by C. De Melo
“I suppose you have a point,” Massimo agreed. “He’s a fine representation of our Republic against tyranny.”
Massimo used the word “tyranny” but Sabina knew that many Florentines, especially the magistrates within the Signoria, would have used the word Medici.
***
In the year 1510, shortly after Anne’s twenty-ninth birthday, Sabina received news from England. James was dead. The letter was written in female hand and signed by James’s widow, who most likely felt a sense of duty toward Anne. James left almost everything to his eldest son but allotted his wife and other children a sizeable sum of money. Since Anne had not been in contact with her father for two decades, he bestowed only a small inheritance to his estranged daughter. Anne donated the money to the convent and accepted the news of her father’s death with indifference.
***
The years continued to pass uneventfully and Sabina welcomed the lack of excitement. She had endured so many dramatic episodes and emotional upheavals in her lifetime that monotony was a blessing. She and Massimo had settled into a happy routine and were grateful for their domestic bliss.
All was well until August of 1519 when Sabina received a disturbing letter from Cecilia:
Dear Sister,
I hope this letter finds you and Massimo in good health. I’m writing with news that may surprise you. Our dear Anne is completely smitten with the new bishop, who possesses the same zeal of the late Savonarola. He has been assigned to the Chiesa di San Michele where Anne attends mass daily. Remember when we attended mass there as young girls? Of course, her love and admiration for this man of God is chaste and strictly spiritual. His Excellency is none other than Marco Alfani! Can you believe it? God works in mysterious ways, indeed. On a much sadder note, Sister Olivia passed away last week after contracting a fever. I’m sure she is looking down on us from Heaven right now. You are always in my thoughts and prayers.
With much affection, Cecilia
Sabina reread the letter. Marco Alfani…Bishop of San Michele. According to Cecilia, Anne was “completely smitten” with him. The mere thought of it made her nauseous.
Chapter 22
Lucca, Tuscany
August 1519
The church bells rang loudly and the sun shone brightly as Anne approached the Chiesa di San Michele. Almost forty, she possessed a spritely step and appeared much younger than her age. She was slim and in good shape due to a sparse diet and hard work at the convent. When she walked through the streets, men still stared at her with lustful eyes.
It was unbearably hot outside and she wiped the perspiration from her brow. The surrounding Tuscan hills were scorched from lack of rain and she prayed daily for God to end the relentless drought.
Anne walked into the church and was grateful for the coolness of its marble and stone interior. She loved being a nun and her life had recently become more spiritually fulfilling thanks to Bishop Marco Alfani. The thought of him made her smile. Despite being old enough to be her father, he possessed youthful vigor and a handsome countenance—although she would never admit such a thing aloud. Of course, she appreciated his physical beauty the same way one would appreciate any of God’s creations, like a flower or a tree. At least, this is what she told herself whenever she gazed upon his pleasing face.
She spotted Bishop Alfani praying in the nave. Mass was not for another two hours, but Anne usually arrived early to pray and hopefully engage in conversation with him. He was authoritative and spoke the word of God with fiery conviction. The mere sound of his deep voice was enough to make her feel giddy.
Oh, God, such wicked thoughts…
Bishop Alfani crossed himself and stood, and Anne could not help noticing the width of his broad back. She murmured an apology to God for being weak and sinful. When he turned his head, she lowered her eyes and her face grew hot.
He smiled. “Hello, Sister Anne.”
“Your Excellency.”
“You have come to pray.”
“Yes, but I also have a question.”
Anne’s upper lip trembled slightly as he approached her. Marco was experienced enough to know when a woman desired him, and this pale flower had been coming to his church ever since he transferred from Rome.
Her hands shook as she extracted a small Bible from her pocket. “I’m hoping you can offer some clarification on this scripture,” she said, indicating the passage with her fingertip. “What did the Apostle Paul mean by this?”
When Marco moved closer, gooseflesh broke out all over her neck. The woman was undoubtedly a virgin. As he began to explain the scripture, he noticed that her eyes glazed over.
Marco had left for Rome shortly after Savonarola’s execution, and things had gone well for him in the Eternal City. He befriended a bishop who had instructed him to carry out certain tasks deemed questionable by the Church. In exchange for Marco’s “services” (and more importantly, his silence), Marco had been given his own bishopric and a handsome monthly stipend. Everything was going smoothly until he met a duchess who took a fancy to him. The woman’s lust was insatiable. Their amorous relationship ended when the duke discovered his wife’s infidelity. The prideful noble insisted on Marco’s expulsion from the church and from Rome. His friend, the bishop, arranged for Marco to be sent back to Tuscany with a papal letter of introduction to the Archbishop of Lucca. He was assigned the church of San Michele shortly afterward. Marco missed the excitement of Rome and needed to find other ways to entertain himself in Lucca.
Perhaps he would start with the pretty nun who came to hear his sermons every day…
Marco studied Anne’s face discreetly as he spoke. There was something hauntingly familiar about her features, something about her eyes and the way she tilted her head.
