Of nuns.

I have a confession to relate, dearest friends. I, Lunesta of Nivola, and my cousin, the fair and beautiful Lady Aquafina of Muffìn and Princess of Fonteclaro, were to be married to men we found neither Christian in demeanor nor amiable in character. We were both promised to these rakes¹ before we were fully aware of the agreements to which our families had consented.

Lady Aquafina’s cousin, in fact, the kind and gentle Eviane da Sani, lives near Valence² with a commoner with whom she prayed to St Saturninus³ to be allowed to elope. We hoped, each of us, to petition Our Lady of the Pines⁴ near Colophon, whose legend I have read, to similarly bless us with happy romances. Lady Ouiser found us, and were it not for her wise counsel, we would have been found in more dire straits.

What is a man’s word to women? We know, because Master Xerox of Sabra has told us of the perfidious Prince of Tyre⁵. And woman’s word to man? We learned, through the telling of our beautiful shepherdess friend, of Lady Elisabetta. The promises of the sexes are easily ruptured.

But the worst betrayers of trust have no regard for sex. Indifferent as the cold and intemperate Tramontana of winter⁶, their avarice ravishes, makes off with the bloom, and wilts the tender leaves of faith that sprout from trusting hearts. You all have heard of what one wicked soul does to another; listen now to what one does to a whole convent full of them.

When I was a little girl, there was a convent dedicated to Our Lady of Piety⁷, in the city of Iride. Good St Agnes of Assisi⁸, St Clare’s younger sister, came there and set it up, as there were no Poor Clares⁹ in that part of Italy. Iride is in a bay facing the Ligurian Sea halfway between Piombino and Grosseto¹⁰. On a clear day you can see to Elba from there, and in the summer it is a nice place to stay at.

This story took place when I was just a little girl. I knew the Mother Superior of the Convent¹¹ of Our Lady because she was my aunt, a reverent lady named Madonna Artemisia da Colleverde. She had held that post not because my family had paid the most for her to attain it, nor because she was the most pious or devout person there, but because she had the particular disposition to charity required of the Poor Clares—lovingkindness and regard for every person in town. The Poor Clares took in laundry and with the excess egg yolks, made the pane di Castiglia¹² that everyone likes to have during the elevenses these days.

‘Forgive me, my lady Lunesta,’ Boulevardier said, ‘one is inclined to believe that this story will be a sad one, based on the sad and serious tone in your voice.’

Lunesta was caught off guard by this question and looked at Boulevardier with puzzlement.

‘…No, Ser Boulevardier. I’m just Italian. I thought you would have figured it out by now. I mean, we did talk nearly the entire way once we picked you and Ser Persiflage up.’

The young Swiss mercenary smiled.

‘I know, but I did not realize that these rhetorical devices¹³ were general, and not particular. All the same, I should very much like to know whether this reverend lady is still with us—and, hopefully, if one may obtain this pain de Castille, as you put it.’

Lunesta stared at him for some time and then resumed her tale.

My aunt is no longer alive. I will tell you how she came to an unjust end—and why, dear friends, her misfortune has plunged me and my family into a nearly inexhaustible fountain of tears.

In Iride, the Poor Clares regarded all men equally, and without asking any questions, fed and clothed all they could. At this time of my story there were eight women, all from good families in the region, who each wished to make herself a daughter of Lady Poverty¹⁴ for their own good and the good of their families. Their names were Maria of Prato, Emilia of Orbetello, Louisa of Pietrarotonda, Serena of Lusignano, Francesca of Olibo, Caterina of Lisbon (a Portuguese girl), Verena of Brami, and Zezzola of Naples, the last of these a foul-mouthed, yet entirely upright lady.

Of all these women, only Zezzola had any dowry to pledge¹⁵ to the Franciscans, because her father had done some sort of political favor for the Spanish, and this was how she got into their good graces.

