The House of Medici

by Edward Charles

  It seemed that Cosimo had told the abbess her original family name—Octavia Lanza (how had he remembered that name after thirty-six years?)—and had ‘suggested’ Maddalena as her ‘new’ name. Was there no end to his ingenuity?

  The first night had not been too bad. Having refused the abbess’ offered reprieve from early prayers—‘Thank you, but I am a full member of the community now and I must demonstrate my full commitment to my sisters.’—she had been dragged from a deep sleep by the Matins bell and had almost fallen down the steps of her tower in her attempt to hurry down them by candlelight.

  There had been no point in climbing the tower steps again before Lauds and she had spent the short period between prayers dozing in a spare cell next to Suora Maria Benigna; a young nun in her thirties, who, it seemed, thrived on the conspiracy. It was from that same cell that she had seen the dawn break just before Prime.

  Her first full day had similarly come and gone, gathered in and absorbed by the hourly ritual of the Office. Refreshment after Prime, then more prayers at Terce, with the second half of the morning, usually absorbed by work, but on this, her first day, instead given over to an explanatory walk round the convent. She had found to her relief that the place had none of the terrifying feeling of confinement that had remained with her all these years after seeing the Murate being walled-in. The chapel was tall, light and open; the refectory similarly spacious (although that may to a degree have reflected the fact that a room originally built for a hundred diners now had only fifty nuns occupying the benches).

  They had climbed the bell-tower and enjoyed the views to the south, over Fiesole and the City of Florence itself, then returned to the central courtyard, cloistered on two sides and with a light and airy loggia running the length of the third, west side; already gathering the morning light to perfection.

  In the centre of the courtyard was a great cisterna—a covered well, strong and functional, yet seemingly now unused. The abbess had seen Maddalena’s questioning frown and answered her question even before she had asked it. ‘We now have a new well. Over there, in that well-house against the north side.’

  Against the north wall of the courtyard she had been shown a large, two-storey lean-to shed, from which emanated the sound and the smell of animals. ‘It is Michelozzo’s great invention.’ The abbess had been animated in her pride. ‘Not only does the new well have winding gear, but also donkeys to wind up the water from deep below.’ She put an explanatory hand on Maddalena’s arm. ‘As you will imagine, a convent on a hilltop has to face the endless challenge of obtaining water and both of our wells are very deep. But the architect’s master stroke was to have the pump bring the water beyond the surface of the courtyard and lift it up to a great tank, high in the roof of that building. It means we can have running water in all of our ground-floor rooms. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Maddalena had agreed, and was even more impressed when the abbess took her out into the gardens to show her how the waste water from the kitchens and the washroom was also being saved, for use in the gardens, which were extensive and as well-cultivated as any of those in Careggi or Cafaggiolo.

  Noonday prayers at Sext, the sixth hour of the day, were always followed by dinner, now once again taken in near-silence. It seemed that the abbess’ interpretation of the Rule of the convent leaned towards the gentle side and civilised whispers were overlooked. The result was a continuous but unobtrusive murmur, which she found calming after the noisy jollity of most of the well-attended meals she had known in the Medici palazzi.

  After None at mid-afternoon, there was more time for work or contemplation, before Vespers at sunset, and then a light supper before Compline and retiring. Few delayed the benefit of their beds, as already the spectre of Matins was hovering ahead of them in the small hours of the night, before another day began.

  Now, it was mid-afternoon on her third day. None was over, and for the first time, she found herself alone in her room, with time to think, about the past and about the future. Both were dangerous. She knew that. Dwelling on the past would only emphasise what she had left behind and increase her desire to return home. And at the moment, thoughts of the future were so overpowered by uncertainty that they were at risk of turning negative. Better to keep busy and not to dwell too long on her predicament. Instead, she decided to complete the process of organising her few possessions in her room.

  She had brought little with her. Allowable possessions were specified by the Order, and the list had been heart-sinkingly short. Some holy books were allowed, even recommended, for those in a position to afford them; and provided by the convent for those who could not. Cosimo had purchased lovely new copies of each for her. Her breviary, containing the words for the celebration of the Office, and her missal, containing the spoken parts of the Mass, were already on the tiny shelf beside her bed, together with the new journal which she had as yet not opened.

