Chiara – Revenge and Triumph (10 page)

"Signorina da Narni, your accusations are grave and so are Signor Sanguanero’s. Since neither of you have any witness, it is your word against that of the esteemed Signor Sanguanero, who, although a citizen of Siena in the first instance, is also a prominent citizen of Pisa in the second instance. It is not a matter that I can decide without both of you being present. Therefore, I have no choice but to detain you in our custody until Signor Sanguanero can be summoned to appear before this court. We will immediately send a messenger to that effect to Siena. As to this sailor, do you wish to lodge a complaint of mistreatment against him?"

Chiara suppressed her disappointment and smiled. It was more effective to leave a good impression with the Podestà.

"No, your Excellence, that would hardly be called for. He only did what he thought he should do for his
padrone
."

"That is very gracious of you, young lady. I will also send a letter to your father, so that he can assist you with this court."

"Your Excellence, I understand your ruling. I only insist that during my incarceration I will be given all the comforts due to my status."

"Young lady, in this city we do not make a distinction on the basis of status. You will be treated like all other prisoners."

"Your Excellence, I must protest. My father has been knighted for his services by King Robert the Wise of Naples. He has also fought faithfully under Pisa in both the defense of the Island of Elba and the battle of Montecatini. I only ask for the respect due to any daughter of a noble servant of Pisa."

The dignitary, who so far had not said a word, leaned closer to the Podestà and talked to him in a low voice. The latter looked at her with renewed interest while he listened. Then he nodded and said: "I am told that your father distinguished himself valiantly on both occasions. I will therefore make an exception and will lodge you in the annex to the Palazzo Comunale, reserved for temporary distinguished guests." He winked to her as he said the last words.

* * * 

Her prison cell, although not large, offered indeed considerable comfort. Besides the bed which contained a well-filled, clean-smelling straw mattress, there was a small table with an ink pot and quills, two chairs and a second table with a large washbowl. Under that table stood a chamber pot. Metal bars prevented any attempts to escape through the small glass-paned window. A woman attendant brought a pitcher with fresh water and a cup. She bowed slightly and then warned her: "Signorina, it isn’t safe to drink from this water. Wine will be served with your meals."

Chiara thanked her. The guard locked the door after she had left.

Now that she was imprisoned, the courage, almost bordering on bravado, deserted her. Deep down, she had hoped — what now seemed rather forlorn — that she could convince the Podestà to let her go, in which case she would have promptly disappeared with the players, regardless of the conditions imposed for her release. Now it looked like she would be here for several weeks at least. Would the older Sanguanero in fact front up? And if so, would not his word and lies count more than her truth as a minor and a girl, particularly when it became known that she was running away from a betrothal to Niccolo Sanguanero. Nobody would understand why she would refuse a good-looking son of such a successful and prominent Sienese and Pisan merchant family. Not that she was afraid that they would condemn her to years in prison or worse if the verdict went against her. No, it would simply mean that her father would have to pay a huge compensation to Massimo Sanguanero. What she regretted above all else was the new dishonor and pain she now inflicted on him. Would he be able to forgive her? The only bright spot in the whole affair was that a wedding with Casa Sanguanero was definitely off.

Four weeks ago, she would have cried in despair, bitterly and inconsolably. Not now. In fact, she was already scheming. Had the events since then hardened her already to an extent that all she felt was regret and shame for having landed herself in this situation, but no remorse for what she had done? She had to escape before the matter came to court, before her father arrived. She did not want to face him.

No escape through the window this time. The bars looked solid. The only way out was through the door she had come in and that was only unlocked by the guard to let the woman attendant enter or leave. She doubted that she would be allowed out of the room and if so, she would surely be closely supervised.

Did not one of Lorenzo’s skits have the lover escape dressed up as a woman when the husband arrived unexpectedly? Could she change clothing with somebody else? The only person coming regularly to her room was that woman attendant, and she was short and rather plump, nor did Chiara want to get her in trouble. It would work better if the exchange were with a man, provided … yes, provided many things: same size, similar girth, same hair color or the hair completely hidden under a deep hat or hood, no beard. A long cape or overcoat would also help. The only type of man that would match most of these features was a priest or a monk, and some of them even she might be able to overpower.

She reached to her left boot and checked that the small knife Antonia had given her was still in place. It had been a complete surprise. Having lost her knife on the Santa Caterina — she wondered who had it now — she always needed to borrow somebody else’s, and then, one day after massaging Antonia’s shoulder as she regularly did every evening, the old woman rummaged through her chest and pulled out a pair of almost new boots.

"Here," she said, "somebody might as well get the use of these. Try them on for size."

They fitted almost perfectly. All they needed was bees’ wax to make the leather supple again. Then she handed Chiara that small knife.

"And you better take this too, so you don’t always have to beg for one."

 The blade was as sharp as could be. On the handle the letter S was carved in deeply.

"It was my daughter’s, Serena. Yes, it’s the best steel you can find," she added proudly. "Make sure you don’t lose this one. There’s a sleeve on the inside of the left boot for it. It can be handy to have a knife hidden away."

She had been touched by this unexpected generosity and had kissed the old woman on both wrinkled cheeks.

The knife was still firmly in place. She left it there. It was better to pretend not having one. They might otherwise take it away. Receiving the visit of a priest would be a request the Podestà could hardly refuse.

That night for the first time in two weeks, in the state between waking and sleep, the image of the blonde sailor floated in her mind, and she wondered whether he too was in Pisa. Had he forgotten her? She wished he had not.

* * * 

Luck was definitely on her side. The priest who visited her in the afternoon of the following day was young, slim, about the same height as she and without any facial hair. He was probably too young to grow a decent beard yet. The only difference was that the bit of hair that showed was a darker brown than hers with no reddish hue.

