The House of Medici Read online

  But so is talking down to Il Magnifico in front of an ambassador. And for that; make no mistake, she will pay.

  As Maddalena leads the ambassador along the short corridor to what they are already calling the Chapel of the Magi, Cosimo’s voice follows them through the still-closing door. ‘Don’t you ever do that again! Now get back to your kitchen, where, it seems, you belong. My slave will look after the business in hand. I can trust her not to embarrass me.’

  ***

  Maddalena had never forgotten that occasion. Time and again, she had remembered; and slowly, she had understood. She came to realise that like her, Contessina had always seen Cosimo as the tower of strength. To both of them, he was like the great walls of the Palazzo Medici, or the battlements of Il Trebbio; valued as the means of their protection, yet perhaps, with the passage of time, under appreciated, taken for granted; assumed always to be there. And then, when he began to fail, when he faltered, when he showed weakness, Contessina, like Maddalena, had found herself afraid. But in Contessina’s case, her fear, being impotent, had expressed itself as anger.

  It was their one commonality: they had both lived their lives in the shadow of a great and powerful man, but as he weakened, they were each, in their own way, afraid of being left alone without him.

  For Maddalena it had perhaps, been a little easier; she had already experienced being left alone when her parents were killed and she was taken into slavery. It had been a terrible time; but having endured it and survived, despite the scars which she never mentioned to anyone, she had in some manner gained strength and self-confidence. But Contessina, she knew, had always been cosseted; and now, with an ailing husband and two equally ailing sons, it was clear she feared for her own future as much as theirs.

  Strange, how similar yet how different their lives had been. Each had loved Cosimo. Each had recognised him as the source of everything—money, power, reputation, their place in society. And Maddalena had to accept that Contessina had been a good wife—supportive, hard-working and a wonderful mother to the children. But as soon as Cosimo had brought her back with him from Rome, Contessina had recognised her as a threat.

  And—she had been right.

  Not because Maddalena harboured any unrealistic ideas of usurping her position. A Florentine wife was a permanent feature; as locked into her situation by parentado; the complex interlocking alliances between families, as by the pride of husband and wife. No, that was not the reason.

  Nor was it love. Maddalena might have arrived in Florence believing that Cosimo had brought her to his bed because he did not love his wife. But if she had harboured that belief, she had soon been disabused, for whilst Cosimo did not look upon his round-faced, middle-aged wife with the evident lust he showed for Maddalena, they had in those early years shared a long-standing bond of mutual regard, liking and respect that the new arrival should never have underestimated.

  Maddalena had recognised the power of that lust, but nevertheless, even when she was still young, she had known that it would only be her ally for a limited number of years. So she had sought, and thought she had found, a substitute—a replacement upon which to rely in her later years. As she had become absorbed into the inner workings of the Bank, to Contessina’s evident exclusion, Maddalena had thought that it was in this relationship that her future lay: in some manner, Cosimo respected her superior education and—yes, immodest as it was to say it out loud, she had indeed thought it—her greater intellect. Admirable as she was with people, you would never have described Contessina as ‘bookish’.

  But in the end, the source of her special and enduring position had proved to be neither of these. Slowly, she had come to realise that Cosimo needed her because he had found in her the one thing he could not find in his loving and supportive wife—the ability to accept his weakness, to recognise his uncertainty when facing the difficult decisions he had to make, both financial and political—and the capacity to ease the loneliness of his elevated and responsible position.

  Only she understood and accepted that for much of the time, Cosimo was lonely and uncertain, and that sometimes he wanted someone else to take the upper hand. And she, as she remembered so clearly, had been willing to accept that responsibility. It had come about in an unexpected manner.

  ***

  PORTO PISANO, PISA

  Early November 1442

  ‘Take me, Cosimo. Make love to me.’

  She lies back, naked, luxuriating in the huge bed, captivated by the sound of the sea outside the window. It has been a long journey from Florence but now they are here and will remain, he says, for a month. They have all the time in the world.

