The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  Her brother’s face crumpled, and for a second Caterina felt guilty. But then Giuliano straightened and met her gaze. “It’s too bad you’re a girl.” And then he vanished down the hall before she could throw anything at him.

  But her temper faded faster than she’d expected. After all, Giuliano was right. Caterina looked back at the dress on the bed. Tonight, she’d make witty conversation with the guest seated next to her during the party, probably the wife of some powerful Roman patrician. She’d impress everyone with her poise and eloquence. She’d show off the family’s wealth by parading around in a dress that cost more than most families made in a year. And then she’d come back to her room to wait until the next time her parents decided to trot her out, the prize to dangle in front of their friends and rivals.

  Caterina sank on the bed, shoving the billowing skirt to the side. She’d sat up half the night puzzling through ways to show her parents that she could help the family. But apparently she’d only convinced Giuliano, who didn’t really matter.

  Caterina’s moping was interrupted when Fiametta rushed into the room, her chestnut hair spilling out of its tie. Caterina frowned at her maid. She wasn’t supposed to run off in the middle of the day.

  “Scusi, Signorina, I lost track of time.”

  Caterina’s eyes trailed down Fiametta’s simple brown dress. Her hair wasn’t the only thing that was disheveled. Fiametta caught the look and smoothed her wrinkled hem. Caterina narrowed an eye at the girl. One look at Fiametta told the entire tale—she must have been with a man.

  Caterina’s lips flattened into a thin line. That sort of behavior was unacceptable for a Florentine girl, even if Fiametta didn’t come from an illustrious family like the Medici. Caterina tried to remember if she was an orphan, like many of the servant women. Even though Fiametta had waited on her for years, Caterina couldn’t recall, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of question you could ask. Still, her father would have something to say if the girl had taken a lover.

  Fiametta fidgeted under Caterina’s gaze. Caterina gave her one last look, a look that hopefully conveyed “I’m watching you,” before she turned to the dress. “I’ll need your help preparing for tonight’s dinner.”

  Fiametta let out a gasp of air and rushed to the dress. “Of course. And your hair? Would you like me to curl it?”

  Caterina nodded and let Fiametta manipulate her into the garment.

  They might be the same age, true, but Fiametta was a servant. She wasn’t expected to marry, and if she did it would be because she wanted to, not because her parents ordered it. If she had parents.

  As Fiametta began to tug at Caterina’s honey-kissed hair, Caterina tried to imagine what kind of man Fiametta might marry. A cloth maker? A baker? Obviously not a man from any of the higher guilds—the bankers, lawyers, physicians, and the merchants who ran the city. No, Caterina’s future husband would come from that class. But for Fiametta, maybe an artisan.

  Once she was dressed, Caterina sank into a cushioned chair so Fiametta could work on her hair.

  If the maid had chosen a man on her own, Caterina hoped the girl hadn’t been too foolish. Taking up with the son of some wealthy patrician was a good way to get your heart broken. Fiametta might bear him a few bastards, but by the time he wed a girl from the patrician class, poor Fiametta would be too old to find a husband of her own.

  “Ouch!” Caterina sprung back as Fiametta gave a tug on a knot in her hair. “Careful!”

  Fiametta’s soft apologies washed over Caterina. She went back to following the wanderings of her mind.

  How could she convince her parents that she was more valuable as a Medici?

  The bank . . . the alum mine . . . Piero had a dozen advisors whispering in his ear about the family’s financial investments. It had been a while since they’d commissioned a fantastic work of art. Caterina still remembered the cheerful artist who’d lived in the palazzo for two years as he completed the fresco cycle showing the Medici as the Magi visiting the Christ child. Caterina had been eight when Benozzo Gozzoli finished his masterpiece. She still remembered bursting out in applause during the unveiling ceremony. Could she find another artist to make art to celebrate the Medici? Maybe something like the statues on the cathedral, or Orsanmichele?

