The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  But he clamped his mouth shut.

  Rough hands shoved him into a wall, pulling him to his knees. He felt someone grasping at the bag. Bright light blinded him and he squinted, checking how many men surrounded him. As his eyes adjusted to the candlelight—not bright at all, except to someone who’d been kept in the dark for over a day—James counted three men in the room.

  Three. Easy enough.

  Their faces were bare. He didn’t recognize any of them. But they were all wearing black hoods draped over white cassocks. James blinked.

  Dominicans? He’d been kidnapped by Dominicans?

  The blow to his face caught him off guard and he tumbled to the floor, his head grazing the wall as he fell.

  Still, the men didn’t speak. And neither did James.

  He maneuvered himself back onto his knees, searing the men’s faces into his memory. The long, thin face with a dark mole on the jaw; the sandy-haired man with round, sunburned cheeks; the pale, grimacing face with a scar above the eye.

  Sunburn talked first. His voice was reedy and higher than James had expected from the cherubic man. “It is past time to confess your sins.”

  The scene—three monks who had already broken the skin on his cheek, which was still dripping blood on the floor, holding a forced confession? James let a laugh roll off his tongue, and then another. It was beyond belief.

  Mole scowled at him, but Sunburn held him back. Scar stayed in the corner, barely looking up at James. He was the most dangerous one, James decided.

  “Something funny?” Mole growled, his voice itching for a fight.

  Sunburn shook his head. “Sinners laugh in the face of salvation. No wonder the world is doomed.”

  “Or the demon inside laughs because it knows this weak host won’t expel it.”

  “Either way, laughter is the mark of a fallen soul.”

  James was tired of the disputation. He kept his voice low and even. “You want me to confess? How about you start? Kidnapping. Assault. You’re racking up the sins.”

  Mole took a step forward, but again Sunburn restrained him. This time, Sunburn spoke. “Let’s start with something simple. Tell us your name.”

  Relief flooded through James, but he refused to let it show on his face. They didn’t know who he was. To them, he was a nameless man, suspected of crimes but not a known criminal. They didn’t know the guilt that followed him like a shadow, begging to be confessed.

  Which meant he could lie.

  “My name is Giacomo. What’s yours?” He wedged his left thumb under the rope binding his right wrist and tried to stretch the coarse rope. If he could buy enough time, maybe he could free himself.

  “Giacomo. A pleasure to meet you.”

  James grunted.

  “And how did you meet the young lady?”

  He tilted an eyebrow up. “Young lady?” He held the mask of disinterest on his face, but inside his mind swirled with questions. Where was Caterina? Was she also being interrogated? How could he protect her?

  “The impersonator. The liar.”

  Mole jumped in. “Here’s my theory: they’re both debauchers. He’s the pimp, she’s the prostitute.”

  Anger rose in James’s belly but he pushed it down. He couldn’t show any weakness. These men would seize on it like vultures on a carcass.

  “She looks the type,” Sunburn said. “You can always tell the wanton girls.”

  “It’s something in the face,” Mole agreed. “They can’t stop themselves from making eyes even at a friar.”

  “They’re hungry for it all the time. Nothing will satiate their appetite.”

  “You should have seen how that girl looked at me.”

  A low growl rose in James’s throat.

  “See? He’s possessive about his girl. Debauchers, just like I said.”

  “Quiet.” The command, spoken low and even, came from the corner. From Scar. Mole and Sunburn obeyed instantly.

  Scar stepped out of the corner and toward James. The man was holding a short knife in one hand and in the other James could see a piece of wood. He’d been whittling something, but James couldn’t see what it was. The gravelly voice came again, but this time it was directed at James.

  “Giacomo. Do you know my name?”

  James shook his head.

  “I’m Fra Razzo. I bring Florence a message, one that it must heed to avoid damnation.”

  James glanced again at the man’s robes. A monk. One who didn’t mind violence.

  “This city is overflowing with sin,” Fra Razzo began, as if he were opening a Sunday sermon rather than conducting an interrogation. “It fills the piazzas, where prostitutes mingle with patricians, and the palaces, where sinners amass their wealth. It even fills the churches, painting the walls in garish colors, allowing men to stamp their names across the holiest chapels.”

  The voice. The preacher’s hateful voice triggered a memory of seeing a man rail against wickedness before the Duomo, months earlier. James hadn’t been close enough to see the man’s face, but it had to be the same man.

  Fra Razzo gestured to Mole and Sunburn. “Only a few men can see the wickedness pooling throughout the city. While the wealthy tear each other apart over a few pieces of metal, I have been building my army, a Godly army to take back Florence.”

  James shivered at the fervor in Fra Razzo’s voice. The man was insane. But he was also powerful—and it sounded like he had many more followers aside from these two.

  Who was this preacher?

  “I have nothing to do with the sins of Florence,” James said. “I was just passing through Siena with my sister.”

  “And yet you carry this.” He used the tip of the knife to point at Sunburn, who held up a florin, the gold coin minted in Florence, marked with a lily. “All who carry the cursed flower have let corruption into their hearts. If you allow gold to rule you, then you’ve sold your soul. And for what? For a shiny metal pulled from the ground?” He pointed the knife at James. “When you refuse to confess your sins, you only compound them.”

