The House of Medici Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Edward Charles

  FIRST NORTH AMERICAN EDITION BY SKYHORSE PUBLISHING 2015

  All rights to any and all materials in copyright owned by the publisher are strictly reserved by the publisher.

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Pen & Sword Fiction, an imprint of Pen & Sword Books Ltd

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Jacket design by Anthony Morais

  Front Cover: Portrait of Cosimo de’ Medici the Elder by Jacopo Pontormo

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-736-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62914-994-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Beginnings

  Arrival

  Realisation

  Settling In

  First Meeting

  Be Strong

  Being with a Man

  Keeping a Man

  Carlo

  Exiled

  Safe Return

  Casa Vecchia

  Salutation

  Donatello

  Everything is Changing

  Stature

  Memories

  An Unstable and Public Life

  Lucrezia

  Coming to Terms with Life

  The Old Order Passes

  San Damiano

  Reaching Out

  Cosimino

  Resignation

  Death of Giovanni

  Donatello's Visit

  The Earthquake

  An Abbess Alone

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Beginnings

  Convento di San Damiano, Mugello, Northern Tuscany Saturday, 1st October 1457

  ‘Horses.’

  The abbess looked down at the little educanda’s face. Elena was new; the first boarding girl to enter the convent in ten years. The first and only. They needed more, and with good dowries; the remaining nuns were getting older and money was increasingly in short supply.

  Madonna Arcangelica bit her lip, feeling, as she did so often, the burden of her office. Nothing was easy these days. With each year that passed, her uncertainties about her position as abbess seemed to grow. And each time they did so, her self-confidence seemed to shrivel further. Now, deep down, she knew it was beginning to die.

  More than once in the past year, she had thought of giving up. Yet somehow, each time, pride and stubbornness had dragged her back. Now she was grateful that they had. Now, for the first time, there was a glimmer of hope. If he had truly meant what he had said, there was this one possibility. This one, tenuous possibility. Now everything depended on him—The Great One. But could she trust him?

  She shook her head. What had brought about this growing sense of inadequacy? This feeling she was drowning in a world for which she felt responsible, yet over which she had no control?

  It was not spiritual leadership that concerned her. Since the age of thirteen, when, to everyone’s awe, she had seen the visions, her belief in God and her assurance that He stood beside her at all times, had never wavered; and she knew the nuns—every one of them—still looked up to her for spiritual guidance.

  No, the problem was a worldly one. One she was not sure even God could help her with; shortage of money; diminishing income in the face of increasing costs. One cost in particular—the maintenance of the building that loomed behind her.

  Remoteness from the city was part of the problem. Although by climbing to the top of the bell-tower, and looking south, she could see the haze of Florence, already now shimmering in the sun of an unusually hot autumn morning; there were too many other convents to choose from between the city and their hilltop, here, deep in the Mugello. And with the uncertainties of recent years, most parents had, sadly, gone elsewhere.

  Instinctively, the abbess looked up at the chapel roof. For many winters now, a number of tiles had been missing and others were cracked and broken. And each winter, the number grew. Beneath them, she knew, the timbers were wet, and in some cases rotten. If they had another hard winter, with rain and frosts, anything could happen. And it was at those times, when she dwelt on such matters, that Madonna Arcangelica wondered whether she was truly suited to the responsibilities of abbess. On bad days, the problems she faced seemed endless.

  Unless . . .

  Elena screwed up her face, concentrating, her head turned slightly to one side. ‘I can hear horses.’

  Madonna Arcangelica looked down and smiled. It was only a month since, on the day of her seventh birthday, the child had entered the convent. Amongst so many aging spinsters, Elena often seemed out of place. It wasn’t just a matter of age. By any standards, she was unusual; even amongst a crowd of her own age group, she would have stood out. Her mind was pin-sharp, and now, it appeared, her sight and hearing were the same.

  The abbess nodded to herself. Put your troubles aside. Better to think of happy things; of opportunities rather than of problems. If Elena said she could hear horses, then surely, he must be coming. And this time, God willing, he would be bringing the new nun with him. And if he did, the road to salvation that she had prayed for might finally begin to appear.

  And if not . . . ? She crushed the thought from her mind. She could hardly bring herself to think about it.

  Elena tugged at the hem of her robe. ‘I can hear carts as well. And jingling. It sounds like soldiers.’ Her face fell slightly. ‘Do you think men are coming to attack us?’

  The abbess smiled at her. Such beautiful innocence. The little girl’s eyes were wide open, hopefully more in excitement than in fear. Most Florentine childhoods were full of stories about armies and battles, but the Republic had been quiet for many years now—many more than Elena’s short lifetime, so God be praised, she was unlikely to have experienced the true horrors of war at first hand.

  ‘In a moment, if I am not mistaken, you may indeed see horses, Elena. Yes, and carts. And liveried servants. A great man is coming to visit us today. In the circumstances, I expect he will bring quite a retinue. And yes, soldiers, too, are quite a possibility.’

