Dark North

Twenty

There had never been any such person as Saint Belladonna, which ought to have suggested, to the few Ligurian peasants who knew about the Convent of St. Belladonna, that it wasn’t actually a convent at all, even if it did utilise a genuine old convent building located in a high, secluded valley.

More than likely the few rustics who worked in the convent grounds, minding the sheep and goats, tending the vegetable gardens and keeping the paths clear, were well aware that the nuns of St. Belladonna’s were somewhat younger and comelier than was the norm. They must have thought it inappropriate that the sisters wore habits which were more like sleeveless, knee-length togas, revealing much indecent jewelry, and kept their long, lustrous hair bound beneath dainty head-scarves rather than veils or wimples. But as the regular procession of male callers at St. Belladonna’s included priests, bishops and even cardinals, as well as the usual dukes, barons and merchants, who were the gardeners to complain?

On a warm afternoon in early summer, one particular new arrival set an elderly shepherd called Marcus hurrying from the outer pastures and along the valley road. Marcus was a tough, wiry man, brown-skinned, with long, grey hair and a long, grey beard. And though, at eighty, he didn’t generally hurry anywhere, the sight of the black enamel coach with the eight sleek horses drawing it provoked in him an almost unnatural degree of energy. For all his sprightliness he entered the convent by the tradesman’s door only a minute before the black coach, with its gilded sculptures and its colossal red-cowled driver, halted at the front entrance.

As Duchess Zalmyra stepped onto the forecourt, the convent door swung open, and the ‘Mother-Superior’ emerged. Her name was Esmerelda. She too had once been a comely lass, though now her slender form had turned buxom and her golden hair had wizened to grey. As such, the garb she wore was perhaps more in keeping with her title. Her robe was cinched at the waist with a simple leather belt, and fell to her sandalled feet. Her head-scarf was more demurely tied, so that not a lock or even a wisp of hair escaped to hang fetchingly over her handsome young-old face.

“Ma’am?” she said, hands clasped.

“You received my message?” Zalmyra asked brusquely.

“I did, ma’am. I have a girl who I think will please you.”

“Let me see.”

Zara was not yet seventeen, but pretty as a Mediterranean flower: lightly tanned, with hazel eyes and lush ripples of dark brown hair. She had only been at St. Belladonna’s six weeks, but had already serviced many illustrious clients, including some who had been back to see her again and again. She had thus learned quickly, and already had a pouch of personal gold stored in a knapsack in her boudoir.

She stood upright as she waited in the antechamber, hands behind her back. She possessed an air of confidence, for she knew that she filled her knee-length toga to perfection. But she also affected humility, for some of those who came here were not always happy unless they felt they were depraving an innocent.

When Esmerelda showed in Duchess Zalmyra, Zara did not blink. She had entertained wealthy women before — it was not unusual, and this one had the regal air of an aristocrat. By her flimsy attire and the fine naked form beneath, she was also, quite evidently, a sensualist.

Esmerelda stood primly to one side while Zalmyra circled the patiently waiting ‘sister,’ who smiled meekly.

Zalmyra finally spoke. “You will come with me, girl. To my home.”

For the first time, Zara was surprised. This had never happened before. She glanced at Esmerelda, who nodded.

“Bring all your belongings,” Zalmyra added.

Again, Zara was surprised. Again, she glanced at her mistress.

“This will be a lengthy assignment,” Esmerelda explained.

Zara shrugged. She supposed it was all in a day’s work for her. Or a week’s. Or even a month’s. It made no real difference in the end, except that on this occasion maybe she would be even more lavishly treated than usual. Bowing to Zalmyra, she withdrew from the room. When the door was closed, Zalmyra turned to Esmerelda.

“There is no-one who will miss her?”

“No-one, ma’am. She came to us a foundling.”

“But she has made close friends in the order, no doubt?”

“All my sisters know that some must move on. Not all vocations are strong.”

“And none of them will seek her out?”

“They haven’t sought any of those others who’ve left with you.”

Zalmyra smiled coldly. “When she comes down again, escort her to my carriage personally. It may put her at ease.”