The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (4 page)

He bent forward and faced me at my level. “But I
will
get out safely,” he said. “And I will come back again tomorrow. When I do, you must find me alone in the courtyard or the garden. There are things we must discuss, unhappy secrets. But not today. The hour is not propitious.”

As he spoke, his eyes hardened, as if he was watching a distant but approaching evil. He straightened and said, “But nothing bad will happen. I will see to it. We will speak again tomorrow. God keep you, Caterina.”

He turned and strode off.

I hurried after him, but he walked faster than I could run. In seconds he was at the entrance to the stables, in view of the large gate leading to the Via Larga. I hung back, afraid.

The palazzo was a fortress of thick stone; its main entry was an impenetrable brass door positioned in the building’s center. To the west lay the gardens and the stables, viewable from the street behind a north-facing iron gate that began where the citadel proper ended.

Just inside that gate were seven armed guards, warily eyeing the crowd on the other side of the thick iron bars. When I had last peered through the
upstairs window, only six men had lingered by the western gate. Now more than two dozen peasants and merchants stood staring back at the guards.

A groom handed Ser Cosimo the reins to a glossy black mare. At the sight of the astrologer, a few in the mob hissed. One hurled a stone, which banked off an iron bar and struck the earth several paces from its target.

Ser Cosimo calmly led his mount to the gate. The mare stamped her feet and turned her face from the waiting men as one of them cried out: “
Abaso le palle!
Down with the balls!”

“What,” called another, “did they bring you here to suck the cardinal’s cock?”

“And his Medici-loving balls!
Abaso le palle!
”

The commotion alerted others who had been standing watch across the street, who hurried to join those at the gate. The chant grew louder.

“Abaso le palle.

Abaso le palle.”

Men shook their fists in the air and pushed their hands between the bars to claw at those on the other side. The mare whinnied and showed them the whites of her eyes.

Ser Cosimo’s composure never wavered. Serene and unflinching, he walked toward the metal bars amid a hail of pebbles. He was not struck, but our guards were not as fortunate; they yelped curses as they tried to shield their faces. One hurried to the bolt and slid the heavy iron bar back while the others drew their swords and formed a shoulder-to-shoulder barricade in front of Ser Cosimo.

The guard at the bolt glanced over his shoulder at the departing guest. “You’re mad, sir,” he said. “They’ll tear you to pieces.”

I broke out from my hiding place and ran to Ser Cosimo.

“Don’t hurt him!” I shouted at the crowd. “He’s not one of us!”

Ser Cosimo dropped the reins of his nervous mount and knelt down to catch my shoulders.

“Go inside, Catherine,” he said.
Catherine,
my name in a foreign tongue. “I know what I am doing. I will be safe.”

As he finished speaking, a pebble grazed my shoulder. I flinched; Ser Cosimo saw it strike. And his eyes—

The look of the Devil, I was going to say, but perhaps it is better called
the look of God. For the Devil can trick and test, but God alone metes out death, and only He can will a man to suffer for eternity.

That was that look I saw in Cosimo’s eye. He was capable, I decided, of undying spite, of murder without the slightest regret. Yet it was not that look that unsettled me. It was the fact that I recognized it and was still drawn to him; it was the fact that I knew it and did not want to look away.

He whirled on the crowd with that infinitely evil look. At once, the rain of stones ceased. When every man had grown silent, he called out, strong and clear:

“I am Cosimo Ruggieri, the astrologer’s son. Strike her again, if you dare.”

Nothing more was said. Darkly radiant, Ser Cosimo mounted his horse, and the guard pushed open the singing gate. The magician rode out, and the crowd parted for him.

The gate swung shut with a clang, and the guard slid the bolt into place. It was as though a signal had been given: The crowd came alive and again hurled pebbles and curses at the guards.

But the astrologer’s son passed unharmed, his head high, his shoulders square and sure. While the rest of the world fixed its unruly attention on the palazzo gates, he rode away, and soon disappeared from my sight.

