James swatted the man. “If Piero wasn’t her father, what? You’d have a chance with a girl like that?”
Mazzeo leapt to his feet. “I’m quite handsome, you know,” he said, flexing his chest. “She’d be lucky to have me.”
James rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she’s just waiting for you to ask,” he shot back as he propelled himself up. “Another round?”
Instead of answering, Mazzeo threw himself at James, their bare skin clapping as they met.
………………….
Hours later, after dunking himself in the Arno to wash off the layers of sweat and dust coating his body, James stood, once again, outside the door of Thomas Poole’s house. The day he’d found the letter, Poole had shut himself up in the house and met with no one. James had barely seen the man, who sent him to stand sentry at the doorway.
The next day, Poole had jumped into a carriage and headed toward the city center. James hopped onto the back of the wooden carriage as it rattled through the streets. It stopped outside of Orsanmichele, where Poole vanished into the church for nearly an hour. James had gazed inside, hoping to spot Poole. As a guard he was banned from the guild church.
Instead, James watched the men coming and going. The usual assortment of silk merchants, minor bankers, and lawyers crowded around the church, but only one man caught James's eye. It was the preacher he’d seen outside the cathedral a week earlier. Today, the man was dressed like a Dominican. He waltzed into the church without addressing anyone.
Ten minutes later, Poole hopped back into the carriage, which stopped at the Ponte Vecchio, the Rucellai palace, and a baker’s shop. James couldn’t make any sense of the man’s actions.
Today, though, Poole was packing his things to travel to Siena, and then on to Rome. It was James's last chance to figure out the man’s aim. And his last chance to prove himself to Piero.
The rumbling of an approaching carriage caught James's ear. He looked up to see the alternating blue waves of the Pitti family crest. His ear began to buzz again.
A second later, the white-haired Luca Pitti emerged from the carriage and walked past James without a second look. James knew, in his gut, that Luca Pitti must have been the man who slipped a message to Poole that night in the Medici courtyard. If only he’d found that message. It might tell him even more than the one he’d taken, and carefully replaced, from Poole’s study.
But why was Luca Pitti here, after the two men had gone through such trouble to act as if they didn’t know each other at the Medici party?
James silently trailed the man into the house, keeping a few steps back. He stopped on the balls of his feet when he heard Pitti’s voice coming from Poole’s study. A step closer to the light shining from the door and James could hear their voices. Just as Piero had suspected, the men were speaking English.
English! When did Luca Pitti learn English? The man was full of surprises.
James held his body completely still as he listened.
“ . . . our friend the cardinal will be pleased,” Pitti said.
“I will make sure to tell him in person.”
“Then you head to Rome next?”
“This afternoon. With any luck, I’ll be there by early next week.”
“And you’re certain that by September, war will have broken out?”
“Absolutely.”
Pitti grunted. James heard the rustle of papers. “Make sure you give this to the cardinal yourself. Let no one else see it.”
“Of course.”
Then he heard a faint and peculiar sound, like a curry comb brushing out a horse. James didn’t dare lean closer. What could it be?
A second later the men rounded the corner. James straightened his back and stared ahead as if he’d been stationed in the hallway. Pitti’s eyebrow jumped at the sight of the guard.
“Don’t mind him,” Poole said, still in English. “Piero sent him to watch me.”
Pitti raised an eyebrow at Poole but held his tongue.
And then the two men vanished.
James released a gush of air and forced his pulse to slow. He was dangerously out of practice. If Poole had been more suspicious, or if Pitti hadn’t accepted the diplomat’s answer, James could have found himself clapped in a dungeon or worse. His instincts were rusty after years of neglect.
Poole returned with a folded scrap of parchment in his hand. James forced himself not to stare at the paper as Poole positioned himself in front of the guard. Could it be a message from Pitti?
Poole addressed him directly for the first time, returning to his halting Tuscan. “My carriage will leave in an hour, as soon as I can pack up my papers.” He thrust the parchment toward James. Not a letter from Pitti, then. “Please deliver this to Signore Medici, along with my thanks for his generosity during my stay.”
James nodded and tucked the paper into his red jacket. Poole watched him for a moment, clearly expecting the guard to leave. James itched for a glimpse in Poole’s study, but he couldn’t ignore the man’s dismissal.
And then he was back on the hot streets of Florence wondering what to do next. He should go back to the Medici palace and report to Piero, but what could he say about the conversation he’d just overheard? Poole and Pitti were in league somehow, but the nature of their union was still hidden. Poole was planning something in Rome, that maybe involved a cardinal, and he hoped to win the pope’s support in his war with the Yorkists.
James tried to imagine Piero’s response. Would he send James after Poole’s carriage to keep an eye on the man? Ask him to sneak into Pitti’s palazzo to look for incriminating documents?
And what would James say if Piero did ask him to spy for the Medici?
His heart pounded at the thought, harder than it had during his sparring match with Mazzeo. He knew he should say no—he couldn’t return to that life. And yet his entire body craved it like a prisoner offered fresh venison after a diet of bread and water.
If Piero asked him to spy, James would say yes.
