The House of Medici Page 28

  From my own eagle’s nest, I have a good view over his hunting country. I shall keep an eye on him. Never fear.

  Your loving

  Maddalena.

  She blew on the writing to dry it and smiled to herself. Aware of the expression, she did it again, facing the journal as if it were looking at her on Cosimo’s behalf. The smile, she knew, was more like a smirk; forced, cynical. There was, she was sure, a great deal left unsaid in Cosimo’s letter and the same applied to her reply. As an afterthought, she added one more line.

  Still awaiting your intentions, and now with renewed vigour.

  Were they growing apart? Becoming distrustful of each other? She closed the journal in case it was watching her, and put it away.

  Chapter 25

  Resignation

  17th December 1462

  It is three years later. Just before Christmas.

  Once again, it is cold and snowing hard. A messenger arrives, looking as exhausted as his horse, the two of them covered in snow and following the path purely by instinct. The nuns have to take him in and put him in the infirmary—very much against the Rule, but exciting for them, as the boy is young and, by common consent, handsome.

  Maddalena paces up and down in the freezing cloister, hoping and praying that the Medici livery means that the messenger has brought a letter for her. But she has no responsibilities in the infirmary and the door is closed to her.

  Finally, after two hours of ministrations: hot soup, bread, brandy and an insistence on removing and drying his cloak and quilted farsetto, the five nuns vying for his attention are able to ask the reason for his visit, and Maddalena is called into the room.

  ***

  Inside it is stifling. The fire has been stoked up and his clothes have finally stopped steaming. As soon as she speaks, the boy, red-faced from the effects of the fire, the food and the brandy, recognises her and rises to his feet.

  ‘Maddalena! Is it you?’ He pauses, as if afraid that he has made some terrible mistake, and she puts a hand on his forearm and bids him return to his place by the fire.

  He twists in the chair to face her. ‘I would not have recognised you in your . . . habit. But as soon as I heard your voice . . . It is so good to see you again. Do you remember me? I am Antonio. In your time at the Palazzo Medici I was still at the Casa Vecchia, looking after the mules. Last year I was promoted by the Magnificent Piero and now I am a messenger.’

  Maddalena stands with a hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘Of course I remember you, Antonio. How could I forget?’

  ‘You said I was the worst pupil you ever had for reading and writing!’ He makes it sound like an achievement. ‘But I kept on, as you told me I must, and now I can read many things. I can sign my name and write a letter.’ He tips his head on one side. ‘Well, a short one. With simple words. But it’s a start isn’t it, Maddalena?’

  She pats his shoulder. ‘It’s an excellent start, Antonio. I am so pleased you persisted with your studies. I always knew you would succeed and now you can see the benefit.’

  He frowns, confused.

  ‘Through your elevation to the position of messenger. Your mother must be very proud of you.’

  His face falls. ‘My mother died, last year. She never lived to hear about my elev . . . my new job. I was told just a week after she had died.’

  She nods, embarrassed for both of them. ‘Have you brought any messages? In your new capacity?’

  Antonio puts his hand to his mouth and gasps, then reaches for his bag. He takes out a package, wrapped in waterproof cloth. ‘I was told to hand this to you personally, Maddalena.’

  She takes it and nods her thanks.

  ‘I did not realise how difficult the job could be. I got lost four times. It has taken me two days and a morning to come from the city.’

  She opens the package and withdraws a letter, carefully folded and sealed. It is dark in the infirmary; the only light a single candle and the flickering flames of the fire. Too dark to read, especially when your eyes are as old and tired as hers are now. She takes the letter outside and stands in the cloister, feeling twice as cold after the heat of the infirmary, tilting the letter against the light. She does not recognise the handwriting on the outside, but Cosimo often had his clerks write the addresses and it does not concern her,

  She begins to open it. The paper is still cold and she opens it carefully, afraid it will tear. The handwriting is awful—barely legible, yet clearly, to her experienced eye, it is Cosimo’s.

