The House of Medici Read online

  Cosimo seemed to see the predicament, dismounted from his mule and handed the woman down. Her palfrey was only small; but still, with no mounting block, she had to slide from the saddle, and as she did so, he reached up and caught her. She turned, facing him, smiling her thanks, and without hesitation, he planted a lingering kiss on her mouth.

  Behind her, Madonna Arcangelica could hear a succession of sighs from the assembled nuns, followed by giggles of embarrassment.

  Cosimo looked up. Perhaps in response to the sound, or perhaps to the silence that followed it, he addressed his wider audience first. ‘This, sisters, is Maddalena; shortly, I hope, to come amongst you and remain with you, as part of your community in God.’

  Around the courtyard, the nuns broke into uncertain, but spontaneous applause.

  With an accepting tilt of the head, Cosimo continued, already taking command with an easy assumption of position amongst them. ‘But until she does; until she takes her vows and dons the habit of your holy order, she remains part of my family and I need her to help me fulfil one part of my agreement with your Mother Superior, Madonna Arcangelica.’

  Brought back into the conversation, the abbess inclined her head and reached out a hand to Maddalena. ‘Welcome. I hope you will be very happy here.’ Behind her, murmurs of assent from the assembled nuns confirmed her greeting.

  Easily now, her position of authority apparently re-established, she started to lead Maddalena towards the door of the new tower. ‘Shall I show you to your new room?’ As she said it, she looked across at Cosimo. She saw him give a little frown and froze, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she had made a mistake, uncertain how to proceed further.

  ‘I wonder whether we might complete the more mundane domestic arrangements first, Reverend Mother. Then, once the carts have been unloaded, we can allow them to commence their empty return. I shall remain behind and follow them later, with my soldiers.’ Cosimo indicated the carts with a dip of his forehead. She reddened.

  ‘How stupid of me, Magnificence. Of course. Please tell us what you wish to do and what help, if any, you need.’

  Having regained control without embarrassment, Cosimo smiled, expansively. ‘If my servants could be pointed towards the kitchen larder and the library, they can commence their work.’ He smiled again, this time specifically at the abbess. ‘I think we three should supervise.’

  The ground rules established, and with Cosimo issuing orders, his servants began unloading. Madonna Arcangelica, unsure what else she should do, stood beside Maddalena and smiled at the assembled nuns to indicate that all was well and that everything was as expected.

  The contents of the first two carts were uncovered and showed themselves to be destined for the kitchens. Hams, lambs, half-pigs and half-cattle all brought gasps from the watchers. Sacks of flour and barrels of salt, olive oil and wine began to make their way towards the larder and as they did so, surreptitiously, the nuns began to shuffle off in that direction as well. By the time the third cart was uncovered, and open trays of a prepared meal had been carried in, the nuns had all but gone.

  With the first task complete, Cosimo turned his attention to the library. The remaining carts were pulled close to the chapel door and men began carrying large wooden cases through the chapel and into the library itself. Within an hour, the contents had been unloaded and the empty boxes returned to the carts.

  Now Cosimo took a closer personal command, asking Maddalena to join him in the library. Delicately, he asked the abbess to leave them for a short while and awkwardly, she complied, as servants were dismissed and soldiers summoned into the library in their place.

  Madonna Arcangelica sat alone outside in the chapel, praying that everything would go according to whatever plan The Magnificent Cosimo had in his mind. She wondered what Cosimo and Maddalena were discussing in the library, what secrets the soldiers were carrying down those narrow stone steps into the recently constructed vault.

  But there was nothing she could do. The building of the library, the carving of a vault and the placing of unidentified objects within it had all been part of her agreement with Cosimo; and now the process was taking place, she could hardly complain. It was hard to watch passively, not understanding what was really taking place. He had never felt the need to explain the purpose of his actions and she had not, in any of their discussions, dared to ask him. Perhaps she thought if I come to know Maddalena better over time, the secret will eventually emerge?

