The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  James was lost. A caravan? Usually their guard duties kept them in the city, or no further than the Medici villa near Fiesole. But Piero was sending them to Rome?

  Piero straightened his spine and clapped his hands together. “Right. You can take the rest of the day to pack. The caravan leaves tomorrow morning.”

  It was a clear dismissal. James wasn’t going to linger to talk to Piero, who’d barely looked his way. Instead, he slid next to Mazzeo as they filed out into the hall.

  “What did I miss?” James whispered.

  “We’re going to Rome.”

  He pushed his shoulder into Mazzeo’s. “I heard that.”

  Mazzeo glanced at the guards around them—James only knew a few of their names. At least half of them had been hired in the past month. Mazzeo raised an eyebrow, as if to say “we’ll talk later.”

  James shut his mouth. They were guards, not soldiers—what was Piero planning? And why the secrecy from Mazzeo?

  James followed Mazzeo through the courtyard and out the guards door, back onto the streets of Florence. Still, his friend said nothing. James clenched his jaw and vowed not to speak first.

  They were nearly at the northern city wall by the time Mazzeo stopped walking in front of a fruit seller’s shop. “We’re guarding Lorenzo on his trip to Rome.”

  The knot in James’s chest loosened. “That’s it?”

  “That’s not it,” Mazzeo said. “Piero is nervous about something.”

  “Nervous? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t have to say anything.” The muscle in Mazzeo’s jaw twitched.

  James glanced over his shoulder. First Piero, and now Mazzeo. Something odd was going on. And then it hit him. “Ten guards.”

  “Exactly,” Mazzeo said.

  Piero was sending ten guards to Rome. That was nearly half of the total number of Medici guards. He must have a reason for wanting so much protection. Piero’s son was skilled with a sword and could look after himself. Two guards, at most, could ensure his safety during the journey.

  As if he’d read James’s mind, Mazzeo added, “Lorenzo won’t be the only one in the caravan.”

  James raised an eyebrow at his friend.

  “We’re escorting Caterina de’ Medici.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Caterina eyed the carriage warily. “This won’t make it to Viterbo,” she muttered to Lorenzo.

  “It won’t attract attention, that’s for sure,” her older brother replied with a chuckle.

  The carriage was barely held together by sun-bleached wood. Unlike the carriages she was used to riding in the city, this wasn’t painted in bright shades of red and blue. And the interior was smaller and darker than her typical rides. One wheel looked ready to fall off. And even the team of horses lashed to the wagon looked wary of the wooden beast behind them.

  Caterina wrinkled her nose. If she had to leave Florence behind forever, couldn’t she at least leave in style?

  But her parents had explained that her departure wouldn’t be met with fanfare or flowers. She was practically sneaking out of the city before dawn, accompanied by her brother and a platoon of guards who hadn’t even bothered to show up yet. They were probably all hungover from a night in the taverns.

  Or, rather, she wasn’t sneaking out, she was being sneaked out. She had to stop using active verbs. They only underlined her helplessness.

  At least Lorenzo would be with her.

  She’d said her farewells to Giuliano and her sisters last night at a private family dinner. But she barely spoke two words to her father, who sat to her right. She wouldn’t shed any tears when she said goodbye to Piero and Lucrezia. They were forcing her to leave—let them feel bad about it.

  “Time to get in your carriage,” Lorenzo said.

  Caterina looked around. Her parents were nowhere to be seen. “But what about—”

  “They aren’t coming,” he said flatly.

  They weren’t coming? Her own parents? Caterina gave one last look at the massive stone palace where she’d grown up. The family crest stared at her, six balls on a dark surface. But even on the highest floors, with a few barred windows, she saw no one watching her departure. They really weren’t going to say goodbye?

  She turned her back on the palace and stepped into the rickety carriage. At least there was a thick pad on the wooden bench. She had six or seven days of sitting on that bench ahead of her.

