The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  “Si, Signore.”

  “Bene. There will be a reward for you, Giacomo, if you do a good job.” Piero gave James a nod that clearly dismissed him from the courtyard. James gave another bow and walked back into the palace, slipping past the portrait gallery and into the hidden interior of the palace, meant for servants and guards.

  James replayed the conversation in his mind. Since the coup, Piero jumped at shadows. Did he think the English might be plotting against him somehow? James doubted that even Piero’s paranoia would stretch that far.

  The man’s concerns usually rested closer to home. Piero would care if the English were talking to Venice, or the pope. Piero’s more recent enemies and allies, respectively, mattered more than the silly English war over succession.

  James didn’t expect to have much to report back to Piero, and yet that, too, carried its risks. What if the man suspected James of holding back for personal profit? There were potential rewards in this new mission, but also pitfalls.

  Another thought struck James as he stared at the wooden door separating the servants' quarters from the lavishly decorated palace. Piero had ordered James to guard the visitor, yes, but he’d also ordered him to spy.

  His stomach rolled and he steadied himself by placing a hand on the cool stone wall for support.

  James hated spies.

  Chapter Two

  Caterina de’ Medici placed a trembling finger on the leather hood of the falcon, a mere breath of air separating her flesh from the bird’s sharp beak. She took a deep breath and pulled off the hood.

  Instead of ripping at her hand or flying at her face, the falcon turned a golden eye on Caterina, as if sizing her up. Caterina held the bird’s gaze with her green-tinted eyes. She refused to look down at the black tip on the bird’s beak, as if the falcon had dipped her face into a pot of ink. And she ignored the trickle of sweat under the hot leather gauntlet that protected her wrist from the falcon’s sharp talons.

  Caterina wondered if the bird could hear her heart pounding in her chest.

  The falcon gave a tiny dip of its head and for a second Caterina’s stomach dropped.

  But then the falcon, which Caterina had named Bettina, turned its golden stare onto the grove of trees a hundred yards away. Chirping sparrows flew around the tree. Caterina could almost sense the falcon’s yearning to fly. Before the bird grew restless, Caterina gave two quick taps on her wrist and Bettina spread her wings to fly.

  The beating wings sent a gust of wind through Caterina’s hair. She smoothed it down absentmindedly without taking her eyes off the falcon. Bettina circled in the bright blue Tuscan sky. Caterina knew from experience that Bettina was tracking the sparrows, waiting for her mark. Bettina’s wings pumped almost lazily as Caterina tried to imagine the rush of soaring through the air a hundred yards above the ground. Her stomach flipped again at the thought.

  The falcon tucked her wings and went into a steep dive. Just went Caterina thought she’d crash into the leafy tree, Bettina caught a sparrow in her talons and flew back to the gentle grassy hill where Caterina stood.

  “Did you see that?” her younger brother Giuliano yelped. “What a catch!”

  Caterina didn’t respond. Instead, she used the clicking sounds she’d practiced earlier that day, which told Bettina to keep her catch. The falcon needed a reward for her work, after all.

  Giuliano bounced on the balls of his feet. “I’ve got to get a hawk like yours, Caterina.”

  She turned an eye on her brother. “It’s a falcon, not a hawk.”

  “Falcon, hawk. It’s the same difference. A bird that does your bidding. It’s even better than hunting with dogs.”

  Caterina rolled her eyes at Giuliano’s enthusiasm. “You better learn the difference, or Master Bruglio will never give you a bird of your own.”

  Giuliano’s nose scrunched up. “Why do I need old Bruglio? I’ll just take a bird, like you did.”

  “I didn’t take Bettina,” Caterina reminded him. “I bought her.” It was the only way to get a falcon of her own, after all. Bruglio didn’t think girls should be allowed to hunt, and her father unfortunately agreed.