  But then the preacher flashed into her mind, his dark words swirling like eddies in the rapids. Were there really so many in Florence who hated her family? Caterina couldn’t remember any hints of dissent, other that the trouble two years ago. Her mother had assured her it was nothing, just a minor dispute between families. But then the number of guards had tripled.

  Caterina’s breath caught in her throat. Her family’s problem wasn’t money or prestige—it was the envy they inspired in their rivals. She ran through a list of names in her head—the Pazzi, the Albizzi, the Strozzi, the Alberti, the Pitti—they surely yearned for the power wielded by the Medici. Even the preacher and his shabby followers probably longed for the same wealth they condemned when it was held by others.

  And her future husband would no doubt come from one of those families. Her two older sisters had been married into the Pazzi and the Rucellai, binding those family’s fates to the Medici. Her parents would do the same with Caterina.

  But what if she could somehow command the allegiance of families without marriage?

  Fiametta flittered around Caterina, piling the fresh curls on her head. The hot curling rod wove in and out of her hair without even warming Caterina’s skin. Fiametta was so good at her job. It would be a shame if she had to quit because she fell pregnant out of wedlock.

  Caterina smoothed her skirts and admired the gold embroidery. Up close, it almost held a geometric pattern.

  The dinner.

  Caterina suddenly sat up straighter. In an hour, she’d be sitting across the table from Florence’s most powerful patricians. All she had to do was keep her ears open. What if she uncovered a plot against the family? Then, surely, her parents would see her worth.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Instead of sitting contently with the women and discussing Leon Battista Alberti’s most recent poem, Caterina would eavesdrop on the men.

  Fiametta tapped her shoulder and held up the mirror so that Caterina could study her hair. A smile sprung to Caterina’s lips as she studied herself. The coils trailing around her head almost looked like laurel leaves, as if she were a Roman general, returning from the battlefield victorious. “It’s magnificent, Fiametta,” Caterina breathed. She took one last look. It was the perfect adornment to carry her through the evening.

  An hour later, Caterina stood in the galleria room. The golden walls shimmered in the fading sunlight and the billowy white clouds on the frescoed ceiling almost gave the impression of being outside. This was one of the first rooms her grandfather Cosimo had ordered the architects to finish, because he knew the importance of impressing guests. And it was where Piero threw his most lavish dinners.

  Caterina swept into the room on her brother Lorenzo’s arm, his unofficial escort. As they entered, Caterina scanned the space for her targets—she had to treat this like a professional, after all. Filippo Strozzi and his young wife stood with Lucrezia. At the other end of the hall, Luca Pitti was laughing at a joke told by a man Caterina didn’t recognize. Nannina and her husband Bernardo Rucellai were already seated at the table, across from Caterina’s eldest sister Bianca and her husband Guglielmo Pazzi. Caterina immediately crossed her brother-in-laws off her list of prospective targets—both had married into the Medici family within the last decade, and it would be foolish to suspect either of plotting against their in-laws.

  But the Strozzi. Caterina narrowed her eyes at Filippo. He had grown up in exile, the victim of his father’s crimes against Caterina’s grandfather. Filippo’s tan skin made his wife’s creamy complexion look even paler in comparison, and his shortly cropped dark hair still wasn’t quite in line with Florentine styles. Could the man be plotting revenge against the family that exiled him?

  And Luca
Pitti. His robes hung loose around his thin, wizened frame. The lines on his face looked deep enough to channel rain. Caterina searched his eyes for a hint of envy. Did his gaze linger a second too long on the gold-leaf walls? Had his mouth clenched when he sipped the fine wine imported from the Medici vineyards near Montepulciano? Something in his eyes made Caterina’s pulse quicken.

  “Sister, you should stop staring. You wouldn’t want Father to think you’d like to become Luca Pitti’s fifth bride.”

  Caterina elbowed her older brother between the ribs. Why did he have to turn on his observant eye at the most unfortunate times? Beside her, Lorenzo gave a satisfying grunt. Her elbow must have knocked the wind out of him.