  As soon as she was inside, Lorenzo slid the thick curtains closed. It nearly shut out the dim morning light completely.

  Caterina sniffed. If she cried now, at least no one would see her.

  A few minutes later, the curtain pulled back and someone else slipped inside. “Caterina?” a familiar voice whispered.

  Caterina’s heart jumped. Was it her mother? Of course she wouldn’t let her youngest daughter leave without a farewell. But just as Caterina opened her mouth—

  “It’s me, Fiametta.”

  Caterina’s throat tightened. She couldn’t manage a single word. If she spoke now, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.

  “We have a long journey ahead of us,” her maid whispered. “I’m to be your companion on the way to the convent. Your father gave me very specific instructions.”

  That caught Caterina’s ear. “My father? He spoke to you?”

  Fiametta may have nodded, but it was too dark in the carriage to see. “He’s concerned about your safety,” she whispered. “Once we’re a half day’s journey south of Florence, he wants us to change places.”

  “Change places?” The words boomed in the small carriage. Caterina lowered her voice. “What does he mean?”

  “I’m to dress as a Medici daughter, and you as a servant.”

  Caterina ran her fingers along the edge of the cushion. An icy knot sat in her stomach. She was to dress as a servant? And, apparently, wait on Fiametta. Who would be play acting above her station.

  No. It had to be a mistake. Her father would never order her to dress as a maid.

  But Caterina could still remember the tension in her father’s voice when he ordered her to the convent. He had been afraid for her life. She gazed toward the palace, only a layer of cloth blocking her view.

  Perhaps Fiametta was telling the truth.

  “No one will believe you’re a Medici,” Caterina grumbled. Yes, they were a similar height, though Fiametta’s hips were less desirable—too narrow for a good marriage—and Caterina’s chest was slightly larger. Fiametta’s features were fine, if a little rougher than a patrician’s, and only the honeyed highlights in Caterina’s hair distinguished their brunette locks.

  They could trade clothes, but who would believe the maid was a patrician’s daughter? One look at Fiametta’s manners, and everyone would see she was no lady.

  The minutes stretched by in silence. Caterina was vaguely aware of the voices outside the carriage, but she was lost in her thoughts. Was her life at risk? She hadn’t taken her father’s worries seriously until now. But this—she had to pretend to be a servant. A servant. She had no idea how to do that.

  Yes, servants had waited on Caterina her entire life. But that didn’t mean she knew how deep to bow to a Medici guard, or how to prepare a lady’s dinner. She’d make a fool of herself.

  And Lorenzo! What would he think when he saw his sister in the plain grey dress of a maid? He’d mock her endlessly.

  Unless he already knew.

  At that moment, the carriage jolted forward and Caterina nearly slipped from the bench. She gripped the window rail tightly as they picked up speed. They were heading south, through the center of Florence, toward the Porta Romana and then the empty road between Florence and Rome. The Via Romana, Caterina supposed it must be called. She’d rarely traveled south of the city walls. But somehow, she wasn’t eager to see what lay beyond Florence.

  She felt the horses turn. They must be in the Piazza del Duomo. Caterina could picture the cathedral, dim in the early light, and the urge to peel back the curtain to
peek at the dome one last time gripped her. She already had one hand on the curtain before Fiametta reached out.

  “No, we have to leave the curtain down. We don’t know who might be watching.”

  A flash of irritation coursed through Caterina. No one had bothered to tell her all these rules. Apparently she wasn’t important enough. But she pulled back her hand. “So we’re traveling incognito,” she mused. “Won’t the half-dozen Medici guards in full uniform give us away?”

  Fiametta’s voice took on a ghostly quality in the dark carriage. “They aren’t in uniform.”

  “Disguised as well? What, are they dressed like fisherman? Should I cover myself in scales so I can pretend to be a fresh catch?”

  At that, Fiametta giggled. At least the maid had a sense of humor. But then the woman’s serious side returned. “We should keep our talking to a minimum until we’re outside the city.”

