The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  But Piero’s face was stone. “This is not up for debate. I am the head of this family, and you will do as I say.”

  “No.” She said the single word firmly, in a staccato voice that she almost didn’t recognize.

  One of her father’s eyebrows lifted, so slightly that Caterina would have missed it had she not grown up watching for that signal of her father’s anger. But what could he do? He couldn’t drag her to the convent, mile after mile, as she screamed and kicked. She’d given in too easily last time—she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  But instead of responding to her, Piero de’ Medici lifted a hand and signaled to the pair of guards stationed by the door, who blended in with the stone walls. Caterina barely saw them anymore. Her father exchanged a low whisper with the men, turning his back on Caterina, and then he disappeared into the building without another look at his daughter.

  An icy finger of fear touched Caterina’s chest and spread. What was happening? She almost called after her father but stopped herself. She wouldn’t show weakness. Not now.

  The guards crossed the space in seconds, and before she had taken her eyes off her father, the men each grasped one of her arms and lifted her straight off the ground. Shock rocked Caterina’s body, laced with fear. She let out a scream, and then another one. But the guards ignored her thrashing and carried her inside, up the stairs to her room, where they left her dazed and shaken.

  She ran to the sealed door and pounded on it, her mind flashing back to the crate that had held her captive, delivering her to Fra Razzo. Tears streamed down her face as she cried out for her father and then her mother.

  But no one came.

  The sunlight faded from the narrow window, not wide enough for a person to slip through—Caterina knew, because she tried.

  She was cornered, imprisoned, once again at the whims of a powerful man who didn’t care about her wishes. Panic bloomed in her chest whenever she looked at the walls, and there wasn’t much else to look at.

  Finally Caterina sank onto the bed, a fine feather mattress that felt suddenly too soft compared to the blanket roll she’d slept on in the tent.

  If only she could go back to that tent, back to the woods where the only person telling her what to do was James, and if she ignored him, he simply frowned and moved on. Had those weeks in the woods been the only time in her life that she’d truly been free? She’d been so distracted by fear and trying to get home that Caterina hadn’t stopped to enjoy making every decision for herself. Why had she been in such a rush to return to Florence?

  Crickets sang outside the fortress, but still Caterina lay awake on her bed. She couldn’t go back to the convent. She’d die before she’d let Lorenzo stuff her into another windowless wagon headed toward Viterbo.

  A sound. She sat straight up on her bed, all her senses alert. Her heart was pounding so loud that she could hear it, but she pushed away the distraction and focused on what she’d heard. Something from outside her door.

  Her mother, bringing food. Or the guards, checking that she was alive. Her father, returning to see if Caterina’s resolve had weakened.

  But no. This was a different kind of noise.

  Those people wouldn’t be sneaking. She recognized the cautious, deliberate steps, the attempt to remain silent, from her own brief time as a thief.

  The Pope’s men, eager for a better ransom. Piccolomini’s men, furious that she’d slipped through their fingers. Fra Razzo, coming to finish the job.

  She couldn’t decide who it might be—but it couldn’t be good.

  The thick wooden slat sealing the door from the outside creaked as someone lifted it. Caterina gripped the soft blanket in both fists, wishing she had some kind of weapon. There was nowhere to hide in the room, nothing to throw at an intruder. She didn’t even have a candlestick holder to bash a trespasser in the face.

  But when the door slowly eased open, Caterina wasn’t prepared for who she saw.

  The moonlight jumped off his blue eyes, turning them almost silver. Caterina’s heart leapt into her throat.

  James. He’d come back for her.

  “Caterina,” he said, and her name in his mouth was a symphony in a single word. “Will you come with me?”

  She leapt from the bed before he finished his question.

  “Yes.”

  The End

  of Book One

  of the Stolen Crown Trilogy

  Keep reading for a sneak peak at The Broken Blade,

  Book Two of the Stolen Crown Trilogy

  The Broken Blade

  Isle of Bute, Scotland

  February 1569

  Caterina de’ Medici perched on the edge of the bluff, looking out across the ocean.