  That hadn’t stopped Caterina, though. She’d read every book she could find about falconry and quizzed her older brother Lorenzo about techniques. Then she’d ridden all the way to Fiesole with two of her maids to visit the convent of San Domenico. Her mother thought Caterina was praying for victory in Florence’s upcoming battle with Venice, but she’d actually visited a nun who kept falcons.

  One prayer, a donation to the church, and two bribes for her maids, and Caterina owned a falcon.

  That had been a year ago. Since then, Caterina had found a man on the south edge of town, just across the Ponte Vecchio, willing to care for her falcon and she took Bettina out whenever she could slip away.

  Everything had been perfect––until last week, when Giuliano followed her and uncovered her secret.

  Caterina had only kept him from telling everyone by promising he could watch her next falconry session.

  She had to admit that it was nice to share her hidden pursuit with someone as excited as Giuliano. He asked her about every step of the process and complimented her form, even though he knew nothing about falconry. Although he’d dressed strangely today, all in black as if he were an assassin. Sometimes her brother didn’t seem to know fantasy from reality.

  But he hadn’t teased her at all about wanting to learn falconry, even though as the youngest daughter of Piero de’ Medici, Caterina was not supposed to be hunting anything but a husband.

  Still, Caterina knew her days as a falconer were numbered now that Giuliano knew. Her younger brother meant well, but he couldn’t keep a secret. Sooner or later he’d slip up and tell one of his friends, or his guard, or their brother Lorenzo.

  Caterina waited until Bettina was done feasting on the sparrow and tapped her wrist for the bird to return. Bettina settled onto the leather gauntlet with a flutter of her wings and held still while Caterina reattached the hood.

  A dark cloud settled on Caterina. Was this the last time she’d hunt with Bettina?

  Giuliano didn’t pick up on her mood. As they walked through the field he chattered on about some girl he’d danced with at a feast last week and his tutor’s ridiculous insistence that he craft a poem in terza rima. “I’d gladly write a poem if I could pen a lovely verse for Mia,” Giuliano burst out. “Doesn’t poetry make women fall in love?”

  He turned to Caterina as if she were the expert on love. She shoved him with her right arm, the one she wasn’t holding steady to provide a perch for her falcon. “I’m pretty sure your poetry won’t win any hearts.”

  Giuliano laughed. Since his fifteenth birthday a few months earlier, he’d become obsessed with girls. Not that he’d been very successful, Caterina knew. He’d managed a kiss with a Tornabuoni girl—a cousin, but distant enough that it wasn’t scandalous—but Giuliano’s wooing powers were more theoretical than actual. Which meant he talked a lot for someone who’d only kissed one girl.

  “I’d still rather write a love poem than some terrible imitation of Dante,” Giuliano concluded. And then he was telling her about his wrestling lessons and the time he pushed one of his friends into the Arno River on a dare.

  Caterina shook her head. Giuliano didn’t seem to mind being the youngest in the family, but then, he was a boy. He was allowed to wrestle and dance with girls. He could leave the palace whenever he desired. And if he wanted to learn falconry, all he had to do was ask Master Bruglio.

  Less than two years separated Caterina from her youngest brother, but their lives were worlds apart.

  By the time they had returned Bettina and walked back to the Medici Palace, Caterina’s dark cloud had turned into a thunderstorm. So when her older brother Lorenzo stepped in her path, Caterina nearly snapped his head off.

  “What do you want?” she snarled.

  “It’s not you I want,” he replied lightly—Lorenzo didn’t ruffle easily—“Gi
uliano, you missed another meeting today.”

  Giuliano looked at his feet, a red blush rising in his cheeks. “Those meeting are so boring. Wouldn’t you rather be outside hunting?” Caterina shot an icy glare at her younger brother. If he spilled her secret to get out of attending bank meetings, she’d make him regret it. Giuliano caught the look and nearly yelped. “Or, or wrestling? Maybe archery? Just something outside,” he sputtered.

  Lorenzo sighed. They had replayed this argument a thousand times. As the eldest son, Lorenzo was expected to take over the family’s bank and rule Florence. Giuliano was supposed to learn everything Lorenzo knew, just in case. Their family didn’t take chances.