  Cosimo had also wanted her to have a book of graduals, containing the sung part of the Mass, and an antiphony, with the music and chants for the celebration of the Office, but she had demurred. ‘You are asking enough of me to enter the convent,’ she had told him crisply. ‘It is too much to ask me to sing as well. In all the years we have been together, have you ever heard me sing? And in any case, five books will be far too many to declare. How many new nuns do you think arrive at a convent carrying such wealth? I am supposed to fit in there, not stick out like a sore thumb.’

  Later, realising from his expression that he had already had them made, and that her rejection had upset him, she had suggested that he present the book of graduals and the antiphony to the abbess ‘for the general use of the convent’, and to her relief, he had agreed.

  She had brought little else; her simple washing things, the few clothes she had arrived in and which she could not bring herself to give to the poor. Lucrezia, ever sensible and not over-given to the acceptance of rules, had insisted she slip three more camicie into her chest, in addition to the one she had worn when she arrived. ‘They won’t be able to tell if you’re wearing them under your habit and cold is still cold, even to the pious.’ She had said it with such a wicked grin that Maddalena had left them there.

  She was still smiling to herself at the memory when she heard footsteps on the stone steps below. Maddalena looked at the door and frowned. Who would climb those stairs except at her invitation? Unless it was the abbess.

  There was a brief pause and she found herself listening, her head on one side. Was the visitor entering the storeroom or pausing to catch her breath? The question was answered as the footsteps resumed; this time louder, their sound no longer a flat slap and more a hollow boom. Her visitor must have passed the stone steps, and must now be climbing the final flight of wooden stairs.

  Another pause, then a hesitant knock at the door. ‘Come in.’ Maddalena waited, intrigued.

  ‘Forgive me. I’m out of breath. Those stairs were designed for a younger woman than I.’ Madonna Arcangelica leaned against the door jamb and wheezed. Maddalena looked at her, surprised. For the first time, the abbess’ controlled serenity had slipped revealing an older woman that Maddalena had believed, and a frailer one.

  ‘Reverend Mother. You look exhausted. Please sit down and get your breath back.’

  Madonna Arcangelica nodded gratefully and took the chair beside her. She looked back at the door, realising she had forgotten to close it, and made a weak attempt to rise. Maddalena waved her down and crossing the room, closed the door herself.

  Still breathless, the abbess nodded her thanks. ‘Those stairs are steeper than I had realised. You should not attempt to descend them in the dark. Might I suggest you use one of the cells below to sleep in between Offices? You would be closer to the others and it would avoid the risk . . . I’m concerned that one dark night . . . if your candle fails . . .’ Each sentence was curtailed as she ran out of breath.

  Maddalena stiffened. Was the abbess already trying to take her away from this room? The one airy, bright ro
om that could support her sanity on the claustrophobic days?

  ‘Do not be concerned, Madonna Arcangelica. I like this room. It has special meaning for me.’

  ‘Oh, I did not mean in place of . . .’ the abbess wheezed again, still not recovered. ‘I am fully aware that this room was made for you and you alone. I was merely suggesting you use it as a day room and, at least while the winter nights are dark and drawn out, you save yourself a great deal of effort by sleeping below. There’s a spare cell next to Suora Maria Benigna.’

  ‘Yes I . . .’

  Too late Maddalena tried to recover, but the smile on the abbess’ face showed she had already gone too far.

  ‘So I believe.’ Her breath now fully recovered, she smiled benignly. ‘Few details are missed in our little community and I have my informants. The Watch Sister happened to pass by while you were resting there. It’s all right. I told her it was my suggestion. As a temporary measure, of course. To become a permanent arrangement it would have to be agreed in Chapter.’

  Maddalena nodded, thinking. She had underestimated this place. After the complexities and subtleties of life in the Palazzo Medici, she had presumed that life in a convent would be simpler. But clearly she was wrong. She had forgotten that fifty women with little to do except pray, sleep and eat have too much time for private thoughts, and for the scheming that inevitably arises.

