The Madonna of the Almonds

by Marina Fiorato

  ‘And is it true?’

  She looked closely at him, mindful of his teasing. But his face was serious, and she suddenly saw that he was not playing a game. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I think it is.’ He turned her to face him, and her heart leapt too, like the fish they had seen jump. ‘I love you, Amaria Sant’Ambrogio.’ He said the words she had first taught him; ‘mano,’ as he took her hand, ‘cuore,’ as he placed her hand on his heart, ‘bocca,’ as he kissed her, tenderly, on the mouth.

  When at last they broke apart her eyes were filled with tears. She was beautiful as she laughed with pure joy. ‘Come home,’ she said, ‘we must tell Nonna.’ They hurried back through the woods and across the river, and this time Amaria held Selvaggio’s hand all the way through the town so that all may see, as if she would never let it go.

  CHAPTER 33

  Saint Ursula and the Arrows

  Bernardino suffered a troubled night. He twisted on his pallet of straw, and opened his eyes to horrible visions that marched across the roof of his cell. Fire, screams and Simonetta in danger. He slept at last, but the visions lived then behind his eyes, and he awoke to the grey day with his cheeks wet, in a panic of consternation that he could no longer remember Simonetta’s face. He headed for the lay hall to begin his work, and as he heard the nuns finish the songs of Terce he waited for Sister Bianca’s footsteps. He knew she would come, as she always did before she began the day’s offices. She took his instruction seriously, and he welcomed her company, more than ever today when he was afraid to be alone with his own forebodings.

  Presently he knew she was there, though she had entered on silent feet; and he felt rather than heard her seated behind him, knew he would turn to see her with her hands piously crossed, watching with wonder as a heathen painted a Holy scene as if he believed every story and symbol. He felt the comfort of her presence, not as a mother figure nor yet a sister, but as something apart from every woman he had ever known. He had never felt such indifference to the female person, and yet such a warmth of friendship, without the difficulties and challenges that normally beset men and women in their discourse. His mother, frequently jug-bitten or absent with this lover or that, had had little time for him. Simonetta he had loved with his whole heart and she had sent him away in the name of her God. But Sister Bianca asked nothing from him, yet gave her time and her knowledge, her comfort and solace.

  ‘Today’s subject?’ her gentle tones reached him.

  ‘Saint Ursula.’

  ‘Ah, Saint Ursula.’

  ‘Tell me. I know only that she is depicted with arrows. I should like to know why.’

  She told him then, speaking as a mother who tells a tale to her children, as his mother had never done. As in the best tales there was happiness but also sorrow, and there was evil as well as good. She spared him nothing. ‘Once, in the land of Brittany, there lived a good king whose name was Theonotus. He had one daughter who was the sun in his sky. He taught her well, and she soon knew all there was to know about the lands of the earth, the elements that it held, she could name each flower and bird, each heavenly body, and which countries lay in the breath of the four winds. The princess grew to be as beautiful as she was wise, and she was soon sought in marriage by Conan, son of the king of England across the sea, which was at that time a heathen country which had not accepted the Christian faith.’

  As before, when the Abbess spoke, Bernardino saw the scenes she described to him appear on the blank panel he was to paint. He did not understand what had happened to him to make him see in this way, that he was now brother to those seers, or scryers or soothsayers of the pagan world, or even the religious visionaries of the Holy one. He knew only that what came to him was real. He saw now the golden princess, growing in beauty and learning, kneeling to kiss the papery cheek of her greybeard father.

  ‘The king was saddened that his daughter may leave him,’ the Abbess went on, ‘but the girl agreed to the match on three conditions.’

  Bernardino watched the scene as Ursula drew herself up to address the English emissaries, tall and straight as a willow wand. ‘“I would have the prince send to me ten of the noblest ladies of your land to be my companions and friends; and for each of these ladies and myself, a thousand handmaidens to wait upon us,” said Ursula. “Secondly, he must give me three years before the date of my marriage so that I and these maidens may have time to affirm our faith by visiting the shrines of the Saints in distant lands. And thirdly, I ask that the prince Conan shall accept the true faith and be baptized a Christian. For I cannot wed even so great and perfect a prince, if he be not as perfect a Christian.”’

  Bernardino smiled to himself at the resolute nature of the young woman he now watched. He lowered his voice as if Ursula were actually there. ‘So she witheld her person so that he should convert.’