  The water was gray. The sky was gray. The land itself under her feet, a mixture of old snow and fresh mud, was gray, too.

  She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, hoping to block out the icy wind blowing in from the sea. Her eyes watered at the onslaught, but she refused to turn away from the craggy cliff.

  She was looking for a ship. Any ship. Or, rather, any ship flying the right flags, a ship that might carry her back to Italy.

  She had made a terrible mistake four months earlier when she’d fled the Villa del Trebbio in the middle of the night with James Stewart, not even leaving behind a letter for her family. Now, trapped in cold, barren Scotland, she longed for the milder winters of home.

  Florence. What would her city look like on this mid-winter day? No amount of gray in the sky could blot out the red bricks of the massive dome towering over red roofs, or the vibrant green of the ring of hills that made a nest for the city. Even on gray days, Florence danced with color.

  Finally, the chill seeping into her bones, Caterina glanced back toward the dark building at her back. A hundred yards separated the bluff from the decrepit castle—more of a tower, really—that she lived in now. Dark black soot marred the bottom of the tower, giving the impression that it might crumble from a strong gust of wind, but even when the winter gales howled, the stones stood.

  The tower sat here, at the boundary between gray land and gray sea, between the Lowlands and Highlands, to watch for pirates and foreign navies sailing up the Firth of Clyde toward Glasgow. On the other side of the ridge, Caterina could see the thin crescent of Glencallum Bay, a thumbprint pressed into the ragged coast.

  It had been nearly six years since raiders burned the small house attached to the tower. Six years since they slaughtered James’s aunt and uncle, leaving him orphaned a second time. But James hadn’t had time to mourn, Caterina knew. He’d been carted off to a slave ship where he rowed day in and day out for months.

  The house was gone, but the tower remained, a weak reminder of the power of Scotland’s Stewarts. And the always cold room at the base of the tower, a circle of stone cut into the hard ground, now housed two new residents: James Stewart and Caterina de’ Medici.

  They slept on opposite sides of the room, of course.

  The island was barely civilized, barely inhabited by man or beast. James explained that the Stewarts laid claim to the land in part because few others vied for it. As Caterina scanned the stony soil, she could see why. Florence brimmed with people, while the Isle of Bute sat deserted.

  But that did serve her purpose, Caterina reminded herself. What better place to hide than somewhere already empty of people? She hadn’t seen another person—besides James—in nearly three weeks. Or was it four? In that time, a handful of fishing vessels had braved the Firth, but they were just dots on the horizon from Caterina’s perch.

  Still, she grabbed the shawl flapping in the breeze and wrapped it tightly around her face, as if someone might be watching.

  Her enemies couldn’t follow her all the way to barren Scotland, Caterina told herself. Last she’d heard, the preacher who’d nearly burned her alive was still missing, but Caterina couldn’t picture Fra Razzo on the Isle of Bute. The preacher railed against the wealth of Florentine patricians, the gold and ma
rble that made Florence glitter like a crown. Yet he only thrived as the leader of a mob.

  Here, in this poor corner of Christendom, the Dominican wouldn’t have an audience. If he was alive—and that was a big if, since every patrician in Florence had sent men after the preacher—Fra Razzo had surely moved on to an easier target. All of Italy was filled with newly rich families parading their wealth like peacocks, after all.

  And Luca Pitti, who thirsted for a position in Florence, would never leave the city. After all, wasn’t he eighty? He might still be a threat to her father, but not to Caterina.

  That left the pope. Caterina’s father, Piero de’ Medici, was certain that the pope never targeted their family. But Caterina remembered the red cross on white that marked the men who attacked her wagon last summer and carried off her maid, Fiametta. Those were the pope’s colors.