  Caterina slumped back on the bench, folding her arms in front of her body. She couldn’t look outside. She couldn’t talk too loudly. She couldn’t even be Caterina de’ Medici! Any excitement she’d felt at seeing the world outside of Florence had vanished. Her father was going to make the journey as unpleasant as possible.

  The wheels rolled on, pulled by the team of plain brown horses. Even their horses were disguised—these weren’t the mighty steeds that typically carried the Medici family.

  A few minutes later, the sound under the wagon wheels changed. Instead of stone, they were rolling across wood. The bridge. It had to be the Ponte Vecchio.

  Caterina leaned away from Fiametta, turning her back to the maid, and risked extending a single finger toward the curtain. She pushed it back, hoping for a glance of the river, but she only saw the closed wooden panel outside a merchant’s shop.

  And then they were on the other side of the bridge. The wagon strained as it pulled up the hill in the Oltrarno neighborhood, headed toward the Porta Romana. Caterina leaned back. If she couldn’t talk, and she couldn’t look out the window, she might as well try to sleep.

  Caterina jolted awake some time later. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but a narrow ray of sunlight was peeking through the front of the carriage, so it must be close to midday. She had slept for hours.

  At least the carriage wasn’t pitch black. Caterina could finally make out Fiametta, sitting calmly on the bench as if she were in church.

  And at least they were far enough away from Florence that Caterina could surely look out the window.

  She reached for the curtain, but Fiametta stopped her once again. “Not until we change clothes,” the maid said in a low voice.

  Oh. That.

  Caterina grunted and began to strip off her simple traveling dress. She wore a light blue slip, soft and silky against her skin, with a thicker kirtle wrapped over the top. The blue sleeves of the slip went halfway down her arms. A woven belt of gold held the dress tight at her waist and kept it from flapping open at her chest.

  It had seemed like a simple dress, until Caterina saw what Fiametta held out for her to put on. The outfit was made in a similar style to Caterina’s, but instead of a soft underdress, Caterina found coarse beige fabric, scratchy against her skin. The overdress was dyed grey, but also coarse. Instead of a decorated belt, a simple black string tied the dress together.

  Caterina’s lip curled as she slipped into the garment. She itched everywhere.

  Fiametta, on the other side of the bench, said nothing as she put on Caterina’s beautiful dress. She didn’t even say thank you.

  Caterina sneered in the dim carriage. Fiametta was probably enjoying her new role as a Medici.

  “Your hair,” Fiametta said.

  “What about my hair?” Caterina reached a hand up to the curls piled on the back of her head. It was nothing fancy—she’d tied it up herself.

  “Serving girls wear their hair down,” Fiametta replied. “And you’ll have to give me the comb.”

  Caterina gasped. Not the pearl-encrusted alabaster comb that she had nestled into her hair. Fiametta wouldn’t possibly take that away. It had been a gift from Caterina’s mother!

  Fiametta was holding out a hand expectantly. Caterina pouted as she pulled the comb from her hair and slapped it into Fiametta’s hand.

  At least the maid had enough sense not to put the precious thing in her own hair. Instead, she slipped it into one of the bags under the bench.

  Caterina might as well let the rest of her hair down. One by one, she pulled out the thin pins that held her hair back. Yesterday’s curls, which Fiametta had done in preparation for the family dinner, still hung in ringlets around Caterina’s face.

  The curls would fall, soon, and she might never again style her hair like a Greek. Nuns probably didn’t curl their hair, after all.

  As Caterina worked, Fiametta was making the opposite transformation. She pulled her hair up and back, wrapping it neatly at the nape of her neck. Caterina gave the girl a long look. In the fine dress, and with her hair pulled back, she almost looked like a patrician’s daughter.

  Was it just fine clothes that distinguished the wealthy from the servants? No, Caterina reassured herself. The minute Fiametta opened her mouth, it would be clear she was only a maid.