No one—least of all my aunt or the former prioress—doubted the sincerity of these ladies. But the convent was not called that of the Poor Clares for nothing. It had no means to sustain them, at least not without some security¹⁶.

The older Prioress was a lady who was capable, but was no administrator. One day she and my aunt were pulling up dandelions from the roof-tiles of the convent. The convent was on a sort of promontory¹⁷. Well, the wind rose and blew the Mother Superior from the parapet to her death.

‘Good God!’ cried the Abbot of Costello. ‘Please don’t tell me, Lady Lunesta, that your aunt was blamed for this terrible accident.’

‘Your conclusion is identical to the one held by the good people of Iride, sadly. Thankfully Zezzola had been holding the basket for the salad for luncheon that day, saw the whole thing, and told the constables¹⁸ the Prioress’s death had been accidental. Still, my aunt refused four times to be the Prioress, and only took the job after the Church agreed to withhold premium caps on term life insurance¹⁹.’

‘But this could not have been good for the Church either way!’ said the Abbot.

‘You’re noticing that just now?’ Abraham of Babka said.

‘The Church had bigger fires to put out,’ Lunesta said, and everyone knew at once what she spoke of (but I do not—and if anyone can tell me and soon, I’d love it).

The Prioress’s funeral was held afterward, and because she was from a beloved and well-connected noble family, lots of wealthy people showed up. This, incidentally, was how I came to know of the Lady Aquafina here—her father brought the pastries for the wake²⁰.

‘They were delicious,’ Lady Aquafina said.

Standing at the service was a man nobody had seen before—an older gentleman named Ser Bernardo da Madrogno Grande. I’m told this estate, which nobody has ever heard of, is near Babica, but I confess he could have impressed the pants off the Pope with the way he was dressed, even if he was the father of a thousand ratty contadini²¹.

He was the last one to pay respects to the fallen Prioress, and when we all repaired²² to my father’s estate, he said to a local tailor-prince, my cousin Giorgio of Beverly Hills:

‘I used to know her when she was this high! What a shame. I’m the one who paid her dowry to Holy Mother Church. May I speak to you of a business opportunity I’ve got going on in Camden?’

‘Wait a second, Lunesta darling: Camden,’ Abraham of Babka said.

‘I know. That place is mostly Reform families—accountants, from what I’ve heard.’

‘What sort of pedestrian request²³ is that, huh? Business propositions at a funeral?’ Monsieur Persiflage then said.

‘You’ve not been to many funerals, have you?’ Lunesta replied.

‘Perhaps not ones for solitary victims,’ the Jewish teacher then said.

‘Sir: that is not true. I’ve just never thought it necessary for a gentleman to show up at the funeral of a person to whom he is only tangentially related. Some people really do lack a sense of shame.’

‘Best leave that for a criminal court to dispense with, young man—an international one,’ Babka said.

‘Pray continue, good Lunesta,’ Ouiser said.

Ser Bernardo then asked the Prince of Beverly Hills if he would donate, through his Holy Society for the Protection of the Dowries of Nuns, some thirteen hundred scudi²⁴, with a pledge for a certain patch of earth called the Vigna della Pazza²⁵.

But the Prince was embroiled in some sort²⁶ of strange contest for legitimacy with a young and foolish usurper from Philadelphia, and denied Ser Bernardo’s request. So he kept asking around for wealthy nobles to give to his cause, saying all the while that his mere name was like the mantle of the Virgin.

Or at least he made it seem so. He touted his Society as a sort of general fund to which all could pledge a little money²⁷: there was no greedy church-mouse, he said, to pilfer it, and it was free from taxation and graft. He boasted it would cover defaults through his own donations, which he said were made of free will, and that it had the patent and blessing²⁸ of several crowned heads and His Holiness.

He said the Society would preserve the principal²⁹ of the pledges, and that the profits obtained thereof would sustain the dowries. Later on, however, people found out that the sums paid to the older beneficiaries didn’t come from the profits at all—but from the new pledges that came in.

