The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  “Engagement?” Piero rose to his feet slowly and walked around the desk. Caterina could see the pain in his eyes when he stood, though he hid it well.

  “My engagement.”

  Lucrezia let out a small laugh. “Caterina, we haven’t arranged a marriage for you.”

  Caterina’s head spun. Were her ears still ringing? She sank into a chair near the door. “You didn’t?”

  Piero took another step closer. “Caterina, we’d tell you before we did any such thing.”

  She let out a shaky breath as relief washed over her. Had it only been a misunderstanding? Was it possible Nannina jumped to the wrong assumption? Caterina let out a more measured breath.

  Then she wouldn’t have to get married. She didn’t have to worry about being pregnant in a year.

  But the relief was short. Nannina was right. Caterina was seventeen. Maybe she wouldn’t get married this summer, or in the fall, but the day had to be coming soon. Caterina looked back at her parents. Lucrezia appeared amused by her daughter’s panic. “But you do want me to wed, eventually.”

  Lucrezia crossed the room and took her daughter’s hand. “Yes.” She paused for a moment. “Just as Bianca and Nannina are married.”

  The fire began to rise in Caterina’s belly again. “And have you picked a family? The Pazzi? The Rucellai? Perhaps the Alberti?”

  Piero sighed. “We’ve been approached about your hand by a number of families,” he admitted.

  Was everyone in Florence talking about her impending wedding day?

  Lucrezia added, “But just like Bianca and Nannina, we’d make sure you approved of the match, too. Most girls don’t have that luxury, but we believe it makes for a happier union.”

  “And if I don’t want to wed?”

  The question hung in the air. She saw Piero try to catch Lucrezia’s eye, but her mother was gazing toward the window.

  “Caterina,” her mother began. “Marriage is the most important way you can help the family. Your wedding will bind us to another family and bring prestige to the Medici name.”

  “You mean help Lorenzo and Giuliano,” Caterina muttered. After all, once she married she wouldn’t be a Medici anymore. Lucrezia was still close with her Tornabuoni family, but everyone saw her as a Medici.

  “Yes, of course help Lorenzo and Giuliano,” Piero said. Caterina could hear the weariness in his voice, and for a second she regretted pushing her father. She knew his illness plagued him more than most people realized. “They will take over the family once I’m gone, and you can help strengthen their position in Florence.”

  Caterina looked at her mother. She saw a hint of sadness in the woman’s eyes. But Lucrezia held her tongue. Caterina’s eyes jumped back to her father. “I can help in other ways, too,” she insisted. “I’ve got a better head for figures than Giuliano and I understand how to build relationships with powerful people.”

  A faint smile touched her father’s lips. “Caterina, marriage is the best way for you to build alliances. Just as Nannina brought us closer with the Rucellai.”

  “But what about my training in poetry? Couldn’t I build our legacy by writing a poem?”

  This time, Lucrezia stepped in. “Caterina, of course we’re very proud of your poetry. But you can continue your artistic pursuits as a wife. And you will be an asset to your husband’s business.”

  “Just as your mother has been a help to me,” Piero added. “The Medici could not run Florence without Lucrezia Tornabuoni.” Lucrezia dipped her head to acknowledge the compliment.

  But Caterina wasn’t convinced. After all, had she only been training to become a wife during her seventeen years on earth? There had to be more. She had so much more to offer.

  Maybe if she told them about her falconry, or the treatise she’d been writing about the ancient Roman Lucrezia. Would that prove her worth in her parents' eyes? Caterina felt her hope evaporating. She was the third daughter, after all. If Bianca and Nannina had married for the family, then Caterina should, too.

  And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she discovered the right formula to show her worth, maybe her parents would reconsider.

  But that wouldn’t happen in one day.

  Caterina reined in the confusion swirling in her chest. Instead, she gave a short bow to her parents and excused herself. The wooden soles of her shoes clacked against the stone stairs as she walked to her room.

  She’d simply prove she was more valuable as a Medici than as a bride.

  Chapter Five

  Thomas Poole was not who he seemed.

