‘Palla, as you know, has been a close supporter of the Albizzi, but apparently, hearing this news, he caved in. He told Bernardo that he, for one, would not support the death penalty under any circumstances. So the Gonfaloniere sent a message to the Albizzi and told them the situation.’
‘So Rinaldo is losing support? Does he realise that?’ Contessina seems to have a very clear grasp of the situation.
Accuito’s expression tells them all they need to know. He is smiling now, the relief on his face obvious. ‘Reluctantly, only an hour ago, he accepted the lesser charge.’
‘So the ambassadors are only a formality?’ Maddalena can’t resist saying something. Unusually, Contessina nods her agreement.
‘Indeed. Just a formality. That’s what Bernardo says. Yes.’
***
‘It was in this manner that Cosimo de Medici was taken from me.’ Maddalena looked up.
‘The ruling Signoria was called back to power and on the 28th of September they banished Cosimo to Padua for ten years, his cousin Averardo to Naples for ten years and his brother Lorenzo to Venice for five years. The last I saw of Cosimo was on the 4th of October, when, escorted by an armed guard, he was led north, through the high mountain pass below Monte Cimone and handed over at the frontier.’ She paused, distant memories once again hanging heavily over her.
Across the room, Madonna Arcangelica took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘Such a crime. Such wicked men.’ She looked at Maddalena and lifted her eyes, as if hoping to help Cosimo in the process. ‘Did you hear from him?’
Maddalena smiled, turned to her little casket, and selected a letter. ‘Yes. Quite quickly. I have the letter here still. Let me read it to you.’
Dearest Maddalena,
I am safely delivered to the Republic of Venice and now in the offices of our Venice branch. Tomorrow I shall, as is required by the conditions of my exile, continue to Padua and remain there until, by God’s good grace, I may obtain permission to travel more freely within the Republic (no doubt with the appropriate assurances) and return to Venice.
I have been most heartily surprised and uplifted by the welcome I have received, both in Emilia Romagna, in the Marquisate of Ferrara, and, especially, here in the great Republic of Venice.
The kindness shown to me has been reward enough, but in addition, there is the comfort of knowing that the Medici name has not been spurned and that at every turn, men of wealth and influence continue to support our bank wholeheartedly.
This being the case, I can be confident in continuing our business whilst here and in Padua. To that end, please rescue the papers we discussed, together with the private ledgers and bring them to me at the house of Jacopo Donato, in Padua, where I expect to arrive this very night.
You should bring six armed servants for your protection. I shall have messages for them to carry on their return journey.
Come soon.
Yours,
Cosimo de’ Medici
From Venice Tuesday, 13th October 1433
The abbess clapped her hands. ‘So it was business as usual? You joined him there, in Padua?’
Maddalena inclined her head. ‘I joined him, yes, taking the account books, but not, as I had expected, in Padua. I rode through the mountains, taking the same route he had taken, through Cutigliano in Pistioia, past Fassano in the Marquisate of Ferrara, through Modena and then by boat from Bondeno to Francolino and finally to Venice.
‘I fully expected to take the traghetto up the River Brenta to Stra and finally to Padua, but when I reached Venice, I was told that Cosimo had already returned there on the 20th, the Signoria in Florence having relented under diplomatic pressure from Andrea Donato, the Venetian ambassador. My faith in Cosimo and in the power of the bank was so great that I knew that he would succeed, even when exiled, and here he was, already bettering his situation.’
To her surprise, she saw a knowing grin break out on the abbess’ face.
‘And as you rode, I am sure you sensed your opportunity. Because you knew that his wife and children had remained in the Palazzo Bardi and that whilst in exile, you would once again have him to yourself, as before in Rome. Am I not right?’
Maddalena smiled to herself. So the abbess had understood more than she had admitted. Much more. In future, she must be careful not to underestimate this woman. Unworldly Madonna Arcangelica might be, but naïve she certainly was not.
‘Indeed. How perceptive of you, Madonna Arcangelica. You are right. Even as we rode high into the first mountains, and felt the chill of the lying snows, I promised myself that I would not consider his exile as an adversity. Instead I would see it as an opportunity. And I vowed that I would help him to see it likewise.’
***
MONTE BASTIONE, NORTH OF FLORENCE
22nd October 1433
The saddle creaks as her horse picks its way up the steep mountain pass. The path is narrow and she feels the vertigo; the long sweep of the mountainside drawing her down, as if it is calling to her, inviting her to lean forward and float down, beyond the snow, below the trees, to the distant meadows thousands of feet below them. For a moment, the thought is all-encompassing, compelling, dizzying, she doesn’t trust her own legs and feet to keep her to this stony, narrow pathway.
But she isn’t walking; she is riding, and the mountain pony is sure-footed. It is that reassurance which gives her a confidence she would never have had in herself. She draws her eyes away from the abyss and concentrates instead on the pathway ahead of them, winding upward to the high saddle which marks the boundary; the border of the Republic of Florence and the beginning of a new life.