  And I’m supposed to get married, like my older sisters, Caterina fumed. Apparently double-entry bookkeeping and loaning money at interest was more than her feeble female brain could manage.

  It chafed that Giuliano spent all his time avoiding his familial obligations when Caterina would gladly trade places with him.

  Lorenzo apparently couldn’t stop himself from falling into his old lecturing tone. “Hunting, wrestling, and archery didn’t make our family powerful. We don’t rule Florence through military domination. Do you think grandfather took control of the city by challenging everyone to a duel?”

  Giuliano shook his head but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “That’s not how we rule,” Lorenzo continued. “We aren’t aristocrats, we aren’t armored knights fighting for glory. We’re a new kind of ruler.”

  The kind without a title, Caterina thought. But she held her tongue, too. Lorenzo didn’t respond fondly to interruptions when he was in the middle of a monologue.

  “You can waste your time on those base pursuits, but not at the expense of your useful training. If you don’t know how to run the bank, you’ll never run Florence.”

  Giuliano’s downturned face shouted that he didn’t want to run Florence. But Lorenzo ignored that, as usual. When had their older brother become such an adult?

  Six months ago he had been just like Giuliano, more content on horseback than behind a desk. But then he’d turned nineteen and a few weeks later their father’s illness had flared up. With Piero in bed, Lorenzo had taken over running everything—the bank, the family, the city—and even when their father recovered, the preview of Lorenzo’s future had changed him.

  But their family wasn’t just the richest in Florence, they were the richest in Italy, maybe all of Europe. Who would dare take on the Medici? Plus, their father was barely fifty. It would be another decade or more before the full weight of Medici responsibility fell on Lorenzo’s shoulders. Her brother’s anxiety was embarrassing—it showed a lack of confidence unbecoming of their name.

  Lorenzo turned his still gaze on Caterina. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Caterina wiped the sour expression from her face. “Nothing.”

  He lowered an eyebrow at her but didn’t press further. Instead, Lorenzo pointed at Giuliano. “One of our cousins is in town to report on our branch in Rome. You’re coming to the meeting.”

  Giuliano groaned, but he fell into step behind Lorenzo anyway, giving Caterina a shrug as he trailed their brother up the hallway.

  She tried to shake off the frustration that had settled into her bones. But she’d never be able to do that in the palace. There was always someone who wanted to teach her how to play the lute or work on her Greek. Usually she enjoyed her studies, but not today. Not when everything reminded her that her brothers were destined for greatness, while she was a historical afterthought.

  So she left the palace, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the guard posted at the door when she breezed past by herself.

  She wasn’t supposed to wander the city by herself, but this wasn’t exactly wandering. Caterina knew where she was going.

  Caterina headed south toward the river. As she skirted the Piazza del Duomo, she spied a mob crowding in front of the cathedral. She shook her head. These preachers were becoming more of a problem. Most of them weren’t officially sanctioned by the church, and according to her father, they undermined the family’s power. Caterina wasn’t quite sure how that was possible, but she knew that most of the wandering preachers who found their way to Florence were quietly asked to leave.

  Curiosity tugged at her, though. She’d never been close enough to hear what the preachers said that was so dangerous. Caterina inched toward the cathedral, keeping an eye out for anyone who might recognize her as Piero’s youngest daughter.

  The preacher had snow-white hair even though his face was smooth and unlined. But it was his eyes that caught Caterina’s attention. They were a piercing blue, the color of a winter’s dawn. Even from a dozen yards away she could see the icy fire in his eyes before she heard his words.

  “What danger is there in a trinket like a strand of pearls or an alabaster comb? What danger in appreciating the beauty of the world?” His voice was low enough that everyone in the crowd leaned forward to hear. “What harm could there be in desiring wealth and luxury? Look around you. Florence is the richest city in the world. And what does Florence build?” He gestured not at the massive marble church topped with the only dome built since antiquity, but instead at the houses ringing the piazza. Caterina followed his gaze, her eyes catching on the perfectly symmetrical arches on one building that had just been completed. It echoed the style of her family’s palace.