  ***

  In less than an hour, Cosimo and Maddalena had rejoined her and the soldiers had withdrawn, to wait outside the doors of the chapel. For the first time since his arrival, Cosimo seemed to relax. He smiled at the abbess. ‘It is done. The books are in their cases and the vault has been filled and sealed.’ He inclined his head slightly. ‘I hope you will be content to leave the key with Maddalena.’

  His tone of voice did not make it a question and the look on his face did not invite an alternative suggestion. It was clear to the abbess she had only one choice. Graciously, with a returning incline of the head, she complied.

  Now, for the first time, Maddalena spoke. Her voice was soft and refined, stronger than expected, and although her Tuscan was fluent, it bore the hint of an accent foreign to the city of Florence. ‘We took the liberty of bringing a celebratory feast with us,’ she said. ‘It was prepared by Cosimo’s cooks at Cafaggiolo and his servants have laid it out on your refectory tables. I hope that was not too presumptuous?’

  Just presumptuous enough said a voice inside Madonna Arcangelica’s head, but her relief overcame her irritation. Unused to visitors, she had not thought about the need to feed them and nothing had been prepared. A bell rang and she realised, with returning embarrassment, that it was time for Sext; the next service of the day in the calendar of their Order.

  Cosimo saw the expression on her face. ‘I feel we are intruding upon your Order.’ He paused and looked around him. ‘We would be happy to wait, while you attend service?’

  Madonna Arcangelica hesitated. The arrival of all that food had caught her out completely. Perhaps she ought to give a dispensation and allow the nuns to miss Sext? Already they seemed to be hovering excitedly around the refectory door. But then again, Cosimo might not be too impressed by an abbess who put aside a religious service in the interests of mere feasting?

  Ever sensitive to protocol, Cosimo saw the hesitancy and made a further suggestion. ‘Perhaps, while you attend chapel, I might take Maddalena to her room and see her settled? Then, I think it might be more appropriate if I were to take my last farewell of her and depart? That way, you and your sisters would not be constrained by my presence and could enjoy the dinner as an opportunity to eat together with Maddalena for the first time?’

  The suggestion came as a relief. It was a new experience for Madonna Arcangelica to have a major benefactor, and she was struggling to adjust. She had not wanted to be seen putting food before prayer, but if she accepted The Great One’s suggestion, she could hardly be criticised. She tipped her head to one side, gratefully. ‘That’s an excellent suggestion, Your Magnificence. Do you want me to guide you?’

  He grinned; a boyish grin, unexpected from a man she knew to be in his late sixties. ‘I think I know the way. Let us leave you to your devotions and then I shall take my leave quietly, without disturbing you further. Maddalena will rejoin you in . . . what? An hour?’

  She nodded. ‘An hour. Yes, that’s just right.’ Uncertainly, she extended her hand. ‘I’ll say farewell then, and thank you. For everything.’ He kissed her hand and she found herself blushing.

  Suddenly, she felt relieved. She had not known how to bring it to a close; not known the protocol, the appropriate procedure. It was a good solution, doing it his way. Cosimo and Maddalena could say their last farewells in privacy and the convent could return to its daily routine. The nuns became fractious if their routine was upset. Better to get back to the familiar as soon as possible.

  She accompanied them to the door o
f the chapel and beckoned the awaiting nuns to come inside to their devotions. Cosimo and Maddalena stood back and the nuns streamed in, still chattering amongst themselves.

  The last she saw of Cosimo de’ Medici was his back, as he led Maddalena into the corner of the chapel and through the heavy new door, and into her tower. As they passed through, Maddalena turned and gave the abbess an uncertain smile. She looked hesitant. Perhaps she was beginning to recognise what the implication of committing the rest of her life to God, in this place, really meant?

  Madonna Arcangelica saw the flicker of uncertainty on Maddalena’s face and hoped they could be friends. Life here could be lonely; especially for an abbess. She had a position to maintain and was expected to keep a certain distance. The young nuns were in awe of her and the old ones—five of them, all in their eighties—tended to live in a little huddle of their own, with their own rules; supposedly dispensations from the previous abbess. She’d never been sure about that, but sometimes it was easier to let water flow downhill than to fight.

