The abbess spluttered. ‘Avuncular? Not fatherly? Was the library not his child?’
Maddalena was still laughing as she shook her head. ‘No. Don’t forget that by this time, Cosimo was applying his new rules. By this time, he was careful to step back and give most of the credit to others. In particular, he praised the book illustrators and Fra Angelico, the artist who painted the crucifixions in the cells and other fresci elsewhere.’
She looked up as a memory returned. ‘A kind, gentle man. Sadly, he died, in Rome, just two years before I came here. Cosimo was very upset. They had worked very closely together.’
‘Is it true that Cosimo built himself a cell there?’ The abbess was still concentrating hard.
‘Indeed it is. Cosimo grew to love the place so much that he had his own two-room cell built there and would visit regularly, for peace and contemplation. As far as I am aware, he still does, despite his illnesses.’
There was a long pause and then the abbess’ voice, very quiet. ‘You expected him to return here also, did you not?’
Maddalena looked up sharply. For a moment she felt invaded, as if the abbess had forced herself into her inner world; her private world, the world she never admitted to anyone. But when she looked at Madonna Arcangelica’s face, she did not see probing, but a shared hurt.
‘Yes.’ She paused, for a moment uncertain whether to ask the question that was in her head. ‘As, perhaps, did you?’
Madonna Arcangelica considered for a moment, then nodded, her face fallen and clearly disappointed. ‘I expected it, yes. He told me that you would be coming here and that one part of your mission was to act as guide and guardian for certain . . . I was never sure what they were going to be. “Deposits for the future,” he said they were. “A legacy for another generation.”’ She shook her head. ‘He told me he would return and that in due course, all would be revealed.’
For a moment, Maddalena was unsure how to respond. Had Cosimo really said so much? It was almost as much as he had told her. ‘I still live in hope. I have not lost faith in him.’ She found the words sticking in her throat as she uttered them, but the abbess seemed not to have noticed. She too appeared disappointed, but like the strong woman she was, she lifted her head.
‘So what changes in government did Cosimo bring about as a result of his change of heart?’ Already she seemed to have recovered and her voice was at full strength.
‘It was as I spoke of some weeks ago. The Signoria had already called a parlamento and gained agreement to a balia even before Cosimo reached the city. They seemed keen to read his mind and had already exiled the Albizzi. Palla Strozzi was also ready to leave unless, as he hoped, Cosimo reprieved him, but this Cosimo failed to do, so he left, disappointed.
‘Over the next few months, Cosimo made good the plans he had drawn in his head. Outwardly, nothing was changed: Florentine democracy continued to support what appeared to be “a true republic”, but underneath the smooth-swimming swan, the legs were already kicking out in a quite different direction. The Accopiatore were at the core of it: “the gatherers” were as good as their title suggested; it was they who decided whose names went into which bag. From then on, instead of the Podestà selecting from thousands of theoretically eligible men, only the most suitable were put forward.’
‘But nevertheless, they were seen to be selected as before.’ The abbess’ voice made clear her understanding of the difference between form and substance. ‘And how long did this process continue?’
‘Oh it still does. Even today, as far as I know. There were wobbles, of course. After the Battle of Anghiari, the Council of the People and the Commune insisted the Podestà select from a full listing again. But then they faced the prospect of the election of those returning after their ten years of exile, and that frightened them enough to authorise another balia, which of course put the Accopiatore back into the driving seat.’
‘And the people don’t mind?’
‘There were murmurs at first, but we have a better system now. The Signoria make sure a good selection of people are chosen for the lesser positions; just once you understand—enough to allow them to buy the robes and be seen by their neighbours. Then their names go back into a large bag in the corner of the room and someone else is given a chance.’
‘But for the minor positions only?’
‘Oh of course. As Cosimo says, you can’t have little people sitting in big men’s seats. But at least, as he also says, we have a working democracy, which is more than we had before.’
‘With a big difference between the apparent and the real?’
‘Indeed.’ As she said it, Maddalena felt a chill of understanding. The abbess was not referring to the government of the city. She was referring to herself. Had Cosimo promised her something? Or at least, had he allowed her to have an expectation that in his absence had not been delivered? Or were her concerns somehow to do with the patriarch’s review? Only three weeks to go now. She must be concerned.
‘And perhaps a large difference between what people thought had been promised to them and that which was actually intended?’ The abbess’ words appeared to confirm Maddalena’s suspicions. She was talking about herself, and probably, although not necessarily, about Cosimo.
Maddalena shook her head. ‘I cannot agree. I still live in faith, and hope. But I do acknowledge there may be a difference between that which was indicated and fully intended at the time, and that which circumstances are now allowing to take place.’
She lifted her head and looked at the abbess, perhaps seeking comfort. ‘But I still think he will come. One day.’
‘Then we both live in hope.’ The abbess was looking out of the window, and appeared for the moment to be talking to herself. But then her head turned and she faced Maddalena again.
And smiled. ‘Together? Shall we live in hope together?’