They are high now. She had felt the tingle of cold air in her nostrils as soon as they climbed beyond the snow line, entering what to her felt like another world. She looks back down; to where they left the last of the trees, then scans the mountain on the opposite side of the valley and realises that the upper limit of the trees forms a line—a straight line, crossing from one mountain to another; always constant. Why, she wonders? Then, above the tree line, she notices that the lower limit of the snow also forms a line; a second line, a parallel line.
‘It’s the temperature. Trees cannot grow where the summer temperature is too low. And the snow only lies where there is insufficient warmth to melt it.’ Beside her, the captain of her guard leans on the pommel of his saddle and points. ‘But if you look carefully at that mountain over there, you will see that the lines, whilst parallel, are not horizontal. The tree line and the snow line are higher on the southern slope—the Florentine side—than the northern, side, in Emilia.’
‘Perhaps we give the hills a warmer welcome?’ She shakes her head, to show she is joking and he laughs back. ‘Perhaps.’
As they rise higher, their road is pushed relentlessly eastward by the huge shoulder of Monte Bastione to their left. They are climbing diagonally now, the ridge leaning on them; their road avoiding direct confrontation with the mountain and instead pursuing the easy option; beyond Pietramala, to the high Passo della Raticosa.
They reach the pass and abruptly, the view changes. Now, for the first time, all the view is before them and instead of craning their necks at the mountain ahead, they are looking down, and into the endless stretch of the northern plains.
‘The border is on that next ridge.’ The captain points forward, perhaps another two miles, to where a final, lower ridge runs out from the broad peak of Monte Bastione over their left shoulder, and intersects their road, before dissipating, like fingers from a wrist, into the plain beyond.
To Maddalena’s relief, there is an inviting taverna at the roadside, but the captain shakes his head. ‘Today we shall eat in Emilia. Not far now.’
The final two miles are easy going; a gentle down-slope, then one last, almost imperceptible rise, before, at a sudden and unexpected bend in the road, they reach Filigare, and the border, marked by twin stone towers, two hundred paces apart. Between them, nestled under a protective rock face, is a second, and larger
, taverna, where, amidst much laughter, at a long roadside table, the border guards from Florence and Emilia are sharing a relaxed meal.
They are ignored. The food is good. The wine is excellent. The drinking water is clean and fresh. And the view, all the way down to the great city of Bologna, perhaps twenty-five miles ahead of them, is inviting. The captain strolls across to talk to the guards and his own men gather together around a separate table. For a moment, Maddalena is left alone.
She looks across the broad plain, to Bologna, visible on the horizon; and beyond it, somewhere, Venice and Padua, visible only in her mind still a few days’ ride away, and she smiles to herself. This is another world. Contessina has no place here. Now, once again, I shall have him to myself. But now, I am older, I have seen him at work and at play. I have duelled with his wife and I have borne him a son. Now I can move our relationship onto another level and through that, I can achieve the fulfilment my father told me to seek and which I have always craved.
Slowly, as they ride down into the valley, she works it all out. As a result of Cosimo’s exile, she has been given a third weapon. Her body had been her first, many years ago. Her ability with figures her second, as he had slowly drawn her into his studiolo and the showed her the secrets that were recorded there. Now by sharing the very experience of exile with Cosimo, she knows she will become even closer to him. She has seen him on the edge of flight. She has seen him fear death. But now, finally, given time, she knows she will see him triumph and when he does, she will share in that experience in a way that Contessina, remaining back at the Palazzo Bardi, will never be able to do.
***
‘How long did you finally spend in exile together?’ Having shaken off all of her earlier weariness, the abbess seemed to have become energised by the story; she was now sitting upright, her expression attentive.
‘A year. Almost to the day. We returned to Florence in the October of the following year.’
‘In triumph?’ Madonna Arcangelica looked positively excited.
Maddalena smiled as the bell calling them to Vespers began to chime. ‘I will tell you next time.’
As she spoke, she glanced out of the window. ‘We had better hurry. It’s snowing outside and heavily too. The courtyard will be slippery. We must go.’
Chapter 11
Safe Return
5th December 1457
‘It was in Venice, almost a year later, that our good friend Antonio di Ser Tommaso Nasi came to Cosimo at the monastery where we had been given rooms, and on behalf of the people, invited him to return to Florence.’
Perhaps predictably, the abbess had taken Maddalena straight back to where she had left off, and asked how, exactly, she and Cosimo had managed to return to Florence from their exile in Venice. The picture, as always, had been clear in her mind, because over the previous two weeks, she had thought of little else.
***
MONASTERY OF SAN GIORGIO MAGGIORE, VENICE
20th September 1434
‘Is that his boat leaving now?’
Cosimo and Maddalena are standing on their large balcony, looking out from the Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, over the Canale di San Marco. One of the Doge’s barges has just pulled out from the molo and has started to row across the tide, towards them.
Her question is hardly a guess, perhaps more of an informed guess. Not two hours before, one of Cosimo’s informers had already told him that an envoy had arrived from Florence and was at that moment paying his respects to the Senate. It was pretty certain what his message would be.
During the course of the year, word has come regularly from Florence, both through traders and through diplomats. Progressively, it seems, the people have been growing discontented with the Albizzi government.
