The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  The tent. So Piero’s children wouldn’t be exposed to the elements, after all. James followed Mazzeo to the back of the wagon, where they found a folded pile of cloth and poles, tied together with a rope. Next to the tent, they found two thin, folded cots.

  James was inches from the heavy, drawn curtain, and for a moment James reached to pull it back, curious to see what was hidden inside. But instead, he returned his hand on the tent.

  “Have you ever set up a tent?” Mazzeo whispered.

  “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not hard.”

  They carried the tent to a flat patch of grass and spread it out. James directed while Mazzeo joked. “Do I look like a convincing farmer?” Mazzeo asked, gesturing to his simple white shirt and fitted brown pants.

  “You don’t look like any farmer I’ve ever seen.”

  “But that’s my character—I’m a simple farmer, traveling to Naples.”

  “Why would a farmer ride to Naples?”

  “To see Vesuvius, of course!” Mazzeo barked a laugh. “What’s your backstory?”

  James stiffened for a moment—but then loosened his shoulders. “You mean my character? I don’t have one.”

  “You need to come up with one,” Mazzeo said sternly. “If we are set upon by bandits, they’ll want to know your backstory.”

  “I doubt there will be much time for questions.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong! They’ll start by quizzing each of us and releasing anyone who seems harmless—like a farmer who yearns to travel.”

  James couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, I see.” They tugged the poles into place, lifting the cloth into an approximation of a tent. James gave the pole a rattle and it held.

  “Of course,” Mazzeo answered. “You can call me Vio, the poor farmer. I’ve left behind a wife and three children to travel the world. Poverty is no limit on my ambitions.”

  “And after Naples?”

  “Jerusalem! I’m a pious farmer, too.”

  “But you aren’t stopping in Rome.”

  “Rome? No. Rome’s old news. Jerusalem is the new Rome.”

  “You might have that one backwards,” James pointed out.

  “Don’t question Vio. He’s quick to anger.”

  James shook his head at Mazzeo, a wide grin on his face. They went back for the cots. James was halfway back to the tent, a folded cot in his arms, when he heard a noise behind him. From the wagon. He spun around, not even thinking about who might be watching him.

  The curtain pulled back and a woman stepped out.

  She was dressed better than any of the men, including Lorenzo, in a sky-blue dress accented with a golden belt. Her face was slightly long, for a Medici, and the curve of her eyebrows gave her a permanently surprised look, which was matched by her pursed lips. Her brunette hair was pulled back, though a few loose strands curled around her face. She stepped from the carriage and stretched, looking around the clearing.

  So this was Caterina de’ Medici. She wasn’t what James had expected. Not after hearing her fiery clash with Piero the night she’d been caught sneaking out. This woman was calm, even though her spine was stiff. She probably wasn’t used to the countryside. Well, he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her she was sleeping in a rough canvas tent.

  James turned his back half away from the carriage when a second person emerged. This woman was dressed in simple grey—of course, the princess would need her maid—but wore a wicked scowl on her heart-shaped face. The expression was discordant with her looks—sparkling green eyes, a slightly up-turned nose, and full, pouting lips. The caramel-colored curls that cascaded past her shoulders glinted gold in the sun. But atop her lean, hourglass frame, it looked like the woman had just bitted into a lemon.

  And that expression was directed at her lady.

  James raised an eyebrow. Caterina must be one of those ladies who treated her maid poorly. The woman could barely contain her ire.

  Caterina’s blank gaze missed her maid’s heated look, though. Wouldn’t want to look a servant in the face, James thought darkly. Instead, the lady walked toward the tent, leaving her maid to haul the bag with her things.

  James was about to step forward and offer to carry the bag, but one glare from the maid silenced him. The woman’s eyes could seer bark off a tree. Caterina, on the other hand, favored him with a quick smile as she passed.

  The women disappeared into the tent and shut the door.

  James and Mazzeo were left outside, holding the cots.

