The Palace (3 page)

Diletto mio,

I pray that this finds you with your host, for my message is urgent. Sandro
and Simone will be gone for four days following this Sunday. For those days I
will be alone, and anxious for your company. I trust you will be so obliging as
to continue our most pleasant diversions of last week.

Should this be satisfactory, send me word, and I will receive you as before,
in my apartments. I have put your gift upon the bed and look forward in
anticipation to showing you how well it becomes me. Oh, say you will come. I
grow mad for lack of your kisses. Do not fail.

Estasia

Until she looked up with a start, Demetrice Volandrai did not realize how
dark it had become in the Medici library. On the trestle table in front of her
three books lay open, their texts indistinct now in the suffused light. She put
a hand to her eyes and told herself she had a headache rather than admit that
her mind had been wandering. She hesitated briefly before closing the books and
setting them aside for tomorrow. Reluctantly she tested the quill that lay
beside her notes and was not surprised to find it dried, ink caked on it so
thickly that she despaired of being able to trim it properly.

She rose slowly and went to the window. In the last burnished light of sunset
her woefully old-fashioned gown of rust velvet seemed more beautiful than it had
ever been in better light. Her pale rosy-blond hair framed her face in chaste
braids and her simple linen chemise, where it showed above the neck of her gown
and puffed around the terribly plain brooches that joined her simple sleeves to
her dress, was without stains or grime. If anyone had suggested to her at that
moment that she was the most attractive woman in il Palazzo de' Medici, she
would have laughed. Her amber-colored eyes were wistful as she watched the light
fade.

"Oh, don't move," said a voice behind her as she started at last to turn away
from the window.

The familiar sound of Sandro Filipepi brought a rueful smile to Demetrice's
firm mouth and she turned to him, her arms extended. "Botticelli, admit it: if
you could order the sun to stop in the heavens you would do it, so that you
could make a color study."

He shrugged, but did not deny it. "It was color that brought me here this
afternoon. That alchemist, Ragoczy, the one who's building the big new palazzo?
You know him?" He waited a moment.

"I have met him once or twice." She remembered liking his wit and his
gentleness, and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes. "Was he here, too?"

"Briefly. It seems he has some new formulae for colors. Of course Laurenzo is
interested, and he asked me and a few of the others to use the colors and tell
him what we think of them." He paused. "I wish I knew what to make of him."

It would not do for Sandro to see her interest, so she smiled and said, "You
know alchemists. They are always mysterious. Confess it, amico, you would be
disappointed if he were like everyone else."

Sandro nodded. "True. And he is foreign. But his affectations. Always dressed
in black, never eating with us, forever curious about metals and earths! Ah,
well, he is entertaining, and he does know something about pigments and
tinctures. I will give him that."

Demetrice had come around the table and touched cheeks with him. "How
generous. Will you try his colors?"

"Of course." He peered around the darkened room. "Cataloging?"

"Yes. Pico is home for a while and Agnolo is in Bologna, so the task falls to
me. I am afraid that today I haven't done it very well. These old manuscripts,
you know, are very difficult to read."

Sandro's face had clouded at the mention of Agnolo Poliziano. "I don't know
why Laurenzo tolerates his impudence." He held up his hand to forestall the
answer. "Loyalty is one thing, Donna mia, but this is foolishness. Poliziano
trades on Laurenzo's tolerance shamelessly. You know he does."

Demetrice had gone back to the table and busied herself with gathering her
papers. "I don't understand it, Sandro. But it is what Laurenzo wants, and I
will respect his wishes."

Disbelief filled Sandro's next question. "Do you
like
Agnolo? How
could you like him?"

"No, I don't like him. He's waspish, he's ugly-minded and for all his
erudition, he's unpredictable. But he is talented, and truly a scholar." Very
gently she said, "I need not tell you, Sandro, that every gift has a price."

"And sometimes more price than gift." He walked across the room and put his
long painter's hands on her shoulders. "If there is any justice in this world,
Donna mia, you will not have to bear your poverty forever. If your uncle had
been a citizen of Fiorenza, Laurenzo would long since have restored your
fortunes."