  Beside her, Cosimo turns and then, abruptly, stops and, with a gasp, falls back.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘My back. And right down my leg. It suddenly seized up, like a cramp. As I turned it gave a great spasm and for a moment—I couldn’t move.’

  Is it alright now?’

  ‘I think so. I’m so sorry. I wanted to . . . I want to . . .’

  ‘Do you want to try again? It might have gone now?’

  Beside her, gingerly, she feels him turn, then fall back. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Does it hurt now?’

  ‘No, it’s fine if I lie on my back.’

  Maddalena rolls towards him and puts an arm across his chest. ‘Perhaps if I . . .’ She moves her hand. He groans and she knows he’s still aroused. And so is she. She kneels and mounts him, taking the initiative, taking him into her, taking control.

  And she feels him respond.

  ***

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ He is lying beside her; he sated, she elated, for already she realises the significance of what has just happened.

  But she doesn’t reply. That sort of question is better left unanswered. ‘Was it good?’

  ‘Better than good.’ He’s still grinning.

  ‘Your back? How was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I forgot about it.’ He arches his back experimentally and lets himself fall back. ‘I think you’ve found a cure.’

  He turns his head, grinning with what looks like admiration. ‘Fantinina! That’s what I shall call you. My little jockey. If you’re a good girl, I may let you do that again.’

  ***

  Maddalena rubbed her frozen hands together and realised that deep inside, despite the cold, she felt a warm glow; a glow that came from the satisfaction of knowing she had loved and been loved in return. From that day onward, the relationship between them had changed. That afternoon had been the beginning of a new relationship between herself and Cosimo; a relationship in which he learned to let go; a relationship in which the slave who had become a lover, now also became the confidante—the one person to whom Cosimo could admit his weaknesses, his fears and his uncertainties.

  She had never told him what to do—and he had never asked her. But in listening to his thoughts, in hearing him describe the alternative courses of action he had to choose between, and in asking gently probing questions as he explored his possibilities, she had given him the courage to make his decisions, and having made them, the confidence to put them into practice.

  Her life had not been wasted. Surely? Cosimo in his hour of need had reached out to her and when he had done so, she had given him the strength he needed. Now, looking across the snowy desolation of the winter valley, she felt she was reaching out to him.

  Would he come? Was she still part of his great plan for the future of the family? The plan that had been his sole reason for her arrival at the convent?

  Her hands begin to chill again as the afternoon light started to fall. Maddalena scanned the darkening snow, just waiting, for a sign. She would write something today. She must write something. Something that reaches out to him, in the gathering gloom. And then, perhaps, he will finally come.

  Dearest Cosimo,

  It is winter. The middle of December, and cold, yet still; my candle burns clearly, without flickering. Dus
k is falling, and I am standing at my window, that I can look out into the gloom and know you are out there, somewhere.

  She rubbed her hands. He would not mind a little poetic licence. She could hardly write standing up, and he, of all people would know that the imagery of her words was more important than absolute precision.

  I am looking across the valley, toward the west, and still there is a glow from the last of the sun’s rays. Perhaps they are falling on you now; in Cafaggiolo, or in the Palazzo Medici?

  Do you remember how many times you reached out for me, Cosimo? I was always there, in times of trouble, or loneliness, or pain. I understood your need for a strong hand and I offered it whenever you asked.

  Now I am troubled. I am lonely, and I am in pain. Now I am reaching out for you, Cosimo.

  Please be there for me, as I was there for you.

  Your truly ever-loving

  Maddalena.

  As if knowing that she had finished her work for the day, a sudden gust of wind blew out the candle. She closed the journal. Would her prayer be answered? Would he come? How could she be sure?

  Chapter 24

  Cosimino

  Convento di San Damiano, Mugello 19th November 1459

  Maddalena stopped pacing up and down and looked, once again, at the letter in her hand. Hardly what you might call an immediate response? Not after eleven months. But still; a reply. And for that, certainly, she was grateful.