  “I feel sorry for whomever you wed,” he gasped, and she couldn’t help but grin. He swept her into the room, where they gave short bows to the elder statesmen gathered around the table.

  Piero raised an arm from the front of the room. “Now that my eldest son and youngest daughter have joined us, let me welcome all of you. Tonight, the eve of St. Anne’s feast day, we celebrate the mother of the Virgin Mary, who gave her blessed and holy daughter to the world. And we truly are blessed as well, to stand in such illustrious company. We have been entrusted with a duty to protect Florence, just as St. Anne protected her daughter. We must, then, use our wealth and power to ensure Florence’s prosperity.” He raised a goblet to the air and every man in the hall copied the gesture. “Let us toast, then, to Florence’s prosperity.”

  “Here, here,” came the response.

  Caterina’s empty hands clenched the cloth of her skirt, which felt smooth and cool between her fingers. How could the preacher not see what her father saw? The Medici had a duty to Florence, they served Florence. They didn’t enrich themselves at the expense of the city—no, their wealth bettered Florence. If only the preacher could see that her father had the city’s best interest at heart.

  Lorenzo dropped her arm and stepped away to speak with the visiting Roman bankers. Caterina once again scanned the room before she settled on Filippo Strozzi. Lucrezia had left his side, replaced by Giovanni Alberti. Caterina sucked in a breath and shut her eyes for a second before she walked toward them, keeping her gaze on the window a half-dozen yards from where the men stood. She positioned herself behind Giovanni where she could see Filippo from the corner of her eye.

  “We plan to head out to the villa after tomorrow’s parade,” Filippo was saying. “Summers are just too hot in the city.”

  “My wife and children are already at our villa,” Giovanni replied. “But it’s hard to get away, with my business interests here in the city.”

  Filippo nodded sagely.

  Caterina leaned an inch closer. Could villa be some kind of code? Maybe they were planning to meet up in the countryside to plot something?

  “I heard about your deal with Genoa,” Filippo continued. “That must keep you busy.”

  Giovanni sighed. “You don’t know the half of it. Those mongrels kept changing the terms of our agreement, even after they signed! I almost wish it would blow up in their face, except it would cost me a fortune.” He ended with a deep laugh.

  Caterina sighed and moved away before she attracted any attention. Her hopes sank, and suddenly the dress felt twice as heavy. It had been foolish to hope that she’d uncover a plot right in the Medici palace. She gave a little shake of her head. She had to stop thinking like a sheltered child. If she really wanted to uncover a plot, she’d have to work harder.

  And then it happened. Caterina was walking past the entryway when she heard a voice just outside the door, a quiet whisper that only caught her attention because her senses were attuned to anything unusual.

  A low rumble reached her ear. “Piero can decorate a palace, but he can’t run a city.”

  The other voice grunted in response.

  The first voice, a young man, spoke again. “Perhaps Lorenzo would be more open to our influence.”

  “We’ll talk more later,” the second voice responded.

  Caterina’s mouth went completely dry. Such talk alone could send you to prison in Florence. At the very least, both men would be exiled for life.

  She desperately wanted to peek around the corner, but her heart was pounding so loud that she feared the men might already hear her eavesdropping. Nervous energy coursed through her body. She recognized the second voice without looking: it had to be Luca Pitti. A quick scan of the room, her eyes jumping from face to face, confirmed that he was no longer in the galleria.

  And then, as she stood at the door, he walked through. One eyebrow jumped when he saw Caterina, but he quickly schooled his face back into an impassive pose.

  Luca Pitti. The white shock of hair atop golden eyes made him look like an old eagle watching for prey. She had to convince him that she wasn’t a tasty morsel.

  “Oh, Signore Pitti, you startled me,” Caterina said, using the high and flighty voice favored by Florence’s eligible young maidens. She even threw in a titter and covered her mouth with one hand. “I can’t decide if I should ask the lute player to play something more cheerful—it’s supposed to be a party, after all.”

  Luca Pitti gave her a long, penetrating look before his gaze swept over the galleria. “The music suits my mood,” he said as he walked away.

