The air hung close, heavy with the scent of night blooms and a faint aroma of roasting meat from beyond the walls. Through the silence I caught the soft murmur of conversation drifting from the dormitory behind me, the occasional burst of laughter, the chink of Murano goblets. Fra Donato entertaining his fellow aristocrats, I supposed. The wealthier friars – those for whom the Church was a political career built on contacts and greased palms like any other – often held private suppers at night in their richly furnished rooms. As with the nocturnal excursions, the watch brothers remained tactfully deaf and blind to this.
Footsteps echoed behind me on the flagstones across the cloisters, over the low whisper of voices. There was no time to determine whether they were friend or foe; I slipped quickly along the corridor and through the archway where I had seen Fra Gennaro disappear. Here, behind the convent’s grand courtyards, the grounds were laid out to gardens with an extensive grove of lemon trees. A path followed the line of the boundary wall, towards the side gate. If you continued past the gate to the far side of the trees, you reached a scattering of low buildings: grain houses, storerooms, the saddlery and stables. Beyond these lay a whitewashed dormitory of two storeys where the convent servants slept.
Without a moon, there was no hope of seeing which direction Fra Gennaro had taken, though if I strained my ears hard, I thought I could make out a distant rustling ahead among the lemon trees. The obvious explanation was that he must be attending to one of the servants who had fallen sick – but my curiosity was still piqued by his furtive manner and his pretence of not having heard my call.
Like every other novice, I had learned to navigate the path from the outer cloister to the gate in pitch-dark, feeling my way and calculating distance from the scents of the garden and the recognition of familiar landmarks under my feet and fingers: the twisted stalk of the vine that grew up the wall at the point where the lemon grove began; the slight downward incline as the path neared the gate. The footsteps persisted at my back, crunching on the hard earth. I moved off the path and into the shelter of the trees as two figures approached, fearing I had been discovered by the watch. But they paused a short distance away and I retreated further into the dark as I caught the wavering light of a taper hovering between them. Urgent whispers followed the scraping of metal against metal; I heard the creak of the gate and a gentle click as it closed again behind them. Novices or young friars heading out to the Cerriglio, the tavern two streets away, for a brief gulp of the city air before the Matins bell called them back to piety. I craned my neck and looked up through the leaves, wishing I could see the moon; I had no idea how late it was.
The gardens were unfamiliar to me beyond the side gate and I stumbled my way through the lemon trees, unsure if I was even moving in the right direction, my arms held up to protect my eyes from the scratching branches. After some while I emerged into open ground and could just make out the bulk of a row of buildings ahead. A horse whinnied softly out of the dark and I tensed; there were grooms who slept above the stables and would be woken by any disturbance. Holding my breath, I edged my way towards the storehouses and stood stupidly, looking around. Had Fra Gennaro come this way? Most likely he was already in the servants’ dormitory, tending to some ordinary sprain or burn. How foolish I would look, lurking here in the shadows as if I were spying on him.
Minutes passed and I was debating whether to knock at the servants’ quarters when I heard the muted creak of a door from one of the outbuildings behind me. A hooded figure slipped out and set down a pail at his feet. I heard the jangle of a key in a padlock, though it was clear he was trying to make as little noise as possible. A cone of light slid back and forth across the ground from the lantern in his hand. From his height I was certain it was the infirmarian, though I waited until he was almost upon me before stepping into his path.
‘Fra Gennaro.’
‘Dio porco!’ He jumped back as if he had been assaulted, stifling his cry with his fingers as the pail clattered to the ground.
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to startle you.’ I moved closer, pulling back the hood of my cloak.
‘Fra Giordano?’ He peered at me through the darkness, his breathing ragged in the still air. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to offer my help.’
‘With what?’ Now that he had recovered from the shock, I noted the hard edge to his voice. He was not pleased to have been intercepted.
‘Whatever you are doing. I saw you in the cloister and you seemed …’ I searched for the right word ‘… burdened. I thought, perhaps—’
His mouth twitched to one side in a sharp noise of disapproval. ‘You should not have been in the cloister. By rights I should report you to the prior.’
I lowered my eyes. We both knew it was an empty threat; I had given him better cause to report me before this and he had not done so. But he wanted me to know that he was angry.
‘Forgive me, Brother,’ I murmured. ‘I was restless and needed a walk. When I saw you, I thought only to offer my assistance. I want every chance to learn. Is one of the servants ill? I could fetch and carry for you, if you let me observe the treatment.’
He did not reply immediately; only watched me with an unreadable expression, narrowed eyes glinting in the flame of the lantern. ‘You wish to learn, huh?’ He appeared to be weighing something up. After a moment, he stepped forward and gripped my upper arm so hard that I flinched away. His face loomed inches from mine, oddly intent; I could smell on his breath the ginger root he chewed to settle his stomach. ‘There is much you might learn tonight, and I could use another pair of hands. But listen to me, Fra Giordano. I have been good to you, have I not?’
I nodded eagerly, unsure where this was tending.
‘There are words you have spoken in my dispensary that anyone else would have reported instantly to the prior. Words that would lead you straight before the Father Inquisitor. I have let them pass, because I recognise in you a spirit of enquiry that, while yet undisciplined, is born not of rebellion but of a true desire for knowledge.’ He paused and sighed, passing the flat of his hand over his cropped hair. ‘In that you remind me of myself. That is why I have not reported you for voicing opinions that to others would fall barely short of heresy.’
I bowed my head. ‘And I am grateful for it. But—’
He held up a hand to pre-empt me and lowered his voice. ‘Then we are both agreed you owe me a debt of confidence. You could assist me tonight, but you must first swear that you will never speak of what you see to anyone, inside or outside these walls.’
My gut tightened with excitement as my thoughts raced ahead, trying to imagine what kind of medical emergency would demand such a level of secrecy. I stared at him.
‘I swear it. On my life.’
He peered into my face with that same fierce scrutiny, still holding my arm so tight that the next morning I would find a ring of violet bruises. Eventually it seemed he was satisfied. He gave a single curt nod and released his grip.
‘Wait here, then. I must go to the dispensary to collect my instruments and heat some water. If anyone should come by, make sure they don’t see you.’
‘Why don’t I come with you?’ I offered. ‘We could carry twice as much between us. Or, better still, they will surely have a fire in the servants’ dormitory – could we not heat a pail of water there? It would make sense to be closer to the patient.’