But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.

The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the Santa Inunziate delle Murate. Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.

But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.

One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.

‘Dear little Duchessina, welcome!’ said this nun.

Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’

Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa ‘Our little Duchess will be tired and hungry. Let us give her food; then she may go to her cell and rest. In the morning, Duchessina, we will have a talk.’

It was confusing, and she was bewildered. So many strange things had happened to her that she could no longer be surprised. She was given a place of honour at the long refectory table; she noticed that the soup had meat in it, and she remembered that this day was a Friday; the fish was served with sauces; it was more like a meal in the Medici palace than in a convent. There was conversation, whereas at Santa Lucia there had been a rule of silence during meals. But she was too tired to think very much about these matters, and as soon as the meal was over and prayers had been said, the two nuns who had greeted her on her arrival took her to her cell. She felt that the bed was soft, and that reminded her that they had eaten meat. The nuns were very friendly, respectful even; she could ask them why they ate meat on Fridays. She did.

‘Here in the Murate, Duchessina, we may eat meat on Fridays. It was a special dispensation from the Holy Father many years ago.’

They were shocked by the coarseness of the shirt she wore, and brought her one of fine linen. ‘This will be better for your delicate skin, Duchessina.’

‘At Santa Lucia,’ she told them, ‘all wore coarse shirts next the skin.’

‘That is well enough for Santa Lucia, but here in the Murate we are not of lowly birth, as many are in Santa Lucia. Here we temper godliness with reason.

For the glory of God, we wear our sombre robes, but for sweet reason’s sake we wear fine linen next our skins. Now sleep, dear little Duchess. You are among friends here.’

First one bent down to kiss her. ‘My brother is a member of the Medici party,’ she whispered. ‘He will rejoice to know you are safe with friends.’

The second nun bent over her. ‘My family await deliverance from the republicans.’

Caterina stared up at them and they laughed.

‘Tomorrow we will show you who are the supporters of your noble family.

There are many here in the Murate.’

‘And are there some for the republicans?’ asked Caterina.

‘Some. But that makes life exciting!’ said the nun who had first kissed her.

Caterina could not sleep when they had left her. She realized at once that life was going to be very different from what it had been in Santa Lucia.


* * *

‘Pray be seated,’ said the Reverend Mother.

How small the child looked in the big chair, her feet scarcely touching the ground. But what poise, what dignity! So rare in one so young. This child was going to be quick to learn and a joy to teach. For that very reason and because she was doubtless observant, it was imperative for the Reverend Mother to have a talk with her.

Yesterday Caterina had witnessed the entry of a young novice into the convent. There was a significant ceremony which always took place on such occasions, and from this ceremony the convent took its name. The novice arrived outside the convent walls accompanied by high dignitaries of the Church, who, with their own hands, broke down a section of the wall, and through the hole they made the novice pass. When she had done this, the wall was built up again. It was solemn and significant; the novice had passed behind the grey walls forever; she was built in and could not leave the Murate.

And little Caterina was puzzled. She had been for six months with the nuns of Santa Lucia, and Santa Lucia, with its fasting and strict observances, would seem what a convent should be. Here in the Murate there were amusement and laughter; the nuns were highly-born ladies, gay rather than earnest. It might seem to that logical little mind that, for all its ceremonies an outward show of piety, the Convent of the Murate was less holy than that of Santa Lucia; and it was very important what this little girl thought of the Murate, for one day she was to make a grand marriage and hold a very high position in the world. She must be made to understand that the Murate’s way of life was, in its comfort, as godly as that of the Santa Lucia its austerity.

‘You are a little puzzled by our ways here, Duchessina?’ asked the Reverend Mother.

‘I am very happy here, my Mother.’

She was a little diplomat already. It was certainly very important that she should be made to see the Murate point of view.

‘You never saw such ceremonies as you witnessed yesterday when you were at Santa Lucia. Yet, in that convent, the strictest rules of Holy Church were adhered to. Here, you think, we eat meat on Fridays; our services are beautiful; our church full of colour; we do not wear coarse linen; you think we are not so forgetful of the vanities of the world as our sisters of Santa Lucia.’

‘Oh no, Reverend Mother.’

But the Reverend Mother continued: ‘We wash our bodies, and that the nuns of Santa Lucia would tell you is a sin.’ Caterina was silent.

‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Mother, ‘it is the Santa Lucia that has been visited with the plague, and the Murate is the only unpolluted spot in Florence.

That is a miracle, my little one. Let us pray now. Let us give our thanks to the saints for showing us that our way of life is the one which has given them most pleasure.’

The Reverend Mother watched the grave little face while Caterina murmured her prayers. The child was learning the first of the lessons the Murate had to teach her.

Caterina loved to sit stitching at the tapestry with those who were her friends. There were hardly any in the convent who were not her friends; but those nuns whose families supported the Government felt it their duty to treat the little Medici with some reserve.

As they stitched at the altar cloth which they were making, they talked.

Caterina loved to speak of Ippolito, to tell the nuns of his charm and his gaiety and his chivalry; she even confided in one or two of them the hope that she would one day marry him. She knew that he was alive. She could not say how she knew, but she was certain of it. ‘It is something inside me that tells me this is so,’ she tried to explain.

She was happy in the Murate― as happy as she could be without Ippolito.

And with that peaceful feeling within which told her she would see Ippolito again one day she felt that she might enjoy these pleasant hours. There was one summer’s day as she sat at work with the others on this altar cloth that a conversation took place which she was to remember all her life.

Lucia, a garrulous young nun, was talking of miracles which had been performed in the convent.

‘Once,’ said Lucia, ‘the Murate was very poor indeed, and there was great trouble throughout Florence. The city was poor as the Murate, and the citizens thought to beg relief from the Impruneta Virgin. So they brought the statue into the city and every convent was expected to make some offering to the Virgin.

Now, here in the Murate, we had nothing at all, and we did not know what to do.’

‘Ah!’ said Sister Margaretta. ‘You are going to tell the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak. I have heard it many times.’

‘Doubtless you have, and doubtless our Duchessina has never heard it.’

‘I have not,’ said Caterina. ‘Nor has little Maria.’

Little Maria was the novice whose ceremonial entrance Caterina recently witnessed. ‘We should like to hear, should we not, Maria?’

Maria said she would like to hear the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak.

‘Well,’ went on Lucia, ‘the Reverend Mother summoned all the sisterhood to her and she said, “Do not despair. We will give the Impruneta Virgin a cloak.

It will be a cloak such as has never been seen before in Florence, a cloak of rich brocade, lined with ermine and embroidered with gold.” The nuns were aghast, for how could they in their poverty give such a mantle? But there was about the Reverend Mother a look of such holiness that there were some, as they declared afterwards, who knew a miracle was about to be performed.

‘Listen to me,” said the Reverend Mother. “This mantle shall be made through prayer. For six yards of brocade three Psalters in honour of the Holy Trinity shall be sung; fifty psalms for each yard with Gloria tibi Domine, and meditations on the great favours Mary received from the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. For the ermine skins seven thousand times the Ave Maria; for the embroidered crowns sixty-three times the Rosary; for a golden clasp seven hundred times the O Gloriosa Domina; for a golden button seven hundred times the Alma Redemptoris Mater; for embroidered roses seven hundred the Ave Santissima Maria. ” Well, there were many prayer to be said for each item that went into the making of the cloak; and so, in addition to other duties, the nuns of the Murate must say these thousands of prayers. It meant hours and hours of devotions.’