  As they disappeared from view she smiled to herself. She could learn from that Maddalena, and at the same time, she thought, help her. The dark woman looked intelligent. And surely educated, she must be? She hoped dearly that they could build a working relationship. With God’s grace, she could help Maddalena adjust to the slowness of their life here, whilst Maddalena, in turn, might perhaps teach her something of that other world; the world out there, the world her father had taken her from at the age of seven and to which she had never once returned.

  What, she wondered, had she missed in all these years? Perhaps Maddalena could enlighten her. An unexpected shiver of apprehension ran down her back. Would finding out make her life here in the convent any easier to bear, or harder? There was no way of knowing. But she must ask. This might be her only opportunity.

  Yes, risky or not, she needed to ask.

  Chapter 3

  Realisation

  Saturday, 1st October 1457

  ‘Come. I will escort you to your room and then we must say our final farewells.’

  Maddalena stood in the doorway of the new tower, so reminiscent of her favourite tower at Cafaggiolo, and watched as Cosimo began to climb the stone steps. Judging by the height of the tower she thought he will need a few rests before he reaches the top. But he seemed not to be alarmed by the steepness of the steps and set off, confidently enough, not looking back; no doubt, as always, assuming she would follow him.

  And then, suddenly, in an unexpected flood of complete clarity, she realised the truth of the situation. Of course he knew exactly how steep the stairs were, and how many steps he would have to climb. More than that, he knew what he would find when he got to the top. He has been here before. And in that moment, she understood for the first time just how carefully, how completely, and how secretly he had planned all this.

  For a moment, she felt misled and manipulated. She turned in the doorway, and looked back at the abbess. How much she wondered does that woman know about the reasons for my being here? It was clear the abbess had met Cosimo before, yet she still appeared in awe of him. Maddalena gave her an uncertain smile, not sure, after all, whether she and Madonna Arcangelica could ever be friends or whether her deep-grained habits from the outside world would be a burr under the saddle of this peaceful and contemplative place.

  But already, she realised, it was too late for prevarication. She had been led—he had led her—too far along the path of agreement to this unknown future for her to withdraw now. She turned again and started to follow Cosimo up the steps.

  As she began to climb, she knew it was no accident that the tower was like Cafaggiolo. She knew that now and she also knew why. This must be the new tower he had built. He must have told Michelozzo to make it the same, for my sake. And look at him now. He knows exactly where he’s going; he’s climbed these steps before. Back at the Palazzo Medici he would not have contemplated a set of steps like this. He would have mentioned his sciatica and had a servant carry him in a chair.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she followed him up the stone steps, pausing after four flights, where the treads narrowed and steepened, changing from stone to wood. He pointed into the small empty room. ‘Your storeroom. I have had your chests taken above for the present. No doubt there will be some servant who can bring the empty chests back down later if you wish?’

  Of course he has been here before. But to be fair, he is making no secret of it.

  They continued up, and like a cook presenting a special dish to the high table, he opened the door at the top of the wooden stairs with a flourish. He propped it open with his outstretched foot, and leaning back, indicated that she should enter before him.

  She stepped into the room and immediately her mood changed. She was instantly overcome by its airiness, its light and all-encompassing feeling of openness. The walls had been plastered, smoothly, as if awaiting a fresco, but then left unpainted; a soft pale terra-cotta. There was a tiny window in the wall to her right and through it, a slim shaft of light shone across the room and splashed the wall just above and to one side of the little bed.

  Beaming with relief, she pushed wide the folding chestnut doors and walked out onto the balcony. Immediately, one of her first fears fell away. I will not feel imprisoned. I will not be walled up. Not in this room. Not with this view. She looked up the valley, along the ridge of the hill, running due north, towards Trebbio and Cafaggiolo, where she had slept the previous night.