  But though Bute was Catholic, like the rest of Europe, it felt a thousand miles away from the Eternal City, home to the newly built Apostolic Palace. If the pope did want to strike at the Medici, he had a much richer target a few days’ ride north of Rome. He wouldn’t send men across the continent to the very edge of the known world to track down Caterina de’ Medici.

  Every day, Caterina made a list of the men who wanted to cause her harm. Every day, she came to the same conclusion. She was safe here.

  Then why did she feel so miserable?

  When James had broken into her room and offered an escape, Caterina had leapt at the chance. She’d imagined a life of freedom, roaming where she chose and following her own whims. Like when she and James had crossed the woods of central Italy, foraging for mushrooms and chestnuts and drinking from fresh streams.

  But somehow Caterina had forgotten the feeling of being chased.

  Piero de’ Medici. She should add her own father’s name to her list of enemies. He’d wanted to put Caterina into a convent—for her own protection, he claimed—and instead she’d fled. Her father had sent men to track down his escaped daughter, and they’d nearly succeeded in dragging Caterina back to Florence. But she’d fought like a wildcat to put as much distance between herself and the Medici Palace as possible.

  Once, she’d been driven to help her family. She’d even broken into a rival patrician’s palace to benefit the Medici. But that taste of freedom gained in the woods had carried with it a lesson—her family wasn’t looking out for her, so Caterina had to put her interests first. She was the only person who would, after all.

  The memories left a bitter taste in her mouth. But some small part of her whispered that she was wrong. Her father might have been misguided, but he believed he was helping her. Didn’t that count for something?

  And she missed Giuliano. And her mother. And her sister Nannina. She even missed Lorenzo, with his air of superiority and calm.

  And Florence.

  Everything was foreign, here. Everything was different. She missed knowing at dawn what her day would look like—who she’d see, the dinner companions she’d talk to, the streets she’d walk down, the dresses she’d wear.

  Dresses. Ugh. There hadn’t been time to pack much when they’d fled the Villa del Trebbio, and since then James refused to pay for anything even half decent. He said they weren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves, and silk gowns certainly would have turned a few heads on their journey to Scotland. Still, Caterina longed for the blue-grey silk she’d worn to a mid-summer dinner party in their courtyard, its hem lined in gold thread. Or the green dress with pearls sewn into the skirt. Or anything, really, besides the scratchy, heavy wool that looked more suited for a sheep than a patrician.

  Caterina wanted to race home so strongly that it became a constant ache in her chest, a dull reminder of what she’d lost. But how could she face her father after running away? What would her family think? And even if she did return, how could she convince her father that she was destined for more than the convent?

  Another thought snaked through her mind, dampening the melancholy.

  She didn’t want to be a Medici in Florence under her father’s control, but she also didn’t want to be an exile, trapped on an abandoned scrap of dirt at the edge of Ptolemy’s map.

  When she’d left Florence, Caterina had thought she would travel the world, visit places she’d only read about in books. like Paris and Constantinople. She’d run away from a life where she was trapped by her name. But escaping Florence didn’t mean escaping her name.

  Being a Medici made Caterina valuable, which put her at risk.

  And yet after all that running, she was still trapped—James said they shouldn’t go to London or Paris, the only outposts of civilization within two week’s journey, because it was too dangerous.

  Too dangerous.

  Caterina was tired of those words. Even if she feared them.

  With a shiver, she pulled her shawl closer to her face. There was danger in the world. She’d learned that first hand. And for all her bravado, she wasn’t eager to put herself too close to danger any time soon.

  A noise—a scrabble of loose stones against the rock from somewhere up the hill—caught Caterina’s attention. She turned away from the sea, expecting to see James coming down with wool, or a bucket of milk, or some other symbol of their new country life.

  But the hillside was deserted.

  Had she imagined the sound? It was all too easy to start hearing things on this deserted island.

  A sharp hiss of air was Caterina’s only warning before the first arrow fell.

  The Broken Blade

  The past can’t stay hidden forever. Caterina and James must uncover a kingdom-sized secret before it destroys them both. But will they discover the truth before their enemies strike?

