The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  I recalled that a heavy door of closely twisted iron barred the entrance to the vault. From there, a flight of steep steps led downward to where I now sat. Could I feel my way through the dark to those steps and climb up to that door? But it was locked and the vault was in a remote section of the cemetary. Even the keeper might not come near it for days, perhaps weeks. I would starve or die of thirst.

  Tortured by such thoughts, I stood erect. The cold stone floor chilled my bare feet to the marrow. Fearful of contagion, they had left me fully clothed in the same ivory and wine-colored gown with its tabbed bodice, long stomacher, and virago sleeves I had worn the day I fell sick. Since donning it, my world had changed horrifically.

  I raised my hand to my neck. When I touched the gold chain and medallion engraved with the initials of my husband and daughter, a flood of sweet memories rushed over me. I raised the round pendant to my lips and pressed my kisses and tears, scalding and bitter, upon it. Life was worth living while my Chiara and Dario’s smiles lit the world! I resolved to fight; to climb out of this crypt, no matter what dire horrors awaited me.

  Dario, my love. In the black gloom, I pictured his handsome face that shone like a beacon in my mind. His mournful eyes beckoned, as though I could hear him sob alone in the empty silence of our bedchamber, his hair dishevelled, his face haggard with grief. My little Chiara, too, would wonder why I did not come to kiss her good night. How I missed my baby! And Beatrice, my dearest friend! I fretted over how profound her sadness would be.

  I must escape these grim confines. How ecstatic they would be to see me again, to know that I was alive. Oh, how they would welcome me. Dario would sweep me into his arms my beloved daughter would cling to me, Beatrice would shed tears of joy at my appearance. I smiled, picturing our reunion. My happy home blessed by faultless friendship and staunch fidelity.

  In the distance, a church bell tolled the hour. One, two, three... I counted twelve strokes. My pleasant thoughts faded and the grim reality of my situation troubled me anew. Did the bells announce midday or midnight? I could not tell.

  It had been early morning when I took that ill-begotten path into Vicenza. It must have been before midday when I met the monk and sought his assistance for the young lad who had suffered and died alone. If my illness had lasted a day or two, as was the case with most victims who died of the plague. I might have died the following day or the next. In that case, they likely buried me before sunset. These might be the bells of midnight struck on the very day of my burial. I felt certain it could be no more than three days after contracting the illness, otherwise I would be in severe thirst.

  I trembled; a tense fear crept over me. Something dreadful resounded in the tolling of those midnight bells that echoed cruelly on my ears, the ears of a woman pent up alive in a crypt with the putrefying bodies of her ancestors. I tried to suppress my terror and summon my courage. I must escape this hell. With my hands before me, I slowly and carefully felt my way to the steps of the vault.

  A long piercing cry, intense and miserable, echoed through the hollow arches of my tomb. Blood curdled in my veins. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beat so stridently that I could hear it thump against my ribs. The shriek seemed to come from inside the vault, and this time a flurry and flutter of wings followed it. It is only an owl, I whispered aloud in an effort to still my rising panic, only a harmless companion to the dead. But how did it get in here? If it could enter, it could also depart.

  Hopeful, I moved cautiously onward. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, the owl sprung at me with wretched malice. I fought with the creature as it circled my head, pounced at my face, and beat me with massive wings I could feel, but could not see. I struck at it relentlessly. The repulsive confrontation seemed to last forever. Although ill and lightheaded, I battled the beast. Finally, the huge owl halted its assault. It emitted one last vicious screech then vanished into some black corner. Every nerve in my body shook as I tried to regain my breath.

  Blindly groping with outstretched hands, I continued on my way to where I believed the stone staircase might be, but instead, I bumped into a hard and cold horizontal barrier. I ran my hands over it. Was this the first step of the stairs? It seemed too high. I stroked it cautiously and touched something soft and sodden to the touch like wet velvet. Beneath the cloth, my fingers traced the oblong form of a coffin. A realization shot through me and I withdrew my hand swiftly. Whose coffin was this? My father’s? Or was it my mother’s oak casket?

