,” he said. “They would not want to
provoke you to the sin of pride.” He tilted his head to one side. There was an
intensity in the way he held my eye that made me understand why a woman might
fall under his spell. That and the remarkably fine features, the bones that
looked as if they had emerged from a sculptor’s vision of an archangel. “I hear
you
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