According to their informants, the softening of attitudes began shortly after Cosimo’s departure. Bartolomeo de’ Ridolfi had only just taken up his appointment as Gonfaloniere of Justice in Florence when Cosimo had sent his request, supported by Andrea Donato, the Venetian ambassador’s kind words, for ‘an easing, without slackening’ of his conditions of exile.
By return letter, the Florentine Signoria had accepted, allowing him to travel anywhere within the Venetian Republic as long as he did not approach any closer to Florence than 140 miles (the distance from Florence to Padua). That excluded Bologna and even Ferrara, which was little more than 100 miles from Florence, but it did allow him to visit, and to live and work, in Venice, and that had been the sole intention of the request. An exiled farmer leaves his lands behind, and has not the benefit of them, but a banker exiled to a great trading city like Venice is, as Cosimo said to Maddalena, “unencumbered” and his life and his business can continue, much as before.
Now if the latest private messages can be believed, the tide of opinion is strengthening further in Cosimo’s favour. Many of his friends in Florence have written supportively, but Cosimo is being careful. Maddalena knows better than anyone that the fear of death and the shame of exile are experiences he has not forgotten and she understands fully that he does not want to walk into another trap.
They don’t have long to wait. Antonio, son of Ser Tommaso Nasi, runs up the steps and embraces him. ‘I am to bring you back to Florence, Cosimo. The people cry out for your return. Come with me. I, and my men, will personally escort you, in case of attack.
Trusting Antonio as he does, and grateful as he is for his support, Cosimo cannot afford to take any more risks. Before breaking the rules of his exile (an act which, in Florentine law, would make him liable for the death penalty) and before putting his head back into the lion’s mouth (whose bad breath he can still smell) he needs proof.
Maddalena, as always, supports his judgement. ‘You know how fickle these people can be. There is no hurry, Cosimo. You are safe here and we are comfortable. And the bank is thriving. Before you return to Florence and put yourself in their hands, you need more than assurances. You need evidence. Solid evidence.’
He nods, convinced. ‘You’re right. I’ll send someone reliable to confirm the situation.’
Cosimo turns to his secretary. ‘Go and get Antonio Martelli. Tell him he has to go to Florence. Immediately.’
***
‘So I was right?’
Across the room, Madonna Arcangelica sat with her cloak wrapped round her. It seemed to have been snowing for weeks and Maddalena’s tower room was freezing. But it was remote and private, and that was worth more than a log fire to both of them. She smiled triumphantly. ‘I knew that once you had the Magnificent Cosimo away from his wife you would become closer to him. You spoke of “our rooms” and “many of our friends in Florence”. You make it sound like man and wife. Was it like that? Was your relationship with Cosimo now that close?’
Maddalena smiled, not realising quite how much truth her reminiscences had given away, and for the first time conscious of how carefully the abbess has been listening to, and thinking about, her story week by week. There would be no misleading her now. She was so close that she would spot an inconsistency immediately.
‘You are right. Perhaps more right than you knew. But we were not like man and wife. We were closer than that. A man of position in the world of affairs rarely shares his thoughts with his wife. Most of them, and Contessina was certainly no exception, are given the household to run and kept well away from “men’s work”.’
The abbess nodded, accepting, yet clearly disappointed.
‘But I had no such diversions. At the monastery, everything was provided for us and I had no household to maintain. And Cosimo, although being treated with the utmost courtesy and friendship by the government and the merchants of Venice, was always aware that he was in a foreign land, and played his cards even closer to his chest than he had before the trauma of exile.’
She smiled. ‘But as you say, he needed someone he trusted; someone to confide in. And that person was me. Now I was more than his wife: I was his partner.’
‘Yes!’ Madonna Arcangelica gripped her ri
ght hand into a fist of triumph. ‘Women can do these things. I have long believed it was so.’
She stood, crossed the room and as she put a hand gently on Maddalena’s forearm, her expression softened, becoming secretive and confidential. ‘I have long believed it so. Under what right does Fra Benedict presume to take our confessions? What superior knowledge or judgement do the monks of the Badia di Buonsollazzo have, which give them authority over us? And the bishop? Who is he to determine the lives of a group of women living in isolation?’
As the abbess returned to her seat, Maddalena sat back, for a moment shocked by the vehemence of her outburst. She agreed that their confessor was a stumbling old fool and often wondered how someone with so little common sense managed to find his way the two miles along the ridge of Monte Senario every week without a guide.
As for the bishop? She had not met him, but she certainly could understand the resentment an abbess might have against a patriarchal visitor with authority over the minutiae of their activities, yet who knew little of women or their devotional lives. But the real surprise was the extent of the abbess’ commitment to her community and the strength of her resentment against interference from the outside world.
Maddalena looked at the abbess and realised that a door had opened between them. The question that had lain unanswered in her mind was finally becoming clear. Now she knew why Madonna Arcangelica had been so forward in developing their relationship during those first few days.
The abbess had believed she could help Maddalena adjust to the life of confinement. And in that, she had been proved right. And Maddalena’s own initial assumption that any intelligent, thinking woman would want to make the most of a new arrival, (especially one who brought with her a world of experience and experience of the world); well, that had surely been correct, too.
The House of Medici Page 12