  James had reached that conclusion when the man had dismissed him before the carriage even reached a full stop outside his house. “Your services won’t be required any further tonight,” Poole had said in an even, cool voice.

  James had nodded and slipped away without a word.

  What was on the paper Poole had picked up at the party? And had it been from Luca Pitti? James's skin tingled at the thought of Piero’s most outspoken enemy collaborating with the English diplomat.

  Questions flew through James's mind, but he knew he’d find no answers standing on the street after midnight. So he went home.

  His home wasn’t quite a home—more a place to sleep. He rented a room from a cranky old widow, Signora Gerta, who kept tabs on all the guards who rented space from her. And if anyone pointed out the impropriety of a house full of handsome young guards living with one widow, she’d laugh and wink, cackling, “It’s quite scandalous in my dreams, let me tell you!”

  But Gerta was long in bed by the time James treaded up the steps, making sure to skip the squeaky one. He eased open his door and sunk onto the thin, straw-filled mattress. Before he got too comfortable, he pulled off the stiff red uniform worn by all Medici guards and propped open a window, just in case a breeze wandered through Florence.

  The heat of the day had barely broken with dusk. With a sigh, James rolled back on the bed and tried to get comfortable.

  But his mind wouldn’t still.

  His simple task of listening in on Poole’s English conversations had become immeasurably more complicated. And as much as the twists and turns of a complex plot called to James like a siren song, he also felt the tightness in his chest that signaled his own anxiety. He’d sworn off spying for a reason.

  And now, after he’d avoided spying for nearly three years, one day of following Thomas Poole had pulled James back into the lifestyle. Keeping his eyes on three people at once. Instantly assessing every person’s intoxication, mood, truthfulness. And scrutinizing his own reactions for anything out of the ordinary.

  The rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins when he uncovered a clue. The satisfaction of watching a complex puzzle fall into place.

  James had quickly learned that he had a natural intuition for suspicious behavior. The hairs on his arms stood up in the presence of a thief. The skin between his shoulder blades itched if someone was lying. His scalp tingled before an aristocrat signaled for the coup to go forward.

  The skill had made him quite a bit of money in Aragon, in Savoy, and even for a brief time in France.

  But James had refused to continue down that path. It was too risky.

  He went from spy to guard and never looked back.

  And yet he couldn’t ignore the itch he felt tonight—not the itch that signaled duplicity, but the one that indicated his desire. He felt alive in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. It was like slipping into a comfortable silk robe—not that James knew what that felt like, exactly, but he could imagine.

  What if he caught this Poole out in a lie? What if he proved himself to Piero? Could he become a Medici spy?

  James shook off the thoughts and closed his eyes tightly. He’d vowed never to spy again. One night of intrigue didn’t change that.

  But the next morning, James snuck into Thomas Poole’s house before the man awoke. The memory of the paper slipped into Poole’s hand last night tormented James. He had to find that paper.

>   It was easy to jiggle open the door. The house was a Medici property, after all, and James was a Medici guard.

  He avoided the bedroom and slipped into the study. There were papers on the desk but he didn’t see any leather bags. Would Poole keep the potentially incriminating paper on his body? If so, this was a fool’s errand.

  But men like Poole often carried more than one secret.

  James quickly stepped behind the desk and riffled through the papers. Letters of introduction from Margaret of Anjou, a report on some castle in Wales, and a list of Italian families—the Este, the Sforza, the Gonzaga. It looked like Poole was planning to visit the rulers of every major power on the Italian Peninsula.

  But was he only looking for help for the Lancaster cause? Or did something more drive his mission?

  James knew about the War of the Roses, of course. It flared up as soon as the Hundred Years' War finally ended. James had been a lad of not quite ten when his uncle reported the Englishmen slaughtering each other with a laugh. To a Scot, it was a lucky turn. Instead of killing Scots, the English had their hands full with each other. James remembered the crinkle in his uncle’s eye as he related the Yorkish victory.

  They didn’t root for either side, of course. They rooted against both.