  Caterina let out a breath of air as soon as he turned away. Quickly, she stuck her head out the doorway to catch sight of Pitti’s companion, but the only person in the hall was one of their guards. She hadn’t bothered to learn any of their names.

  Her pulse hadn’t slowed. And suddenly she felt ravenous, as if she’d run to Fiesole and back. Beneath the layers of blue and gold fabric, Caterina’s stomach rumbled. She’d take her seat at the table and enjoy all seven courses prepared by the family chefs. But Caterina already knew her mind wouldn’t be on the conversation around the table.

  She was already planning her next step against Luca Pitti.

  Chapter Seven

  James grunted as his sparring partner caught him in the stomach. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander during training.

  Across from him, Mazzeo grinned. “You’re off your game,” he taunted. But the next time he jabbed, James caught the blow with his forearm and struck at Mazzeo’s ribs with his other hand.

  “Oof,” his friend gasped, stepping back.

  James grinned at the surprised look on Mazzeo’s face. “Giving up so soon?”

  “Of course not.” Mazzeo tucked his arms and moved into a tight spin, kicking a foot out at James's legs. But James had seen the move before and quickly stepped to the side. Instead of making contact with flesh, Mazzeo caught only air and lost his balance. He stumbled but caught himself before he hit the hard-packed dirt of their sparring ring.

  “Okay, now I’m done.” Mazzeo was breathing heavy, and when he shook his black mane, he sent a spatter of sweat flying through the air.

  Sweat was glistening on James's bare chest as well. After years in the Mediterranean, his skin was nearly as tan as Mazzeo’s. James reached down for his towel and ran it across his face and then his chest.

  “Next time we should use swords,” Mazzeo grumbled. “I’d best you with a real weapon in my hands.”

  “The same hands that fumbled your sword during our last bout?” James taunted.

  “The very same ones,” Mazzeo replied with a grin. “Except this time I’ll bind the sword to my hands with rope.”

  “A sound strategy.” James stretched out his arms and noted every sore point—his right bicep was tight. His ribs hurt where Mazzeo had gotten in a tight punch. And there was still a slight buzzing in one of his ears from when he’d smacked it on the ground rolling away from Mazzeo’s kick. But no serious damage. He could already see a bruise spreading on Mazzeo’s shin—self-inflicted, this time.

  The two always shook before sparing and promised to hold back, but in the heat of the fight, sometimes instincts proved stronger than reason.

  Mazzeo sunk to the ground under the shade of an old el
m. He took a long swig of water from his leather waterskin. “I haven’t seen you around the palace this week.”

  James answered while completing his routine of stretches. “I’ve been guarding that English diplomat.”

  “You mean Beet Face?” Mazzeo laughed. “I don’t envy you. Is it true he insulted Lucrezia to her face?”

  James shook his head. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “You mean the other guards?”

  Mazzeo shrugged, a gesture James knew well.

  “He didn’t insult her. But he did look her up and down before he realized she was Piero’s wife.”

  Mazzeo burst into laughter. “What a fool.”

  James grunted. He was closer to Mazzeo than any other guard—which, James supposed, meant Mazzeo was his closest friend—but James wasn’t about to confide his suspicions in the man. Mazzeo was sharp and funny, but he couldn’t keep a secret.

  “Speaking of beautiful women,” Mazzeo continued. “Did you see Caterina at the dinner party?”

  James shook his head. He’d never been on family guard duty, and because of that he’d rarely come close enough to Piero’s children to recognize them. Except Lorenzo, who regularly inspected the guards once a month.

  Then again, James knew Mazzeo would have been stationed at the front door during any Medici dinner party, far from the patricians, so the man’s tales of encountering Caterina de’ Medici could be fables.

  Mazzeo groaned. “She was wearing this blue dress cut practically down to her belly button. So tight in her bodice that if she jumped, everything would spill out. The thinnest sheaf of gold fabric covered her breasts. I nearly started drooling when I saw her. Oh, if Piero wasn’t her father . . .”