Maddalena felt her heart lurch. So we are on a parallel course. In some manner, as yet undisclosed, she is associated with Cosimo’s plan. She must be. Not only that, but she is beginning to probe; to search out the extent and nature of my role. But it’s too early to tell her yet. Much too early to share such confidences. Nevertheless, a problem shared . . .
Hoping she was not breaking convent protocol too completely, but remembering the abbess’ comment about the stairs, Maddalena crossed the room, embraced the abbess and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Yes. Together.’
Chapter 16
Stature
20th March 1458
Suora Maddalena rubbed her eyes and felt her heart start to beat faster. It was bitterly cold in the room and she was having difficulty making her hands write at all. Now, in the poor candlelight, she could hardly read what she had written.
It had always been her greatest fear: losing her sight, and being in the dark. Even losing it to the point where she could no longer read and write would, she had always thought, be a terrible blow, removing her one remaining link with the outside world.
She did not resent being incarcerated here in the convent. Cosimo had, as always, made the arrangement with the best of intentions and at the time, she had agreed with them. His fears had been, she was sure, well founded and in the circumstances, his actions had been thoughtful and kind. At least here, she would be safe, he said.
Not that his actions had been entirely concerned with her well-being. A mind as subtle as Cosimo’s was always considering more than one aspect of the situation and she knew that originally, at least, he had another objective in mind; one in which he told her she would play an important part, but a plan which, at the time, he had not been prepared to explain.
That, in itself, had not concerned her. At least, not at the time. She had known she could trust him to tell her when the appropriate moment came. But now? She was, she thought, still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. No doubt he still had other parts of the arrangements to make, other people to inform, preparations to put into place. She was sure he would tell her in good time. P
erhaps when he visited her?
She smiled to herself. That would be when he read the journal. She had decided now that it would be better that way, after all. Yes, better than having him sit while she read her thoughts out to him. And when he came and sat down to read her words, she would watch him as he read. Feeling like a silly little girl, she squirmed in her seat; the thought of him being there, in her cell, overpowering. But he would come. She was sure of it. And then the rest of the plan would finally be unfurled.
If she concentrated hard, she could see him now, hunched over the journal, with his eyeglasses on the end of his long nose, reading her words, and occasionally looking up, smiling at what he read. On second thoughts, perhaps it would be better the way she had originally decided: that he would sit over there, in the small chair in the corner, or perhaps even lie on her bed, easing his painful back, whilst she read her own words out to him. Hard to decide, really.
But first she had to write those words, and then, once she had written them, they would remain, and could not be changed. There would be no cutting pages out of this book; what she wrote would be permanent and as such, should be good enough to pass the test of time.
What, then, should she write about him, that would be truthful (it could hardly be otherwise in this holy place), and that would please him? She couldn’t be too effusive. Cosimo would see the flattery in an instant, and would simply respond to it by refusing to believe anything else that was written. In all their years together, she had managed to maintain the balance and she knew she must not lose hold of it now.
Cosimo was a man of stature; of that there was no doubt. But what were the sources of that stature? What, over the years, had led her to respect and, yes, to grow to love him? Wealth? Certainly. It would, surely, be unrealistic to ignore that characteristic in the richest man in the world. But what had impressed her more over the years had been the way he carried his wealth, always remaining modest in thought and deed.
His manner, in his dealings with everyone, had always been noble. Indeed, despite his pain, and she knew it troubled him daily, he had always carried himself with the calm and relaxed grace of the nobility. Yet he would never call himself noble, nor allow others to do so, either. What had he said? ‘A couple of lengths of red cloth, that’s all, and you have your nobleman.’
No, it was not the trappings of nobility that she respected in him, but the fact that, despite his position, he had not let go of his roots. Though wealthy, he had remained modest; although risen high, he still had humility; and although he was the most powerful man in Florence, he still remained accessible, kind and thoughtful to the lower orders, as long as they were honest, industrious and respectful of his position in return.
In all those respects, there was no doubt in her mind. Cosimo was a good man. A family man: one who, years ago, had taken their son Carlo into his family and brought him up as his own, beside Piero and Giovanni. Now Carlo was bishop of Prato, and well on the way to becoming a cardinal. What more could Cosimo have done for her?
Oh Cosimo! How could she sum him up? What could she write in her journal, to tell him how he had influenced her life? What was he—the true, inner man? In some respects, even after all these years, he remained an enigma. Certainly complicated and with many faces, each of them different. By birth and name a Medici, by trade and instinct a banker, but by nature and preference, still, in many respects, a farmer.
She picked up her quill, examined the nib carefully, and began to write.
Dearest Cosimo,
Today I have set myself a challenge: within one page (I have allowed myself no more) I must state, with brevity but clarity, what it is that gives you such stature in my eyes.
Wealth? Certainly, in many men’s eyes and a comfort especially as old age approaches.
Power? You are respected universally. Although not always for the same reasons, or in the same manner. By some it is true you are feared, but only by men who have reason to fear. By others you are resented, but only by those less able than yourself or who have already failed when called upon.