  ‘In truth she believed that her conditions would be too much for Conan and she would remain free,’ replied Sister Bianca. ‘But Ursula was fairer than any lady that walked the earth – her skin was pearl; her hair was gold, and her eyes were as blue as the Virgin’s robe.’

  Bernardino swallowed as he thought of Simonetta, for she had eyes that could be described so. Again he struggled to see her as clearly as the Saint before him. Of her he needed no such description, as he could clearly see the princess on the wall before him; he began to draw Ursula’s face as Bianca spoke with quick and accurate strokes. ‘The English sent letters to all points of the compass, to Ireland, Scotland and Wales, bidding all knights and nobles to send their daughters to court with their attendant maidens, the fairest and noblest of the land. Ursula gathered the eleven thousand maidens about her, and in a green meadow with a silver stream she baptized all those that had not yet accepted God. They set out for Rome to visit the shrine of the Saints, and their journey through the icy mountains was so hard that our Lord God sent six angels to help the eleven thousand on their way. Presently they descended into Italy and journeyed past the great lakes of our own dear Lombardy where the white mountains gaze at their twins in the looking-glass water. At last they reached the Holy City and there Conan followed, to be reunited with his lady at the end of the three years and be blessed by the Pope himself. Great was the rejoicing of the pair at their reunion, for despite her initial reluctance Ursula had come to love her betrothed. He had received instruction in the Christian faith and caused himself to be baptised, and as he had bent himself to her will and fulfilled her conditions, she accepted him with her whole heart in the sight of God.’

  Once again Bernardino’s sight was filled with a vision and the wall came to life. As he watched the transfigured scene he knew that such happiness invited doom, the doom he had seen in his dream. All sweetness faded to death and despair, as his own love for Simonetta had done. He knew Conan and Ursula would not remain united, and as he watched the happy pair kneel at the fabled shrines, he felt a shiver of pity.

  ‘They worshipped at the shrines of Peter and Paul then set out for Cologne to continue their pilgrimage. But the barbarian huns that laid siege to that city were troubled by their coming. They knew that such a company of fair pilgrims would likely settle in the city and in a short time would marry and convert their husbands – and so the whole region – to Christianity. So the huns fell on the defenceless pilgrims and turned their deadly bows upon them. Prince Conan was the first to fall, pierced by an arrow, at the feet of his princess. Then the savage soldiers fell upon the gentle maidens like a pack of wolves, and these eleven hundred white lambs were slain, every one.’

  Once again, Bernardino saw the carnage carried to him by the nun’s sweet voice. He looked among the fallen for Ursula. He knew she must be there, but needed to know her fate. ‘Ursula stood brave and steadfast through it all, with courage and fortitude. Her beauty and courage shone forth so brightly that she was spared by the barbarians. And when she stood alone over the dead they took her to their king. He was so taken with her beauty and courage that he offered her marriage. She refused with s
uch scorn and censure that he bent the bow that was in his hand, shot three arrows through the heart of Princess Ursula and killed her instantly. But Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins defeated death; for they became famous in their martyrdom, and Ursula, in losing her earthly crown, attained the crown of heaven. She is still the Saint of intercession for all those who die by the arrow; a plentiful company I’m afraid, in these times.’ The nun fell silent at this, no doubt in the hope that Bernardino would reflect on her words.

  Bernardino clenched his fists. He fought to resist the piety of the tale, the pat conclusion of inevitable martyrdom. How foolish had he been to hope, to think that Ursula could survive, as her end was painted on every chapel in Christendom. But then he thought of Simonetta, of her courage; not in battle but in everyday life, the way she had come to him, chin high, for the money to save her house, her fortitude when the townsfolk censured her in the church, the way she had faced him and sent him away when everything but God’s law cried out for them to be together. He thought of the times she had told him of her daily hunts with her bow, the way she had honed her aim from day to day, thinking of the Spaniards that had shot her husband. Did she know this tale? Did she pray to the patron Saint of arrows? He now gave Ursula a robe of gold and white, and a cloak of purple and red. Her hair was twisted back but red-gold curls still framed the lovely face. He worked long after Sister Bianca had gone, till Ursula held a sheaf of arrows in one hand and a palm leaf in the other. The brush in his hand led the Saint’s eyes down to the red winged angel on the panel below, and he completed the depiction with a cruel death barb protruding from the Ursula’s bosom. The eyes, serene with hooded Lombard lids, remained unmoved despite the sticking arrow; bent on the child Elijah, as if the dying woman could see the future in children. Finally Bernardino mixed his whites and golds and placed a crown of heaven on her head, a crown of gossamer light filigree, with fleur de lys and circlets of silver and gilt. He wondered if Simonetta too would show such courage in the face of a true life or death conflict. He could not shake his sense of impending darkness, as if night was falling around him as it did outside. He climbed down from his platform and, in an awkward genuflection, knelt on the cold stone. He began to pray for the first time in years. His language was halting, his tones unaccustomed. He did not address anyone, not a Saint or Deity, not Father, Son or Holy Ghost. He just fervently asked that the day that would ask so much of Simonetta and her arrows would never come.

