The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (5 page)

Clarice graced him with a cold, sly smile. “I have the best insurance of all, Lippo. I have the heirs.” She rose and took her husband’s hand. “Come. I need quill and paper. Capponi must have my letter tonight.”

Uncle Filippo followed her out. I crawled out from my hiding place, but lingered in the chapel.

He knew. He knew the hour and the day.

If Ser Cosimo had been able to convince Clarice of his knowledge weeks earlier, could Pope Clement have been warned? Even more: Had my mother been warned that mine would be a difficult birth, would she not have consulted a physician earlier? Might my father have been warned to see to his health? Might both their lives have been spared?

Surely God would have wanted to spare the Pope and my parents. Surely He would not condemn a frightened child for seeking safety, even if it lay in the arms of a man who spoke to devils.

There are things we must discuss, unhappy secrets.

I stared up at Gaspar, the King of the East, young and glorious astride his white mount. He did not hold my attention long; it was the boy Lorenzo who captivated me—an ugly, lonely, brilliant child, forced by fate to grow shrewd before his time. Lorenzo, who ignored all others and kept his gaze intently focused on the Magus.

The next morning I woke to the sounds of a household unbearably alert but subdued. The usual lilts of servants’ voices had become terse whispers; their
steps were muted. I could not even hear the cook and scullery maid banging pots and dishes in the kitchen.

Ginevra dressed me hurriedly and left. I should have gone directly down to breakfast—but I knew that the chambermaids would already be busy at their tasks, so I headed to their empty bedroom. I dragged a stool to the window, stepped up, and looked down.

The composition of the crowd had changed. The day before had brought unarmed merchants and peasants. Today the men were highborn and armed with short swords at their hips; they stood in disciplined ranks, forming a barricade around the compound. Traffic in the Via Larga had stalled, thanks to sentries who questioned each passerby.

Troubled, I quit the window and went down to seek Piero. I found him in the boys’ apartment, where Ginevra was lifting a stack of folded items from an open wardrobe. She had turned to set them down into a half-packed trunk when she caught sight of me standing in the doorway.

I stared at the bundle of boys’ clothing in her arms. Beside Ginevra, Leda sat on a low stool folding bed linens, which she set in a second trunk. I could not imagine why Leda, who always tended Aunt Clarice, should be fussing with the boys’ linens.

Ginevra flushed brilliantly. “You shouldn’t be here, Caterina,” she said. “Did you get your breakfast?”

I shook my head. “What are you doing?”

Piero heard and came out of the bedroom. “Packing,” he said, smiling. “Don’t look so frightened, Cat. We’re going to the country, just like I said. Mother’s going to speak to the rebels tonight, after we’re gone.”

In a small voice, I said, “No one is packing
my
things.”

“Well, they
will
.” Piero turned to Ginevra, whose gaze was carefully fixed on the trunk in front of her. “Who’s going to take care of her things?”

Ginevra’s reply was so long in coming that Leda, the braver of the two, said sternly, “Her aunt will speak to her about it when the time is right. In the meantime, she should get her breakfast and stay out of trouble.”

My lower lip twitched despite my best efforts to control it, and I said, tearfully, to Piero, “They’re not going to let me go with you.”

“Don’t be silly!” he said and turned his gaze on Leda. “She is going with us,
isn’t
she?”

Leda tried to meet his stare brazenly, but in the end, she looked away. “Madonna Clarice will speak to her later.”

Piero’s voice rose in protest, but I bolted before I heard what he had to say. I raced breakneck down the stairs, out into the courtyard, and past the formal garden to the far end of the stables. A large sycamore grew beside the stone wall that enclosed the rear of the property. I hurled myself beneath its shade and wept. The world had betrayed me; my only hope, my only happiness, was Piero, but now he was to be taken from me. I cried undisturbed for what seemed an eternity, then lay with my back against the damp ground and stared up at green leaves punctuated by bits of sky.

I have the best insurance of all; I have the heirs
. Piero and his brothers would be taken to safety, and I, an heir, would remain. I was currency Clarice could use in her negotiations with the rebels.

In my reverie, I almost failed to notice the songs of church bells—San Marco, San Lorenzo, Santa Maria del Fiore—tumbling over each other in melodic cascades. They had nearly stilled when I sat up and reconstructed the number of tolls from memory. It was terce, the third hour of the morning.

I rose, brushed the twigs from my skirts, and hurried along the side of the stables until I was able to peer around the corner toward the gates that opened onto the Via Larga.

Our two dozen guards were focused on the silent rebels on the other side of the iron bars, while a boy was leading a gleaming black mare to the stalls. She was spirited and tossed her head, obedient enough but letting him know, with a disdainful glare, that she did not trust him.

Ser Cosimo could not be far away. I went to the deserted garden and waited there for half an hour—an agonizing length of time for a restless child.

At last the magician appeared, in a farsetto of black and red striped silk. He spotted me and silently led me to an alcove sheltered from view by a tall hedge.

Once there, he said sternly, “You must promise me, Donna Caterina, that you will tell no one of our meeting—for many reasons, not the least of which is the unseemliness of my meeting privately with a young girl. You must repeat what I tell you to no one—especially your aunt Clarice.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” He leaned down so that his face was at the level of mine. “Your natal stars are remarkable. I would like to help you, Caterina, to mitigate their evil and strengthen the good.” He paused. “You
will
rule. But not for many years. Saturn in Capricorn assures that.”

“We will lose Florence—for a while?” I asked. “And then come back, as we did before?”

“You will never rule Florence,” he said, and when my features began to crumple, he snapped, “Listen to me! The chart of your nativity shows Leo ascending and Aries in your Tenth House. That is the marker of a king, Caterina. You will rule far more than a single city.
If
—” He stopped himself. “Your horoscope holds many terrible challenges, and now is the first. I intend to see you survive it. Do you understand?”