  My beloved Maddalena,

  My apologies for not writing for so long. As you can see, my hands now serve me with difficulty and some considerable discomfort. I hope you can read this scrawl.

  I had hoped to visit you, but travel has become impossible. I can no longer bear the journey to Cafaggiolo or even to Careggi, and instead I am now confined to the Palazzo Medici, where most of my days are spent, here in my private chapel. There is no light—no windows to let me see the fields and the hills—it is as if I have been blinded by my own possessions. Forgive me for my failing. I can do no more. I am resigned to my fate and believe I will soon meet my maker.

  No doubt you are wondering what has happened to our great plan, why you have not heard from me since last I wrote, more than a year ago. It is a good question.

  For many months after little Cosimino’s death, we argued about his tomb. Although Giovanni and Ginevra wanted him buried at the Badia, as indeed, he was, it has always been my hope that eventually they would agree to move him to San Lorenzo.

  Now, after much discussion, I have come round to their point of view, and have agreed to leave him at the Badia. We shall build him a tomb there—a proper one, as befits a man in his position. This decision has created an opportunity that I cannot miss and as a result, I shall change part of our proposal.

  Donatello is recently returned from Siena and he has agreed to look after this matter for me. I shall write to you when it is completed. Rest assured, your part remains, and I continue to rely upon you to ensure the next generation are properly looked after. You know what I mean.

  For myself, my various ailments have worsened considerably this last twelve months and I am now resigned to my growing weakness. Now I sit here, in my chapel, grumbling and telling others what to do. I can do no more.

  I send you my everlasting love and grateful thanks for everything you have done for me, over the years. No more for now. My hand grows weak.

  Yours, in weakness,

  Cosimo de’ Medici.

  At Palazzo Medici.

  Dated this 14th December 1462

  Maddalena lifts the paper to her lips, and with her mouth open, inhales. She hopes that somehow she may catch the fragrance of Cosimo’s hand as he wrote. But the paper is cold and there is nothing.

  She considers writing a reply, but then, as before, remembers how strong Cosimo’s insistence had been that she should not. Well at least she can talk to the boy and find out what is going on in the family. She walks along the cloister and into the little side door of the infirmary.

  ‘Where is he?’ The boy is missing.

  Suora Simpatica shakes her head. She is very young and her expression is bewildered. ‘He thought you had gone and weren’t coming back. He asked me to say thank you for all your kindness to him and he hoped if there were any more letters he would be allowed to bring them. Now he knows the way. He was afraid to stay longer as he wanted to get back down to the valley road before the light went. He said the snow was drifting heavily further down, beyond the trees. He seemed nervous about his return journey.’

  ‘But I wanted to give him a message; to take back with him.’

  Suora Simpatica shakes her ahead again, this time more decisively. ‘I asked if he should wait for any message from you and he said the Magnificent Cosimo had told him to his own face that there was not to be a reply.’ She gives a girlish grin. ‘He seemed uncomfortable here; I got the impression he could not get away quickly enough.’

  Maddalena
takes a deep breath and stamps her foot in frustration. ‘I’m not surprised; with you and the converse fighting to remove his clothing, he must have thought he was in a house of depraved women.’

  Suora Simpatica’s laugh is like a high-pitched bell. ‘Only Cora. It would be unfair to call the rest of us depraved. But we did hope she would uncover something interesting.’ She rolls her eyes, her grin making little dimples in her rosy cheeks. ‘I must admit we were all watching like hawks.’

  ‘That will do!’ Madonna Arcangelica’s voice echoes round the small room like a whip. Everyone stiffens. She must have slipped into the room like a wraith. ‘I will have no such conversation in this convent. ‘Suora Simpatica; one hour of silent prayer. Now.’

  The girl runs from the room, her face crestfallen. She has only been in the convent a short while and still has much to learn. The abbess jerks her head at Maddalena. ‘And you should not encourage the younger ones. You know they all look at you as if you had spent many years in hell itself and returned.’