  CHAPTER 34

  Rebecca’s Tree

  Manodorata and his two sons stayed at Castello at Simonetta’s insistence. She made it a home for them, using her newfound wealth to furnish their rooms with Castilian artefacts that she found in Pavia and at Como and Lodi, the other markets she attended with her Amaretto brew. Manodorata never once spoke of Rebecca, and Simonetta never asked of her, but she knew that the second time he came to her house that fateful day, she was gone. Jovaphet, too young to understand, asked for her daily but was easily soothed with a comfit or an embrace. Elijah, silent and taciturn, soaked his bed nightly and awoke fevered and screaming. Simonetta saw that Manodorata was too damaged to comfort his boys, so she took the task upon herself. She began to lie with them, so that Elijah could find her hand with his in the night, and drift back to sleep never knowing, in his dreamlike state, that she was not Rebecca.

  With the spring, Elijah began to thaw; his smiles came again and she heard him laugh as he chased Jovaphet around the groves. She was glad of it but concerned for her friend. Manodorata seemed to concentrate only on the selling and production of the Amaretto, and never looked in his own heart once. Night after night, in the light evenings of the dog days, they sat in fireside amity drinking the almond draught and speaking of their new venture. At these moments Simonetta thought that he may speak to her of what he had lost. But he did not, nor did she speak of Bernardino, so they sat on, both hobbled by love; turtle doves with their wings clipped, doomed to flightlessness.

  The next time Simonetta and Veronica went to market in Pavia they were approached by a man in black and white robes. He greeted Veronica in Hebrew and asked Simonetta if Manodorata was well. Fearing a trap Simonetta looked to Veronica, on whose sound judgement she had come to rely. The mute nodded, and so Simonetta told the man all she could of her friend and his sons. The Jew asked a few courteous questions, then bowed and said: ‘Please tell him that Isaac, son of Abiathar of Toledo, wishes him well. I once was lucky enough to call him my friend.’

  Simonetta looked to Veronica again and said, ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself? You’re welcome, Signore, to come back to my house, where he now resides.’

  Isaac rode back with them, telling Simonetta along the way what a debt he and his late father owed to Manodorata, and as Simonetta listened to the complicated tale of usury and rescue from bankruptcy she once again marvelled at the solidarity of the Jewish people. When she had been in need no Christian would lend her a hand; only a Jew had given her succour, and friendship.

  She knew her instincts were sound when the two friends embraced each other on the loggia of her house. She retired early and let the men talk. She hoped that Manodorata could find solace in an older friend; and perhaps speak, at last, of Rebecca.

  Isaac never left Castello. Simonetta noted his scholarly status and engaged him as a tutor to the boys, deeming it fitting that they should have a good education and a thorough knowledge of the Jewish Holy texts. Her own knowledge grew with theirs as Elijah began to share tales and fables with her. She marvelled again at how different, yet how similar the religions were. As summer blushed into autumn her family warmed too. Manodorata seemed happier and mellowed with the seasons. She watched with joy as a friendship began to blossom between Isaac and Veronica, with a promise of more. Then came the unforgettable day when Elijah ran into the kitchen to show her a red lizard from the garden. The creature lay still and hot in his hand, tongue flickering like a tiny dragon, and Elijah called Simonetta ‘mother’ in his excitement. She made no comment, and admonished him for the mud on his boots, but her heart thrilled as she hugged him close and fiercely. He soon fell into the use of the name, and Jevophat followed suit. Simonetta looked anxiously at Manodorata when the boys called her so; his eyes remained inscrutable but he uttered no reproach, nor did he correct his sons. She was delighted at this new love that had come to her. She had not known that children could mean so much to her, that her love for the boys could use the limitless resources of a wasted heart. She had always thought to fill these walls with a family that she loved and who loved her in return. She had just always thought that they would be flesh of her own flesh. She was learning that family meant more than bloodlines, much more.

