Silent in the Sanctuary by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page A

Alessandro, and he admired them enthusiastically. It is always pleasant to hear one’s home praised, but it is particularly gratifying from one whose own home is crowned with such delights as the Duomo, the Uffizi, and of course, David.
    Our points of interest were somewhat more modest. We showed Alessandro the edge of the Downs, rolling away in the distance like a pillowy green coverlet coming gently to rest after being shaken by a giant’s hand. We guided his gaze to a bit of Roman road which he complimented effusively—a bit disingenuous on his part, considering that Florence was founded as a siege camp for Caesar’s army. We pointed out the woods—a royal hunting preserve for ten centuries—that stretched to the edge of the formal gardens of Bellmont Abbey.
    Just past the gatehouse, the drive turned flat and smooth and I explained to Alessandro that this was where, as children, we had raced pony carts.
    “All of you? The Lord March must have owned a herd of ponies for so many children,” he teased.
    “No, my dear signore,” Portia corrected, “you misunderstand. We were hitched to the pony carts. Father thought it a very great joke when we were behaving like savages to harness us up and have us race one another down the drive. It worked beautifully, you know. We always slept like babies afterwards.”
    Alessandro blinked at her. “I believe you are making a joke to me, Lady Bettiscombe.” He looked at me doubtfully. I shook my head.
    “No, I’m afraid she isn’t. Father actually did that. Not all the time, you understand. Only when we were very, very naughty. Ah, here is the Rookery. This dear little house was originally built in the eighteenth century as an hermitage. Unfortunately, the sitting earl at the time quarrelled with his hermit, and the house was left empty for ages. Eventually, it was made into a sort of dower house.”
    “It is where we keep the old and decrepit members of the family,” Portia put in helpfully. “We send them there and after a while they die.”
    “Portia,” I said, giving her a warning look. Alessandro was beginning to look a bit hunted. She took my meaning at once and hastened to reassure him.
    “Oh, it is a very peaceful place. I cannot think of any place I would rather die.” She smiled broadly, baring her pretty, white teeth, and Alessandro returned the smile, still looking a trifle hesitant.
    “There,” I said, nodding to a bit of grey stone soaring above the trees. “There is Bellmont Abbey.”
    The drive curved then and the trees parted to give a magnificent view of the old place. Seven hundred years earlier, Cistercians had built it as a monument to their order. Austere and simple, it was an elegant complex of buildings, exquisitely framed by the landscape and bordered by a wide moat, carp ponds, and verdant fields beyond. The monks and lay brothers had laboured there for four hundred years, communing with God in peace and tranquillity. Then Henry VIII had come, stomping across England like a petulant child.
    “King Henry VIII acquired the Abbey during the Dissolution,” I told Alessandro. “He gave it to the seventh Earl March, who mercifully altered the structure very little. You’ll notice some very fine stained glass in the great tracery windows. The Cistercians had only plain glass, but the earl wanted something a bit grander. And he ordered some interior walls put up to create smaller apartments inside the sanctuary.”
    Alessandro, a devout Catholic, looked pained. “The church itself, it was unconsecrated?”
    “Well, naturally. It was a very great space, after all. The Chapel of the Nine Altars was made into a sort of great hall. You will see it later. That is where the family gathers with guests before dinner. Many of the other rooms were left untouched, but I’m afraid the transepts and the chapels were all converted for family use.”
    Alessandro said nothing, but his expression was still aggrieved. I patted his hand. “There is still much