The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  James could almost read the irritation on Piero’s face. The man was probably wondering if Poole was wasting his time. Not that it mattered to James. If the diplomat was this ham fisted, it would be easy to suss out his plots without resorting to more devious means. James had sworn not to use the techniques his uncle had taught him unless his life was on the line.

  Finally the Englishman swallowed. He turned an even darker shade of red when he noticed that Piero wasn’t eating. “Apologies, Signore, the long journey through the heat has left me addled.”

  Piero gave a short nod.

  This was going to be even easier than James had hoped. The Englishman may have noticed his faux pas, but he showed himself even less cultured by speaking it aloud.

  The man took a deep breath and sat up straight. “Signore, I have traveled from England with a dire message. The siege on Harlech Castle is nearly lost, and with it the last scrap of land in Britain that is loyal to King Henry will fall. I have been sent to beg for support from Europe’s rulers, who must reject this usurpation of the throne. We cannot allow a stolen crown to rest on that usurper’s head.”

  A third error in as many minutes. The man was already requesting money before building any kind of relationship with Piero. That should come later, much later, and preferably over drinks.

  Did the man know nothing about Italy?

  Piero considered his guest with a flat look. “And what care should I have over the Lancasters and the Yorks? Or this so-called War of the Roses? Your squabbles mean little to us here in Florence.”

  The Englishman’s eyes widened. “What care?” he stumbled. “If upstart families believe they can simply seize power, it threatens every crown in Europe!”

  Piero leaned forward. “I, however, come from one of those upstart families.”

  Poole’s mouth fell open and the silence stretched on. Finally the visitor found his words. “The illustrious name of the Medici is known across Christendom,” he began. James flinched at his pronunciation of Medici—his error, common among Britons, was emphasizing the middle syllable, MehDEEci, instead of the flowing Tuscan MEHdici. “You stand for right over might. Margaret of Anjou, the true queen of England, holds court in France while her husband the king is locked in the Tower. She believes your family may be the salvation the Lancasters desire.”

  “Salvation, you say.” Piero leaned back. “And if Henry regains his throne? What benefit might come to Florence?”

  The Englishman opened his mouth, certainly preparing a flowery speech on divine right, but then closed it. “England is looking for a new bank.” He was a quick study, at least.

  “Then perhaps we do have something to discuss,” Piero said, plucking a piece of watermelon from the tray.

  ………………….

  Hours later, James stood by the door of Thomas Poole’s house on the edge of the city, loaned to him by Piero. Poole was rifling through a leather satchel while James stared at nothing, making himself invisible. He’d had a lot of practice in the last few years.

  The wealthiest families of Italy needed guards for protection, yet often forgot their protectors were flesh and blood. James knew that the most successful guards could blend into the background, only emerging at the slight change in tone from a master that indicated help was desired. He’d seen men shake on a deal and then curse each other’s name a second later. He’d stood by while patricians attempted to seduce each other’s wives and plotted attacks against their rivals. He’d held the arms of an upstart troublemaker while another guard pummeled him in the stomach.

  But for some reason, even after two years the Medici held him at arm’s length. James received his orders from Filippo or another of the family guards. He safeguarded deliveries and stood post outside the Medici Palace. He’d been to the Medici villa on the road to Fiesole, but only when the family wasn’t there. He rarely saw Piero or his son Lorenzo, and had never shared a room with Piero’s daughters.

  For a time James had been content with the pace of his work for the Medici, which didn’t demand much and left him a wealth of free time to pursue other interests. But this request from Piero could be the key to a new level of access with the family.

  James gritted his teeth. There were dangers in growing too close to the Medici. He’d kept his distance for more than one reason. Old friends might call in their favors.

  He pushed down the thought. Standing in Poole’s doorway, James needed to stay focused. If he didn’t bring back information about Poole, Piero wouldn’t risk giving him more assignments.

  Poole glanced up toward James, his eyes sliding past the guard to the open doorway behind him. “I can’t be late,” he muttered, pulling the satchel to his side. He hurried toward the door and James followed.