Such boasts are already beyond the pale of good manners, to say nothing of common sense, but a few months later, in the town of Iride, a man named Bertolozzo di Ferromonte announced he was pledging his entire legacy³⁰, as well as the property he had intended to give to his handsome son Marco, as security to Bernardo. He said he was doing it on behalf of the eight ladies who were awaiting enclosure³¹ at the Convent of Our Lady of Piety in Iride.

And my aunt, very relieved to have capable ladies of good name and fortune to add to her lowly convent, immediately called on the workmen of the town to expand the cloister³². The builders agreed to wait to be paid until the dowries arrived. My aunt, who believed the pledges were as good as gold, used much of the convent’s little reserve to procure the timber, stone and lime³³.

Eight nuns! A veritable boatload of charity, my friends. She was so happy to have at least one capable nun whom she could be friends with, make bread with, pray with…

But months passed, and the money for the dowry never showed.

Finally, when the feast of San Giuseppe³⁴ passed and it was safe to traverse out of town, Artemisia saddled up her mule and with another nun went to one of the houses where Bernardo was living with his wife, Teresa. Teresa was more than happy to welcome them in for a few days, but Bernardo never showed.

Then the truth came out: the Doge of Genoa³⁵ had invited him to see the sailing of the spring fleet. This was an expensive and rare favor, and the sisters wondered how a nobody like Bernardo of all people had forgotten to take his young, pretty wife with him to see the very Doge of Genoa—simply the most important man, His Holiness and the Duke of Savoy aside—in this part of Italy.

The nuns, for their own part, continued to pray, and do good works, and the sisters, although they didn’t have to, let them pray side-by-side in the convent. Because, dear friends, a vocation does not need a habit³⁶, very much as marriage does not require a dowry. What matters, of course, is that one look good while doing whatever it is one loves.

‘I’m sure Matteo de Civigni³⁷ had his work cut out for him, then,’ replied Oura.

When Artemisia returned to Iride shortly after Easter, she found that the Lenten provisions³⁸ were almost out. She went to my father and said, ‘Sigismondo, I don’t want to be troublesome, but could you give us some Easter provisions while I sort out the ladies’ dowry with Ser Bernardo?’

Daddy, of course, said yes, because he loved my aunt. He gave her this much and a lot more, and I went with him to take a look at the convent. Once more, Lady Aquafina came along, and we spent most of that afternoon sweeping out the kitchen and organizing the pots and pans. My father went behind the grille³⁹ to speak with Sorella Zezzola, and this smart lady said:

‘Messer, I haven’t wanted to say much, because I’m obviously in no position to criticize, but something’s really fucking wrong with Ser Bernardo. My uncle, the Prince of Reggio, has written to him to intervene in the dowry mess that Her Ladyship is in. Furthermore the Prince has told me that a chili pepper farm in his lands is in default to the Church on account of this villain, and the contadini there are threatening to kick his ass if he shows his face there.’

My father blushed, of course, because Zezzola—God bless her!—couldn’t tell a lie, and went to find Artemisia. She didn’t believe him. She said, ‘Sigismondo, although Zezzola tells the truth as if her life depended on it, there could be a misunderstanding. Let’s wait until he shows. Ser Bernardo’s wife says he’s yachting in Corsica with a Norman noble of great renown to make even more money for our Order.’

Ser Bernardo was indeed yachting, but it was not in Corsica, and not with a Norman noble. Any student of history knows that for sure. In fact, he was cheating on Teresa with a woman named Margherita della Forlana, whom I’m told was some sort of cauliflower heiress with aspirations to the Throne of Jerusalem.

Sigismondo then heard from a Jewish accountant in Rome through a friend of his in the Church, a cardinal named Tommasi, who, thank the Lord, had been keeping an eye on Bernardo. They met in the Ghetto⁴⁰ one afternoon shortly before St Peter and Paul’s day⁴¹, when the city was being prepared for the festivity, and the guards were out of sight.