  Dearest Maddalena,

  It is with the greatest sorrow and regret that I must inform you of the death of my beloved grandson, Cosimino. He died three days ago, late at night, here at Cafaggiolo, of a sudden and unexpected fever. He went from a healthy young boy to a corpse in less than two days. I can only thank God in his infinite mercy that the boy, when he had to be taken from us, did not suffer for longer.

  You knew the boy well and you know how much I loved him. Even now, as I look from my window, I can see the toy wheelbarrow that he used to push in front of him when he came to the fields to help me. Now I cannot bear to move it, so it sits, forlorn, in the yard.

  The timing could not have been worse. The villa at Fiesole is nearing completion and Giovanni and Ginevra were so looking forward to taking the boy there in the springtime.

  There was a speck of dust on the letter and absent-mindedly, Maddalena swept it away with the back of her hand. She had been so excited as the messenger had approached. She had spotted his Medici livery as he rode laboriously up the zigzag path beneath her balcony. A desire to intercept him, perhaps even to talk to him just for a short while, and discover what was happening in the Medici world, swept over her.

  But running like a young girl was not the way of the Order, and by the time she had slipped fast but furtively down the stone steps, walked rapidly if unobtrusively across the courtyard, and just ‘happened’ to pass by the gatehouse, her enquiring look at the gatekeeper had been rewarded only with this note.

  ‘For you. He said he did not expect a reply and had not been told to wait for one. So I told him to go.’

  Maddalena looked at her and wondered if this was another of the tiny but painful slights that she occasionally had to endure, but had finally decided that the gatekeeper was, simply, doing what had been expected of her.

  Still, she had her note. Nobody could deprive her of that. The contents were, however, a disappointment.

  Two years! How time flies. She shook her head. And little Cosimino, of all people. She remembered him so well. He had only been four years old when she left the Palazzo Medici. Now, he was dead. Ginevra must be out of her mind. She and Giovanni had doted on that boy.

  Giovanni and Ginevra have asked that he should not be buried in the family tomb in San Lorenzo, but instead should have a tomb erected in his honour inside the walls of the Badia. It was his favourite place, where he liked to hunt rabbits with his falcon. Such a lovely boy. Such a great loss.

  Automatically, Maddalena turned and looked out of her window and up the valley, to where the walls of the Badia di Buonsollazzo were almost visible. Although their confessor, Fra Pietro, walked the two miles to hear their confessions every week, he saw his role as listening and forgiving, not in imparting information, and even today, she knew little about the place.

  She had only been there once, many years before; the only time in her life she had attended a hunting party.

  ***

  BADIA DI BUONSOLLAZZO, MUGELLO

  6th May 1457

  ‘Maddalena, look. Sure-flight has caught a rabbit!’

  Against all her instincts, Maddalena makes an effort not to turn away. She is sure the sight of a hawk gripping and no doubt ripping a rabbit to pieces will be revolting. But the boy sounds so excited and the last thing she wants to do now is to spoil his moment. He has been looking forward to this hunt for weeks.

  ‘Oh well done, Cosimino!’ She does her best to sound enthusiastic.

  Cosimo turns his head towards her and away from the youngster, who is standing in his stirrups like a hardened huntsman and staring across the hillside. ‘Thank you, Maddalena. You’ve made his day. He was so keen that you should see his first kill. Try to keep up the pretence when they bring the kill to him. It will almost certainly be a mouse or a vole. I’ve never seen a kestrel kill a rabbit before. Unless, perhaps, it’s a very young one.’

  He turns and rides over to the excited boy.

  Maddalena sits back in the saddle and takes in the scene. They will, no doubt, talk about this great event for days, if not weeks. Cosimo has chosen the location well. The hillsides below the Badia are steep and covered in moorland; wild enough and distant enough from their castle at Il Trebbio for the boy to know he’s had a real adventure. And beneath them, the deep cut made by the Torrente Carza has forced them to climb steeply for two hours, so that now they really do believe they are on top of the world.