His pace quickened as he hurried to the Medici Palace, avoiding the hawkers of leather and cloth who called out for buyers. Most people stepped out of the way of a tall, broad Medici guard striding through the street, but James did have to dodge a carriage with the Strozzi crest.
By the time he’d reached the stairs up to Piero’s study, James was practically running. At the top of the marble steps he stopped and took a few deep breaths. He didn’t want to seem too eager.
Piero stood with his back to the door looking out at the courtyard. James cleared his throat and the ruler of Florence slowly turned. “Ah, Giacomo. My daughter is down there—the youngest, Caterina. She fancies herself a falconer, though she keeps her bird hidden from Lucrezia and myself.” His eyes drifted out the window and James heard the almost dreamy quality in his voice. The man obviously doted after his youngest daughter. For an instant, James's mind returned to Mazzeo’s description of the girl’s chest, and he nearly blushed. Thankfully, Piero couldn’t read minds.
“She has a falcon, then?” he asked politely.
“Yes, she keeps it outside of town.” Piero gave a short laugh. “Caterina never wondered why the man doesn’t charge her to care for the bird. Perhaps I haven’t done enough to expose her to the city.”
James shifted his weight. Piero put coins in his pocket, but he wasn’t the man’s friend or confidant. And there were only so many questions he could ask about falcons before he ran out of material.
Piero turned away from the window and saw James's expression. “Forgive me, as I age I find myself lost in my thoughts more and more. You must be here for a reason. Has Poole left our fine city?”
James nodded as he stepped forward and held out the paper. “He should be through the Porta Romana within the hour. He asked me to give you this.”
Piero took the paper and scanned it quickly. Then he set it on the desk. James regretted not opening the parchment so he could read it for himself. “Good. And did you find anything worth reportin
g?”
James looked to the door, which hung open. He knew from experience how easy it was to listen outside a man’s study. Piero gestured that he should close it.
“Yes, Signore, I have a number of things to report.” He started with the letter he’d found in Poole’s study, reciting it word-for-word. Piero listened without interrupting, his lips pressed together in a thin line. James didn’t add his own analysis of the contents—it didn’t seem like Piero would appreciate or expect it.
But he knew the news about Luca Pitti would get a reaction.
“Anything else?” Piero asked, his voice light.
“Poole had a visitor today. An English-speaking visitor who you’re familiar with.” James watched Piero’s face for the reaction. “It was Luca Pitti.”
Piero’s dark eyebrows remained steady and James saw no surprise in the man’s eyes. Either he’d already known about Pitti—were there others watching Poole?—or he was a much better actor than anyone in Florence suspected.
“What did they discuss?” Piero asked in the same tone.
James swallowed before he answered. He tried to imitate Piero’s disinterested tone, but inside his mind was racing. Had Piero sent him on a fool’s errand? Why wasn’t he surprised about Luca Pitti? “They seemed quite familiar with each other. It wasn’t their first meeting. They discussed Poole’s trip to Rome and Pitti gave Poole something to deliver to an associate of theirs, a cardinal. Pitti asked Poole if war would break out by September.”
Piero slowly raised an eyebrow. “War?”
James nodded. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, but at least he’d said something that Piero found valuable.
Piero turned back to the window. James was expecting the obvious question next—war between whom? The last news from England reported that the War of the Roses had calmed for the summer. It wasn’t uncommon for fighting to pick up again in autumn. But with Poole’s interests in multiple countries, the war could be anywhere. Spain. France. Maybe even Italy.
But instead of asking more questions, Piero waved a hand to dismiss James.
James's feet didn’t respond at first. He’d expected Piero to congratulate him for uncovering Poole’s mission and offer him a job. And yet the man hadn’t been shaken by James's report.
And he hadn’t asked James to spy.
Still Piero didn’t turn around. His attention was back on the girl in the courtyard, who James couldn’t see from this angle.
Once again, James had been dismissed without so much as a word. He walked out, his mind feeling numb.
He’d had a glimpse of his old life, but that was over. It was time to go back to being a guard.
Chapter Eight
Caterina was practicing her sneaking.
She held her body tight to the edge of the Medici palace, slinking silently toward the door. Her dark grey dress, the plainest thing she owned—though she didn’t own it, exactly, she’d taken it from Fiametta—blended into the stone wall, and she’d tucked her hair under a wrap to hide its color. She lifted her foot heel first, then inched forward practically on tiptoe. Her heart pounded as she pictured herself breaking into Luca Pitti’s palazzo, stealing in like a spirit, to snatch away proof of his treason.
A rough hand encircled her wrist and Caterina yelped. She spun around and came face-to-face with her brother Lorenzo.
“What are you doing?” he said in a low growl.
“None of your business,” she spat back. She tried to tug her wrist out of his grip, but he held tight.
“You look like a cutpurse, and not a very good one,” he said, finally releasing her wrist.
She rubbed the red marks that had sprung up on her wrist and scowled at him. What did he know about sneaking, anyway? “Leave me alone.”
He gave her an appraising look. “If you’re plotting something, you might want to change your plans.” He pointed to a window on the opposite side of the courtyard. “Or find somewhere else to play your games.”