Demetrice felt absurd tears in her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently.
"Well, even Laurenzo cannot restore what no longer exists, so perhaps it is as
well that Lione lived in Rimini." She tried to smile, but could not. "Laurenzo
has been more than generous. He has housed me and fed me and clothed me for
almost ten years. That is much more than any of my nearer kinsmen were willing
to do." She stopped abruptly and moved away from him. "Pardon me, Sandro. It is
not pleasing for me to talk this way of my family."

By now the room was almost dark. Sandro was just an indistinct shape with a
voice on the other side of the table. Demetrice thought that the dark must have
something to do with it, for she had never spoken to him this way before. She
took comfort in his friendship and was grateful for his interest, but she
insisted on a reserve between them, and it was as real as the trestle table that
stood in front of her.

Sandra tacitly accepted her rebuff, but added one parting shot. "I am twice
your age, Donna mia. And I tell you, do not depend on anything or anyone in
Fiorenza beyond Laurenzo. Fiorenza is a city of passions, of obsessions, and
there is as much dark in it as light."

"This from you, Sandro?" she said, glad to turn this somber warning to
banter.

"Especially from me." Then he, too, abandoned the subject. In a different
voice he said, "I am going away for a few days. Simone and I have business to
attend to."

"I wish you a pleasant and safe journey," Demetrice said automatically. "Do
you go far?"

"Only to Pisa. A simple matter. But I would like to ask a favor of you."

"Of course." The words were out before she thought about them, and as soon as
she had spoken, she doubted their wisdom. "If Laurenzo does not require my help
here," she added prudently.

"It is nothing difficult, I promise you." He stopped as a servant came into
the room carrying a taper to light the lanterns that stood at either end of the
room and the three candles on the reading desk beside the fireplace.

The strange air of intimacy that had surrounded them disappeared in the
light. Demetrice said to the servant, "Will you start the fire, too? The room is
really quite chilly."

"Yes, Donna," the servant answered, and bent to her task.

"So it is," Sandro agreed. He rubbed his hands together and adjusted the long
folds of his lucco, the standard social dress of most Fiorenzeni. His was of
brown wool and lacked the intricate pleating at the neck that more prominent men
wore.

"What is the favor, Sandro?" Demetrice had gone nearer the fireplace and was
nodding to the servant as the first spurt of flame took hold of the logs laid
there.

"Ah, the favor. Yes. It is about my housekeeper, my cousin. You have met
Estasia, haven't you?"

"Yes." Her tone was cautious as she thought of Estasia della Cittadella, of
her soft, sensuous body and vixen's face. The primness of Estasia's widow's coif
did not deceive Demetrice, for she had seen the eager hunger in Estasia's hazel
eyes and heard the coaxing languor in her voice when she spoke to attractive
men.

"She does not like to be alone," Sandra said with some difficulty. "Would you
be willing to call on her one of the afternoons I am gone?"

Before she could stop herself, Demetrice asked, "Why?"

"For me? Demetrice?" He hesitated. "She
is
lonely, you know. It is
never easy for a widow. And she often has trouble with other women. If she had a
lover, it would be different. She would be happier and would have someone to
enjoy. But in my house, there is little opportunity, and Simone is very severe
with her."

Demetrice watched as the fire at last began its steady burn, making a
friendly rush and crackle like conversation in an unknown tongue. She frowned,
wishing that she did not. "I don't know."

Sandro had come near her again, and the light from the flames deepened the
lines in his craggy face. "Prego, carina. I would not ask it if it were a
trivial thing. You see, Estasia has been very much upset by the sermons Simone
has been preaching to her. Simone…" He hesitated, not wanting to condemn his
brother. "Simone worries for her soul, and for that reason he cannot accept the
way Estasia wants to live. He does not see that she has fear, too."

Rather dryly Demetrice said, "I have heard him. He was here once last year.
He does not approve of the way Laurenzo lives, either. He told him so."

"San Gregorio protect me." Sandro was acutely embarrassed. "I didn't know. He
should never have… He does not think, Demetrice. His fervor inspires him and he
speaks out. You can imagine, then, how he berates Estasia, which only makes her
more determined to have her pleasures." Again he paused, and searched for words.
"It would mean a great deal to Estasia to have someone call on her. Someone who
is kind."