  She looks south, along the mighty whaleback ridge of Monte Senario towards Fiesole, where, with more than a little help from the architect Michelozzo, Giovanni is building a great villa, overlooking the hillside and beyond that, the basin of Florence itself. In the distance she can just see the bell-tower of a building, and assumes it is the Convento di San Damiano. It’s said to be one of the remotest convents in the Mugello, and perhaps for that reason, one of the most pious.

  The falconer returns to Cosimino with the hawk on his wrist, and the boy lets out a great yelp of excitement. Everybody looks up. He has taken Sure-flight onto his own wrist now and is holding him up proudly, on his new leather gauntlet, as he stands tall in his stirrups.

  Maddalena smiles. He rides well for a four year old; sitting straight in the saddle and looking every inch the young noble which, to all intents and purposes, and despite the traditional Medici protestations, he is. He’s a lovely boy. The prettiest of all of them. His hair is a great bubbly mass of curls and his tiny snub nose has yet to develop into the long Medici beak that his father and his uncle Piero have both inherited from Grandfather Cosimo.

  He’s a happy boy and why should he not be? It’s a rare day when his father is not laughing, while his mother, Ginevra degli Alessandrini, dotes on him. It’s she who bought him the pony and his father who provided the two small hawks and the expert falconer to make them (and the boy) look skilful.

  She turns and waves to Ginevra, who is sitting side-saddle on her pony, a short distance below them. Ginevra waves back and points to Giovanni, who, pursued by four pointers, is riding at full gallop along the ridge and towards his son, keen to see what all the fuss is about.

  A happy family enjoying a happy day.

  ***

  Maddalena smiled at the memory and shook her head. Little did any of them realise that day how short-lived their pleasure would be.

  Almost reluctantly, she returned to the letter in her hand.

  His death has made me concerned about our plan, but Lorenzo seems to remain strong.

  Perhaps it was because her mind had slipped away with its memories, but she had trouble following
that line of argument. What significance might Cosimino’s death and burial have for the work that had brought her here? Unless Cosimo was afraid that Lorenzo, too, might die before he reached adulthood?

  We have had difficult circumstances in the bank since you entered the convent and I have judged it inappropriate to make the further withdrawals we discussed. But now Cosimino’s death has brought a sense of renewed urgency to the arrangements, and as soon as I am feeling stronger, I shall return to them.

  I will write again when circumstances permit. In the meantime, I remember you daily in my prayers as in my dreams. May God preserve you and keep you safe and well.

  Her eyes caught upon this line and suddenly her mood changed. So Cosimo had not forgotten her. Nor had he abandoned his scheme for Lorenzo. In fact, quite the opposite, if ‘renewed urgency’ meant what she thought it did. So now the truth was emerging, and with it, an indication of why the news was so sensitive that he had not written before. The bank was experiencing ‘difficult circumstances’. That would explain everything. She turned back to the end of the letter.

  Yours, this dark day and always,

  Cosimo.

  At Cafaggiolo Friday, 18th November 1459

  Did that mean a dark day because Cosimino has died or because the bank was ailing? Perhaps both? With Cosimo it was sometimes hard to know.

  The sense of rejection that had clung to her for months suddenly began to slide from her shoulders. She was still important. Still wanted. It was just the difficult circumstances at the Bank that had been the problem. She was sure, now, that they would soon blow over.

  Even if the messenger had not waited for a reply and had, so it seemed, been told none was expected, nothing could stop her from replying through her journal. She fetched it from its hiding place in the small chest and opened it at the next page.

  Dearest Cosimo,

  Your messenger came and went with such haste that I could not catch him with a note. Sufficient unto the day, therefore, must be the pages of this journal.

  I was saddened by your news, as I am sure the whole family has been. Though I know little of falcons or of rabbit hunting, I can see the adjacent hillsides from here and I am filled with a sense of freedom. Do not grieve for your grandson, Cosimo, he is out there now, his falcon on the wing, and he is happy.