The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  “Mothers among you, do you weep for me?”

  There were murmurs and cries through the crowd of “Yes! Of course!” and “God bless you!”

  “Do not!” she roared at them all. “I was joyous on the day that my brave children chose to suffer rather than deny their God. Like the Virgin Mother before me, I was in rapture over the death of my sons. My children will live forever!”

  Felicity’s eyes rolled back again and she fell to the ground, thrashing. Her back arched and her hand came down hard on the cement floor, splitting open the wounds of her stigmata. The crowd gasped as droplets of blood splashed those who were nearest to her. When her thrashing died down, she was possessed with a new voice.

  “All of you, you must begin your preparation. Think no more about this earthly life, which means nothing! The afterlife is far greater than anything you can imagine on this terrible earth.”

  Sister Ursula cried out, “It is the voice of the Holy Spirit. Praise God for this blessing. Praise God for this saint who suffers for us!”

  The crowd was with her now, caught up in the frenzied atmosphere that had followed Santa Felicita. They began to shout out, “Praise God! Praise his saints!”

  Felicity rolled over on one side, exhausted and bleeding now, but still preaching in her strange growl.

  “You may preserve your place in heaven, but you must show God that you are worthy. You must defend him and his holy truth. All of you who fight to defeat evil and destroy blasphemy will be given your reward. But there is a great evil which threatens our holy way, a heresy which must be stopped . . .”

  The energy was seeping from her as she prepared to leave consciousness and faint into blackness. She whispered, just before her head rolled back, “Stop the blasphemer. Stop the fornicators who would lie about the chastity of our Lord. You must . . . stop . . .”

  Felicity lapsed into unconsciousness before she could finish her sentence. Members of the confraternity, well rehearsed in this circumstance, brought a stretcher to the front of the room and carried her out amid the frenzy and excitement that remained in the room.

  Sister Ursula seized the moment and grabbed the microphone from the podium at the front of the room.

  “My brothers and sisters, do not leave without understanding the warning which was given us by the Holy Spirit! There is a great blasphemy which threatens us, an evil, a demon of lies and deceit which must be destroyed.”

  On cue, a group of volunteers from the confraternity began to hand out leaflets to everyone in attendance as Sister Ursula continued to shout in the microphone over the din.

  “I urge you to take this information, and take action! Your place in heaven depends upon it. Stop Satan from spreading more lies! Help us to stamp out the devil! We will be meeting here every night this week to discuss the action plan laid out here for you.”

  The leaflets were snatched up greedily by the members in attendance, more motivated than ever to find their way into heaven.

  The leaflets bore the bold command “Stop the Blasphemy!”

  Below that was a photograph of Maureen Paschal’s new book, The Time Returns, and another one of the demon fornicator herself.

  Careggi

  spring 1463

  THE SUN WARMED the stones of Careggi to a tawny gold as Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici watched her elder son ride away from the villa. She paused at the window until he rode out of sight, his glossy black hair flying behind him. As if sensing his mother’s gaze, Lorenzo turned in his saddle and waved back at the house with a dazzling smile before cantering off into the forest. At fourteen, Lorenzo had grown into a fine young man. He was tall and well built, athletic, and utterly charming. He was possessed of the rare combination of a brilliant mind and a loving heart, and Lucrezia kept a close watch on his education to ensure that those attributes were both protected and developed.

  Lucrezia had grown into a deeply pious woman, although in her own words, “Not a tedious one.” She wrote devotional poetry that sprang from her heart and her spirit, for she was deeply indebted to the Lord for the gifts he had bestowed upon her family. She had embroidered in her own fine hand a quote from Psalm 127, which graced the bedchamber she shared with her husband, Piero.

  Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.