Caterina screwed her eyes shut for a second. Her father’s study. How had she forgotten? But she swallowed down her shame and glared at Lorenzo. She caught a sparkle of amusement in his chocolate-brown eyes and almost slapped him. But she stopped herself. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he’d riled her. “Don’t you have a meeting to attend?”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Sister, you don’t hide your intentions as well as you think. Just watch yourself. Florence is a more dangerous place than you realize.”
And then he vanished from the courtyard. Caterina was left staring after him. She’d never seen him move so quickly or quietly. Her clumsy sneaking around the courtyard suddenly made her cheeks burn. She was a bumbling horse next to a sure-footed fox.
Caterina ripped the wrap off her head and threw it to the ground. She stared at it and considered stomping on the thing for good measure. But then she reluctantly reached to pick it up, stuffing it in the pocket of her dress.
The pocket she’d designed and sewn herself. Well, Fiametta had done most of the sewing. Normal dresses didn’t account for a woman’s need to carry secret tools or weapons. Caterina didn’t have many, yet, but she still might need the hidden slit to smuggle papers out of the Pitti palace.
And then she stomped up to her room. She checked the hall twice before she sealed the door and pulled her assembled spy tools from under the bed. A sturdy length of rope that she’d taken from the stables. A cast-off horseshoe from the same location, useful perhaps as a weapon if she couldn’t find anything better. A blindfold. Every day she covered her eyes and learned to navigate around her room by sound and touch—it would be dark in the Pitti Palace, and she wouldn’t have the luxury of carrying a torch.
And finally, the prize possession of her recent efforts, a mask that covered the upper part of her face completely. Even if someone saw her, they wouldn’t be able to puzzle out her identity. She’d painted the mask with shoe polish, leaving it sticky in places, but that didn’t matter.
Caterina looked down at the mask. If Lorenzo was on to her, she might not have much time. She’d spent the last ten days collecting the tools for her new profession and practicing as many hours as possible. Caterina could find a letter hidden in one of her books, while blindfolded, in under sixty seconds. She could climb a flight of stairs without making a sound. She hadn’t quite figured out how to slide down the rope to escape from a window—there wasn’t much chance to practice since the palace was always crowded with people—but she was confident she could manage if necessary.
And she’d listened for any word of Luca Pitti. His name didn’t come up much, considering he was a rival banker and supposed ally of the family. But once she overheard her mother mention something about the Pitti Palace—they were rearranging the palazzo on this side of the river while the enormous new palace across the Arno was under construction. Caterina had filed away the information in case it came in handy.
She’d also found a document that listed Pitti, along with other leading men of Florence, in her father’s study.
He’d been away at a party so she’d snuck in, undetected, and read through some of his papers. Most of them were boring—letters to the family’s bank branches, a list of furnishings to be repaired at their villa on the road to Fiesole, a document laying out Lorenzo’s inheritance in case of his father’s death—but this one caught her eye. She puzzled over the list and filed away the names in her memory. The names weren’t organized by age, or by position, and there was no title to explain their grouping. But still, it seemed important.
All that practice had led to this moment. Tonight she would break into Luca Pitti’s house.
………………….
Caterina tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the sun to set. It was August and yet the sun took forever to dip in the sky as if it were Midsummer’s night. She’d barely said anything at dinner that evening, and she’d also avoided the roast. It was too heavy. It might slow her down.
Giuliano had near
ly blown her cover. He’d kept peppering her with questions until she finally told him to mind his own business. Her mother had given her a lingering, appraising look before she turned back to her meal. It would be just her luck if Lucrezia showed up wanting to talk when Caterina was sneaking out of the house.
But finally night conquered the sky. Caterina waited for the palace to fall silent around her. When she couldn’t hear the distant sounds of talking or footsteps in the hall, she pulled her dark crimson dress over her head and slipped into Fiametta’s charcoal dress.
The maid hadn’t even asked why Caterina wanted her dress. She’d just handed it over without a word. Maybe she was worried that Caterina would pry into her love affair. In truth, she’d considered testing out her spying abilities by following Fiametta, but there were more important skills on her list. Like reading by moonlight. That had been hard during the new moon, but tonight the sky was clear and the moon was almost full. The perfect night for a break-in.
Caterina stepped into her leather slippers. They wouldn’t make a sound against stone floors. Her hands were trembling as if she were a baby. She balled them into fists and whispered to herself, “You can do this.”
She flung the rope over her shoulder and tucked the mask into her pocket, careful not to touch the tacky side.
You can do this.
Caterina slipped through the door and into the dark hallway.
You can do this.
She silently floated to the southwest door, the nearest to her room that wasn’t guarded at night.
You can do this.
The cold stone of the street leaked into her feet and snaked up her legs, making her shiver. She was a shadow, a figment of imagination, a slim reflection. She kept her head down as she slipped into an alley, empty of people. It had to be close to midnight by now.
The sound of distant steps sent a shock of fear through Caterina’s body. But if anyone saw her, they’d think she was a servant, headed home after a long day of work, or a girl sent on a late errand.
The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1) Page 6