Waving him into his offices, the accountant, whose name was Isacco, said:

‘Ser Bernardo is a mountebank⁴². Similar pledges for dowries have followed him for fifteen years, with the oldest pledge arising from the chestnut-strewn trails of his ruined estate in Parma, Calciostretto. Ser Sigismondo, I fear some awful deception is at hand.’

Don Sigismondo then looked to the Cardinal, who he hoped would be able to speak to His Holiness of it.

But then Cardinal Tommasi said: ‘This man has also bought the silence of the curia⁴³ in return for delivering some boys up there. I would help you catch this man if I could, but I myself could be exposed for the affair as I myself, in my foolhardiness, gave him some four thousand scudi to procure a sinecure⁴⁴ for my son Giannotto.’

So Sigismondo went to my aunt, and told her of these things. The ladies were all subsisting on less than charity or common sense would allow. The itinerant laborers had come into town to handle harrowing the wheat⁴⁵ before harvest, and there was hardly enough for the sisters themselves. He bought another one hundred pounds of supplies and told her to write to the Prioress General of the Order⁴⁶ in Assisi.

The accountant returned some of the money pledged to the Society on advice from the Cardinal. But Ser Bernardo, learning that Isacco had returned these sums without his permission, denounced him to the authorities in Rome for misappropriating the Society’s funds. Isacco barely survived with his life and living intact. The money returned went to two or three families, but it was not the same amount—‘brokerage fees’⁴⁷, Ser Bernardo called it. He was received by His Holiness, the Doge of Venice, and the Doge of Genoa, and went up to Turin to see the Exposition of the Shroud⁴⁸. Sorella Artemisia and my father found him and requested a conference with the Archbishop.

But Ser Bernardo, putting on a real show, said to His Excellency the Archbishop: ‘Messer, you see I am in a difficult position. I am not responsible for the fluctuations of the market, nor for the wealth that these families pledge to me. And while I am trustee for these women⁴⁹, and do not disregard that fact, a pledge of equal faith must be honored. Some of these ladies have chosen the secular world⁵⁰, or have retained their noble name and rank rather than enter the convent.’

And meanwhile my dearest aunt was starving! She hadn’t eaten in four days.

The Archbishop then said to my Aunt: ‘If these women must pledge a dowry, and the Abbess of Montereggio requires it, he must pay you. But if these ladies prefer to enter enclosure without a consideration to the Church⁵¹, I highly doubt God would be displeased with that fact.’

But then the abbess Lady of the Angels in Assisi said that Iride’s convent needed the nuns and the dowries. But it was too late.

My aunt, already fatigued by travel, was laid low by a fever. When my father and the townspeople went to the Convent, their supplies were nearly exhausted. Artemisia refused any more sustenance on account of the poor. My father would have given them everything he had, had his own resources not been considerably drained by the adventure.

Don Sigismondo rallied a posse⁵² and found Don Bernardo, in bed in an inn not too far from Rovine, with his two mistresses. Lady Teresa was notified, and the scandal hushed up with some borrowed money. But Bernardo escaped again, and not long afterward he was found sheltering in a big oak tree near Siena, holding his last bag of money.

The fraud extended all the way to the Alps, where he had pledged dowries for fourteen fatherless girls, all of whom wished to become nuns.

My aunt died on the feast of Our Lady of the Snows⁵³, in the middle of a terrible heatwave. She was so thin her cilice⁵⁴ no longer fit her. She had refused food up to the very end, all the while saying: ‘My girls must eat’.

She obviously meant the eight nuns whom she wanted so badly to be with her. The Church found all this not to its liking, and, as there was no longer a viable financial reason for the Convent to stay open, it was closed.

The eight ladies then decided to join the Carmelites⁵⁵, but they had even stricter requirements, to say nothing of a totally different way of life. Only Maria of Prato entered, but she died afterward of a broken heart.

The other seven stayed on in Iride as beggars. So the town called them ‘the nuns of Iride’, when they were very much not so. But they belonged to Iride nonetheless.