My memories of Florence are blurred by terror, affection, distance, and time, but some impressions from that long-ago past remain sharp. The peals of church bells, for one: I woke and ate and prayed to the songs of the cathedral of San Lorenzo, which holds my ancestors’ bones; of Santa Maria del Fiore, with its vast impossible dome; of San Marco, where the mad monk Savonarola once dwelled. I can still hear the low “mooing” of the bell called the Cow, which hung in the great Palazzo della Signoria, seat of Florence’s government.

I remember, too, the rooms of my childhood, especially the family chapel. On the walls above the wooden choir stalls, my ancestors rode on grandly caparisoned horses in Gozzoli’s masterpiece,
The Procession of the Magi.
The mural spanned three walls. The eastern one captured my imagination, for it was the wall of the Magus Gaspar, he who led the way after Bethlehem’s star. My forefathers rode just behind him, in dazzling shades of crimson, blue, and gold.

The mural had been commissioned in Piero the Gouty’s time. He rode just behind Gaspar; my great-great-grandfather was a serious, tight-lipped man in his fifth decade, riding immediately in front of his own father, the aged but still wily Cosimo. His son Lorenzo
il Magnifico
followed them both.
He was only eleven then, a homely boy with a jutting lower lip and wildly crooked nose. Yet there was something beautiful in his upward-slanting eyes, in their clear, focused intelligence that made me yearn to touch his cheek. But he had been painted high upon the wall, beyond my reach. Many times I had climbed onto a choir stall when the chapel was empty, but I could touch only the fresco’s lower edge. I had often been told that I possessed Lorenzo’s quick wit, and felt a kinship with him. His father had died when he was young, leaving him a city to rule; not long after, his adored brother was assassinated, leaving him truly alone.

But Lorenzo was wise. His child’s gaze was sober and steady. And it was fastened not on his father, Piero, or his grandfather Cosimo—but directly on golden-haired Gaspar, the Magus who followed the star.

Young Lorenzo gazed down at me that evening at vespers. Uncle Filippo was absent, but Clarice was there, her tense features softened beneath a gossamer black veil. She murmured prayers with one eye open, her monocular gaze darting behind her, at the open door. She had seemed chastened during her encounter with Ser Cosimo, but the intervening hours had restored her nerve.

To her immediate right was my cousin Ippolito, straight and tall, having recently sprouted a man’s broad chest and back. Tanned from hunting, he had grown a goatee and mustache, which enhanced his dark eyes and made him dizzyingly handsome. He was kind to me—we were after all, to be married someday and rule Florence together—but now he was eighteen and had come to notice women. And I was just a homely little girl.

Alessandro, his junior by two years, stood beside him, murmuring prayers with his eyes wide open. My half brother, Sandro, son of an African slave, had thick black brows, full lips, and a taciturn demeanor. No matter how long I studied his heavy, pouting features, I never glimpsed a hint of our common ancestry. Sandro was well aware that he lacked his elder cousin Ippolito’s physical beauty and charm. Their relationship had become marked by competitiveness, yet the two were inseparable, bound by their special status.

In the chapel, Ginevra prayed on Clarice’s immediate left, flanked by little Roberto, then Leone and Tommaso, then my beloved Piero. Even he, who had earlier been so dismissive of my fears, had grown quiet and pensive as the crowd outside our gates swelled.

I remember little of the actual ritual that evening—just Aunt Clarice’s strong alto as we sang the psalms, and the priest’s wavering tenor as he led the
Kyrie eleison
.

He had just begun to chant the benediction when Aunt Clarice’s head turned sharply. Outside, in the corridor, Uncle Filippo held his cap in his hands.

He was a grim man with sunken cheeks and grey hair cut short in the style of a Roman senator; when he caught Clarice’s eye, his expression grew even grimmer. She motioned quickly at Ginevra:
Go, go. Take the children with you.
She inclined her head at Ippolito and Alessandro.
And take them, too.