  Available now!

  Author’s Note

  This book was born from a question: how would it feel to be a Medici daughter during the height of the family’s power? A curious blend of power and powerlessness, I decided. The kind of girl who’d turn her political skills toward her own goals, rather than meekly follow her father’s wishes.

  Thus Caterina de’ Medici was born. I called her Caterina after the 16th century Medici daughter who became Queen of France. Though she was treated like a villain by many, Caterina de’ Medici reached the highest position for a Medici woman in the Renaissance. My Caterina’s path would share echoes with her descendent, while charting its own course.

  While Caterina is my invention, her other siblings and family members are real. Lorenzo and Giuliano de’ Medici were the youngest children of Piero and Lucrezia. I placed Caterina between the two male heirs, almost an afterthought once the family had its “heir and a spare.” As for Lorenzo and Giuliano’s personalities, both come from historical sources. Lorenzo was a serious, focused young man, while Giuliano thrived in more physical arenas.

  As all Medici did in the 15th century, the brothers fought for their place in Florence. The Medici had no title and ruled Florence precariously. In 1466, powerful Florentines, including Luca Pitti, plotted against Piero and attempted to overthrow him during a coup. Piero barely held on to power.

  In The Medici Prize, I borrowed heavily from the history of the 1460s. The War of the Roses raged in England, but few in Florence cared much about the northern barbarians. Florence fought a war against Venice. And popes constantly meddled in the business of the Italian city-states. As rulers over the Papal States, a large swath of territory in central Italy, popes played the same political games as other rulers. And just a decade after the events of this trilogy, a pope would orchestrate a dramatic attack on the Medici—but I’ll save those details for book three.

  As a historian, I love to include little-known historical details in my novels. For example, in chapter 5, James finds a coded letter in Thomas Poole’s house. Poole foolishly translated the code on the paper, breaking the code for James. This detail comes directly from a 15th century coded letter that I read as a doctoral student. That letter’s recipient, like Poole, scrawled out the decoded words on the letter itself. T
he letter stuck in my mind, so I incorporated the idea into The Medici Prize.

  Another historical detail appears in chapter 9. When Caterina breaks into the wrong house, she encounters a fiery widow, angry at someone reading her letters. The character, who appears very briefly, represents Alessandra Strozzi. Born to a patrician family, Alessandra was married off to the Strozzi. However, only a few years later, her husband orchestrated the exile of Cosimo de’ Medici, Caterina’s grandfather. As a result, the Medici sent the Strozzi and their young children into exile for decades.

  Alessandra eventually moved back to Florence, but her adult sons lived in Naples with relatives. For years, Alessandra exchanged letters with her sons, pressuring them to make strong marriage alliances and repair their relationship with the Medici. In fact, evidence shows that Alessandra’s letters were likely read by someone (perhaps the Medici), as she was careful never to criticize Florence’s ruling family on paper.

  Another character in The Medici Prize draws on two real historical figures. Fra Razzo may be an imagined character, but his sentiments and sermons take inspiration from two Italian preachers: Bernardino of Siena and Savonarola. A generation earlier, Bernardino of Siena railed against immorality, especially targeting wanton women. In one memorable sermon, Bernardino recommended sending some “sinful incense up to heaven”—encouraging his followers to burn witches.

  A generation later, Savonarola would sweep into Florence, condemn the city’s wealth, and wrestle control from the Medici. For four years, Savonarola cleansed the city of sin. He encouraged patricians to create “bonfires of the vanities,” burning their precious items, including Renaissance paintings by Botticelli.

  In Florence, the Renaissance might have brought beautiful art, but it also carried a dark side. Florence was torn apart by instability, with regular political coups, assassinations, and shifting power structures. The Medici might have been the richest in Florence, but that meant little when every other patrician family coveted their power. Piero’s fears about the family’s safety were not imagined. Unfortunately, Piero would lose one of his children in a vicious assassination.