  The walk back to the Medici Palace would have taken five minutes, but Poole insisted on riding in his carriage. James wondered if the man was worried about showing up red in the face and sweaty again. But James stepped onto the back of the carriage as it pulled away and kept his thoughts to himself.

  The Medici Palace had been transformed in the few hours since James had left. The wide north doors had been thrown open, leading directly into the spacious northern courtyard. It was decorated in yellow and red flowers, draped as if they had sprouted from the stone walls. A woman played the lute in one corner while servants passed trays of exotic fruits and spiced meats. Willowy statues dotted the space. James had been in the courtyard a hundred times, but it never looked quite this fine.

  All this for an exiled English diplomat? It seemed out of character for Piero.

  But then James saw the men crowded around Piero. Filippo Strozzi, Giovanni Alberti, Jacopo de’ Pazzi, and Luca Pitti. Luca, the oldest, had to be at least seventy, and Filippo had just turned forty. They were the leading men from Florence’s most powerful families—the families that didn’t support Piero.

  The hairs on the back of James's neck stood up. He had a good sense for danger, and right now all his senses were screaming. Piero was planning something, and James didn’t like being left in the dark.

  And now he’d lost Poole. James scanned the courtyard. It wasn’t very big. Where could the Englishman have gone? James caught sight of the man’s scarlet doublet—of course, he’d gone straight to a servant handing out cups of wine. When James stepped back to the man’s side, Poole barely glanced up.

  James couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that followed him. He tried to keep an eye on Piero, as well as the men he’d spoken with, who quickly spread across the courtyard. And he couldn’t afford to lose Poole again. What had gotten into him? The last few days he’d been distracted. For the first time in years, Scotland haunted his dreams.

  Filippo Strozzi, decked out in silks that had a distinctly Neapolitan feel, stood with Piero’s wife, Lucrezia. James tried to remember if the Strozzi and Tornabuoni families were close. He’d have to ask Mazzeo. Giovanni Alberti and Jacopo de’ Pazzi were toasting something next to a statue of some Roman goddess. He couldn’t see Piero anywhere. And where was Luca Pitti?

  Night had fallen but the torches burning in the courtyard kept the party going. The sedate lute had been replaced by a more lively pipe and tambourine duo. A group of drunk humanists was daring each other to recite Dante’s verses backward.

  James wondered if he was the only person at the party who wasn’t in his cups. Poole had to be on his fourth—no, fifth—cup of wine. Apparently the redness in his face wasn’t just brought on by heat.

  James caught Piero whispering to his son Lorenzo near a staircase that led into the family’s quarters. Lorenzo nodded and skipped up the steps.

  Poole shuffled toward Piero. The men hadn’t spoken yet, though James couldn’t understand why Poole would wait until he could barely walk straight to approach the richest man in Italy.

  “Signore Medici! Buona sera!” Poole clapped a hand on Piero’s shoulder. James could see the man recoil at the touch.

  Not proper. Not proper at all.

  “Good evening
, Signore Poole,” Piero said smoothly. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the party.”

  “It’s fantastic,” the Englishman sputtered. “You have a beautiful home.”

  Piero nodded at the compliment and put a hand on Poole’s forearm. James had seen the move before—it was meant as a dismissal. Poole, of course, didn’t take the hint.

  “I’ve never heard such lute playing,” Poole droned, oblivious to the fact that the lute player had left by sunset. “English women just aren’t the same as your Florentine girls.” He nodded his head toward a dark-haired woman in embroidered blue silk who stood with her back to them.

  “Oh, have you met my wife, Lucrezia?” Piero gestured for the woman to turn. She approached, a placid look on her face. So James wasn’t the only one abstaining from drink.

  “Signore Poole, the pleasure is ours,” Lucrezia said with a slight nod. James had never stood so close to the woman—she didn’t look old enough to have five children. Her pale cheeks were unlined and her gray eyes sparkled in the torchlight. On top of her obvious beauty, Lucrezia had a reputation as a poet and patron of the arts—plus, James knew she was deeply involved in Florentine politics. He could see why Piero found her a good match.