I nodded, intrigued and terrified. “Is that what you saw yesterday, when you looked at the moles near my ear? You saw something that frightened you.”

He frowned, trying to remember, then broke into an amused smile. “I wasn’t frightened. I was . . . impressed.”

“Impressed?”

“By the king,” he said. “The one you are to marry.”

I gaped, dumbstruck.

“I do not know how far we can rely on Madonna Clarice,” he continued. “A betrayal is coming, one that threatens your life, but I am not sure whence it arises. I have been honest with your aunt about your singular importance, and I have given her talismans of protection for you and your cousins. But I did not know whether I could trust her to give you this.”

His fingers dug into the pouch on his belt and found a small item; he opened them to reveal a polished black stone accompanied by a bit of greenery.

“This is the Wing of Corvus Rising, from Agrippa, created under the aegis of Mars and Saturn. It holds the power of the raven’s star. Its wing will shelter you from harm until we meet again. Wear it hidden, with the stone on top and the comfrey touching your skin. Make absolutely certain that no one sees it or takes it from you.”

“I’ll make certain,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”

“I can see that,” he answered, with a glimmer of humor. He held out his hand, and I took the dark gift. I had expected the gem’s touch to be cold, but his flesh had warmed it.

“Why do you do this for me?” I asked.

Something sly flashed in his smile. “We are tied, Caterina Maria Romula de’ Medici. You appeared in
my
stars long before you were born. It serves my interests to keep you safe, if I can.” He paused. “Let me see you hide the talisman on your person.”

I insinuated my fingers beneath my tightly laced bodice and placed the gem between my undeveloped breasts. The bit of crushed comfrey took some maneuvering before it rested properly under the stone.

“Good,” Ser Cosimo said. “Now I must take my leave.” But as he turned to go, a thought occurred to him, and he asked quickly, “Do you dream, Caterina? Memorable dreams, remarkable ones?”

“I try not to remember them,” I said. “They frighten me.”

“You will recall them clearly now, under Corvus’s wing,” he said. “Mars dwells in your Twelfth House, the House of Hidden Enemies and Dreams. Heaven itself reveals what you must know of your fate. It is your gift and your burden.” He executed a shallow bow. “I take my leave of you for a time, Donna Caterina. May God permit us to meet again soon.”

He did not intend for his voice to betray any doubt regarding that future meeting—but it did, and I heard that doubt all too well. I turned away without answer and ran back across the courtyard, the raven’s stone hard against my chest.

I ran to the library and threw open the shutters to let in the sun and any sounds from the street or the stables near the gate. Then I found
De Vita Coelitus Comparanda,
written in the author’s script on yellowing parchment. Piero had left it on the bottom shelf so he could easily retrieve it, which allowed me to slide it off and guide it clumsily down to the floor.

I sat cross-legged, pulled the volume onto my lap, and opened it. I was far too agitated to read, but pressed my palms against the cool pages and stared at the words. I calmed myself by lifting a page, turning it, and smoothing it down with my hand. I turned another page, and another, until my breathing slowed, until my eyes relaxed and began to recognize a word here, a phrase there.

I had finally settled down enough to read when my eyes caught a flash of movement. Piero stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving. His face betrayed such misery and guilt I could not bear to look at him but lowered my gaze back to the book in my lap.

“I told them I couldn’t leave you,” he said. “If you can’t go, then I won’t.”

“It doesn’t matter what we want,” I said flatly. If I was in grave danger, then Piero was better off abandoning my company; the kindest thing I could
do for him now was to be cruel. “I’m an heir and must remain. You’re not, so you must respect your mother’s bargain and leave.”

“They want Ippolito and Sandro, not you,” he persisted. “I’ll talk to Mother. They’ll see reason. . . .”

I ran my finger down a page and said coldly, “It’s already decided, Piero. There’s no point in talking about it.”

“Cat,”
he said, with such anguish that my resolve wavered—but I kept my gaze fixed on the page.

He stood in the doorway a bit longer, but I would not look up, not until the sound of his footsteps had faded.

I sat alone in the library until the sun passed midheaven and did not stir until a sound drew me to the window.

The coach bearing Piero, his brothers, and Uncle Filippo had rolled up to the gate and paused there while our soldiers moved aside to let the gate swing inward. As they did, two men walked through the opening onto our estate. Both were of noble birth; one wore a self-important air and an embroidered blue tunic. The other was dark and muscular, with a military commander’s bearing. Once they made their way past our guards, the man in blue signaled the carriage driver.

I stared, stricken, as the carriage rumbled through the gate and onto the street outside. There was no chance Piero could see me: The low sun created a blinding glare, and I could not see the windows of the carriage. Even so I waved, and watched as it headed north down the Via de’ Gori and disappeared.

At suppertime, Paola found me and shooed me to my room, where a plate of food awaited me. She also brought a talisman on a leather thong and hung it round my neck. I agreed to remain in my room in exchange for Ficino’s book, but before Paola could deliver it and leave, I pelted her with questions: What were the names of the two men at the gate? How long were they expected to stay?

She was overworked and exasperated, but I managed to tease from her the phrase “Niccolò Capponi, leader of the rebels, and his general, Bernardo Rinuccini.”

I obeyed her and kept to my room. After many hours of anxious reading, I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of shouting and hurried to the main landing. In the foyer at the foot of the stairs, Passerini—in his scarlet cardinal’s gown trimmed with ermine, his ample jowls spilling over the too-tight neck—stood shouting, flanked by Ippolito and Sandro. The Cardinal had apparently drunk a good portion of wine.