  They were indeed, and God’s rewards to her had been bountiful. She had five thriving children: three daughters, Maria, Bianca, and Nannina, each more beautiful and intelligent than the next, and two utterly remarkable sons. Lorenzo was the elder of the boys and the more like her in appearance and intellect. Lucrezia Tornabuoni was not herself a beautiful woman, but she had a grace and presence that transcended any shallow ideal of physical perfection. She had passed on her most unfortunate family trait to Lorenzo: the scooped nose with the flattened bridge that deprived both of them of a sense of smell and any hope of a singing voice. But Lorenzo had also gained some of her greatest characteristics, including her physical height and regal posture combined with the extraordinary mental acuity that made her the most accomplished of Florentine matriarchs. Intellectually, Lorenzo was unequaled by any child she had ever seen. His love of learning was unsurpassed, his linguistic skills were nearly supernatural, and his ability to memorize and comprehend the most complex lessons was astonishing. His first teacher, the renowned intellectual Gentile Becchi, once said that “there were not enough superlatives to describe Lorenzo as a scholar.”

  Like his mother, Lorenzo was also possessed of an extraordinary charisma that overcame any of his physical deficits. There was an animation to his face, born from his sheer passion for life, that was entirely enchanting. He was immensely popular among the otherwise cynical people of Florence, who referred to him fondly as “our prince.” Even at this young age, Lorenzo had already carried out important diplomatic missions for both the family and the Florentine state.

  “Mama, where is Lorenzo going?”

  The voice from the doorway caused Lucrezia to turn with a smile. Her younger son, Giuliano, four years junior to Lorenzo, was petulant. Tears welled in his huge brown eyes.

  “The equerry came to the house to tell Lorenzo that his spoiled horse was restless and would not eat from any hand but his master’s. Lorenzo has gone to feed the beast and give him some exercise.”

  “He said he would take me riding today.” Giuliano pouted. “He promised! Why didn’t he take me?”

  “I’m sure he will come back for you if he promised. Lorenzo never breaks a promise.” This was the truth. Lorenzo was entirely trustworthy and never broke his word, particularly to his baby brother, whom he doted upon unconditionally.

  Lucrezia ruffled the younger boy’s dark curls with affection. Giuliano had been given all the physical blessings of which Lorenzo had been deprived. He was a beautiful child and gifted with a sweet, if overly sensitive, nature. Yet Piero was fond of saying to her in the privacy of their chambers, “God knew what he was doing when he gave us Lorenzo as our prince. Lorenzo was made for this purpose. Giuliano, on the other hand, will never have the disposition for leadership of any kind. He is too sweet, too soft.”

  They would watch Giuliano closely to see if he had a vocation for the Church, which would suit the Medici purposes well on a multitude of levels. Yet while Lucrezia was a key decision maker in the most powerful family in Florence, she was also a devoted mother who wanted her children to find happiness in what was often a harsh world. She would not force Giuliano into the Church but rather allow him to make that decision on his own if he had such a calling. Again, this was the privilege of being second-born and free of the burden of an enormous, looming prophecy. Giuliano would have far more say over his personal destiny than his elder brother. Yet Lucrezia saw Lorenzo more clearly than did his father, which frightened her sometimes. She recognized the tender heart beneath the sense of responsibility; she saw and understood that there was truly a delicate poet beneath the powerful prince. While God had a plan for Lorenzo, Lucrezia feared for his happiness. Would he be able
to fulfill the role of Medici ruler, of banker, politician, and statesman—and find peace and personal joy in the process?

  But above all there was the other responsibility, one that was spoken of only to the most trusted members of their intimate circle: the

  awesome and daunting holy prophecy that Lorenzo had been chosen by God to fulfill. That he was the Poet Prince was without question from the day of his perfect conception and January birth, under the sign of the sea goat and with Mars submerged in Pisces, just as the

  Magi had specified. Lorenzo was in the process of becoming fully indoctrinated. Cosimo de’ Medici, the family’s legendary patriarch and Lorenzo’s grandfather, was finalizing that plan with the Order imminently.

  Even at such a young age, the weight of his destiny was beginning to settle upon Lorenzo’s broadening shoulders. Cosimo was dying and his heir, Piero, was also unwell, indeed had never been particularly healthy, living up to his unfortunate nickname throughout Florence of Piero the Gouty.