  And now, thirteen years later, the Yorks had claimed victory. The Lancaster King Henry VI was locked away in the tower and the crown sat on the golden head of young Edward IV. Since he’d left Scotland against his will, James had barely followed the conflict—he’d avoided everything north of Paris for years. England seemed miles away from the sunny, rolling hills of Tuscany. What did the Italians care for the War of the Roses, as long as it didn’t disrupt their trading interests?

  The Lancastrians must be desperate to send Poole to Italy for help.

  As far as James could tell, most Italians didn’t pay any attention to English disputes. A handful of Italian merchants had visited London, but most returned to report that the city was small, poor, and unimpressive compared to Italy’s capitals. The daughters and sons of Italian rulers learned French, German, and Spanish in addition to Greek and Latin, but few bothered with English, which was seen as unimportant.

  After all, that’s why Piero had asked James to watch Poole. The Englishman would never assume that his guard spoke the language.

  A noise broke James's attention. A clatter from somewhere else in the house. His eyes darted not to the door but the small window behind him, which wasn’t a very good escape route. James would find a way through the window if necessary. But the noise didn’t repeat.

  It was past time for him to leave. Suddenly his cheeks burned. What was he thinking, acting like a spy? This fool-hearty mission had turned up nothing of use and it wasn’t worth risking a confrontation with Poole.

  And then a paper caught his eye.

  It looked like a partial letter, scrawled on a torn manuscript sheet. It was written in English with a sprinkling of code words. Something about the letter tugged at James. He reached out for it. There was no address at the top of the page and the writer’s name had been torn off. Was it from Poole or to him? The letter ended in a jagged tear of paper—had Poole destroyed it? Before or after reading the conclusion?

  James didn’t stick around to find out. He tucked the paper into his shirt and silently snuck out the house.

  Dawn was just breaking when James found himself back on the streets of Florence. The paper felt warm against his skin, though he knew it had to be his imagination. James took one last look at the building and turned toward the city wall. He’d need a quiet place to read the letter.

  His steps echoed in the chill morning air. Within minutes James had arrived at a place he’d etched in his memory—it was a depression cut into the city wall, perhaps a guard post in some century past, but now it stood empty. James stepped into the space, checked that he wasn’t visible from the road, and pulled the paper from his shirt.

  Poole had to be the recipient of the letter—the foolish man had scratched out a translation of the code words right above them. Instead of unreadable dots, circles, and waves, the code unraveled before James's eyes. He’d always had a knack for codes. Before reading the letter’s text, James studied the codes and their translations. It was a simple cipher, each symbol standing in for a letter. Four dots for an “e,” two for “a,” and a circle for an “o.” Children in Milan could come up with a better cipher.

  But James's chest tightened as he read. Edward . . . Henry . . . Louis. How many king’s names could fit in one letter?

  He jumped to the English text, holding his breath steady even while his pulse quickened.

  The time draws near to take back the rightful crown. The usurper will regret seizing what did not belong to him. When we capture Edward, he must be dispatched immediately so there can be no dispute about Henry’s right to the throne.

  As you have no doubt heard, our plan to use the war between Louis and the Burgundians to drive the French to our side has been successful. Yet Margaret demands greater allies still. You must use your time in Italy to bring the shepherd to our cause. Use the bankers if neces—

  In spite of himself, James flipped over the paper, hoping for some words on the back of the sheet. But it was blank.

  He read over the text a second time, more slowly. On the surface, it was obviously a plot between supporters of the Lancaster king, Henry, to retake his throne, and murder England’s current monarch.

  But the next paragraph left James cold. King Louis of France had always stayed out of the English war, preferring to ignore his enemy rather than engage them. But was he working behind the scenes to support Henry? Why? James couldn’t see how that would benefit the French—Henry was a doddering old man who had been slightly insane even before he’d been locked in the tower for four years.

  Unless Louis wanted an unpredictable, unstable ruler in England.

  James knew Louis had clashed with the Burgundians. If the Lancastrians had used the conflict to curry favor with Louis, they were more adept at diplomacy than James had expected. Louis's support could turn the tide in the War of the Roses.