***
In the winter of 1519, Marco was surprised to discover that Sister Anne Wynne was actually Sabina Rossi’s daughter. He vowed to conquer the girl, who would no doubt prove to be more willing than her stubborn, arrogant mother. Sabina had spurned and rejected him, but her daughter desperately sought him out like a lost lamb after its shepherd. The irony was priceless.
Marco learned the art of patience and vendetta in Rome—being discreet and waiting for the right moment to strike were imperative to the success of countless church dignitaries. If people knew how much corruption existed within the Vatican’s walls, they would be shocked. He continued to act as Anne’s mentor and spiritual guide, as was his duty. Slowly and carefully, he drew the naïve woman into his trap. Whenever she showed him something from her Bible, he would “innocently” place his hand on the small of her back or gently take her elbow when walking down the nave together. He also made it a point to stand in close proximity and look deeply into her eyes whenever they engaged in conversation.
It was not long before Anne was completely enamored with him. Although she lacked experience when it came to men, she was old enough to know the symptoms of lust. Whenever Bishop Alfani was near, a thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach. Whenever they were apart, she yearned for him to the point of feeling ill. The very touch of his hand was enough to make her tremble and burn with longing, but the thrill was always followed by guilt.
Always the guilt…
***
Marco chose a bitterly cold, rainy day to carry out his plan of seduction. Few people attended mass midweek since most of the congregation was poor and forced to work during the day. The number of attendants was even lower when the weather was particularly nasty, but Anne always came, rain or shine. She was among the nine people who had braved the storm to take Holy Communion.
When everyone had left the church, she remained behind. Her Bible was clutched to her chest. “Bishop Alfani, I have a question to ask you.”
A smile lit up Marco’s face as he stretched out his hand. “Come.”
She was taken aback. “Where, Your Excellency?”
“I’m more than happy to answer your questions and discuss scripture, but I must do so in the warmth of my pr
ivate quarters. I’m not well today.”
Her face expressed genuine worry. “Oh…I hope it’s nothing serious. Perhaps I should leave so that you may rest.”
“No, no… I just need to warm myself by the fire before I catch cold.”
Marco took Anne’s elbow and urged her to keep pace with him. At first, she was reluctant to be alone with him, but since the chamber was attached to the church itself, she thought it harmless. After all, they were both in God’s house. She followed him down a short corridor past the sacristy, then out of the church into a tiny courtyard leading into a side building that served as the bishop’s residence.
Marco took out a key and unlocked the door. “Please,” he said, motioning for her to enter. “We can speak in my study.”
Anne walked into the center of a room containing a table and two ornate chairs. A thick fur rug was set before the hearth and on the table was a tray containing two silver chalices and a pitcher of wine. One wall was completely devoted to books and the opposite wall flaunted a tapestry and a doorway leading to the bishop’s bedchamber. Anne heard a click as the bishop turned the key in the lock. A feeling of uneasiness swept over her as she glanced at him. He stoked the orange embers within the hearth then poured some wine.
“Here,” he said, offering her one of the chalices. When she hesitated, he placed it in her hand. “Timothy said a little wine is good for the stomach. Go on and drink.”
“But it’s not diluted,” she pointed out. The nuns avoided drinking wine unless it was mixed with plenty of water.
“Jesus transformed water into wine. Besides, it will warm you.”
Anne did not taste the aromatic red wine until the bishop had poured some for himself and drank deeply. She took a small sip and found the wine sweet and very strong.
“Please sit,” he said, indicating one of the chairs. As he leaned his crozier against the wall, he asked, “How long have you been at Santa Lucia?”
“I’ve been a bride of Christ for twenty-one years.”
“A long time. You were born in Lucca?” he asked, removing the miter from his head and placing it beside the silver tray on the table.
Anne’s eyes followed him as he moved around the room. “No. I’m originally from England.”
He removed his jewel encrusted robe, revealing a simpler wool tunic underneath. “From England, you say? Yet you speak like a native Tuscan.”
The wine was delicious and Anne took a deep sip. “My mother is Lucchese and my father is English. I came to Tuscany when I was a child.”
Marco brought the wine over and refilled her chalice to the brim. “How very interesting. You felt the calling at a young age?”
“It was always my dream to serve God.”
He sat across from her. “Most commendable. Tell me, who are your parents? Are they still alive?”
“My father died several years ago. My mother is alive and living in Florence. Her name is Sabina Rossi.”
“Rossi…a noble name.” He paused. “So, what was your question?”
The wine had gone to her head so quickly that she had completely forgotten her question! She blushed in embarrassment. “Ah…”
“Well?” Marco urged in a soft tone.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency. This wine is too strong for me. I have forgotten,” she confessed, wide-eyed.
He burst into laughter and she followed suit. “Oh, Sister Anne, you’re like a breath of fresh air in this austere place.”
She blinked several times at the compliment and her blush deepened. Not knowing how to respond, she took another deep sip of wine and regretted it instantly.
“Do you want to know a secret?” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, forcing her to incline her head toward him. “I look forward to your daily visits.” He stared intently, drinking in her innocence.
“Oh…I…” she began but did not finish.
“I must confess that you are by far one of the loveliest creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. God is indeed an artist.”
Anne placed her hand on her chest, flustered.