  “Did you see Caterina,” Mazzeo whispered at James’s right shoulder. “Like I said, she’s beautiful.” He grabbed the cot from James’s arms. “I’ll take them inside. Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to a lady.”

  She was good-looking, James acknowledged. But it was the maid who stuck in his mind. What could make her so angry at Caterina de’ Medici?

  Chapter Fourteen

  They expected her to sleep in here? Caterina looked around the tent. It was smaller than her closet. Barely larger than the wagon she’d been locked away in all day.

  She dropped the bag to the floor—Fiametta had insisted that it would look suspicious if Caterina hadn’t carried it—and pushed her way outside the tent.

  She came face-to-face with a stern-looking guard. “You should stay in the tent,” he ordered. “Keep an eye on the Signorina.”

  Caterina’s eyes flew wide. The guard didn’t recognize her? She studied his face, her eye catching on his scar. She didn’t recognize him. Caterina looked around the clearing, catching sight of a handful of guards. None of them were the Medici family guards. She had dressed like a maid, but Caterina had assumed that at least the men on the journey would know her.

  This must have been part of her father’s plan.

  She vainly searched for Lorenzo—he, at least, would know her—but her brother had vanished somewhere. Instead, she caught the eye of another guard, younger than the one standing firmly in front of the tent with his arms crossed. Taller, too. His square jaw and broad chest made him look like the hero from a chanson, a knight from a fairy tale. Why was he staring at her? She glared at him until he finally looked away.

  Did men think they could stare at her whenever they wanted, now that she was just a lowly maid? Caterina wanted to walk over and slap the man, but that would certainly draw attention. She grimaced at the guard in front of the tent and stomped back inside.

  But now Fiametta was gone. The girl must have slipped off somewhere while Caterina was trying to escape.

  How was that fair? Fiametta was allowed to wander the camp, dressed as a lady, while Caterina was trapped in the tent? If she had to dress like a maid, they should at least let her roam around like a servant girl.

  She sank onto the thin, hard cot. At least she didn’t have to sleep on the ground. But the thought was little comfort. Caterina closed her eyes and pictured the wide, clean feather bed she slept on at home.

  But it wasn’t her home anymore.

  She better get used to bare cots and plain clothes. Nuns didn’t have many luxuries in their lives. Tears flooded her eyes, and alone in the tent Caterina didn’t try to stop them. She lay down on the cot. It was still light out, and her stomach rumbled in protest, but she didn’t want to face anyone else. She just wanted to sleep.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. She wanted to wake up and realize this had all been a dream, and she was back in the Medici palace, dressed in her normal clothes. Taking Bettina out for a hunt. Visiting Nannina—she’d have the baby any day now, and Caterina would learn about it from a letter.

  She swallowed, a lump in her throat.

  That life was over.

  At some point, she must have fallen asleep. Caterina woke up in the dark, the steady breath of Fiametta nearby on the other cot. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and set her mind to sleep. But thoughts swirled around her and she couldn’t relax. In less than a week, she’d be locked up in
a convent. Would the nuns even know who she was? Or would she have to pretend to be Fiametta, a maid with no last name? Had she somehow left behind Caterina de’ Medici when they passed through Florence’s walls?

  A thought gripped her, sending ice through her veins.

  Would her family even write to her? Surely it would seem strange for Piero de’ Medici to correspond with a lowly maid. Would her parents even tell Giuliano and her sisters where Caterina had gone? They hadn’t baulked at holding back information from Giuliano before.

  Caterina resolved to write to her brother as soon as she reached the convent. Giuliano might not be able to respond, but no one could stop her from writing to him. After all, Caterina hadn’t stopped worrying about the threats against her family. And Giuliano was the only one keeping an eye on Luca Pitti.

  Luca Pitti. Caterina sneered at the thought of his name. That shriveled old man had cost her so much. If only she hadn’t overheard his plot.

  She lay on the cot for hours, it felt, before a chorus of birds heralded the coming dawn. When light hit the top of the tent, Fiametta awoke as if by a preordained signal. The maid stretched and looked over at Caterina.

