The House of Medici Page 15

  Over the years, his trust in her had increased, and with it, his reliance upon her. And so, through time, she had moved to be his companion whilst he, with all his power and authority, had developed a deep-seated confidence in her, giving her responsibilities in his studiolo that she would never have dreamed of asking for. And in this way, slowly but inexorably, he had become her emancipator.

  Finally, when the problems arose with the bank and with the family, and he needed her to leave the Palazzo Medici on Via Largo and come here, to the convent, he had acted again. It was known that no slave could become a Suora—a sister nun—but only a conversa—taking only simple vows and effectively having the status and authority of a servant—and even then, only under exceptional circumstances.

  Without hesitation, and taking delight in being able to do so, he had given her back her freedom, issuing a formal certificate to the effect that she was a free woman, and conferring a generous pension upon her for life. And in so doing, he had, finally, become her liberator.

  How, then to address him? What salutation to give him in this, perhaps her final communication to him? It was, to her, and she knew to him, important, and as such, so much harder to decide.

  She felt a sudden flutter of confidence and picked up her pen again. In her mind she heard the first words and, encouraged, she dipped the pen into the ink. Then, with only a little trepidation, she began to write.

  Cosimo, what shall I call thee?

  What name shall I give to the ties that bind me to you? How many and varied, indeed, are the knots that may be tied on one chord?

  I was your slave, and you my master yet in that capacity, you were also my teacher in many skills and my mentor in life’s opportunities.

  Yet what slave, this, who was surely saved from a short and brutal life of misuse and suffering and instead made into a comfortable and, I believe, valued companion? My rescuer, then, in this respect.

  As for our son, I can only thank you and call you provider. You treated him as your own sons, gave him every advantage and ensured his progress, and for all these blessings, I thank you on his behalf as well as my own.

  And in showing me the inner workings of the Bank and allowing me to use my mind, I could name you saviour, for without that I surely would have gone mad.

  Later, with learning and experience, you had the courage and generosity to give me authority within the Bank, to receive instructions and later still, to issue them. In this respect, did you not, then, act as my emancipator?

  Then releasing me from legal bondage, you were my liberator, making me a free woman. Even then, you did not leave me without position, but, acting as my deliverer, brought me to safety, comfort and serenity within these holy walls.

  So what shall I call you?

  Saviour would be blasphemous.

  I shall therefore call you dearest, and hope you understand the rest.

  Your Maddalena.

  She wiped her pen clean and returned it to its holder. She put the stopper back in the ink bottle and returned it to its allotted place in her writing case. She dusted the writing and blew on it, gently and carefully, until she was sure it was dry and that she could finally close the book without defacing it.

  A wave of euphoria flooded through her and made her shiver. She had done it. She had completed the first full page and in so doing, set the tone—more conversational than she had ever envisaged—for the pages to follow. The rest would be easier from now on.

  She looked outside, just at the moment when a shaft of bright sunlight broke through the clouds and hit a bank of snow across the valley at the base of a coppice of dark trees. Immediately what had been an ill-defined amorphous white mass gained form, and contours, edges and slopes, pale blue shadows and sunlit facets almost orange in their warmth appeared.

  Was the worst over? Would the winter now begin to abate and allow spring’s confident warmth to replace it? She hoped so. It had been a long winter. Now, at last, perhaps someone would come.

  Chapter 14

  Donatello

  27th February 1458

  ‘Spring at last.’

  Eyes shut, in order that she would sense every ounce of the experience, Maddalena pushed open the big door which led from her cell to the balcony outside, and felt the sun’s rays warm her to the very bones. For a moment, she stood there, her eyes still tight shut, simply sensing the pleasure of the moment; life itself returning and warming every part of her body. How long she seemed to have waited for this moment. What a long winter it had been.

  Two weeks before she had sat here, writing in her journal, and the sun had suddenly come out. She had thought then, that spring had come, but the following day it had snowed again and another week or more had been spent hunkered down in the gloom, trying to keep warm.

  It had been a long and lonely winter. In the middle of December, just when her conversations with the abbess had reached a new plane of understanding and disclosure, Madonna Arcangelica had suddenly been struck down with a fever. For two months she had been so weak that she could not perform her duties at all, and Maddalena, amongst others, had feared she would die. But slowly, despite the bitter cold, the abbess had recovered. Now her convalescence had at last progressed to the point where they could recommence their meetings. Not only that, but at the abbess’ insistence, they were going to meet at the top of Maddalena’s tower, as before.

  With a pleasurable finality, she fastened back the doors and walked out onto the balcony. Below her, the sun shone brightly onto deep-lying snow. Now, she was sure, the worst of the winter was over. Soon the snow would melt, the streams would run again and everywhere would, once again, be green.

  Yes she thought to herself a long winter. A winter of cold, of hardship, and for her, in particular, a winter of deep and sapping loneliness. Not only had she been deprived of her weekly conversations with the abbess, but the visit which she was sure Cosimo would make within weeks of her arrival at the convent, had still not materialised. There had been nothing. He had not come, he had not written, and he had not even sent a messenger.

