Francesca (2 page)

Prologue

“Y
ou will choose a wife and wed within the next year,” Titus Cesare, Duke of Terreno Boscoso, told his son and heir. He was a tall, distinguished man with a head full of wavy snow-white hair and had warm brown eyes that now looked directly at his only child.

“I am too young to marry,” his offspring replied casually, sprawling in a tapestried chair by the fire in his father’s library. He was taller than his sire by at least two inches and had rich dark auburn hair and his deceased mother’s green eyes. Those eyes were a slightly deeper shade than an emerald, more the color of a pool in the forest—dark yet filled with golden light.

“Need I remind you, brash youth, that we have both just celebrated our natal day?”

It was considered a rarity that both father and son had been born on the same day in May. The Duchess Antonia had always considered it her greatest achievement to have delivered her husband’s only child on the day he celebrated forty years upon this earth. She had been twenty years old, and his second wife.

Duke Titus adored her not just for the precious gift she had given him, but for her loving and sweet nature. His first wife, Elisabetta, had been plucked from the convent where she had been educated and seriously contemplating taking the veil. She had tried very hard to be a good wife to him, but she was frail of body and died at eighteen years of age, having been married to him for but four years. Duke Titus had not remarried until he was thirty-eight to his beloved Antonia, who in less than two years’ time delivered him his son, Rafaello.

Antonia had been a wonderful and nurturing mother to their son. He was fifteen when she had died, and remembered her well. She had fostered a strong bond between father and son. When she had died suddenly of a winter flux they had had each other to lean upon and mourn her loss. Now as the duke contemplated his son he thought of how Antonia might have handled this situation.

“You are twenty-nine,” he finally said. “I am sixty-nine. I want to see you happy with a bride before I die. I want to see my grandchildren. I am considered very old.”

“You are an old fraud,” his son replied, laughing.

“How can I go to my grave unable to tell your sweet mother that you are happy?” the duke said.

“Are you ill, Papa?” the younger man asked anxiously.

“No, but remember your mama was in the best of health before that flux struck her and she was so suddenly carried off,” the duke reminded his son. The duke saw that his words had caught his son unawares.

“You have already made a plan to accomplish your purpose,” Rafaello said quietly. Then he smiled at his father. “Tell me. When does my bride arrive? And who is she, Papa?”

“Actually I have sent for three young women to come so you may have a small choice in your selection of a wife,” the duke said, surprising his son. “I know damned well if I waited for you to go courting, God only knows if you would ever find a maiden to suit you. On my seventieth natal day I will retire and turn my dukedom over to you and your bride, Rafaello. You are more than capable of governing Terreno Boscoso. You’ve been sitting by my side in all matters of governance since you were ten. I think you can learn no more from me. It is time for you to make the decisions.”

Rafaello Cesare was astounded. “Three women? You sent for three women, Papa? What will happen to the losers, then, and how will their angry families feel about my rejecting two? And who are these three peerless virgins you think suitable to marry your precious son?” Then he laughed, for the situation, he thought, was ridiculous.

“I have investigated carefully and chosen as carefully,” Duke Titus answered his son. “The maidens are Aceline Marie du Barry, the daughter of the Comte du Barry. The family line is ancient, and the comte wealthy. The second girl is Louisa Maria di Genoa, a bastard daughter of the Duke of Genoa. She is particularly loved by her father, and he has offered quite an enormous dower portion for her. The third virgin is Francesca Allegra Liliana Maria Pietro d’Angelo, the daughter of a very important Florentine silk merchant who stands quite high in Lorenzo di Medici’s favor. The dower her father offers is even larger than the one Genoa proffers me for his daughter.”

“Large dowers usually mean ugly faces or some physical deformity,” Rafaello noted dryly.

“No, I have sent my own agent to observe these three candidates for your hand. He did not make himself known to the families, but obtained a place in each household for a brief time so he might view these girls within their own familial setting. He claims he was almost struck blind by the beauty he saw. The faces are flawless, and he saw no physical deformity on any of the trio.”