  “How are you?”

  No “Lady.” No “Signorina.” Apparently they’d become equals overnight.

  “Fine,” Caterina responded.

  Fiametta swung her legs over the edge of her cot and sat up. The pillow had made a line on her face in the night. “I know this is hard,” Fiametta began. “But please, understand, this isn’t easy for me, either. I am doing this out of devotion to your family.”

  Caterina rolled her eyes at the tent’s ceiling. She tossed back the blanket and pulled herself up, grabbing the grey overdress. Devotion to the Medici. What a line. Fiametta probably loved the chance to bark orders and make Caterina carry her bag.

  Not that she’d barked any orders yet. But still.

  “Am I allowed to leave the tent for food?” Caterina asked, letting her frustration show in her voice.

  Fiametta’s eyebrows compressed in hurt. “Of course,” she whispered.

  A thread of guilt tugged at Caterina’s heart. But she was being treated like a prisoner—of course she was mad. She wouldn’t stay and comfort Fiametta. Caterina pushed through the flap of the tent and stepped outside.

  The men had laid bedrolls around the still-smoldering fire pit, but most of them were already up. Some were tending to the horses, while another few chewed on something. Caterina’s stomach growled at the thought of food. What she wouldn’t give for a ripe peach right now. Her mouth watered as she imagined biting into the fruit.

  But breakfast was a hard loaf of bread, without even butter to soften it.

  And soon she and Fiametta were back in the wagon.

  At least today they were allowed to keep the curtains pulled back. Caterina stared out the window at the unchanging landscape. Trees, fields, grass. Trees, fields, grass. It was probably like this all the way to the convent. She thought traveling would be more exciting.

  But the tent was the same that night, and the next. The days in the carriage blurred together.

  Until their fourth night.

  Caterina was used to the routine. They pulled up in some glade, or field, or glen, always off the Via Romana and always hidden from the road by trees. Men set up her tent. Men unharnessed the horses.

  Men avoided her.

  Had they been ordered not to talk to the only two women on the journey? Caterina had expected something different, based on the warning tales her oldest sister Bianca had whispered about “rough men.”

  That category included just about every man whose last name didn’t end in Medici, Pazzi, or Pitti, as far as Caterina could tell. Farmers, fruit vendors, merchants. Guards. Even priests, according to Bianca. They all wanted one thing—to steal a rich girl’s virtue. Bianca scolded her younger sisters to guard their virtue like a treasure.

  But these guards didn’t act like that at all. They avoided eye contact. On the third day, she’d stood right next to the guard with a scar—she’d heard his name was Ercole—during breakfast and he hadn’t even turned his head in her direction. It was almost like she’d become invisible.

  Was it because she was a maid? No. Pretending to be a maid, she reminded herself.

  When men spoke to Caterina, daughter of Piero de’ Medici, they watched their words carefully. They stood a respectable distance away, bowed their head, and avoided coarse language. Surely men acted that way around all women?

  At first, tired of being cooped up in the carriage and in the tent, Caterina had gone out of her way to interact with someone—anyone—on the trip. She settled down on a stump by the fire on their second night. Conversation stopped until she left. She called out to the guard riding next to the carriage on the third day. He rode away. She’d even followed two guards as they walked down to a stream on the third evening, hoping that away from the caravan the men would be more friendly.

  But instead of banter, she’d seen the men urinating into the stream. The same water they used to fill the waterskins! Caterina’s stomach had turned, and she didn’t crack her waterskin until she could refill it from a fresh stream.

  By the fourth day, Caterina was deathly bored. Fiametta was barely any conversation, seeming to prefer the silence that stretched on if Caterina didn’t break it. Soon they’d leave the Via Romana behind and head toward the convent. Caterina couldn’t stand to spend her last few days of freedom like this.

  So when the sun set and Fiametta tied the tent flaps closed, Caterina lay awake, hoping for something to happen. Anything to break the monotony.