  There was nothing James could say to convince this madman, he realized. But maybe he could still protect Caterina.

  Would she be safer if the rabid preacher knew she was a Medici, or if he thought she was an impostor?

  “Like I said, I have no business with Florence.”

  Fra Razzo shook his head. “Each lie only adds to your tally of sins.”

  What would Caterina say under interrogation? James wished he’d used the time on the wagon to get their stories straight. He’d thought they would have more time. But the clock had ticked down to zero.

  Would she give her true name?

  James had to assume she would.

  Fra Razzo’s eyes never left James. “I see through your deceptions. You are a shallow, evil man. As soon as word spread that Piccolomini was sending a Medici impostor and her traveling companion to Florence, I had to see her. Piccolomini thought he could win favor with the Medici by handing her over. The patrician fool didn’t realize that his guards follow me. And I had a different idea.” The man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I have a keen eye for quality. I saw the worth of your companion right away.”

  James’s blood turned to ice.

  “I purchased you right off the wagon. You’re mine, now. And so is she.”

  The rope dug into James’s wrists as he strained against it, pushing all of his strength into breaking the bond. But it held.

  If he could get Fra Razzo to lunge at him with the knife, if he could somehow seize the blade and slice the rope—

  If he could hold off Sunburn and Mole long enough to escape—

  But it was a fool’s errand.

  Fra Razzo lifted the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see her again before you die,” he promised.

  The breath caught in James’s chest.

  Fra Razzo put a finishing touch on his whittled wood while he continued to speak. “A cleansing rain is coming, one that will wash away the putrid corruption. Yes, cor
ruption—the very soul of Florence is a festering corpse. We cannot build a new city until we destroy it.” The preacher locked his eyes on James’s. “And do you know how we cleanse Florence, Giacomo?”

  James swallowed, the air in the room suddenly turning stale. Fra Razzo waited patiently until James shook his head.

  “We must burn it away. We must send that sinful incense up to heaven.”

  He held out the wooden object so that James could see it. On the palm of Fra Razzo’s hand, James saw a tiny figure, a woman with flowing locks carved into the wood. It looked like Caterina.

  “And we start with the whore,” the preacher said, folding his hand tightly around the carving.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Smoke tickled the air, slick tendrils rising around Caterina’s body.

  Her stomach turned and bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. A cloth gag stuffed into her mouth silenced her, leaving her screams to fester in her chest.

  Caterina couldn’t take her eyes off the smoldering branch that promised to bring flame to the dry straw packed around her feet. She’d fought and kicked as they bound her arms to the pyre, but all it had earned her was a fat lip and a bruised cheek. Which was nothing compared to the pain she’d suffer if that branch came any closer.

  Atop the scaffold, her eyes darted around the audience of mostly men, who sneered and cursed at her. Would any of them recognize Caterina de’ Medici? Was it too much to hope that someone had already run the few short blocks to the Medici Palace, leading back an army of supporters to free her?

  If they didn’t come in time, she’d have to find her own way out.

  Caterina pulled against the ropes binding her hands to the pole behind her, but they wouldn’t budge.

  At her side, the preacher raised his hand for silence. His voice rang out across the piazza.

  “Liars. Fornicators. Blasphemers. This city is overflowing with sewage, rotting from the inside. God condemns Florence for allowing this to continue. Why do you think the plague strikes our city more than any other? Why do you suffer hailstorms and destructive rains, when your neighbors are spared? It is because God sends punishments to Florence for not destroying the sin that infects this city.”

  He raised an arm toward Caterina, who flinched. This man hated her. He hated the Medici. She could almost feel the revulsion coming off of him in waves when he looked at her.

  How had she missed the upwelling of anti-Medici fervor in her city? Her father had taught her to look to the other patricians as the biggest threat to her family. The Strozzi, the Pazzi. Families that wanted to supplant the Medici and take their place.

  But this man was entirely different. He didn’t come from wealth. And he didn’t seek it.

  How, then, could she use her wealth as a shield against him?

  The sense of invulnerability that had always encased Caterina hadn’t vanished, even when someone had tried to kidnap her. The kidnappers were after one thing—money. They spoke the same language as the Medici; they envied her family.

  But the preacher. He despised them. If Caterina offered money to free herself from the pyre, it would only make him angrier.

  Then how? How could she save herself?

  The questions fought each other in her mind like rats on a sinking ship.

  The preacher’s voice cut through her thoughts. He was talking about her, Caterina realized.

  “Here before you is an example of how far Florence has fallen. An evil, wanton woman who traipses around the city with a pimp, seducing your Godly neighbors into sin. Such wickedness is akin to cursing the Virgin Mary. We cannot allow her to draw evil attention to our community.”

  A rumble rose from the crowd, which hissed and spit like an angry alley cat. A sharp pain struck Caterina in the shoulder and she looked down to see a piece of rotted fruit, its juices splattered across her beautiful dress. And then another slammed into her stomach.

  The preacher stepped in front of her, blocking further attacks. For an instant, Caterina was thankful for the protection, until the preacher spoke again.