  “You Florentines build stone monuments to your families—the Pitti, the Rucellai, the Medici. You build altars that worship wealth. These families even buy up private chapels in the church and decorate them for their own glory.”

  Caterina shivered at the mention of her family. What did this preacher mean, inciting anger against the Medici? He’d find no receptive audience in Florence, she was certain.

  And yet the people were nodding along to his words. One man even sneered at a passing patrician and spat on the ground. Caterina took a step back, her heart pounding.

  With each sentence the preacher grew louder and raised his hands higher, until he reached a crescendo that crashed over the listeners. “This glory has another name—pride. Instead of honoring God, these greedy men worship gold.” He spat out the word as if it were a curse.

  Caterina frowned. What was wrong with wealth? Her family gave generously to the church—they were bankers to the pope, after all—and cared for the weak and poor of Florence. Yes, they had a palace, but the Medici had also given generously to build churches all across the city, including the massive structure behind the preacher. They commissioned beautiful works of art to decorate the city, and her grandfather had used his own money to prevent Florence from falling into bankruptcy. Would this preacher rather see the city collapse into ruin?

  Still, the men crowded around the preacher nodded at his words, as if the Medici had done nothing for Florence. Suddenly Caterina felt exposed, standing at the edge of the crowd of workers who pulsed in the rhythm of the preacher’s words.

  His voice boomed through the piazza. “Greed has corrupted Florence. This sinful city must pray for a purifying fire to wipe away the wickedness, or God’s wrath will rain down on all of you.”

  Caterina took one last look at the almost rabid sparkle in the preacher’s eye and ran.

  Chapter Three

  The English diplomat had chosen a terrible day to arrive in Florence.

  A layer of humid air settled into the city with not a single breeze to lessen the crushing heat. Under his stiff red uniform, rivers of sweat were already coursing down James's back, and he didn’t want to imagine how awful the Englishman must feel. James, at least, had years of experience adjusting to Mediterranean summers.

  When the diplomat stepped from his carriage, an embroidered green doublet cinched around his chest, his face was the color of a strawberry. Piero greeted the man with a reserved nod, calculated precisely for the prestige of the visitor.

  “Signore Medici,” the Englishman said in heavily accented Tuscan. “I am Thomas Poole, representing the True King of Engla
nd, Henry VI and his Queen, Margaret of Anjou.”

  Piero gave another nod. “Welcome to Florence. I look forward to the friendship between our people.” It was a bland diplomatic phrase, but the Englishman grinned nonetheless. Piero lead his guest into the cool interior of the palace, where the thick stones held on to night’s chill even in the heat of the day. James followed the pair into the foyer. “My guard, Giacomo, will see to your protection while you are in Florence. As a guest of the Medici, it is my honor to offer you the service of one of my most trusted guards.”

  Poole shot a glance at James, just long enough for him to make a quick bow, before the Englishman turned his attention back onto Piero. “That is most generous, Signore.”

  James followed the pair down a wide staircase into one of many underground rooms. This one was decorated with frescoes and felt practically Alpine compared with the shimmering heat outside.

  “We’ve prepared a feast in your honor tonight,” Piero said as his guest settled into a chair. “But I’m sure you’d appreciate some cooling watermelon after your journey.” He gestured to the plate of crisp, pink melon laid out between them. James's mouth watered at the sight, but he took his place next to the door wordlessly.

  “Thank you,” the Englishman replied. He reached for a piece and took a bite.

  Piero leaned back in his seat and watched the man chew. Only minutes into their first encounter and the Englishman had already shown himself ignorant of Florentine customs, James knew. Piero liked to test his visitors with exotic fruits—were they more interested in tasting a rare treat, or negotiating with the head of the Medici bank? Few Italians failed the test. They knew to wait until Piero reached for a piece before taking one for themselves.