  But the part that made James's blood run cold was the last line. Poole had come to Florence to seek favor with the Medici, but so far he’d done everything wrong—he’d insulted Piero, practically leered at Lucrezia, and acted like a boor. But what if that was his goal? Last night, the man had seemed drunk enough to collapse, and yet his intoxication vanished the moment he walked out of the palace.

  James swallowed hard. He’d written off Poole as a buffoon, a means to an end. But what if he’d read everything wrong?

  “Bring the shepherd to our cause. Use the bankers if necessary.”

  The shepherd had to be the pope. It couldn’t be anyone else, not if Margaret of Anjou, the Queen in exile, wanted an ally greater than the King of France.

  But what plot could drive the pope to openly support the Lancastrians? The current pope, Paul II, had carefully avoided taking sides in England’s dispute after the previous pope’s legate to England, Francesco Coppini, provided aid to the Yorkists when they promised to support the pope’s crusade against the Turks. The scandal had infuriated the Lancastrians and their allies on the continent, and since then popes had avoided openly interjecting in England’s civil war.

  The bankers. The bankers had to be the Medici. What part did the Medici play in Poole’s game? As bankers to the pope, was Poole hoping that by winning over Piero, the man would put in a good word with the pope?

  Then why was Poole driving Piero in the opposite direction with his rude behavior?

  A wagon rolled past and the noise jarred James from his thoughts. He quickly folded the paper and slipped it back in his shirt.

  The haze of a poor night’s sleep still hung on his mind. The letter felt like a riddle that he couldn’t quite crack, even as he strained for clarity. But now that James had the scent, he couldn’t drop the mystery.

  A ray of sunlight hit the top of the stone wall. It was pa
st time for James to return to his post guarding Thomas Poole. But today he’d watch much closer.

  Chapter Six

  “Fiametta? Fiametta!” Caterina called for her chambermaid. Where had the girl gone?

  Instead of her maid, Giuliano poked his head through the door. “What’s all the hollering?”

  Caterina’s tolerance for her brother was thin. “I’m supposed to get dressed for the dinner party tonight, and I can’t find Fiametta.” She looked over at the dress her mother had delivered earlier in the day. It was beautiful, Caterina had to admit. The sky-blue fabric was cut in the front to a deep V that revealed the golden silk below it. The sleeves were also cut short to show off the more expensive cloth.

  The kirtle would be easy enough to slip into without help, but the voluminous skirt, dotted with elaborate gold embellishments, weighed so much that Caterina struggled to lift it on her own.

  Plus, she needed someone to do her hair.

  Where was Fiametta?

  Instead of being useful, Giuliano leaned against the doorway. “Caterina, you wouldn’t believe how boring that meeting was yesterday. I almost went out of my mind. They kept prattling on about alum, or anum, I can’t even remember.”

  “Alum.”

  Giuliano barely noticed her. “All I could think was how I’d rather be outside doing anything else. I’d even shovel horse manure if it got me out of those meetings.”

  Fire rose up in Caterina’s belly. “And would you rather put on a dress and marry a stranger for the good of the family?”

  Giuliano recoiled as if she’d slapped him. Caterina quite enjoyed shocking him.

  “You should be glad Father sees your brain as worthy, though I don’t know why he’d make that judgment. You don’t even know what alum is, and Father’s staking the future of our family on it. But you can’t be bothered.”

  Giuliano finally closed his gaping mouth. “I do too understand alum. It’s for cloth. Or something.”

  Caterina rolled her eyes. “It’s used to fix dyes in cloth, and if you haven’t noticed, half of Florence’s manufacturers are involved in cloth making. The Turks—you know, the same ones who sacked Constantinople and raid our coasts—have a monopoly on alum. Or they did, until the pope realized he was sitting on a huge alum mine in Tolfa. Father wants an exclusive contract to control the mines, but the pope keeps throwing up roadblocks. And you couldn’t even be bothered to listen at the meeting.”