  On many dark days in recent weeks, her confidence had failed her. She had even wondered whether the family were still there, at the Palazzo Medici or whether, somehow, the whole edifice had been a dream, a reality now gone. Had there, after all, been another coup and the whole of the Medici family had been murdered or exiled? She simply did not know, and up here, on this little hilltop, beyond the upper valleys of the Mugello, there had been no way of finding out.

  During the last two weeks, the weather had been particularly hard. The valley had been snow-bound for eight days without a single day’s respite, and no news had been received from the outside world. Not that the nuns’ little community had been overly concerned. They were in a sturdy and dry building, with a deep, reliable well that has never once frozen so thickly that a well-dropped bucket could not break through. They had glass in a number of the windows (including the small ones in the tower rooms) to keep out the wind and sturdy shutters on them all. They also had a plentiful supply of cut wood to cook with and to keep them warm, and their larders were as well stocked as expected of any well-ordered house of God. In other words, despite the wintry conditions surrounding them, they had been comfortable.

  Against all expectations, no one else had contracted Madonna Arcangelica’s fever and since then, there had been no other illness. It could only be, Maddalena thought, because there had been few visitors to bring illness to them, the passes into and out of the valley having being totally blocked with snow.

  In some eyes, there had been compensations. The depth of snow had prevented most travel within the valley, and completely up here on the hills. Their confessor, Fra Benedict, had been unable to reach them from the Badia di Buonsollazzo, some two miles away, for many weeks. That, and the enforced laxity of Madonna Arcangelica, had meant that their religious observances had slipped badly. In the absence of discipline, and with the numbing cold a convenient excuse to salve frozen consciences, the no
cturnal prayers, at Matins and Lauds, had, somehow, been put aside and for over a week now: they had not prayed before Prime, at six in the morning. Such indulgence! For most of the nuns, therefore, the recent weeks had passed somewhat pleasantly.

  But not for Suora Maddalena.

  Hers was a more demanding nature, and she had found herself fretting that, perhaps, Cosimo was waiting for her to do something important, and that she was unable to rise to the occasion. Perhaps under these circumstances, Fra Benedict’s absence had been a blessing, for Cosimo had sworn her to secrecy about his project, and had she been able to take confession, her loyalties might well have been uncomfortably tested.

  But now all that was behind them and as the sun warmed her face, and as she heard the familiar dragging footsteps on the stairs beneath, she found herself, for the first time in many weeks, looking forward, and not back.

  ***

  ‘You were telling me, the last time we met, about living with Contessina and the children at Casa Vecchia. I think you said you were there for nine years did you not? What was happening with the building of the Palazzo Medici? It seems to have been the background to your story for so long. Did it really take that long to build?’

  It was as if there had been no break in their conversations, and despite her protestations of the earlier weeks, Madonna Arcangelica seemed once again to be full of questions.

  Maddalena smiled. She was more than content to be back in the abbess’ company; back in their familiar routine, and this time, the abbess’ question led her into, rather than away from, the part of her life she had decided to talk about.

  ‘Work on the Palazzo Medici was continuing. It was all proceeding noisily, next door to us; first a great dusty hole in the ground, then like a great quarry, with blocks of stone everywhere, in what seemed to be utter chaos. But slowly, by some mystical process of organisation that only Michelozzo fully understood, a huge building started to rise out of the ground.

  ‘I saw Michelozzo almost daily, because early each morning he used to drop in to the studiolo, unroll his great drawings, and discuss progress with Cosimo. Then, once their business was over, Cosimo would often go into the sala a couple of rooms away, to talk politics, and I would be left with the architect.

  ‘By this time, Cosimo trusted me to make all the entries in the special account book we had opened to keep track of the project. Michelozzo would open his own little account book and pull out all manner of slips of paper, and then we would stand beside each other, our books on the writing bench, and write up our entries, making sure the books tallied. And for what seemed like an age, that was my only involvement with the new house.

  ‘And later, when I did have a part to play, it was not with the house itself, but with the garden.’

  The abbess shook her head, surprised and confused. ‘I did not know you were a gardener? You have never mentioned it.’

  ‘In the garden, but not, I fear, concerned with plants.’ Maddalena felt herself smiling at the ludicrous thought.

  ‘It began when Cosimo asked me to meet him and to bring Carlo with me. He wrote to me, from Prato I think it was. One moment, I still have the letter here.’

  She reached into her casket and picked her way through the letters. Then, finding the right one, she nodded and began to read it aloud.

  Dear Maddalena,

  I shall be leaving Prato the day after tomorrow and will be home before the weekend.

  On Monday, I shall have a very distinguished visitor, who I should like to introduce to you and to Carlo. Please bring Carlo to the studiolo at ten in the morning, when all will be revealed.

  Please ask Carlo to bring his football.

  Cosimo.

  At Prato Tuesday, 12th April 1440

  ‘Of course, it was an instruction, not a request.’

  ***

  CASA VECCHIA, FLORENCE

  18th April 1440

  ‘Maddalena? What are we doing here? And why did I have to bring my football?’