She felt it would be prudent to reach her goal in small steps over two or more visits. She imagined herself as the fourteen-year-old, innocent girl back on Elba and slipped into that role. She even stuck almost to the truth. She confessed her plight to him, of having lost her brother and the only male heir of the family, of a father forced by greedy relatives to give her in marriage to a man she loathed, her wish to devote her life to the service of Christ rather than submit to that marriage, and then her eternal shame of having been raped by her future father-in-law and her escape. And after all these trials being now accused of having injured his only good eye. A few tears reinforced her sad tale. Twice she caught herself hearing Maria’s or Alda’s voice and imitating their gestures and realized that she was adapting the script of one of Lorenzo’s plays.

The effect on the young priest almost frightened her. As she spoke, sometimes haltingly, sometimes in fast bursts, he took her hand and began to stroke it. When she shyly wanted to skip over parts of her tale as too shameful to tell, he urged her not to hide anything from him. At the end, he swore that he would talk to the bishop and plead for his intervention as soon as he would have an opportunity to visit him in his summer retreat.

She begged him not to make her plight his cause, that she needed to gain strength to see it through on her own. This only increased his fervor. He promised to bring her a bible, so that she could gain spiritual strength and, God willing, divine consolation.

The second time she received him, she remained lying on her bed, pretending to be sick of distress over the injustice of her plight. He kneeled next to her bed and led her in prayer, where he implored God to give her courage through his divine love and grant himself strength to present her case to the bishop. After the prayer, she moved a bit to the far side of the bed, and, as she had hoped, he sat at the edge, taking her hand again. She sat up, looking deeply into his eyes, and suddenly his arms were around her in a tight embrace. His lips searched hers. It felt strange, but not unpleasant, and she resisted the instinctive response of drawing back and let him kiss her.

"Oh Chiara, my angel. This is surely God’s hand that has brought us together. Our love is so pure that there can be no sin between us."

He fumbled with her tunic, trying to lift it. She immediately saw her chance. Once they were both undressed, it should be easy to subdue him with the threat of her knife. She did not even feel embarrassed being naked in front of him. Off came the cross hanging around his neck, and she helped his frantic effort to shed his cassock and removed his mutande, a sort of drawers, little more than a loin cloth. His skin was a sickly, pallid white, in contrast to her own pale olive complexion she had inherited from the Moorish side of her mother. In spite of his ardor, his penis was flaccid. When he wanted to draw her down with him onto the mattress, she reached for the knife in her boot and held it to his throat.

"Not a sound," she hissed, "or I will push it in."

His eyes almost popped from their sockets and his hands fell limply to his side.

"No harm will come to you if you do what I say, otherwise …," she left the sentence hanging. She doubted that she would in fact be able to hurt the poor fool. "Now, turn on your stomach and hold your hands behind your back."

He trembled, his eyes riveted on her knife.

"Do it! Now!" Although she murmured, her tone was sharp.

With a whimper he lay on his stomach, and she used part of the new cord of her tunic to tie his hands on his back. She did the same to his ankles. Next she made a ball with one part of her hose and ordered him to open his mouth. When he did, she stuffed it in firmly and bound the other part of the hose over his mouth. Then she retied the silk breast band over her bosom, put on her breeches and tunic, and finally donned the cassock over it all. Its skirt almost touched the floor. She pulled the hood firmly over her head, hiding most of her face. A quick glance at her reflection in the window pane confirmed that in the dim light of the corridor she should pass a casual inspection of the guard. She hid the small knife again inside her boot and, taking the bible, went to the door. She was just about to knock when she cast another glance back at the naked priest. That would not do. If the guard looked into the room when he opened the door, he might see him. She returned to the priest and, moved by his frightened eyes, stroked his locks and whispered: "I’m sorry to have to do this to you, you poor lad. And quiet now!" Then she covered him totally with the woollen blanket.

She was ready. She adjusted the hood once more, held the bible in her right hand in front of her chest and knocked. When the door opened, she was fingering the crucifix with her left, murmured: "
Grazie
," and passed by the guard with her head lowered. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed that he briefly looked into the room and then locked it again. Walking down the corridor, she made an effort to take big steps, imitating the gate of a man. At the far end of the corridor, she almost bumped into the woman attendant who came around the corner and greeted her with "
Buona serata, Padre
." Chiara’s pulse took a leap. It took all her presence of mind to mutter "God be with you", forcing the pitch of her alto voice as low as she could while turning her head to the wall. She had forgotten about that woman. It meant that her escape would be discovered shortly. She had to get out of the building quickly and hide, but where? A church! Nothing would be more natural for a priest than to enter a church. She began to walk faster. There was only one other hurdle — the guards at the entrance of the Palazzo Comunale.

Luck was with her again. Both guards were talking to an officer. When she went past, they briefly looked at her and then continued their conversation.
Where is the nearest church?
she wondered, while walking briskly toward the next side street. Any time now the alarm would be raised. With close to one hundred churches in Pisa, one was bound to be nearby, she tried to reassure herself. Turning the corner, she saw two churches a few steps farther down. She entered the larger one by a side entrance. There were four side chapels where she could hide, pretending to pray. A priest, bent low by age, was just emerging from a confessional. The ideal hiding place! Lingering in the obscurity of a pillar, she waited for him to disappear and then entered the curtained confessional.

The small enclosed space felt claustrophobic, nor could she wait too long before making her way out of the city with the gates closing at sundown. She pondered whether it would be safest to keep up the disguise until she was outside — there were always hundreds of robed priests around — or if she should discard the robe. She was just about to leave the confessional, when the faint, but insistent, high-pitched ringing of a bell reached her. The alarm for her escape? She settled back on the hard bench. A girl’s voice startled her.

"Padre, I have sinned."