“So when do these paragons of virtue—for I assume they are virtuous virgins—arrive, Papa?” Rafaello chuckled.

The duke grinned at his son. “Next month,” he replied. “I expect that by next June you will have chosen one for your bride and will marry. If you are quick perhaps you will have already planted your seed in her belly, and I may look forward to a grandson or granddaughter.”

“You are in a great hurry, Papa,” Rafaello responded.

“I hardly consider requesting my twenty-nine-year-old heir to settle down and produce an heir an onerous task. You have a summer before you and three beautiful girls to court. I am sure that Valiant and the rest of those young rascals you run with will be delighted to help you out, Rafaello,” the duke told him. “Ahh, were I young once again and my Antonia with me.” His handsome face briefly grew sorrowful.

Seeing the look, his son answered him, “I thank you for all you have done in this matter. I will dutifully inspect my three virgins, and hopefully I can find one suitable with whom I can live. I promise to do my duty as I know Mama would want.”

Duke Titus smiled and lifted the wineglass on the table by his arm. “To my Antonia,” he said.

“To Mama,” Rafaello Cesare replied, lifting his own glass. “To Mama!”

Chapter 1

“H
e is too fat,
Madre
. I will not wed with an overdressed pig,” Francesca Pietro d’Angelo said irritably to her anxious mother.

“He is an Orsini!” her mother exclaimed. “They are one of the richest and most distinguished families in Rome. They descend from emperors.”

“He is still too porcine, and if he were emperor I still would not have him,” Francesca declared. “Besides, he is from a lesser branch of his family. I doubt there is any money there. He has come to Florence to obtain a rich wife and restore his fortunes.”

Lorenzo di Medici, who had been listening to this exchange between mother and daughter, chuckled. “She is absolutely correct,
signora
,” he said, and he turned to Francesca. “You would be wasted on such a
buffone
.”

“Do not encourage her,
signore
, I beg of you,” Orianna Pietro d’Angelo pleaded. “Have you any idea how many fine young men she has turned away? I thought when she returned home from my father’s house in Venice, so properly contrite over her bad behavior, I might add, that she might prove reasonable. But no! There has been something wrong with every young man who has sought her hand. One walks like a duck! Another has the face of one of the apes your daughters keep, or legs like a stork, or breath like the banks of the river Arno at low tide, or looks like a gaping fish just caught. She asked Paulo Torrelli where he hid his tail, because she declared he resembled a rat!”

Lorenzo di Medici restrained the great guffaw that bubbled up in his throat. The truth was, young Torrelli did look a bit like a rodent, even as his father did. Gaining a mastery of himself he said, “I asked you to my reception tonight,
signora
, with a specific purpose in mind. I have already spoken with your good husband about it. I see how the local gentlemen avoid your company. Francesca’s shrewish reputation is beginning to spread, and we cannot have the loveliest maiden in Florence since the fair Bianca scorned. Her behavior could indeed reflect on your two younger daughters.”

Orianna Pietro d’Angelo grew pale. Her eldest daughter was no longer spoken of in their house, for her audacity in running off with an Ottoman prince.

Lorenzo di Medici saw her distress and immediately apologized for his thoughtlessness. Then he said, “Go home,
signora
, and see if my solution to your problem suits you. Your husband was quite pleased by it.”

“Thank you,
signore
,” Orianna said, curtsying to him. “We are grateful for your concern.” Then she turned away and moved off in the direction of where her husband stood waiting for her and for Francesca.

Francesca did not immediately follow. Raising her beautiful green eyes to Lorenzo di Medici, she smiled at him flirtatiously. “What have you done,
signore
? Would you send me to some convent away from Florence?” She put a hand on his silk sleeve.