  It was clear also, that Madonna Arcangelica felt less than secure in her position as abbess. Had Cosimo’s action created difficulties for her? Was there a conflict of interest between his demands (or as he liked to call them, his ‘requests’) and the Rule of their Order? Had her own arrival caused disruption in this close little community? Already on a number of occasions, she had felt rather like a heavy stone, lobbed into a small and erstwhile tranquil pool.

  She considered how she should respond. She did not want to remain an outsider, always closely observed by the informers. What did they call them? The ascoltatrici; the ‘listeners’ who attended every meeting with visitors from outside and listened in to their private conversations.

  Nor should she offend the discrete, or discreet ones; the elder nuns who formed the governing committee of this place and without whom the slightest proposal for change was almost certainly to be stifled. No. She must tread softly, and get to know how the land lay. Perhaps her first task would be to get to know Madonna Arcangelica better and to try to get her to open up. Somehow she judged the abbess was lonely, and in need of reassurance.

  Now she smiled. ‘Thank you for that kindness. I must admit I did have to tread carefully on the stairs last night and I frightened myself descending. I shall pursue your suggestion and try sleeping in that cell again. I’m sure Suora Maria Benigna will not mind.’

  The abbess’ smile was conspiratorial. ‘No I’m sure she won’t.’ Her eyes roamed round the room, although whether checking for unauthorised personal possessions or something to talk about wasn’t clear. ‘I see you have your breviary. I was so pleased you brought it down with you to prayers.’

  Maddalena’s eyes strayed across to the three books on the shelf. She had better make sure the journal did not offend any rules. ‘Cosimo had it made for me, together with the missal.’ Carefully, she took all three volumes from the shelf and indicated the first and the second.

  Madonna Arcangelica inclined her head. ‘I can see they are beautifully made. Before he left, the Magnificent Cosimo was kind enough to present me with a book of graduals and an antiphony, both bound in similar leather. I was delighted to accept them. Our choir mistress, in particular, will treasure them, I am sure.’

  Her eyes were already on the third volume. ‘And the other book? It has the Medici crest on it, I see.’

  Maddalena opened it, as if seeing it for the first time, and riffled through the crisp blank pages. ‘A pristine new book. Also a present from Cosimo. He suggested I use it to write a journal.’ She raised her eyes and tipped her head on one side. ‘Would that offend the Rule of this house?’

  ‘Would it be a private journal?’ Madonna Arcangelica’s eyes had closed ever so slightly. Now she looked like a cat watching movements in the grass and waiting to see the mouse itself.

  Maddalena considered her reply. ‘Hardly. It would be a poor journal if no one else was allowed to read it.’ She raised her eyes and looked direct at the abbess, knowing she must respond and willing her to do so.

  ‘Who else would be allowed to read it?’ The abbess’ fingers were trembling with anticipation.

  ‘Why Cosimo himself. I have promised to read every word to him at his next visit.’ As she said the words, Maddalena saw them hit home.

  The abbess took a short intake of breath. ‘Of course. Who else? At his next visit? When, may I ask, is that likely to be?’

  Maddalena knew the ploy had worked. She shook her head, avoiding the question. For all the abbess knew, she would be using the journal to write a regular report to Cosimo about the running of the convent. She could see that was what the abbess thought and feared. Patronage could come, but patronage could just as easily depart. What had the abbess said? I have my informants. Well so did Cosimo, and as far as the abbess was concerned, she could be looking at one of them as they spoke.

  The abbess sat back, thinking, her eyes straying around the room but apparently finding nothing else to comment upon. Finally, she returned to Maddalena. ‘The Magnificent One. You always refer to him by his first name. You are a member of his family, as I understand it? Are you close?’

  ‘I have known him for thirty-six years.’ She saw the abbess’ eyes open wide as she spoke and suddenly everything started to become clear. ‘It’s a long time, I know. How long have you been here, in this convent?’ She hoped the question was not too bold.