Marco’s face grew serious. “Oh, dear. I hope my honest confession didn’t offend you, my child. I’m a man of God but still a man, with all the imperfections of a man.”
They were seated, facing each other. He looked down at her mouth and she bit her lip. It took most of his resolve not to attack her in that moment.
“May I ask you a delicate question?”
“Yes…”
“Have you ever known any man in your lifetime?” he whispered. “Answer me honestly, as if you were in the confessional.”
“Known?”
“In a carnal sense?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Never.”
“Good girl,” he said, gently touching her face.
Anne didn’t move a single muscle when he leaned forward. Like a snake who hypnotizes its prey, Marco kept his eyes locked on hers as he moved closer and kissed her lips ever so gently. She had never been touched by a man, let alone kissed, and was thrilled by the act.
Removing the chalice from her hand, he slowly deepened the kiss and took her in his arms. When his tongue ran across her lips, she instinctively opened her mouth. Every inch of her skin tingled as his hands caressed her body. She gasped when he cupped and teased her breast.
You are just like your mother, he thought as his excitement grew. “Sweet child, let me purify my soul…let me bask in your innocence,” he whispered. “I need you, Anne.”
She came completely undone. Within seconds, they were sprawled on the fur rug. Marco undressed her, kissing every bit of exposed skin, but when he turned Anne on her side and saw her back, he froze.
“My God,” he said. “What have you done to yourself?”
He was unprepared for the angry red scars crisscrossing the delicate white skin. Self-mutilation was both excessive and unnecessary in his opinion. He experienced a surge of pity for this obviously troubled woman.
Anne was too far-gone in the throes of passion to notice his reaction. She instinctively pulled him on top of her and moved rhythmically against him. Not expecting the sharp pain when he took her maidenhead, she cried out. Marco quickly covered her mouth and lay still until she was ready to proceed. She possessed surprising passion, meeting each of his thrusts until she came as wantonly as a slut. When he pulled away and looked down at her flushed face, she was crying.
“What is it?” he asked.
“We have sinned… we have sinned so terribly!” she sobbed. “Fornicators! We are fornicators!”
Marco covered her mouth and glanced at the locked door. “Hush! Do not say such things! We fell in a moment of weakness—nothing more. God is forgiving and He’ll accept our prayers of repentance.” When she continued to cry, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll hear your confession.”
She sniffed. “And who will hear yours?”
He didn’t expect such a quick retort. “God,” he replied. “You should get dressed and go.”
Anne covered her nudity with her hands as she sat up. Marco turned his face away in courtesy as she donned her nun’s habit and wimple.
“Bishop Alfani?”
“Yes?”
“Will I burn in Hell for this?”
Anne was obviously plagued by an unusual and exaggerated sense of guilt. She would, no doubt, punish herself for this deed and create more scars. “Not if you repent,” he said sincerely.
“I do… I should have never come here with you alone. I’m so sorry.”
“Anne, please stop.”
When Marco unlocked the door, she ran out. The images of her scarred back would remain on his mind for the rest of the day.
***
Anne reached the convent and went straight to her cell. She threw herself on her cot and cried. What had she done? Dear God, she had committed fornication!
But it had felt so good.
She already knew she would commit the sin again (and again) if given the chance. Why did she allow herself to be alone with
Bishop Alfani? How could she continue living at the convent after what she’d done? Would the other sisters find out?
Anne missed supper that evening and Cecilia went to her cell. “Are you ill, my dear?” she asked from the doorway. “You didn’t come down to eat.”
Anne was stretched out on the cot, staring at the ceiling. “My head hurts and I had no appetite. I’ll be fine by morning.”
“Well, rest up because tomorrow we’re expected at the orphanage.”
“I will. Goodnight.”
Anne couldn’t bring herself to attend mass the next morning with the other nuns, but helped at the orphanage as promised. The scent of Bishop Alfani’s skin, the memory of his touch, and the taste of his mouth haunted her thoughts throughout the day.
After a week of avoiding mass at San Michele, Anne received a message at the convent from Bishop Alfani. He needed to speak to her as soon as possible and she could not ignore the summons of her superior. She went directly to the church and found the bishop waiting for her near the high altar. There was not a soul in the church. He led her into a dark chapel and within seconds they were kissing passionately. This time, their lovemaking took place in the sacristy!
Their secret affair continued throughout the winter with Anne fluctuating between spiritual agony and carnal ecstasy. By late spring, she realized something was terribly wrong. Her monthly flow had ceased, her stomach swelled, and she was sick every morning. When she informed the bishop of her symptoms, his face paled.
“There’s an old woman living behind the Chiesa di San Romano who goes by the name of Ursula. Go to her now and she will cure you of your ailment,” he instructed. “Tell her Bishop Alfani sent you.”
In an attempt to appear anonymous, Anne pulled the hood of her long cloak low over her brow. She found the house easily and was taken aback by the old crone’s ugliness when the door swung open. “Donna Ursula?” The woman nodded. “Bishop Alfani has sent me.”
Ursula smiled in a strange, knowing way. “He sends many.”
Anne failed to grasp her meaning. “He said you could cure me of my ailment.”