  A deep sense of despair swept through me. All my efforts to find my way through the vault were fruitless. Lost in the overwhelming blackness, I did not know in which direction I should turn. With shocking realization, the direness of my circumstances became clear. Thirst tormented me. I fell to my knees and wept.

  My sobs rang through the vault’s arches; the sound strange and horrific to my own ears. If I could not escape this agony soon, I would go mad, confined in this place of death and darkness, with decomposing cadavers as my sole companions. I buried my face in my hands, forcing myself to remain calm and keep my mind from surrendering to the madness that threatened to possess me.

  Then, from somewhere in the distance, I heard a cheerful sound. I raised my head and listened to the trill of a nightingale. How it reassured me in this hour of despair! I praised God for its existence and sprang up laughing and weeping for joy at its shower of lustrous warbles. A rush of courage surged through me, invigorating me with hope and vitality.

  A new idea came to me. I could follow the nightingale’s voice. It sang harmoniously, optimistically, and I resumed my journey through the blackness. In my mind, I pictured the bird perched on one of the trees outside the vault, and believed that if I could move towards its voice, it would guide me to the staircase I so desperately sought.

  Stumbling along, I felt weak and my legs quavered beneath me. This time nothing impeded my progress. The nightingale’s song drifted closer. Hope that had nearly faded, bounded once more into my heart. Barely aware of my own movements, the golden melody of the song drew me as if I were in a dream.

  My foot tripped over a stone and I fell forward. I felt no pain; my limbs were too numb with cold. I raised my aching eyes in the darkness and cried out. One meagre ray of moonlight, no thicker than a blade of straw, flickered down on me and revealed the lowest step of the stairway. I could not see the door of the vault, but I knew that it must be there at the top.

  Too exhausted to move, I lay still as a stone, gazing at the solitary moon-ray, and listening to the nightingale, whose melody rang out with clarity. The low-pitched bell of earlier now rang out the first hour of the day. Soon, it would be morning. I decided to rest until then. Completely exhausted, I rested my head against the cold stones as if they were silk pillows. Within a few moments, I put all my miseries out of my mind and drifted into sleep.

  Chapter Four

  A biting sting on my neck woke me. Nauseated and dizzy, I raised my hand to my throat and closed my trembling fingers around a winged and slimy, flesh and blood horror fastened to my skin. Its abhorrent grip drove me to hysteria. Wild with revulsion, I screamed as I clasped its plump bulk and ripped it away, flinging it hard and far into the vault. I could hear it flapping about in the darkness until it settled somewhere.

  I continued to scream, terrified. Had I reached the edge of insanity? Fatigue finally silenced me. Gasping for air and in my weakened state, my entire body trembled. After a length of haunting silence, I tried to regain control over my fears.

  The moonbeam no longer shone into the vault. Instead, a stream of dull grey light took its place. I could now see the entire staircase and the closed iron grate at the top. With desperate haste, I crawled up the steps. Grasping the iron grate with both hands, I shook it hard. My efforts were in vain; the locked grate would not open.

  “Help me!” I screeched. My voice echoed over the desolate tombstones. Absolute stillness replied.

  I stared through the tightly weaved black rods. Beyond lay verdant grass and lush
trees beneath a glorious sky already flushed with the peach and rose-tinted hues of a rising sun. I drank in the pure, revitalizing air.

  A long, wild grapevine dangled within reach, its leaves sodden with dew. I squeezed one hand through the grate and picked a few fresh, leafy fragments, ravenously stuffing them into my mouth. They tasted more delectable than anything I had ever eaten and relieved my parched throat.

  The sight of the sky and earth calmed me. The nightingale had ceased its melodic song. In its place, I heard the gentle twitter of awakening birds. My breathlessness soon eased.

  As my terror abated, I leaned against the stone archway and glanced back down the steep stairway. Something white lay on the seventh step from the top. Curious, I descended and saw that it was a partially spent thick wax candle, the type used by the Church for funeral masses, likely from my own. Now, if only I had a means to light it. Then I remembered Dario’s tinderbox. I reached into the purse attached to my belt. It was there. I pulled it out along with a few silver coins, a thimble, a fan, my visiting card case, and the ring of keys belonging to various doors in my villa. They must have buried me in haste for they had taken none of my possessions. The silver tinderbox was especially valuable. Only fear of contagion would have kept someone from taking it.