  She saw the child frown and squeezed her hand for reassurance. ‘You need not be afraid. They will not be coming to attack us. They will be our visitors, and our honoured guests.’

  She leant down and whispered conspiratorially in the child’s ear. ‘Cosimo de’ Medici is a man of great wealth. He may need the soldiers to guard . . .’ she allowed her eyes to open wide, ‘the valuables.’

  Elena looked up, also now wide-eyed, but Madonna Arcangelica decided she had gone far enough. She put her head on one side and gave the girl her special abbess’ smile; the one that said ‘that’s enough for now; don’t ask any more questions.’ Elena gripped her hand once more, then turned away and tilted her head, again listening carefully.

  Released from the girl’s gaze, the abbess gave a little frown. If it is them she thought
they are earlier than I expected. The community had only just finished the mass after Terce and the rest of the nuns were still at their quiet reading. It can’t be beyond mid-morning. If they have ridden all the way from Cafaggiolo, they must have been up at dawn. Perhaps they stayed at the castle of Il Trebbio and came from there this morning?

  She looked out across the valley, beyond Bivigliano, and felt herself frown. It’s still a good ride.

  The girl heard something new and looked up for confirmation; and this time, the abbess nodded. ‘Yes, Elena, I heard it too. It is as you said; horses, and the creak of carts.’

  Following Elena’s example, she cocked her head to one side, listening harder. ‘Yes I think you’re right, the chink of armour, also.’ She ruffled the little girl’s hair. ‘Aren’t you clever?’

  To herself she continued. Quite a little army, indeed. She felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. Surely, it must be him?

  The sound of horses was louder now and Elena, with growing excitement, began pointing. Madonna Arcangelica smiled, with a knowing nod of satisfaction. So the great plan is to proceed, after all. And now it’s beginning. I am sure it is. Everything Cosimo said would happen is starting to happen. Surely?

  At least, she hoped it would.

  ***

  They came suddenly, bursting out of the forest below and along the path beneath them. First four foot soldiers, with helmets and breastplates, still, despite the great hill, loping forward at an exhausting pace, each with a huge grey wolfhound pulling forward on a leash.

  Well behind, came eight carts, seemingly fully loaded, but each covered with stout canvas, for privacy and protection. Each cart was pulled by a pair of horses and on each sat a liveried driver and a companion, dressed in Medici colours. Bringing up the rear were ten more soldiers, this time mounted; four pike men and six crossbow men, their heads scanning the route, distrusting the cover of the hillside forest even as they left it behind.

  And there, between the foot soldiers and the carts, rode Cosimo himself, dressed in his customary long crimson robe. His face as she had seen it before; long and mournful, yet intelligent; missing nothing. As on his previous visits, he was riding a huge, white mule, its long ears pricking up as the convent walls came into its view.

  Beside Cosimo, on a small palfrey, rode a diminutive figure. She was well dressed and rode confidently, straddle-saddle like a man; close to him, as if they were the best and oldest of friends. To the abbess, she seemed many years younger than herself; perhaps in her early forties, with a tiny elfin face and short, jet-black hair. Her hair was so short, and her build so slim and slight, that but for her clothing, and the obvious delicacy of her un-gloved hands, she might easily have been a young man.

  Suddenly Elena saw her and her grip on the abbess’ hand tightened. ‘Is that the new nun?’ Her eyes were wide open now and as she pointed with her free hand, she stared at the mounted woman in open-mouthed amazement.

  Beside her, the abbess concentrated hard to control her own expression of surprise. There was one thing about the handsome new arrival that held her attention, and for which all her negotiations with Cosimo had left her completely unprepared.

  The woman Cosimo appeared to be bringing to their convent, to become a nun, and to live at the heart of their community, was black.

  Chapter 2

  Arrival

  Saturday, 1st October 1457

  For the third time, Maddalena felt herself sway in the saddle. This time she was sure she was going to fall.

  She couldn’t hide it now. It was The Dread, and it was getting worse; the clammy skin, the sweat running down her back, the hands greasy and slipping on the reins. The tight chest; like a bodice laced so hard that she felt the very breath was being squeezed out of her.

  ‘Not far now.’ Beside her, Cosimo looked at her searchingly, surely recognising her distress, but nevertheless, as was his wont, refusing to acknowledge any signs of weakness. Instead he lifted his head and smiled, clearly excited by the prospect of arriving at the convent.

  But try as she might, this time she could not share his enthusiasm. It’s all very well for him. He will be riding back down this hill before the day is over. He has a future—in the countryside of his estates, amongst the cheering crowds in the city, in the rooms and corridors of his palazzi. He will not be incarcerated for the rest of his life behind those huge, overpowering walls. He will be able to breathe.

  As she, already, felt she could not.