  ‘But not to tell the tale.’ Maddalena knows the rebuke is, as much as anything, an apology that they have had no opportunity to talk recently. She follows the abbess into the cloister and they fall into step beside each other.

  ‘A message from Cosimo?’ Madonna Arcangelica gets straight to the point.

  ‘Yes. He is frail and ailing.’

  ‘He has been frail for some years, surely?’

  Maddalena nods her head. ‘Yes but now it seems, his spirit is failing him. He seems diminished.’

  ‘And the plan? The great scheme? Does that remain alive?’

  ‘The Chapel Roof Fund?’ Maddalena allows herself a little grin. It has become a private joke between them; an acknowledgement that they share an interest in Cosimo’s proposals for Lorenzo.

  It is a reminder that she knows sometimes prickles the abbess like a thorn, but although they have fallen into an understanding of their respective parts in Cosimo’s great scheme, she is unwilling to drop back into the passive role in their partnership. At the back of her mind, the fact that Cosimo had had a number of conversations with the abbess before he ever spoke to her of the matter still rankles.

  And now, it seems, Donatello too, is to be involved. Does that mean that her involvement is to be diluted? At least his letter gave her some encouragement. What had he said? Rest assured, your part remains, and I continue to rely upon you to ensure the next generation are properly looked after.

  Encouraged, she replies to the abbess. ‘He says the scheme is still alive and moving forward.’

  But she can’t bring herself to tell the abbess about Donatello. Nor, at this early stage, about the Badia. Information is power. Lucrezia had said that once, and she was right. Cosimo had said he would write again when the plans he was developing with Donatello were completed. That would be the time to tell the abbess more. Then and only then.

  She looks across at the abbess who notices her glance and returns it.

  ‘Good. I am glad things are moving forward.’ Her expression shows that she has also sensed that something is being held back. But the glance is not sustained and they fall into step with each other once again; their thoughts perhaps travelling in parallel, as are their feet.

  Chapter 26

  Death of Giovanni

  5th October 1463

  Another nine months have gone by, and still no word of Donatello and his part in Cosimo’s great scheme. Twice, in the course of the summer, parties of servants have come from Cafaggiolo, bringing produce from their fifty-three farms.

  Generous produce: live pigs, to be fattened up on the local acorns and chestnuts before being slaughtered by the butcher from Bivigliano, a barrel of last year’s wine, now ready for drinking, two milk-cows, tied to the back of the cart and led all the way up the hill, and flour and salami and a half-barrel of last year’s olives, together with two casks of olive oil.

  Each time, Maddalena and the abbess managed to find time to assist them, to thank them and to talk to them, and although they spoke openly about events in Cafaggiolo, in Careggi and in the city, there was nothing that hinted at Cosimo’s scheme, even to a ready and waiting ear.

  And then, on a warm and lazy October afternoon, another messenger, and another letter; again from Cosimo.

  The handwriting is even worse than before; almost illegible, except to the most practiced eye. Except to Maddalena’s.

  Blessed and beloved Maddalena,

  My servants tell me you are still alive and that they have spoken to you, and found you well. I pray they speak the truth, for I no longer have any prospect of verification with my own eyes. The journey would, now, be too much for me.

  Our world is coming to an end. Giovanni is dead. He died, last week, on the 23rd of September, unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was forty-two years of age, and although, I know, you chided him daily about being too fat, and too self-indulgent, he did not deserve to die this young. That joy for life; and until his son died, that laughter. I can still hear Giovanni’s laughter echoing through the rooms of this house, as it did in the old days.

  We buried him in San Lorenzo. They carried him there in his coffin and me there in a chair. I think he had the more comfortable ride. Never again; the ignominy of it worse than the pain. Who will be next now, me or Piero? Have you ever seen two bedridden men racing each other? I can tell you, it’s a slow business.

  I am now resigned that I will never see you again. I thank you for your forgiveness of my selfish urgency as a young man. What I would not give to be young and lusty and to have you in my bed just once more.