  Madonna Arcangelica steepled her thin fingers. The joints were knobbly with arthritis and the veins on the back of her hands stood out blue against the pale, dry skin. ‘Thirty-six years! That is indeed a long time. I have to admit I’ve been here even longer than that. I came here at the age of seven and I am now in my fifty ninth year. Since I entered this building all those years ago, I have never once stepped outside its outer walls. I expect the world has changed somewhat since I last saw it?’

  Maddalena heard the voice lift at the end of the sentence, confirming that it was a question and not a statement. Now she was sure where she stood. For now, she was certain that the abbess was indeed lonely, and fascinated by the world outside. But more than that, she also realised that Madonna Arcangelica saw her, Maddalena, as the way to find out about that lost world, and sensed that in order to find out about it, she would be willing to trade insights into her own world; the world within.

  Don’t hurry. Take your time. The proposal must come from her. Maddalena made herself slow down.

  She smiled, as enigmatically as she could, and looked down at the floor, as if lost in thought. ‘Fifty-one years! You are right. A long time. Exactly a lifetime in my case, although I did not know Florence in my earlier years. But yes, this world has changed greatly, even in the years I have known Cosimo. So many things have happened in Florence since first we met; some good, others so uncomfortable I find it hard now to make myself recall.’

  She raised her eyes, and looked directly at the abbess. ‘You asked if we were close. All I can say is that I have hardly been separated from him for all of our years together, and during that period we were close enough for me to bear him a son.’

  She paused for effect, awaiting a response. The abbess’ eyes opened wide. ‘You had a son by The Magnificent One? You bore his child?’

  Maddalena nodded, enjoying the moment. ‘Yes, Carlo. He was twenty-nine years old in June of this year. He is Canon of the Duomo in Florence, and also Rector of the Pieve di Santa Maria in Mugello.’ She paused, as if trying to remember, then nodded. ‘Oh, and that of San Donato di Calenzano also.’

  The abbess shook her head. ‘Carlo de’ Medici. Of course. I must apologise. I had not realised that the Canon was your son.’r />
  For a moment, Madonna Arcangelica seemed overawed. She levered herself from the chair and slowly stood upright. ‘I must not intrude any longer on your private time. As you will soon discover, there is precious little of it here. Afternoons like this will be ideal for you to commit your thoughts to paper, for the Magnificent One when next he visits you.’

  She put a hand on the door then turned again. ‘Our Rule states that we should devote one afternoon a week to personal study, but the interpretation of that Rule is in my prerogative. If you wish to do so, you have my agreement to devote your work and study time to your journal on one afternoon every two weeks.’

  She paused, as if deciding, then nodded to herself. ‘And perhaps, on the alternative weeks, I may join you here? I hope I can make your life here amongst us both comfortable and fulfilling. And in return . . .’ She paused again; perhaps uncertain that she was advancing too fast, but already Maddalena was ahead of her.

  ‘Yes, of course. I will look forward to our conversations. And yes, in return, perhaps I may tell you something of the world I have lived in all these years; the world outside these serene walls.’ She tilted her head. ‘And if you wish it, I will do my best to answer some of the questions you may have.’

  The abbess’s smile as she left the room was almost childlike in its contentment.

  Chapter 5

  First Meeting

  Monday, 17th October 1457

  ‘Would you prefer we met in your room, Madonna Arcangelica?’ After hearing her laboured steps up the staircase and seeing her face as it appeared round the door, Maddalena was becoming concerned. The abbess was only seven years older than her, but at the moment she looked at least ten years more than that.

  Madonna Arcangelica shook her head. ‘Nonsense. I won’t hear a word of it. It does me the world of good to climb these stairs once a fortnight. Besides . . .’

  The abbess slumped into the chair, and although her face was pale, there was a wicked grin on her face. ‘We shall be undisturbed here.’ She spiralled her forefinger, pointing downward. ‘I get no peace below. I am sure the vecchie are ganging up on me. They have never forgiven me for trying to change the interpretation of the Rule since I took office. They seem to think the place should remain exactly as it was under my predecessor; Madonna Cecilia.’