Zezzola became my nanny before her uncle the Prince found out and told her to return to a costly and well-provided-for post in the Neapolitan Court. I loved her. She was the most upright, decent foul-mouthed woman I ever knew.

Aunt Artemisia was buried on our lands. My father mourned her deeply, and when it came time for Bernardo to face Lady Justice⁵⁶ he could barely restrain his anger. Compounding that anger, however, was the knowledge, shared by all the town, that this man, through his avarice and lack of decency, had robbed the Church of souls, of saints—of opportunity to spread the Gospel. This neither he nor the judges forgot, and in time, Bernardo was made to waste away in prison for his crimes. It was a sentence that I think was too lenient. Monna Teresa died of the plague afterward and was refused burial next to him.

Our family was never the same, and in time, it caused me to feel rebellious against my father and his good intentions. Just last summer, a young man, the Lord of Melarancia, was given to me as husband, but I found his company abrasive. When Lady Aquafina’s husband-to-be proved equally dispiriting, we left in the middle of the night.

You sometimes hear of runaway brides like us and ask, ‘Why?’ And I’ll tell you my reason without speculating on anyone else’s. A woman’s pledge contains much more than her maidenhead⁵⁷. It contains her faith. Too many times have men spurned it for Monna Fortuna⁵⁸, and too many times has this not-so-noble lady seen fit to toss it back to them in worse condition than before.

And truth be told, friends, I don’t know what’s more dangerous: dishonor for a trifle or dishonor⁵⁹ on a woman’s behalf. I’ll let you decide.

And having said this, Lady Lunesta took her seat next to her equally beautiful cousin. Oura leaned forward and squinted at Boulevardier.

‘There—are you happy now?’

‘No,’ Boulevardier said. ‘Good God, what a depressing story. Edifying—but⁶⁰, all the same—profoundly depressing.’

‘What were you expecting?’ Canva said. ‘Fairy tales? Guess what? Wrong century. Perhaps wrong genre. Flying house?⁶¹ Religious tale suitable for children. Donkey shitting gold and gems?⁶² Urban legend. A man cleaning out the dowries of eight nuns? Reality, baby. This is all real shit.’

‘We’ve seen things just as bad, if not worse,’ Boulevardier said.

‘Yes, dear shepherdess—and not to be mean or anything, but the horrors of war easily outrank any story we’ve heard thus far,’ Persiflage added.

‘So you’re to discount me and my cousin’s terrible misfortune just because there are no severed heads or limbs or pus-filled wounds, then?’ Lady Lunesta said.

‘I never said that.’

‘How convenient. The mercenaries pardoning the mercenary⁶³. Admit it, Monsieur. Lady Lunesta’s story affected you in terrible ways. But I’m sure you’ll be fine, killing for a paycheck as a volunteer.’

The mercenaries were shocked into silence as the Ladies Arbonne, Aquafina, Jardiance and Lunesta now showed their displeasure.

‘Which raises an equally distressing question,’ Princess Calamondin then said. ‘Seeing as you two have daggers on you, and plenty of time, it could be that idleness and perhaps jealousy motivated you to act as rashly as Ser Bernardo once dared to.’

Persiflage gave a curt laugh.

‘But I happen to like women, Your Highness, and so does Monsieur Boulevardier.’

Princess Calamondin had watched the two soldiers throughout this exchange. She adjusted her pillow and spoke with an air of almost deliberate innocence:

‘I never mentioned whether Matteo de’ Civigni had those sorts of inclinations, my handsome soldier. Perhaps you know more than you’re willing to tell.’

Boulevardier rose.

‘I’m not listening to this. Come, Persiflage—let us enjoy Midsummer revels⁶⁴ away from the green-eyed company⁶⁵.’

‘I fear your conduct requires an apology, Monsieur—and perhaps an explanation,’ Lady Ouiser said.

And thus, the Second Day came to an end.