On one of the whitewashed walls was a beautifully carved wooden crucifix. It was a simple but comfortable chamber.
The lack of bedding was solved in the early evening when her mother’s own servant, Fabia, arrived, bringing with her a feather bed, linen bedding that was fragrant with the scent of roses, a coverlet, and a small wooden trunk filled with fresh, clean garments, most of which Bianca recognized as her own, left behind for her wedding finery months before. There was even a hairbrush of smooth pear wood studded with boar’s bristles and a matching comb. Fabia hugged Bianca with the familiarity of an old family retainer, and greeted the younger Agata, who was her niece.
The bell for Vespers chimed, and Bianca hurried off to join the nuns in their chapel for the evening service. She knew she might have been excused this first night, but she was so relieved at having been rescued so swiftly that she felt a strong need to go and give thanks. She had also not been allowed the comfort of any religious service since her marriage, as her husband did not want her speaking with any priest, even though Sebastian Rovere knew the seal of the confessional could not be broken. There were ways of getting around any law. Even Church law, and no one knew that better than the best lawyer in all of Florence.
Left behind, the two servingwomen spent their time making the room comfortable for Bianca. Fabia had even brought a small glass vase and a few roses from the Pietro d’Angelos’ gardens. When the bed and the trundle had been made, the plain linen curtains hung on the window, the little wooden trunk set at the foot of the bed, and the few garments hung in the small wooden wardrobe, the two women talked.
“Did the lady tell you?” Agata asked.
Fabia nodded. “Although how much of it, I do not know,” she answered.
Agata quickly recited what she knew, her brown eyes filling with tears as she spoke to her aunt. “She never confided in me,Zia. She told her mother she was too ashamed, as if she were to blame for what happened to her, as if it were her fault.”
Fabia made the sign of the evil eye. “A curse on Sebastiano Rovere, although I am certain it is not the first plague sworn against his house. My mistress told the master after the meal, and the uproar has been considerable. He shouted that she would bring about the destruction of their house. She shouted that if Master Marco had used the intelligence God blessed him with, her daughter would not have been sacrificed to the devil.”
“Rovere did not come?” Agata said, surprised.
“There was a messenger just before I left,” Fabia replied. “My mistress will not tell the master where the lady Bianca is hidden. He will shout and fume, but eventually she will get him to see her way in the matter.”
But it was late into the evening before Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo was able to fully absorb what his wife had told him and agree with what she had done. Sebastiano Rovere had sent an angry message to the silk merchant, threatening him with dire consequences if his young wife was not immediately returned to his palazzo. He sent Rovere’s messenger back with a brief message telling him he had no idea where Bianca was, but invited his son-in-law to come in the morning and discuss the matter. Then he went to bed.
In the very early morning, before the silk merchant was even awake, his wife slipped out of the house. It was still dark, and the summer air was heavy and still. Careful to be sure that her son-in-law had not yet put a watch on her home, she crossed the piazza and sought Father Bonamico at Santa Anna Dolce. The priest was already at his morning prayers. She knelt and waited for him to recognize her.
Finally, the white-haired priest rose. Turning, he smiled. “Good morning, my daughter,” he greeted her. “You are up early, so I must assume there is a purpose to your visit. Come, and we will talk privily.”
She followed him from the church and into a small study, where she knew he met those who sought his advice. Sitting in the straight-backed chair he offered her, Orianna Pietro d’Angelo told him everything that Bianca had told her the day before. She held back nothing. The priest had to understand the seriousness of the situation if he was to help them. Several times, she halted as her voice caught in her throat. She wept without even realizing it, slow tears slipping down her beautiful face.
Father Bonamico listened. His face, which had been serious before, grew shocked, horrified, and then angry by turns. He was more than aware of the evil man could do, having listened to many a confession over his forty years as a priest. Several times he murmured a soft imprecation and then crossed himself. He had been frankly surprised when he had learned of Bianca Pietro d’Angelo’s betrothal to Sebastiano Rovere, for the man’s reputation for depravity was hardly a secret, although rarely discussed publicly. Now Orianna told him of the reason Bianca had been sacrificed.
“I know,” she said, “that my husband did what he did to save Marco, to protect the family name. I did not want such a marriage for Bianca. My father had already begun discreet inquiries among the important families in Venice for a suitable husband for his eldest granddaughter. But then Giovanni made this decision. He was certain that despite Sebastiano Rovere’s reputation he would treat our daughter with respect, for aside from the faint rumors of murder when his previous two wives had died, he had treated them properly. At least in public.
“I worried when he would not let me see Bianca these past months, but Giovanni said it was because she was young and beautiful that he did not wish to share her with anyone, especially her family. My husband believed that awful man had fallen in love with our child. And Bianca! Ah, my poor daughter! When she learned that I had been forbidden her company by her husband, what she did to gain his permission to see me!”
Orianna continued on in her tale.
“And as soon as you learned the abuse she was suffering you removed her from her husband’s house?” Father Bonamico asked.
“I did! I could not leave her there, good priest. I could not!”
“Where is she?” he wanted to know.
“At Santa Maria del Fiore,” Orianna replied. “Even my husband does not know. The Reverend Mother Baptista is a kinswoman of mine.”
“Good! Good!” the priest told her. “She has sanctuary there, and even if Rovere should learn her whereabouts, he would not dare break the laws of sanctuary.”
“I think he would dare anything,” Orianna said. “I would go to her now before Rovere puts a watch on the palazzo. Then I shall be back in time for his visit. He will not delay in coming, I am certain.”
“How will you get to the convent?” The priest’s face showed his concern for her.
“I know a litter bearer in the nearby market square. I once saved his wife and child from illness. He has been devoted to me ever since,” Orianna replied. “If you will permit me to slip through the church’s back garden, no one will see me.”
“Come back through the church when you return,” Father Bonamico advised. “You must take no chances, my daughter, that anyone believes you were anywhere but here, praying and attending Mass. Kneel now, and I will bless you and your endeavors. You must tell Bianca you have spoken with me, and that I will come to hear her confession later today. After that, we dare not attempt to see her. Rovere is a determined man. He will want her back, and will turn the city upside down to find her. We must be cleverer and quicker than he is.”
Orianna knelt to receive his blessing. Before she rose to her feet again, she took the priest’s two hands in hers and kissed them. “Thank you,” she said simply.
“For your peace of mind, my daughter, know that these conversations you and I have had, and will have, are under the seal of the confessional,” he told her.
Orianna left the church then to slip through its garden and out a little gate at the garden’s rear. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her light auburn hair, she hurried through the narrow, winding streets to the nearby market square, where she found Ilario and his litter already waiting for business. She climbed into the single-chair vehicle and instructed him, “Santa Maria del Fiore.”