The priest’s hand sliced horizontally through the air to complete the invisible cross. He, too, had seen the crowds at the gate and departed quickly through the exit near the altar.

Clarice moved aside, allowing Ginevra to herd the cousins toward the door. At the same time, Uncle Filippo advanced into the chapel. Last of the children, I lagged behind.

Sandro followed the others meekly, but Ippolito broke away from the group to face Clarice. “I will stay,” he said. “Filippo bears important news, doesn’t he?”

Clarice’s expression hardened, a sight that made Ginevra redouble her efforts to shoo the children outside. I ducked behind a choir stall, itching to hear Uncle Filippo’s news.

“Here now,” Filippo said gently as he came to stand beside his wife. “Ippolito, I need a moment alone with her.” He waited until Ginevra cleared the other boys out of the chapel. “You’ll hear everything in good time.”

Ippolito looked sharply from his aunt to his uncle. “
Now
is good time. I’ve been watching quietly while Passerini alienated the people. I can’t be patient any longer.” He drew in a breath. “You’ve been summoning military support, I take it. How do we stand?”

“We stand in a complicated situation,” Filippo said. “And I will tell you everything I have learned this evening. But first, I
will
have a private word with my wife.”

For a long moment, he and Ippolito stared at each other; Uncle Filippo was solid as stone. At last, Ippolito let go a sound of disgust, then turned away and strode out after the others.

Filippo drew Clarice to a pew. As he sat down beside her, she raised her veil and said, stricken: “So. We are lost then.”

Filippo nodded.

Flaring, Clarice jumped to her feet.
“They’ve forsaken us already?”
There was fury as well as disappointment in her tone. She had already known what news Filippo would bring, yet she had hoped wildly, secretly, that it would not be the news she expected.

Filippo remained seated. “They’re afraid. Without Clement’s support—”

“
Damn
them!” When Filippo reached for her arm, she shook him off. “Cowards! Damn the Emperor, damn Passerini—and damn the Pope!”

“Clarice,” Filippo said forcefully. This time when he caught her arm, she did not pull away but instead sat down hard.

Her features contorted in a spasm of grief, and sudden tears—diamonds caught in candlelight—rained onto her cheeks and bosom. The impossible had occurred: Aunt Clarice was crying.

“Damn them
all,
” she said. “They’re idiots, every one. Just like my father, who lost this city through sheer stupidity. And now I’ll lose it, too.”

Filippo put a hand upon her shoulder and waited patiently for her to calm herself. Once she had, he brushed away her tears and asked softly, “You will talk to them, then?”

She gave a helpless little wave. “What else can I do?” She let go a deep sigh, then reached out and stroked Filippo’s cheek with a bitter, fleeting smile. He caught her hand and kissed it with genuine tenderness.

Clarice’s smile vanished abruptly. “I’ll negotiate with no one but Capponi himself,” she said. “You’ll have to find him tonight—tomorrow morning will be too late. By then, there will be bloodshed.”

“Tonight,” Filippo echoed. “I’ll see to it.”

“We meet on
my
terms,” Clarice said. “I’ll write it down; I’ll have no misunderstanding.” She gave Filippo a meaningful look. “You already know my condition.”

“Clarice,”
he said, but she put a finger to his lips.

“They won’t hurt me, Lippo. It’s not me they want. When it’s all over, I’ll join you.”

“I won’t leave you without protection,” Filippo said.

“I’ll have it,” she countered. “The best kind—better than soldiers. Tomorrow,
the astrologer’s son is coming—the magician, Cosimo. I’ll meet with him before I see Capponi.”

Filippo recoiled. “Cosimo Ruggieri? Benozzo’s black-hearted boy?”

“He
knew,
Lippo. He knew the hour and the day that Clement would fall. He tried to warn me weeks ago, but I wouldn’t listen. Well, I’m listening now.”

“Clarice, they say he conjures demons, that he—”

“He knew the hour and the day,” she interrupted. “I cannot dismiss such an ally.”

Filippo remained troubled. “I will still make sure you have the best men and arms.”