  The knowledge that I could strike a flame and light the candle made me almost giddy with relief. The sun had not yet fully risen and it might be hours before anyone came to the graveyard and discovered me.

  An unusual idea came to mind, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. I needed to see my coffin. Possessing the tinderbox had chased away my fears and gave me the courage to do it. I picked up the candle and after two strikes of the steel, I managed to light the char-cloth, which I then used to light the candle. At first, it flickered, but after a moment, the flame became steady and strong. The candle would not last long, perhaps an hour, two at the most. I shaded it from any draughts with my hand, cast a parting glance at the daylight that shone temptingly through the iron grate, and descended back into the murkiness.

  Lizards slithered away as I descended the steps. The moment the candle flame permeated the darkness, I heard the flurry of wings and a feral cry. Hideous creatures lived in this house of the dead, but armed with my light, I had the confidence to defeat them all. My descent seemed so short compared to my climb in the impenetrable dark, and I soon found myself back in the vault’s depths.

  Now I could see. High walls enclosed the small room. Horizontal niches in the wall, one above the other, held narrow caskets containing my ancestors’ bones. I held the candle high above my head and looked around with morbid curiosity until I found what I sought – my own coffin.

  It lay in a niche five feet from the ground, its fractured wood proof of my struggle to free myself. I advanced for a closer look. It was a flimsy box, unlined, of plain wood, and shoddily crafted. Thank goodness it had been so poorly made, otherwise I might never have escaped from it.

  I peered inside. Something shone from within – an ebony and silver crucifix. The good monk must have laid it on my breast before they closed me into the coffin. My heart warmed at his thoughtfulness. In my struggle to free myself, the cross must have dropped off my chest. I raised it to my lips, kissed it, and made up my mind that if I ever met the monk again, I would tell him my tale, and show him the cross as proof of my ordeal. I had no doubt he would recognize it.

  Had they put my name on the coffin lid? I leaned closer to look. There it was, painted on the wood in coarse, black letters. CARLOTTA MANCINI. The date of my birth followed it and then a short Latin inscription stating that I had died of the plague on August 15, 1631. Only Saturday, yet an eternity seemed to have passed since then.

  I turned to my father’s resting place. The velvet pall over his coffin had begun to disintegrate. Next to him, was another coffin covered with a worm-eaten, frayed cloth upon which I lay my palm. This was my mother’s coffin; she who had given me life, who had first embraced me and from whose loving arms I first beheld the world. I recalled my mother’s portrait that hung in the dining hall of my villa. The artist had captured her in full youth; a light-haired beauty, whose delicate complexion was as lovely as a ripening peach against the summer sun. Now, all that loveliness lay in this damp hole, decaying into bone and dust. I shuddered at the thought.

  I knelt in front of my parent’s desolate stone niches and prayed for their blessing. While I prayed, the candlelight caught a small object glittering on the ground. I leaned over to retrieve it. A thick, golden chain upon which hung a pendant of a ship, dangled from my fingers. Its fine artistry and intricate details astonished me. Only the most talented of goldsmiths could have created such an ornament, likely for some nobleman, for there was nothing feminine about this piece. Upon its masts, flew sails painted with white enamel and studded with pearls. Sapphires, rubies, and diamonds decorated it from bow to stern. I clutched it in my hand and glanced about to discover where the treasure could have come from.

  An unusually large coffin lay sideways, toppled on the ground. I lowered the candle to the ground and observed a vacant but damaged niche below the one where my own coffin had been. I recalled that when I had broken free, I had heard a crash. It must have been this coffin, big enough to contain a huge man, that had fallen. What ancestor had I dislodged? Had the rare jewel in my hand come from a skeleton’s throat?