  And soon, she got her wish.

  Caterina could hear the men around the fire talking in low voices, the air punctuated every few minutes by laughter. At least they were enjoying themselves. And then, an hour or two after dark—and an hour after she was supposed to be asleep—the tent flap opened.

  Caterina only heard the noise. It was too dark to see anything. But instantly, her whole body went rigid on the hard cot. Had someone sneaked into her tent? There was barely room to stand between the two cots. Caterina silently shifted to gaze into the darkness. She couldn’t sense a presence, but in the last month she’d learned not to trust her instincts.

  Slowly, she snaked a hand out from under her covers. She reached out, inch by inch, until she was certain the space was empty.

  And so was the cot across from her.

  No one had sneaked into the tent—but someone had sneaked out.

  Caterina suddenly remembered the day, a month or more ago, that Fiametta had been late to help her get dressed. The woman looked like she’d come back from a dalliance. Could it have been one of the guards—one of these guards?

  Caterina sat straight up in bed.

  Finally, something new. She threw her legs over the side of the cot and waited, counting to one hundred. Just in case Fiametta was simply out for the call of nature. But the maid didn’t return.

  Caterina eased herself off the cot and put a hand on the tent flap. She listened for the sound of voices outside the tent. They had fallen silent. Were the men already asleep? Or, most of the men, Caterina supposed. Fiametta had to be out there meeting someone, and it certainly wasn’t someone she met on their journey. Caterina had practically spent every waking moment with Fiametta.

  Which guard could it be? Ercole? Did Fiametta have a thing for scars?

  Or maybe the tan, dark-haired guard who always seemed to have an easy smile on his face. Caterina knew the type—he lived to make people laugh.

  Or . . . A wave of panic struck her so quickly that it nearly knocked Caterina off her feet. Could it be Lancelot? She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. That was the name she’d given the guard with the tough jaw and soft eyes, the one who reminded her of a knight in a troubadour’s poem. He hadn’t stared at her again, not like he had on the first night, but she could sometimes feel his eyes on her. His look sent a shiver snaking through Caterina’s body.

  It couldn’t be
Lancelot.

  She slipped out of the tent flap, the grass outside tickling the bottoms of her bare feet. The fire had burned down to embers and the bedrolls looked still. They must have gone to sleep.

  Caterina almost stopped to count the lumps around the fire by the light of the moon, but it would be a waste of time. She knew there were always a few guards awake, checking the perimeters of their camp and watching for attacks.

  The thought had caused her chest to clench on the first night, when she first noticed the men prowling at the edges of the trees. It was a visible reminder of her father’s fears. Was Piero correct that someone stalked their caravan?

  But as the days wore on, Caterina’s fears faded. The sun rose, hot, every morning, blue skies stretched all the way to Ethiopia, for all Caterina knew, and the world seemed a cheerful, happy place. Caterina was the only dark cloud to be seen. The guards laughed and joked with each other, and though they quieted every time another caravan passed, Caterina couldn’t feel the kind of tension that might imply an attack.

  Her father was just being paranoid, she concluded.

  And now Fiametta had provided a welcome distraction.

  Caterina tried to picture the glade as it had looked when they’d arrived, hours earlier. This was a more wooded spot than they usually chose, the ring of trees only a few horse lengths from the tent. She looked out into the dark woods. Fiametta and her lover might be anywhere.

  But then Caterina remembered the brook they’d crossed, the water dancing as the horses stepped gingerly in the water. Yes. The brook.

  She kept her back to the fire, not wanting to cast any shadows if one of the guards was still awake. Caterina pattered silently into the trees, stepping over branches that could give away her position. After a hundred yards, she cursed herself for not bringing her slippers. But she trained her ears on the sounds of the night and heard the trickle of water. She must be close.

  And here was a path—she found it by accident, but it was a path. It was only wide enough for one foot at a time, but it was completely clear. The ground felt soft under Caterina’s feet after the forest floor.