Stepping on the cold, grey flagstones as I wended my way through the chapel, I glanced at the large, wooden trapdoor. There was no time now. It was Holy Day and supper would be served soon. On the morrow, I would remove the Persian rug from the library. No one will notice. I was the only one who entered the library anyway.
The heat was unbearable. A Tuscan summer is always hot, yet the heat this year was stifling. “Hottest summer in living memory” were the words on everyone’s lips.
I knelt at the altar, took a deep breath and wiped the hair from my face. Sweat poured down my neck and onto my breasts. It was cooler in the chapel. I pulled at my gown. God’s teeth I would cut off the sleeves with a knife if I could, I hated the infernal things. I took the ivory fan from my belt, swept it across my face in short, sharp bursts, savouring the cool air against my skin, placed the fan on the nearby pew, put my hands together and knelt on the red velvet cushion and stared at our Lord on the Cross.
The great bell of the Cattredale di Santa Maria del Fiore chimed, its deep, sonorous tone broke me from my reverie. Supper. I would be late for supper again. Hurriedly I picked up my fan, grabbed my skirts and ran towards my bed chamber. The golden light of sunset splashed through the large window above my bed and a silhouette stood up from the carved, mahogany chair at my dresser.
“Where have you been Madonna Caterina? Supper will be served soon. You do not want to upset your mother again, do you?”
It was Maria, my ever-present waiting woman. Christ’s nails. There seemed to be no escape from this Harpy.
“I have been in the chapel Maria”, I retorted and I could feel my face reddening. “In prayer”, I added pointedly.
“Hmm, in prayer”, Maria muttered, as she hauled a steaming cauldron and poured the water into the white china bowl on the table. “Never attended a lady who washes so much in one day”.
“And that is not a good thing Maria? You told me the Contessa stunk to high heaven”.
Maria shuddered. “Hated water did the Contessa, she had a bath but once a year. Her husband was even filthier”.
I grabbed the lye soap and placed it to my face. Soap made from lye and olive oil in Castile and fragranced from lavender. It smelt delicious. Maria grabbed my hair and twisted it.
“Filthy, the pair of them. Mean too”. I nodded. I had heard all this many times before.
“Treated me no better than their slaves”.
One more yank of my hair and then she began intertwining tiny, yellow flowers and emeralds into my unruly curls.