  I thank you, also, for your understanding when troubles surrounded me in my middle years, and again, for all your patience as I grew old, frail and forgetful. You have, quite simply, been a lynchpin of my life, and with your continuing responsibilities, you will, I know, continue to be so.

  The process continues, albeit slowly, but under Donatello’s safe hand. I shall send you word when it is done.

  Yours, forever,

  Cosimo.

  Palazzo Medici Monday, 3rd October 1463

  ***

  In the convent, Maddalena reads the letter and immediately, she thinks of the others. Ginevra will be distraught; it will be a terrible shock to lose Giovanni, even though they all knew his days were numbered.

  Lucrezia, of course, will miss him terribly. They were always very close. More than close. Much more.

  She wonders about the things she heard Lucrezia say about the running of the bank. Giovanni was Deputy Director of the holding company. Who now? Surely not Piero? Francesco Sassetti may be able to manage the day-to-day things, rather like Benci did for Cosimo years ago: but Benci did so much more—he would argue with Cosimo and often he was in the right. But Sassetti is not of the same material at all. Sassetti never argues. If you are a member of the family, Sassetti always says yes, even when he knows you’re wrong.

  She wonders how Lucrezia will cope. It was obvious that she loved Giovanni and that he loved her too. Knowing that, she had once asked Lucrezia whether she considered that marrying her to Piero was an act of unkindness. Lucrezia’s reply was: ‘No. Cosimo was not an unkind man. But he was brought up with such a strong sense of family and duty to it, that he put family before individual without thought and without even considering that, in so doing, he was being in any way unkind. Do not blame him for being what he is.’

  She respected Lucrezia even more after that. Kindness and understanding in the face of adversity; unusual and impressive.

  Lucrezia had told her that she had learned to love Piero as a dutiful wife should; loving him more than anything else ‘for his weaknesses and inadequacies, which were not his fault and not of his own making’. But now she’s not sure she believes that. The racehorse and the carthorse. Could they really run in harness? Perhaps yes, with training. But in total harmony? Surely not.

  What will happen to them now she thinks? Ginevra has nobody. Nobody of her own. No son or grandson to cling to; no reas
on to live for the future. She will probably continue, with Contessina as her model, perhaps living alone at Fiesole? No. She will be too alone there and the reminders will be too strong. She will return to the Palazzo Medici and become drawn into The Family; duty calling.

  And Cosimo? How much longer will he last now? With Piero the daily disappointment (what a thing to have to admit to anyone) he had always concentrated his emotions on Giovanni. In the last letter, his voice, coming from the Chapel of the Magi, had sounded hollow. Losing Cosimino had been like losing an arm. Now losing Giovanni will be like losing a leg as well.

  And the scheme? The process continues, albeit slowly, but under Donatello’s safe hand. I shall send you word when it is done. That sounded positive enough. Donatello had always been competent. But he had also always been unreliable. After all their scheming and planning, was the whole thing going to wither away?

  Suddenly an image comes into her mind; a huge cart; a hay-wain, with steep, curved sides, piled high with treasure, yet trundling downhill, out of control, while Piero sits in the driving seat, hands wavering, undecided what to do, and Donatello lolls on the back, fondling some young boy, blissfully unaware that they are headed for a cliff-edge.

  Is it all to come to nothing?

  ***

  The abbess sees Maddalena sitting on the wall outside the main doors of the chapel, facing north, up the valley; looking along the great ridge-top towards the Badia and beyond that into the Mugello, toward Il Trebbio and Cafaggiolo. She indicates the letter in her hand and raises an eyebrow. Perhaps she is wondering about the chapel roof?

  Maddalena shakes her head.

  ‘Giovanni’s dead. It’s all coming to pieces.’

  Chapter 27

  Donatello’s Visit

  8th December 1463

  It begins with shouting. Elena, now thirteen and well on her way to becoming a beauty, still clings to her self-appointed role as the convent lookout.