  How appropriate. The Mugello was beautiful country and almost everything she could see before her belonged, she knew, to the man standing behind her. The Cafaggiolo estate alone contained fifty-seven poderi worked by tenant farmers; all belonging to Cosimo, their estate landlord, to whom they paid their annual rents, either in kind, or if they had special skills, by labour. And in that sense, she realised, that incarcerated as she might be, she would still be amongst his people and part of his world.

  ‘What a privilege to live so much of one’s life amongst such country.’ She looked back into the room and smiled at him. He reached out a hand to her and she joined him once again. He pointed to something, in the corner of the room.

  There, at the foot of the bed and to the right of the huge chestnut doors, was an inginocchiatoio; a simple yet beautiful votive table made of rosewood, or perhaps oiled chestnut like the doors. It had a plain flat top and four supports in the twisting design they called tortiglioni. The table had a protruding base, so that she could kneel and still place her elbows on the top, in prayer, without fear of tipping it toward her.

  She looked at it and smiled. Then, with a glance at Cosimo, she lifted it and turned it round, placing the protruding base against the wall, the flat side towards her. She crossed the room and lifted the plain chair from the other corner and stood it before the table. Then she sat.

  Turning to Cosimo she smiled. ‘It’s lovely. Just the right height for writing and, of course, perfect in its original, intended, role also.’ She gave a little frown of uncertainty. ‘Is this the one from your studiolo?’

  Cosimo laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head. ‘A copy. An exact copy. I didn’t think they were going to finish it in time. You have written so many entries into my ledgers sitting at that table; I thought you would be lost without it. I hope the nuns won’t disapprove if they find it turned, as is so often the case at home.’

  He reached into a small chest lying on the floor in the corner. Another confidence born of familiarity she thought. He took out a book, its pages folio-sized, like the Libro Privato in which she had kept the private records of the Medici Bank; but unlike those great ledgers, the spine was no thicker than the width of his thumb. The book was bound in green leather and in the centre of the front cover it had the embossed palle and shield of the Medici emblem.

  ‘You know, my dear, this project of ours is the most important matter to me and nothing is more private. You, and only you, now share my deepest secret. I have finally had to accept the uncomfortab
le conclusion that neither of my sons, neither Piero nor Giovanni, has the wherewithal to carry the Medici Bank forward as have I, in my time, in respect to my father’s memory. On the contrary; between them, they are likely to bring the bank low; perhaps even to collapse and extinction.’

  She looked into his eyes and knew how hard he found it to admit to such things.

  ‘There are but two saving graces. The first, and this is a terrible thing to have to say, is that neither of my sons are healthy and both of them are likely to die young. The second, and redeeming feature of this whole episode, is that they will be followed by the one person who can save the bank and the family’s long term reputation.’

  Sitting at the little table, she nodded. ‘Lorenzo.’

  Cosimo smiled, as he always did at the mention of his grandson’s name. ‘Indeed. Lorenzo.’

  He tapped the book with his fingertips. ‘That is where this whole scheme started. To make provision for Lorenzo. To ensure that even if Piero and Giovanni allow the bank to go to rack and ruin, Lorenzo will have sufficient funds to save it; and with it, the reputation and future of the family.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘That’s why I gave you your freedom.’

  Maddalena took his hand and squeezed it. She did not want him to think her unkind, but she knew it must be said. ‘Lent me my freedom, Cosimo. Lent only. A week ago you gave me my freedom; removed me from slavery and made me a free woman. But today, let us both understand, you are imprisoning me again and in that respect, removing my freedom, for a second time.’

  Immediately, she could see deep sadness in his face. It was clear that despite making repeated efforts to tell himself it was otherwise, he knew that what she said was true.

  ‘You can still change your mind. You are indeed now a free woman and if you want to walk away from this place I will not stop you. I will buy you a farm, miles away, as I have recently done for Donatello; somewhere you are not known, and you can live out your days there in privacy. It’s not too late, you know. I shall not hold it against you.’