  She feels strange, standing, waiting outside the door of a room she would normally walk straight into, but she knows that today’s proceedings are of a formal nature and therefore certain protocols will have to be observed. Like her son having to call her by her given name, whilst Contessina is addressed as ‘Mother’ by all the children, including Lucrezia and Carlo. It hurts, but she takes comfort in knowing that it’s a small battle and she’s winning all the big ones.

  She has Cosimo’s letter in one hand and Carlo, now twelve and already as tall as her, holding this huge football and squirming with embarrassment, in the other.

  As soon as Cosimo opens the door, Carlo, who, amongst many other things, has learned impatience from Giovanni, speaks. ‘What is it, Father? What is your surprise? Your letter said we were to be ready for a surprise. Why did I have to bring my football?’

  Ignoring his questions, Cosimo leads them into the studiolo and closes the door. Maddalena watches as Carlo looks around him, seeming to be overcome at his first view of the most private room in the house.

  She understands. Her son has lived in the Palazzo Bardi from the day he was born there until the age of seven, and in the Casa Vecchia for the five years since; but apart from occasional flying visits led by Giovanni, when the little gang would quickly be chased out, giggling and screaming, he has never before been allowed to enter his father’s studiolo.

  Carlo looks at her, searchingly. So this is where you two disappear to his expression seems to say. She reads his look in an instant, and tries to divert it. ‘Don’t touch anything! These are the ledgers of the bank. Private documents, and of immense value. You must touch nothing.’

  By the way Carlo jumps back; she realises she’s overreacted.

  Carlo looks at his father for confirmation, and again she can read his expression. The boy has such an open manner. It is part of his charm and, perhaps, the reason he is Cosimo’s favourite, at least in private. Piero and Giovanni are lovely boys, but they are both secretive and manipulative, just like their mother.

  It is obvious the boy has noticed her tone of voice and she is suddenly aware that he has never seen her to be so forthright in Cosimo’s presence in the past. Her manner in the public rooms and at mealtimes is always quiet and submissive

  As if in confirmation, Carlo looks at her, one eyebrow raised, and she smiles. He really is so wonderfully transparent. His questions might just as well have been written on a large piece of paper. Is this another of your secrets? his eyes seem to say. Behind these private doors? Are you different with him, here? Is this your true relationship and how I came to be born?

  Is he thinking that, or is it just her conscience speaking? She does not reply. How can she? Much of her is dying for an opportunity to tell him, to explain how much she and Cosimo loved each other, but the secret is Cosimo’s, not hers, to tell.

  Cosimo sees their expressions, reads them in an instant, and responds. ‘Your mother is right. These are important documents.’ He looked amused. ‘But today’s business has nothing to do with the Medici Bank or with these papers. We have a visitor.’

  He ducks through the small door that she knows leads to his private bedroom and returns, followed by a small, bearded man, of about his own age; perhaps around fifty. His clothing is dirty, torn and ragged, but he does not seem to notice and nor, she is unsurprised to see, does Cosimo. Although she has never had reason to speak to him, she knows the sculptor by reputation and she has seen him in the house and in the streets of Florence on numerous occasions.

  Cosimo addresses himself to Carlo. ‘Let me introduce you to my friend; the genius Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi. He is, of course, a distant relation, through my wife’s family.’ As he says it, he opens a hand to the visitor. The man nods to Maddalena, bows his head slightly at Carlo and mumbles “Donatello”.

  He looks at Maddalena levelly, with a detached artist’s eye, as if measuring distances and proportions and then he turns to Carlo. Again that long, appraising look. Carlo twists awkwardl
y, not liking to be stared at in quite so direct a manner.

  Donatello seems to think for a moment, and then returns his attention to Cosimo. ‘I agree. It would work. Indeed, I would go so far as to say it will work, and it will be a work of historical significance.’

  Cosimo pats him on the shoulder. ‘I knew you would agree. Can you do it without bringing the whole of the Signoria down on our heads?’

  Donatello walks round the room, looking at her and at Carlo as he does so. Carlo starts to get alarmed. He whispers to her. ‘What is happening? Are we about to be sold? Does this man intend to buy us?’

  Reminded uncomfortably of the past, she shakes her head, and then looks at Cosimo as she replies. ‘I think he intends to steal us. But then, later, he will give us back. Yes?’

  Cosimo grins. ‘You are perceptive, Maddalena. And you are, as so often, right. I have asked Donatello to make a life-sized sculpture of you.’

  ‘Of me or of Carlo?’ She frowns with uncertainty as she says it, and realises that she may be appearing overly defensive. ‘Or of both of us?’ She looks at Carlo. ‘I think your father is making sport of us, Carlo.’

  Cosimo laughs and embraces them both. ‘It is a proposal I have had in my mind for some time,’ he says. ‘A sculpture, but cast in bronze. It will stand in a position of great prominence, in the grounds of the new house. It will be a centrepiece of the garden.’

  He looks across at Donatello and winks. ‘As far as the city elders are concerned, it will be a sculpture of The Boy David, victorious over Goliath, standing in a posture of dominance. They will see its glory as reflecting their own.’ He bends down to Carlo and whispers in his ear. ‘I can be confident that they will interpret it that way because I shall tell them that’s what it is. And we shall not tell them the truth of it, will we?’