  All was well until the baker from Saronno brought bread and pastries to the house. A sign of their new prosperity, Simonetta had ordered treats for the boys to celebrate the second almond harvest. It was a full year since they had come to the house, and she wished for them to find happiness on a day that might bring bad memories. Manodorata, working in the groves, knew the wall-eye and bulbous nose of the baker at once, and stared for a fraction too long. As he had last seen the knave spitting on Rebecca’s ashes, he could not resist a freezing glance at the man’s face. Later he cursed himself as the baker turned his mule to go. Manodorata was without his furs or velvets; he wore the red hat and tunic with blue hose like all the harvesters, and his gold hand was gloved, but he knew he had been seen.

  The next day, they came.

  Night was falling and the stars began to prick out the sky. Manodorata was at the great almond tree, which he privily called ‘Rebecca’s Tree’, plucking the last of the harvest nuts from the branches. The boys were at his feet playing ‘hot cockles’; they wore black tunics for their mother which contrasted strongly with their father’s red and blue harvester’s garb, but they seemed happy enough. They took turns to don a makeshift blindfold while the other poked his brother with a switch. Laughing and giddy, the blinded one tried to capture his assailant who stood, tan
talising, out of reach, crowing ‘hot cockles!’ Manodorata was jolted by the image, thinking suddenly of Synagoga, the female symbolic personification of Judaism. The Jewess was always presented in religious art wearing a blindfold to indicate her ignorant practices, and worse still, holding the head of a goat to symbolise the Devil. Manodorata had seen such an image once, Synagoga’s sorrowing blindfolded head drooping as she stood, petrified in statuary, high in a niche on the cathedral in Strasbourg. That day he had turned away, sickened, thinking that such ignorant iconography had little to do with him. But today he remembered and knew that such prejudice had everything to do with him. It had taken his hand and his wife, and once again Manodorata smelled the evil scent of premonition. As the sun dropped it grew cold, and Jovaphet’s little eyes began to close under the blindfold, and Manodorata knew he should get them within. He turned to break the news when a new sunrise caught his eye – a light warming the path, then another, then another.

  Torches.

  Fire had only ever meant trouble for him and his. He clasped the boys to him and hurried up the path to the loggia, but there, his ugly face and wall-eye illumined, stood the baker.

  They took Manodorata then, and tied him to Rebecca’s tree; with ropes that bound his chest about and about till he could scarcely breathe. He shouted at the boys to run, but they were stunned to stillness and were taken too. As he saw that they could not escape he choked to his sons that it was just a game, but nothing could stop their screams as they were tied to him, one to each leg, and black faggots laid at their feet. Now they struggled and keened like rabbits caught in a snare and called out to him, tears dripping onto their mourning clothes. He could feel their little hands scrabbling to touch his legs, their shoulders turning against his thighs. He could do nothing. They were in the hands of God; and God, it seemed, had turned his face away. He searched the ugly faces for one sympathetic countenance, someone who hung back, unsure of what he did; someone to reason with. If Manodorata could just find that one wavering man in the crowd he would not plead for his own life, but would beg till his last breath that the boys could go free. But every face was shuttered, every eye evil, and every mouth spat forth the ugly epithets he had spent his life trying to keep from the ears of Elijah and Jovaphet. Manodorata raised his eyes to the fat stars hanging in the black sky, and the black ladder the mob had brought to gather kindling, and he understood at once. There was to be no escape. This hour was written in his fate; he knew that his dream had come to claim him. He was there, in the tableau of his nightmares. Tied to a stake, with his children tied to him, a trinity of martyrs awaiting the death-fire. There were ten men surrounding them, six jeering in an ugly knot of a crowd around the baker, and four mounted. Just like his dream, they rode the pale horse, white horse, black horse and saffron horse of the riders of the apocalypse. The sky was as black as the world’s end, and he knew he was finished. He looked down at the blonde heads of his children, and twisted his hands till the ropes cut; he knew he could not pull free but he wanted to place his hands on their golden hair one last time. So warm, so soft. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. He had never told them before, and never would again.