  “Don’t stoop to her level, brothers. I respect your righteousness in attacking sin, but let me handle this. Even the worst sinner deserves a final chance to confess.”

  Final chance. Final chance. The words circled Caterina’s mind. She hadn’t really believed she was in danger until much too late. Even in the wagon, she’d been certain she could talk her way out of it. That was just a misunderstanding—if Piccolomini knew who she truly was, surely he would apologize.

  But if this preacher discovered she was a Medici, it would only feed his fury.

  The preacher turned his back on the audience to face Caterina, speaking in a voice that only she could hear. “Do not scream,” he ordered. With a single finger, as if he was reluctant to touch her, the preacher reached out and pulled the gag down around Caterina’s neck.

  “There’s been a terrible mistake,” Caterina breathed, her voice rough and raw. “I’m a patrician’s daughter. I’ve not sinned.”

  “We’ve all sinned,” the preacher said, his slate eyes cold as they bored into her.

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  He cut her off with a snarl. “I understand. I see who you are. You are a blight upon this city.”

  Her voice rose in frustration. “I’m Caterina de’ Medici!”

  The corner of his mouth tilted upward. “I know.”

  He knew? Caterina’s stomach flipped. Her throat felt tight and her skin itched as if her bones were trying to leap out of her body. He knew?

  The words leapt out of her mouth, as loud as she could shout. “Help! I’m a Medi—”

  But before she could even finish her name, the preacher stuffed the cloth back into her mouth, deep enough that Caterina sputtered and gagged. Her screams were silenced by the muzzle.

  “She chose not to confess,” the preacher announced to an audience primed for blood. A low rumble singled their displeasure. The preacher raised his arms above his head. “Let’s show Florence’s sinners the price of their greed!”

  He lifted the branch and touched the red embers to the straw at Caterina’s feet. Smoke rose from the dry tinder and flames leapt up around the wide pyre.

  Caterina felt tears spring to her eyes, from the smoke or her rising panic. She whipped and pulled against her ties, struggling for her life. But the dark billows of black smoke only increased, and the flames licked higher and higher on the pyre. The heat pressed down on her, threatening to crush her. What would it feel like once the flames reached her skirt? Her flesh?

  Caterina’s eyes darted around the square, but the fire kept pulling her attention back. She didn’t recognize anyone; she didn’t see the preacher. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dripped into her eyes. She screamed and screamed against the cloth as the flames leapt closer.

  She was going to die, here before a crowd thirsty for her blood. Just blocks from her family, the safety of the Medici Palace. Caterina screwed her eyes shut as she waited for the flames to reach her skin.

  And then someone ran toward her, a dark monster covered in blood. It pushed through the burning straw, blocking the black smoke with an arm, and reached for her.

  Was this some kind of devil, come to collect her soul? Was she already dead?

  Caterina bit so hard that her mouth flooded with blood, and she sputtered as it sought an outlet, finally running down her throat. She couldn’t close her eyes again, she didn’t want to lose sight of the demon tearing at her skirt, stamping at the flames wrapping themselves around her.

  And then the creature lifted her, tugging against the bindings and breaking them with the power of his hands. Caterina coughed as tears poured from her eyes, stinging the wound on her cheek.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” The beast was trying to comfort her, Caterina realized, even as he held a mass of men at bay with a bloody sword. Was he dragging her down to hell?

  Faintness swirled in Caterina’s mind, and for a moment she gave in t
o the darkness and lost her grip on consciousness. When her head jerked up, the fire was gone.

  But she was still in the creature’s clutches. He was barreling through Florence’s narrow alleys, beating back assailants while carrying her as though she were a sack of feathers.

  Caterina was too exhausted to feel fear. She closed her eyes and wished she could wake up from this nightmare, but the grip of the beast’s hand around her body, mingled with the intense pain from her legs, told her this was real.

  “Open the gate! Open the gate!” She felt the rumble through the creature’s body as his plea reached her ears. He was pounding on something with the hilt of his sword—the gate, Caterina told herself through the fog—and then in an instant everything changed.

  They burst through a dark space and into a quiet courtyard. Caterina blinked. Everything suddenly seemed familiar.

  The creature was setting her down on a low, padded divan. His bloody face was right in front of hers, slashed and broken, caked in gore. He raised a gentle finger to pull the gag out of her mouth, finally freeing a burst of blood that she spat out with a gasp.

  “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

  She looked into his eyes, blue as the sky before a storm, and fainted.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  From a hilltop outside of Florence, James watched the city from a distance.

  It had been a week since he’d returned Caterina to the Medici palace. A week since he’d seen her.

  He’d been shoved out of the courtyard by an army of women, who flocked around Caterina and carried her somewhere deep inside the palace. James had stood like a statue, blood dripping from his face, mingling on his torn doublet with the spray of blood from Caterina.

  Then someone had led him to the gate and deposited him back on the street, as if he were a trespasser.

  He stared at the closed gate for what felt like hours, expecting someone to send for him, or tell him where to go. Finally, he shook off the haze and turned back toward the piazza where Fra Razzo had nearly murdered Caterina just to prove that he could.