"Very well." Demetrice sighed and looked at her companion. She wished the
room were dark again, so that they could recapture that closeness. With the room
lit by candles, lanterns and fire, she saw too much and knew too little. "Since
you ask it, I will. But I do not know what to say to her. Tell me: what
interests her?"

"Housewifery. She's an excellent housekeeper. Not even Simone can make
complaint on that issue. She knows, particularly, a great deal about cooking.
She has a way with pastry."

Demetrice laughed in spite of herself. "I know almost nothing about cookery.
It is the price of being raised in a scholar's home. Now, if the recipes were in
Greek, or even Seneca's Latin, he might have been moved to care about food.
About the only dish I can make is honey cakes. But I know a little of lacemaking,"
she offered helpfully.

"Estasia is expert with her needle. Her embroidery is superb. Take your lace
with you."

"Yes, but, Sandro," Demetrice objected reasonably, "we can't sit there and
stitch at each other."

Sandro shook his head and leaned against the mantel of the fireplace. "Talk
of clothing, then. Compare velvets. Or gossip. Surely there is fruit enough for
that in Fiorenza." He waited until the servant was gone from the room, then
said, "I fear for her when she is alone. She is terrified, sometimes, thinking
that she is forever abandoned. I cannot let her suffer because of me. She makes
light of it, but I have seen her eyes when she has been alone too long, and they
are bright like a trapped animal's." He sighed, turned to her. "It is not your
responsibility. She is my cousin. I know that. But if you would help me, I'd be
truly grateful. Who knows," he added impishly. "I might even do your portrait."

"With those new pigments Laurenzo wants you to test?" She, too, moved away
from the fire. "It grows late, Sandro, and I have not yet eaten. Will you join
me at table? I fear we must take it in the pantry, for the household sat down
some time ago."

"No. But it is gracious of you to ask me." Sandro shook off his somber mood
and strode to the door. "I, too, have not eaten, and it is time I was home."

Automatically Demetrice glanced toward the windows and saw the last glow of
dusk in the cold March sky. "I didn't realize we had talked so long. Yes.
Perhaps you'd better leave. Have one of the servants accompany you with a lamp."

But Sandro laughed this suggestion away. "There's no need. The thieves are
not that desperate. I'll be safe, I promise you."

She did not object, but when the door was closed behind him, a frown settled
on her face once more and there was a kind of distress in her bearing. She
lingered in the library until the young Slavic slave who slept there arrived.
Sure that the room was safe, Demetrice left it and hurried to the bottom floor
in the hope of having a light meal with the stewards.

The stairs of il Palazzo de' Medici were narrow and treacherously steep.
Demetrice negotiated them with care, reminding herself as she went that she had
fallen once, four years before, and the bruises and sprains had been many weeks
in fading.

The understeward, Sergio, greeted her casually and offered to get her a dish
of veal-and-pork pie that was left over from supper. "There are some tortolini
and some broth, if you'd like that."

To her surprise, Demetrice discovered that she was hungry, and she accepted
this offer, spooning pine nuts over the pie when it was brought to her.

Massimillio, the Medicis' enormous cook, swaggered into the pantry and
favored Demetrice with a huge smile that spread over his moon face like butter.
"Ah, it is la bella Demetrice, who is so kind and who loves my food."

Demetrice knew what was expected. "Massimillio, the food is superb, as
always. The tortolini are savory and your pie is delicious."

"Let me pour you some Trebbiano," the cook offered, reaching for the wine
flask. "And when you are finished, I have some confetti."

"A thousand thanks," Demetrice said, although she did not particularly like
either white wine or sugared almonds.

"Chè piacer!" sighed the cook as he poured himself a generous portion of the
Trebbiano and stared into its straw-colored depths. "Now, you, Donna mia,
appreciate my art. But Laurenzo!" With his free hand he made a gesture of
despair. "He would not care if I made nothing but sausages, so long as he got
his chestnuts. I have boiled in wine and roasted barrels of chestnuts, I think."
He shook his large head and his chins wobbled.