  Curious, I bent to examine the lid of the enormous casket. It bore no name and no mark except for a stiletto roughly painted in black. I had never seen this casket in the vault before. How had it come to be here? Eager to learn more about the mysterious coffin, I rested my candle in an empty niche and carefully laid the chain and ship pendant beside it.

  I stepped closer to the coffin and applied both hands to a fractured corner, pushing and yanking to tear it open. After a loud crack and splinter, a leather pouch fell out. I picked it up and weighed it in my hand. When I unlaced it, I discovered it was full of gold coins. Excited, I seized a large pointed stone and began to thrust it repeatedly against the casket. I toiled hard and long, but finally managed to smash it open.

  Stunned, I stared at the contents. No decomposing body met my gaze. No discolored or putrefying bones or skull mocked me with empty eye-sockets. Instead, I looked upon a treasure worthy of a king’s ransom. Items of immeasurable wealth filled the casket. I counted fifty large leather pouches crammed with gold and silver coins. Others brimmed with priceless jewels - necklaces, crowns, bracelets, brooches, and other articles of masculine and feminine adornment. Some contained loose precious stones including diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and opals all of unusual size and lustre, uncut and ready for a goldsmith to set.

  Beneath the bags lay bolts of silk, velvet, and cloth of gold, each one carefully wrapped in oilskin and perfumed with camphor and other spices, all of unsurpassed quality and in a faultless state.

  Among the cloths lay two gold serving trays with four matching goblets, all magnificently engraved and ornamented. I also discovered other riches such as small ivory statues, a belt of gold coins linked together, a delicately painted fan with a handle set in rubies and sapphires, an impressive steel stiletto in a jewelled leather sheath, and a silver mirror framed with amethysts. At the very bottom of the chest lay more leather purses filled with soldi and denari likely amounting to millions and millions of scudos - an amount far surpassing the revenues I had inherited from my father. I plunged my hands deep into the leather bags, fingering the riches, letting them fall through my fingers in a golden cascade. Amazement and wonder conflicted with my confusion. Where could such a treasure have come from? Many of the items appeared ancient, perhaps even Roman antiquities. I knew it well, for I had collected such treasures for several years.

  My heart leapt with excitement. I let out a giddy, nervous laugh. Then it struck me. The treasure was mine. I had found it in my family crypt and had the right to claim it. But who had placed it there without my knowledge? The answer came easily. I now understood the meaning of
the painted black stiletto on the lid of the coffin. It was the mark of a violent and notorious brigand named Cesare Negri who with his misguided band of thieves, ruthlessly haunted Vicenza and its surrounding areas. He was wanted by the authorities for theft and murder. People feared him. The cut-throat’s cunning impressed me. He had calculated well, thinking no one would disturb the dead, much less break open a coffin. But all his shrewd planning had failed. I had found it. A dead woman returning to life deserved something for her trouble. Despite the fact this was an ill-gotten hoard, I would be foolish not to claim to it. After all, I was the sole owner of the vault. Besides, I deserved the treasure more than a villain like Cesare Negri, for I would find some honorable use for it.

  I pondered the situation for a few moments. If this treasure were indeed the spoils of the formidable Negri, how had it come to be here? Likely four sturdy scoundrels had carried the coffin here in a bogus funeral procession for a non-existent companion. Yet the question remained, how had they gained access to my ancestral vault? Did they possess a duplicate key?

  All at once, a gust of air blew out my candle. I found myself in darkness once more. I had my tinderbox, and could light it again, but the gust of wind must have come from an opening somewhere. I looked round and noticed a ray of light emanating from a corner of the niche where I had left the candle and pendant. I approached and reached out for the items. A solid current of air blew through a hole large enough to fit three fingers. I relit my candle and examined the hole at the back of the niche.

  Someone had removed four granite blocks in the wall. In their place were thick, loosely placed, wooden tiles. I pulled them off, one at a time. A pile of brushwood lay behind them. As I cleared it away, I discovered a tunnel large enough for a person to pass through. My heart beat with excitement as I clambered up. At the other end, I could see a glimpse of blue sky. I crouched down and crawled through it.