After careful consideration (for a nunnery is a place for contemplation like no other, and it has been a long and dark winter) I have come to the conclusion that the source of your stature in so many men’s eyes (and some modest women who shall remain nameless) is the contradiction of your attitudes.
Who, for example, except those who, like me, know you well, would expect the richest man in the world to be modest in his way of life? How many nobles would understand a man who prefers chickpeas to venison, and who, when at home on his country estates, dresses so like his workers in the fields that he must be approached to within arm’s length before he can be recognised?
Who, amongst those who have seen you raised high, returning from exile in triumph and, in your leadership, gaining the support of every true man on the Signoria would understand your true humility, know the self-doubt that causes you to consider your actions so carefully, to lie awake at night, holding my hand, going over and over again the consequences of your actions?
Who, but those who know you as I do, who have so many reasons to be grateful to you, would expect the most powerful man in Europe (apart, of course, from His Holiness, who is beyond comparison) to be in his private life kindly and thoughtful, the favourite to nephews and grandsons alike, who would cause an ambassador to wait while he whittled a reed whistle for a young boy?
Cosimo, they know you not. Not in the way that I do. And if they, in their ignorance, hold you in such high regard, then consider how I must see you, from my position of greater knowledge.
Cosimo di Giovanni de’ Medici, I salute you!
Yours, in awe,
Maddalena.
Chapter 17
Memories
27th March 1458
As the light faded, Maddalena felt a chill and shivered. It had been a beautiful early spring day. The sort of day that offers a wicked promise of summer’s arrival, before stealing the dream away again, in a further buffet of icy cold wind. But today that promise had held; the air had remained still, and the valley had echoed to the songs of nesting birds. Now, well beyond four in the afternoon, the warmth of the sun’s rays was finally being lost and a bank of cloud was building up on the hills across the valley—a sure sign of more rain to come, and, by the look of it, soon. But at least it was rain, not snow.
***
The calling bell for Vespers chimed and Maddalena cast one last look over her work before putting it away. She had been writing since the end of morning Mass, breaking only for dinner and missing her supper in her frustration; trying and failing to find the right words. Throughout the day, her frustration had been increased by a feeling of exclusion. The patriarch and his retinue of bishops and servants had arrived at mid-morning, and had gone into conference with the abbess. From time to time, certain discrete had been called, no doubt to answer questions about their personal areas of responsibility, but there had been no need for Maddalena and she had not been called. And so she had retreated into her old life and back into her journal.
She had loved the journal when Cosimo had first given it to her. In her mind, it represented a link to him; a repository in which to save her thoughts temporarily until such time as he might visit and she could share them. But that had been at the beginning, when she, in her simplicity, had thought he might return within a week, two at the most. Indeed back then, she had even wondered whether it was worth writing at all, if he was going to be with her again so soon. But she had, finally, committed pen to paper.
The days had grown shorter. They had stretched into weeks, and winter had set in, dark and hard and merciless, and still no word.
She had picked up the journal many times, occasionally writing; but now the book had begun to take on a new personality in her eyes. Now the journal represented the absent Cosimo, the man she had begun to think of as the retreating Cosimo. Gradually, she had stopped loving it and had begun, although she barely admitted it to herself, to resent it.
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She looked back at what she had written in earlier weeks and wondered what conclusions would be drawn if the pages were read. They imparted no news. Hardly surprising, since there had been no events to be noted and described. Her life now, although safe and comfortable, had become repetitious and, with the notable exception of her regular conversations with the abbess, stultifying. Rereading them, she saw that what she had written were preparatory words, timeless words. Words considering the relationship between her and Cosimo, written, in part she now thought, to convince herself that they not only had once been true, but that they yet remained true.
As befitted their order and God’s commandment, the nuns in the convent were friendly enough. But it always felt like the friendship of good manners. With the exception of the off-duty abbess, the conversations contained no warmth, no personal exchange of secrets, no whispers of hopes, or admissions of uncertainties. It was as if each sister had responded to her incarceration by withdrawing ever deeper into herself, becoming encapsulated in a private shell of contemplation or simply, perhaps, of self-absorption.
Worse, Maddalena sensed that her own isolation was even greater than that of the other nuns. Slowly, as the winter progressed, she had come to realise that she was not, truly ‘one of them’ but was seen and perhaps always would be seen as an outsider. ‘The Medici Nun’ as she had overheard one of them call her; a tolerated outsider, whose role in their eyes would always be ‘the patron’s representative’ and as such, someone to be gently distrusted; to be handled with care, and with courtesy, but without any real warmth.
The loneliness that had grown with that knowledge had made her need for Cosimo all the greater, and her desire to write to him even stronger. Yet with that growing strength of need, had come a diminished confidence in what to say. No longer did she dare write directly into her journal, but had begun to write drafts, much corrected, on scraps of paper, before finally copying them in a fair hand onto the journal pages. It was as if the very act of writing had attained such importance that everything she thought to say seemed either far too trivial, or else, when it did seem to matter, the prospect of writing it became so threatening, that she hardly dared begin.
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