  Poole gave an unsteady bow and lifted Lucrezia’s bare hand to his lips. “The pleasure is mine.” James had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

  “And how do you like Florence so far? This is your first visit to our fair city, yes?” Lucrezia was the picture of decorum.

  “It is a marvel, a modern wonder of the world. Your dome! And the flowers. I never want to leave.”

  Lucrezia smiled politely, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “I’ve heard wonderful things about England, as well.”

  Poole’s eyes lit up. “You have? It truly is a wonderful place, green like you wouldn’t believe. And London might not rival Florence, but it’s still a beautiful city. Or, it was, until those Yorkish pigs trampled on everything.”

  Piero stepped in, once again taking Poole’s arm. “We can discuss your war later. Tonight we celebrate.”

  Poole grumbled. “Yes, forgive me. My passions flare up at times.” He raised a cup. “To Florence!” He hadn’t noticed that his companion’s hands were empty. He lowered his glass. “I should be going . . .”

  “Thank you for gracing us with your presence,” Lucrezia said, stepping away to speak with other guests.

  “And we’ll speak more tomorrow,” Piero said, his eyes flashing to James for a second. James held his face steady, hiding his worries. He’d have nothing to report aside from Poole’s breaches of decorum.

  Poole nodded and made his way back toward the door. Thankfully, the man had enough sense not to take another cup from a passing servant. The Englishman stopped for a moment as if waiting for something. James used the opportunity to seek out Piero’s earlier companions again—Filippo Strozzi and Jacopo de’ Pazzi were whispering in the corner. What could they be discussing? Giovanni Alberti was saying farewell to Lucrezia. And Luca Pitti was once again absent. Maybe the man had turned in early. He was seventy, after all.

  But when James turned back to Poole, he caught a glimpse of a white-haired man handing Poole a folded paper, which the diplomat stuffed into the satchel still slung over his shoulder.

  Was that Luca Pitti? James stretched his neck but couldn’t get a glimpse of the man’s face. But what could Luca Pitti want with an English diplomat?

  He eyed Poole more closely. The man didn’t seem aware that James was watching, but the inebriated swaying had vanished. Poole strode toward the door as if he was as sober as a priest during Easter mass.

  James quickly ran over the events of the party. It couldn’t have been Luca Pitti. It didn’t make any sense.

  But the uneasy feeling trailed him long after he left the Medici Palace.

  Chapter Four

  Caterina didn’t stop running until she stood outside of the new Rucellai palace. The stone arches which she had so admired seemed somehow sullied, as if the preacher’s condemnation had tarnished them.

  She looked up at the building. Was it just a stone monument to the glory of the Rucellai? But everyone in Florence could appreciate the palazzo’s magnificence. It wasn’t an altar to worship wealth—it was a gift to the city.

  And yet the bitter sound of the preacher’s condemnation rang in her ears. Were there really so many people in Florence who hated her family?

  She dropped her eyes and pushed open the door.

  “My goodness, Caterina, what’s wrong?”

  The voice caught Caterina by surprise. But when she looked up it was just her sister Nannina. Her brown hair was pulled back over her shoulders and she wore a light gown that billowed around her pregnant belly. Nannina’s face was filled with worry.

  Caterina tried to picture how she must look after running half a mile through the streets of Florence. A flush of guilt swept over Caterina. No wonder Nannina was startled. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Caterina began.

  Before she could continue, Nannina reached out a hand and steadied Caterina. “I can guess what happened,” her sister said. “Here, let’s sit in the courtyard so we can talk.”

  Caterina trailed behind her sister. How could Nannina possibly know what was wrong? Caterina herself could barely put it into words. But she obediently sank onto a cushioned chair positioned in the shady courtyard.