  She knew it was the sight of the walls that was making her feel like this. Each attack had coincided with another, closer, view of the convent above her. With each view, the building had looked more forbidding, the walls taller and even more oppressive, and the sense of impending imprisonment and the consequent rising panic worse than ever before.

  A wave of nausea swept over her again and she felt herself falling. This time, had she not been riding upright, with a big ceremonial saddle, she knew she would have gone. Down, under the horse’s hooves, embarrassing everybody and almost certainly being injured in the process.

  Another wave of nausea passed over her. She was sure she was going to be sick. Trying hard to concentrate, she fought to regain control. She made herself breathe deeply, drawing in great gasps of mountain air. Slowly, and to her immense relief, the clean, fresh smell of the pinewoods began to clear her head.

  ‘Maddalena!’ Cosimo’s voice was sharp. He was not looking at her, but up at the walls, where two faces had appeared; an old woman and a young girl, both in habits and both staring intently.

  ‘We are observed. Come on! You can do it. You’ve been through worse. Concentrate.’

  His voice sounded stern, but she knew, in his way, he was trying to be helpful. And he was right. She had been through worse than this. Childbirth; just as frightening and ten times as painful. She could do it. She had to do it. He had asked her to do it and she, as always, had agreed. Now there was no more to be said. It was too late for regrets; she was committed and there was no going back.

  They reached the last bend in the road and turned. Maddalena looked ahead and to her immense relief, there were no great wooden doors, embossed with iron, as there had been at the Murate. Instead there were slim iron grilles; barriers yes, like prison bars, but barriers you could see through; light and airy.

  Perhaps, after all she thought I will be able to breathe. Pride overcame anxiety and as they drew level with the convent building, she finally felt her head clear.

  They entered the gates and rode slowly into a courtyard. It was wide and airy, open to the sky. Those great outer walls, she now saw, had been an illusion; thirty feet high when viewed from the hillside below, but now, when seen from within, looking outward from the gravel platform that was the courtyard, they were barely shoulder high, and not forbidding at all.

  They approached the standing woman. Surely, by her stance alone, she must be the abbess. Maddalena noticed a trickle of nuns starting to appear from various staircases around the courtyard. Not an orderly procession, but individuals, drifting independently, singly or in small groups, each trying to look as if her presence was an accident and the arrival of the visiting party a complete surprise.

  Cosimo flicked her one last look, a glance and a nod. ‘Better now?’

  She smiled back, trying to look as confident as she knew was expected. She knew he had noticed everything. He always did. But as always, his iron will had prevailed and despite her apprehension, despite her nearly fainting and falling from the saddle, they were here. There was no going back now. Perhaps she thought there never had been.

  She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and sat as upright as she could. Come on. Best foot forward.

  ***

  The abbess stood and waited as the riders approached and then came to a halt. Without moving her head, she allowed her eyes to slide left and right, quietly observing what was happening around her. Although she was more nervous than she had been for years, or perhaps because of it, the sight in the c
ourtyard still made her chuckle to herself. As she had expected, there had been no need for a fanfare of trumpets. No need for an advanced messenger to announce their visitors’ arrival. It was amazing how word spread. By the time the riders had pulled up, every one of the nuns who could still walk seemed to have made the decision to leave her morning reading and instead, just for a moment, and on a pure whim, to take a stroll outside.

  Now they stood awkwardly as the first men to be seen in many months (apart from their confessor; an old monk from the Badia di Buonsollazzo, who visited them once a week) dismounted and awaited their orders. Only Cosimo and his lady companion remained in their saddles; waiting patiently as their mounts tossed their heads, no doubt in relief that their steep climb from the valley was finally over.

  Madonna Arcangelica handed Elena to one of the waiting nuns and stepped forward, looking up at her guests. ‘Welcome, Magnificence. Welcome to our holy house.’

  As she spoke to him, she could not prevent her eyes from straying to the slight figure beside him. The abbess had never seen a black woman before. This one was tiny; almost elfin, yet she seemed to have an air of intense energy and self-confidence that radiated from her like one of the holy paintings in the chapel behind them. On closer inspection, her skin was not black, but a rich nut-brown, and it glowed, like a freshly opened chestnut, exuding strength and health. Only her gloveless hands, and the corners of her eyes, gave any indication of her age. There was a hint of weariness, perhaps born of life’s experiences, in the creases around those eyes. But as for the eyes themselves; they were, against all expectations, a clear, pale blue.

  There was no doubt that the woman, whoever she was, still had a radiant beauty, and an exotic presence that owed much to the compelling combination of brown skin and pale blue eyes. Their paleness was perhaps an illusion; her eyes also had an intensity about them that made you want to look deep into them, and having done so, and having seen the gentle intelligence within, to engage her in conversation, to discover what she knew, what she liked, and what she believed in.

  ‘Are you to be our new Suora?’ She found herself asking the question uncertainly. Cosimo had brought no other woman with him, but yet. . . . It was such a huge assumption to make and one which, if wrong, in the circumstances, might create such discomfort.