He chuckled. “Do not attempt to wield your wiles on me, Francesca,” he told her. “If you weren’t a virgin I would have probably made you my mistress by now. But, like your parents, I want you happy, and you must marry if you are to be content. Now go and join your
madre
,
inamorata
.”

Francesca pouted prettily, but then seeing he couldn’t be moved, left him. Crossing the crowded reception chamber, she rejoined her parents. Together the trio departed the Medici palazzo in the family litter to return home. While they traveled through the busy late-afternoon streets, Francesca asked her parents, “What is it that
Signore
di Medici would have me do?”

“We will speak on it when we get home,” Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo told his daughter firmly, “and not before.”

“It is my life you are deciding,” Francesca replied sharply. “Am I to have no say in it at all?”

“Madre di Dios!”
Orianna exclaimed. “Be quiet! Your father has said it will be discussed when we reach home and not before. Just once, you impossible child, do as you are told. I raised you to be dutiful, but you seem to have left all your manners behind since your return from your grandfather’s palazzo in Venice. He has spoiled you and allowed you to run wild. We are fortunate you caused no greater scandal than you did running after Enzo Ziani so shamelessly and giving rise to rumors that your virtue was not quite all it should be. You offered up my family, the Veniers, to ridicule, and we have been leaders in Venice for centuries, even having a
doge
among our antecedents.”

“I know,
Madre
. I know,” Francesca responded wearily. “My grandfather was forever drumming the history of your house into my head.”

Orianna glared across the litter at her daughter, and Francesca finally grew quiet.

A faint smile played across Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo’s mouth. His wife and their daughters were well matched. While their lamented eldest, Bianca, had been stubborn and very determined to follow her heart even if it meant losing her family, Francesca was even more like their fiery mother. Once Bianca attained her goal she would settle back to exhibiting a sweet and amiable nature. Francesca, however, fought her battles with great passion, refusing to yield in the slightest. It would take a very strong man to control her. He smiled again to himself. Lorenzo di Medici had come up with an excellent solution to the problem of his difficult daughter. Now he must convince her of it, and it would not be easy at all. Because he was a quiet man, many thought his women ruled him. This could not have been further from the truth. Though Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo spoke softly he was a hard but fair man when it came to having his own way. No one who had ever done business with the respected leader of the Arti di Por Santa Maria, the silk merchants’ guild, would have said otherwise.

At last the litter reached their palazzo on the Piazza Santa Anna. Its occupants exited the vehicle and entered through the great ironbound double oak doors. Leading the way, the silk merchant brought his wife and daughter to his library. A small fire was burning in the fireplace, taking the chill off the early-spring afternoon. A servant brought refreshments, and when he had departed the chamber Giovanni began to speak.

“There is a large duchy located well northwest of the Duchy of Milano. It is called Terreno Boscoso. It is an ancient holding ruled by a distinguished family of wealth and good reputation.”

Francesca yawned, bored. Seeing it, Orianna frowned and, reaching out, pinched her daughter to attention. Francesca jumped with a little squeak, glaring back at Orianna.

Though he had seen the action between mother and daughter, Giovanni gave no hint of it, and continued smoothly. “Duke Titus has one child, a son, born to him late in life. He wishes to retire from his duties shortly, but first he must see his son wed. To this end he has asked for three maidens to be brought to Terreno Boscoso so his son may get to know them and choose a bride from among the three. Since, like many heads of state, he does business with the di Medici bank, he wrote to Lorenzo himself and asked if Florence might offer up a candidate for his son’s hand. Lorenzo believes Francesca is the perfect choice. He is certain that Francesca will be chosen.” Giovanni looked at his daughter.

“You would be a
duchessa
, my daughter,” he said quietly, “but you would be treated like a queen.”

“A
duchessa
!” Orianna responded breathlessly, her eyes wide with pride and excitement. “What an honor for you, Francesca, for our family, for Florence.”

“No!” Francesca said.