  Nannina picked up a wide palm frond and began waving it toward her face, her dark locks blowing in the breeze. Then she brushed her fingers over Caterina’s hand. “I’ve been expecting this day for some time, to tell the truth.”

  Caterina opened her mouth and shut it again. Her mind felt thick like honey.

  “It happened much younger for me, of course, but that doesn’t always take away the shock,” Nannina continued, gesturing to a servant to bring water. “And of course you’d come to me.”

  Caterina finally found her words. “Nannina, what are you talking about?”

  “Father’s arranged a marriage for you.”

  The words knocked the air out of Caterina’s lungs.

  “Like I said, you’re already seventeen. Since you’re the youngest, I suppose they didn’t feel much pressure to marry you off sooner. I’m sure you’re nervous, but trust me, Caterina, it can be wonderful. I thought Bernardo was a boor when we first met, but now I’m so happy.” She caressed her belly as she spoke.

  Caterina’s eyes dropped to Nannina’s midsection. Marriage? Children? No, she’d come to Nannina to talk about their brothers and ask about the hateful preacher. But this?

  Did Nannina know of some plan to marry Caterina off? Had she been waiting for her younger sister to arrive in a tantrum so that the wise older sister could calm her down?

  Why would her parents confide in Nannina before they talked to Caterina?

  A shiver snaked up her spine in spite of the heat. Caterina was barely seventeen. True, most patrician’s daughters married by her age. Nannina, in fact, had been promised in matrimony when she was only thirteen, though the marriage didn’t occur until she turned eighteen.

  Caterina blinked as she realized that she would be eighteen in less than a year.

  Suddenly her childish envy of Giuliano’s freedom flooded back. He wasn’t expected to marry until he was thirty. If he didn’t want to wed, no one would force him. Giuliano could run the business, play at being a knight, and become the world’s best falconer, and no one would try to stop him.

  Marriage? The word kept floating through her mind.

  No. It wasn’t possible.

  Nannina was smiling. “We all go through the same thing, sister. It catches everyone off guard. But you’ll find a way to be happy.”

  Caterina nearly dropped the cup handed to her by the servant. She looked inside. Sweet lemon water, her sister’s favorite. Nannina barely drank anything else since she realized she was pregnant six months earlier. The baby might come any week now, though the midwife said it was still early.

  Nannina. Her dear older siste
r, about to become a mother.

  Caterina tried to imagine herself in the same position in a year. As hard as she strained to picture the heavy belly, she couldn’t. And it was even harder to imagine engaging in any behavior that might lead to pregnancy.

  She stood suddenly, her legs nearly collapsing beneath her. “I’m sorry, Nannina. I should go.”

  Nannina’s smile turned wistful. “Whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”

  Caterina set down the glass and gave Nannina a kiss on the cheek. The shock of Nannina’s news clung to her. Caterina felt like she was walking through a cloud.

  She retraced her steps until she was on the street in front of the palazzo. Her ears were ringing as though she’d just stood next to a firing cannon.

  Marriage.

  She had to get home and talk to her parents right away.

  Caterina willed her legs to stop shaking and headed back to the Medici Palace. She barely saw the fruit sellers on Via del Corso or the men hawking leather near the outdoor marketplace. But she did have enough sense to avoid the Piazza del Duomo. Caterina didn’t need another encounter with the preacher to weigh on her mind.

  As soon as she walked through the door of the Medici Palace, she stomped up to her parents' room. The shock had worn off on the walk and now she pictured herself like a falcon, cold and focused.

  When Caterina burst into the room, her father was sitting behind his desk in the study, her mother reading a manuscript in a nearby chair.

  “Caterina!” her mother Lucrezia said, putting down the sheaf of papers. “What’s wrong?”

  Caterina’s gaze jumped from her mother to her father. “Don’t you have some news for me? Did I have to hear it from Nannina?” Her parents exchanged a look. Piero gave a slight shake of his head as if perplexed. Were they really going to pretend not to know? “You don’t have to hide it anymore. She told me about the engagement.”