  And Caterina might be in servant’s garb, but she was a Medici to her core.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The city wall had to be five feet thick at the Porta Romana. James felt the urge to reach out to touch the gate as they passed through, leaving Florence behind, but he stopped himself.

  Instead, he looked back at the simple brown carriage pulled by a team of unremarkable horses.

  Caterina de’ Medici.

  James had only been a bodyguard once, and it nearly ended his life. Most of the families he’d worked for saw him for what he was—a tall, imposing man who looked comfortable with a sword on his belt. He stood at doors and rode next to chests of gold, or pearls, or rubies.

  He didn’t guard people. Not anymore.

  And that was by choice. James never volunteered for the jobs that would put him closer to the people in power. Not after what had happened in Paris.

  He turned his thoughts back to the road. The city wall faded into the background as the road, well-traveled and wide, dove into the woods. September was only days away, but the trees showed no signs of the coming fall. A breeze ruffled the leaves and brought with it a whiff of the south.

  James was near the front of the caravan, riding behind Lorenzo and the guard in charge, a man named Ercole. The two leaned in and spoke as they rode. Piero had placed Ercole in charge of the guards. He was a decade older than James with a still-raw scar on his left cheek, which stood out on an otherwise bland face. Tan, dark hair, stubble—he looked like a thousand other Italian men.

  James didn’t know the man well, other than to nod at each other on duty.

  They rode past merchants heading the other way to Florence and a smaller number traveling south. But James soon realized that their caravan avoided joining up with other groups. Probably another of Piero’s security measures. Along with their clothes—none of the guards were dressed in Medici red; they’d been instructed to wear plainclothes.

  Even Lorenzo was dressed more like a middling merchant than one of the richest men in Europe. James eyed the back of the man’s dark green doublet. He’d not exchanged two words with Lorenzo, but this trip might bring them together. But what did he have to say to a lordling like Lorenzo de’ Medici?

  After a few hours riding south, the woods faded and they broke out into an open green field, dotted with fields and houses. It was the end of the harvesting season, so most of the fields were bare, though James spotted a few crops still waiting to be pulled from the earth.

  Mazzeo rode up next to James. “Nice day for a ride.”

  James grunted. He eyed the wagon again.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Mazzeo said with a laugh. “Will we ever see the fabled Caterina?”

  Ercole glanced back at them. So far, the
ride had been nearly silent. Would it be that way on the entire six-day journey to Rome? But the lead guard didn’t say anything.

  Mazzeo rode next to James in silence. They stopped to water their horses but otherwise ate as they rode at a slow, meandering pace. Every time they stopped, James eyed the wagon. But no one emerged. Or, if Caterina stepped out, she always did so on the far side of the carriage. James was starting to wonder if it was empty.

  The sun was still hanging well above the horizon when Ercole signaled that they would stop for the night.

  James scanned the surroundings. They were in the middle of nowhere, as far as he could tell. The road was dotted with inns and taverns at regular intervals, but they’d passed The Laughing Bear at least an hour ago, and from here he couldn’t even see a farmhouse.

  Surely Piero didn’t expect his children to sleep on the ground.

  But it was Lorenzo who led them on a small path away from the Via Romana. The wagon creaked as it pulled off the well-worn road and onto a thin footpath, barely wide enough for the wheels. Five minutes later, they stopped on a clear patch of grass blocked from the road by a grove of trees. Other travelers must have known the spot—the grass was trampled and James saw the remnants of an old fire pit—but today it was empty.

  James threw his leg off his horse and hopped to the ground. He stretched out his legs. It had been a long time since he’d spent an entire day riding.

  Ercole had already taken control of the scene—two guards had been sent to haul water from a nearby spring, while another pair hobbled the horses, already grazing nearby. James snuck a glance at the carriage, but still no one emerged.

  “Giacomo, Mazzeo—set up the tent. And don’t forget the cots.” Ercole barked the order from his horse.