  Lucrezia sighed as she ushered Giuliano out the door. Giuliano would never know how fortunate he was to be born into all the privilege with little of the responsibility. But the same could not be said for Lorenzo. Ah, my poor prince. She looked toward the window where she had last glimpsed him. Enjoy your freedom now, my son. Before the reality of who you are and what you must accomplish engulfs you completely.

  Turning back to Giuliano, she grabbed his hand. “Come, my little one. It is time for you to sit with Sandro so that he may finish our beautiful painting. And no squirming this time!”

  Lorenzo de’ Medici placed the slightest pressure on his heels, urging Morello into a canter. He never kicked or whipped his horses. Indeed, he revered them, and some said he even had the ability to communicate with them. Marsilio Ficino, Cosimo’s physician and astrologer, credited Lorenzo’s birth chart with this talent. Lorenzo was an earth sign, governed by the mythical sea goat called Capricornus. Ficino said that this sign, combined with other auspicious elements of Lorenzo’s chart, gave him an extraordinary affinity for animals, adding that they would figure into his destiny in unexpected ways.

  With horses, particularly, Lorenzo was comfortable, and they appeared to return his love. The Medici horses were known to neigh and whinny when they sensed Lorenzo approaching the stables. His favorite mount, the high-spirited Morello, refused to take oats from any hand but Lorenzo’s if he so much as sensed the presence of his young master at the family’s country retreat here in Careggi.

  Urging Morello into the woods, Lorenzo followed a path that he knew well. He had promised to take his little brother riding this afternoon, so he mustn’t stay out too long. He knew it would break his brother’s heart if he did not keep his promise, and that was something he could not bear. Giuliano worshipped him, and he would not give him any reason to do otherwise. But Lorenzo needed this time alone, to ride in the sun and feel the warmth on his hair, to listen to the sounds of spring coming alive in the forest. He was secretly composing a sonnet to the season, and he wanted to savor it a bit more before he finished his piece. Spring, the season of new beginnings, the time of promise. Florentines celebrated the New Year with the coming of spring, their calendars beginning on the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation. That was three days away, and Lorenzo would have his sonnet ready for the celebration that was to

  come.

  What was that sound?

  He pulled gently on Morello’s reins to slow him to a stop and listened. There it was again, a sound on the wind that was unfamiliar in this place. Lorenzo stiffened in his saddle, completely alert now. These were Medici lands, and while he felt safe here most often, a family of such wealth and power had many enemies. He could not be too careful. He heard the sound again—definitely a human sound—but he relaxed a little in his saddle now as he listened. The sound was small and sad, not threatening. Moving Morello slowly toward the noise, he stopped sharply when he heard a gasp.

  Sitting in the leaves and looking up at him was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  Close to his age, perhaps slightly younger, the girl looked like one of the nymphs that Sandro sketched for him when they discussed the great Greek legends that they both loved so dearly. The most beautiful heart-shaped face, set with delicate features and a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth, were framed by a cloud of chestnut-colored ringlets that were streaked with a coppery gold. There were leaves in that hair and her clothing was disheveled, but it was clear that her attire was new and expensive despite her current state of disarray. The girl’s eyes were bright with tears that magnified their extraordinary light hazel color. Lorenzo would later come to know that these eyes changed color depending on her mood, sometimes amber, then the lightest sage green. But at that moment, she was the most exquisite mystery.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She moved to show him that she was holding something, something that fluttered and cooed, scattering white feathers.

  “A dove? You have caught a dove?”

  “I didn’t catch it,” she snapped, surprising him with her shift to anger. “I rescued it. It was caught in a trap, up in that tree. But it is injured. I think his wing is broken.”

  Lorenzo sized up this spirited wood nymph as she stood, holding the dove against her fine-boned frame as she brought it closer for his inspection. That the bird was caught in a poacher’s trap was information he would have to turn over to his father later. But there was a more pressing matter at hand. He dismounted gracefully and put his hand on the struggling bird, gently stroking its neck.

  “Shh, little one. It’s all right.”

  To the girl’s surprise, the bird calmed and allowed Lorenzo to

  stroke it.