“No
?
”
her mother gasped, disbelieving. “
No
? You dare say no to such a magnificent offer? You are heartless, you ungrateful girl. Heartless!”

“I will not be shipped off to some unknown place and put in a contest for the hand of a strange man,” Francesca said. “The man who wants to marry me must court me properly,
Madre
. I am appalled you would even consider such a thing.”

Orianna Pietro d’Angelo’s beautiful face turned a very unattractive shade somewhere between crimson and purple. “Refuse, and you will be shipped off to a cloistered convent as far away from Florence as I can find,” she replied angrily. “They will shave your head of your glorious hair. You will be nourished on stale bread and water, and beaten twice daily until you learn obedience again. And there you will remain, imprisoned for the remainder of your days, you wicked child! And do not look to your father for help. You know that in all matters having to do with the household and our children it is my word that rules supreme, Francesca, not his.”

Having allowed his wife to vent her anger, the master of the house now spoke up once again. “Francesca,
cara
, you must wed. You have just celebrated your fifteenth natal day.” He smiled warmly at her. “I remember the day you were born quite well. It was a perfect day in early April. The sky was cloudless and blue. The sun bright and warm upon the back. The flowers in the garden had begun to bloom early that year. I had found a large bud on one of the roses several days earlier, which I cut and was forcing into bloom right here in my library. It opened that day, and I brought it to your mother after she had safely delivered you. Father Bonamico said it was a sign from God.”

Orianna’s face grew soft as her husband renewed her own memory of that day.

“I realize,” Giovanni continued, “that Enzo Ziani proved a great disappointment to you,
cara mia
, but I believe in my heart of hearts that you know now he was the wrong man for you. An unimportant Venetian prince among many unimportant Venetian princes. We can do far better for our daughter. This is a golden opportunity for you. Go to Terreno Boscoso. Show this ducal family the caliber of Florentine maidens. You are certain to win the heart of the duke’s son. The old man has promised as soon as his son is wed, he will abdicate in his son’s immediate favor. You will be a
duchessa
, Francesca!”

“A horse fair is what you are sending me into,” she replied, but her tone was less strident and more thoughtful.

“What do you mean, we are sending you into a horse fair?” Orianna demanded.

“Are not three fresh young mares being brought to Terreno Boscoso to see which one pleases the duke’s stallion?” Francesca responded.

Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo burst out laughing, and he laughed so hard tears fell from his eyes.

His wife, however, exhibited shock. “Francesca! What an indelicate thought. I hope you will not voice such sentiments aloud in Terreno Boscoso.”

A mutinous look crossed Francesca’s beautiful face. “I did not say I was going anywhere,” she murmured.

The silk merchant shot his wife a hard look, silently warning her that she should say nothing more. Orianna pressed her lips together as her husband spoke again. “Of course you will go,
cara
. It doesn’t mean you have to stay. But you will spend an adventurous summer away from your family. You will not have to go to our villa in the Tuscan hills to be bored or aggravated daily by your siblings.

“You will have a splendid new wardrobe, so that not only will your natural beauty outshine the other two girls, but your clothing will as well. I shall send you with an impressive train of men-at-arms in livery to escort you, a priest, two maids to serve you, and two nuns from your mother’s favorite convent to chaperone you. You will have two horses of your own, which we will choose together, and a casket full of jewels.

“This is a great honor Lorenzo di Medici has offered you, Francesca. You will represent our city of Florence. Even you must admit that you must wed, and at fifteen you are just on the cusp of becoming too old to be desirable.” He chuckled at the flash of anger that crossed her face. But then, unable to help herself, Francesca smiled ruefully. “Remember, if this young man proves unsuitable I will bring you home again, but God only knows where we will find a husband for you then. You have frightened away every suitable man from Florence and a hundred leagues around, my daughter.”

“Can I have a stallion,
Padre
?” Francesca asked sweetly.

“Perhaps two geldings,” he counteroffered. “A stallion might prove too intimidating and difficult to handle.”