  “Lorenzo de’ Medici,” the nymph said, with a touch of awe in her lyrical voice.

  It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard—his name on her lips. “Yes,” he said, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. “But you have an unfair advantage, as you clearly know me and yet I do not know you.”

  “Everyone in Florence knows you. I saw you during the procession of the Magi, riding that same horse.” She paused for a moment before asking, “Will you have me arrested for trespassing on your lands?” She looked most earnest in her question.

  Lorenzo stopped himself from laughing out loud and maintained a most serious demeanor, asking, “And does everyone in Florence say that I am a tyrant?”

  “Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . oh, I am sorry, Lorenzo. Everyone in Florence says that you are . . . magnificent. I just know that my father tells me to stay in our own lands, yet your forest is so much more inviting that I sometimes walk here when no one is watch-

  ing, and . . .”

  He interrupted in an effort to alleviate her obvious discomfort. “Would you like to enlighten me as to who your father is?”

  “I am a Donati. Lucrezia Donati.” She curtsied slightly, while juggling the dove. Clearly, this was a girl of extraordinary breeding.

  “Ah. A Donati.” He should have guessed by the quality of her attire. The Donati lands backed up to the Medicis’, even exceeding their own in terms of usable acreage. They were the nearest thing to royalty in Tuscany, with an illustrious heritage traceable all the way to ancient Rome. The revered Tuscan poet Dante had married a Donati, adding further cachet to that already exalted family name.

  “Well, Your Highness.” Lorenzo gave a deep bow as he smiled at her. “Given that your family is one of the most aristocratic in this part of Italy, it doesn’t appear that this mere Medici has a hope of arresting you. Much as I might like to. Instead, your punishment is to give that dove to me.”

  “But . . . what will you do with it? You won’t eat it, will you?”

  “Of course I won’t eat it! My lord, what must you think of me?

  I shall take it to Ficino. He is one of my teachers, but also a doctor. He is a maestro, a master of many arts. If anyone can mend this wing, Ficino can. And he lives just over the ridge in
Montevecchio, behind our house.”

  Lucrezia considered him thoughtfully before stating rather than asking, “I’m coming with you. After all, I did go to all of this trouble to fall out of a tree to rescue him. I’d say I deserve to go. Besides, it’s my birthday today and you would be terribly cruel to deny me.”

  Lorenzo laughed again at this spirited, enchanting creature. “Mistress Lucrezia Donati, I doubt that I would ever have the strength to deny you anything. You didn’t hurt yourself when you fell from the tree, did you?”

  “Not nearly as much as my mother will hurt me when she sees what I have done to my new dress.” She brushed at the dirt and the leaves, straightening herself as she did so. Lorenzo inspected her, using the excuse to circle and take in every inch of her beauty.

  “I think you got very lucky this time,” he observed with mock seriousness. “It will brush off and nothing is ripped.” His tone lightened as he added, “And if Mona Donati asks, tell her that your clumsy neighbor Lorenzo de’ Medici fell from his horse and you came to his aid. I will tell my father the same, and everyone will shower you with gifts on your birthday!”

  It was Lucrezia’s turn to laugh now, revealing her delicate dimples. “A good plan, Lorenzo, except that you have forgotten one thing. Your skill as an equestrian is legendary, and no one will believe for a moment that you fell from your horse—particularly that horse. No, I must take the blame for what I have done. Besides, I am a terrible liar. Honesty suits me better.”

  “Then you are a noble woman in every sense of the word. Can you ride?”

  She tossed her chestnut hair and raised her chin at him. “Of course I can ride. Do you think yours is the only family in Florence that educates its daughters?” But the dove flapped in her arms again and she deflated. “Although it may be difficult while holding our little friend.”

  Lorenzo devised a solution. He helped Lucrezia up and onto Morello, who was very cooperative. Mounting behind her, he kept his arms around the girl’s shoulders to steady her as she clutched the dove to her body. Together, they rode off slowly in the springtime sun, looking very much the way that teenagers in the throes of a first crush have looked since the beginning of civilization.