I rose awkwardly and pulled on my gown. Zalumma was snoring lightly on her cot. I moved as lightly as my bulk allowed and slipped quietly out the door. I was thirsty and thought to go downstairs where it was cooler, to get some fresh water to drink. My eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and so I took no candle.
As I began to descend the stairs, I saw light advancing from the opposite direction—Francesco, I assumed. Like a good wife, I turned, intending to go back up discreetly; but a feminine giggle made me stop, press my back firm against the wall to keep my body clear of the arc of looming light, and look down.
On the landing below stood Isabella—young, pretty Isabella—in a
white linen
camicia,
with a key in one upraised hand and a candle in the other. She leaned backward into the grasp of a man who had wound his arms beneath her breasts and pulled her against his chest, then pressed his face against her neck. As he kissed her, she fought to repress her laughter—and when she failed, he shushed her, and she pulled away from him to open the door to my husband’s chambers. A lamp burned there in anticipation of his return.
Francesco, I thought, and Isabella. He had returned an hour or two early; perhaps one of his strumpets had fallen ill, because his schedule was otherwise predictable. I was not at all surprised or offended by the thought of his dalliance, though I was somewhat disappointed in Isabella.
But the man who raised his face was not my husband.
I caught only a glimpse of him, of his flashing smile, before he took the key from Isabella’s hand. He was dark-haired, perhaps my age, around sixteen. I had never seen him before. Had Isabella admitted a thief?
I stood, motionless save for the kicking of the child. For reasons I still do not understand, I was not afraid of him.
Isabella turned and gave him a passionate kiss; as she left him to go back down the stairs, taking the candle with her, he slapped her bottom soundlessly. Then he went alone into Francesco’s rooms, guided by the lamp shining there.
I listened to his unfamiliar footfall. With all the awkward grace I could summon, I moved stealthily down the stairs, past the intruder, who had paused in my husband’s study.
I went to the kitchen hearth and took the large iron poker, then moved quietly back up the stairs, to Francesco’s study.
Draped in shadow, I watched as the stranger stood in front of Francesco’s desk, where he had placed a burning lamp taken from my husband’s bedroom. The drawer was open, and the key placed beside it; the stranger had unfolded a piece of paper and was frowning at it, his mouth silently forming words as he read. He was a pretty young man, with a large, strong nose and sharp eyes limned by coal-colored
lashes; brown-black curls framed his oval face. He wore an artisan’s clothes: a gray tunic that fell almost to his knees, covering patched black leggings. If he had borne my husband’s jewels, or our gold or silver, or anything of value, I would have called out for the servants. But he was interested only in what he was reading.
He didn’t see me until I stepped forward out of the darkness and demanded, “What are you doing?”
He stopped, his chin lifting in surprise, and when he turned to look at me, the paper fell from his fingers. Miraculously, I reached out and caught it, fluttering, in the air before it reached the ground.
He moved as if to take it from me, but I raised the poker threateningly. He saw my weapon, and his full lips curved in a crescent smile. There was lechery in it, and good humor. Like me, he was fearless. And, like me, he was aware that he simply needed to move a few paces back in order to reach the poker set beside the cold hearth. He glanced swiftly at it, then dismissed the notion.
“Monna Lisa.” His tone was that of someone mildly startled to find a friend he knew well, but not in the place he had expected. He looked like a poor apprentice, and his speech was that of a tradesman.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“The Devil himself.” His smile never wavered; his gaze grew bemused and challenging, as if I were the one who had trespassed, not he. He was a brazen, cheerful criminal.
“How do you know my name?”
“You husband will be coming home soon. I should leave, don’t you think? Or else we both will be in a good deal of trouble. It’s awfully soon for you to be caught in your nightgown with a young man.” He eyed the poker, decided I wouldn’t use it, and reached for the folded paper in my hand. “Your timing is unfortunate. If I could only have another moment with that letter, please—nothing more—then I shall happily return it to you and be on my way. And you can pretend you never saw me. . . .”
His fingers grazed the paper. He was an instant away from taking it; I made a decision.
“Help!” I cried. “Thief! Thief!”
His smile broadened to show white teeth, with a slight gap between the two front ones. He did not—as I expected him to—make another attempt to seize the letter; instead, his eyes were bright and approving of my tactic.
I shouted again.
“I will say good-bye, then,” he said, and dashed down the stairs, his step surprisingly light. I followed him as swiftly as my bulk allowed and watched him fling open the doors to the front entrance. He left them open behind him, and I stared after his dark form as he raced across the curving flagstone drive into the night.
I was utterly perplexed and curious. And when Claudio and Agrippina called out to me, I refolded the paper and slipped it underneath my arm so that it was entirely hidden in the folds of my nightgown.
When they arrived, breathless, frightened, I said, “I must have been dreaming. I thought someone was here . . . but it was no one.”
They shook their heads as I sent them back to their rooms; Claudio muttered something about pregnant women.
Once they were gone, I went back upstairs to Francesco’s study and held the paper to the lamplight. It was indeed a letter, folded into thirds, the black wax seal broken. The writing was slanted strongly to the right, and thick, as if someone had exerted a great deal of pressure on the quill. The paper itself was worn, as though it had traveled a long way.
Your worries about retribution from Alexander are unfounded; the excommunication is mere rumor. When it becomes more than that, we shall use it to our advantage.
In the meantime, continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the
Arrabbiati.
And send me the names of all
Bigi—
The
Bigi.
The gray ones, generally older and established, who supported the Medici. I had heard the term before, on my husband’s lips, and my father’s.
—but do nothing more; a strike now would be premature. I am investigating Piero’s plans for invasion. He has settled for now in Rome, and I have found agents there willing to deal with him as you did with Pico. If we accomplish that, the
Bigi
will pose little threat.As always, your help will be remembered and rewarded.
I refolded the letter and set it back in the desk, in the place Francesco kept his correspondence, then locked the desk. I paused a moment to study the key. Isabella had given it to the intruder; was it the one belonging to my husband or a copy?
I kept it in my hand. If Francesco missed its presence, Isabella would have to do the explaining, not I.
Then I returned to my bedchamber. Half asleep, Zalumma murmured vague words about hearing a noise downstairs.
“It was nothing. Go to sleep,” I said, and she gratefully complied.
I avoided my own bed, and went out onto the balcony to think. The air was oppressively warm, weighty as water; I breathed it in and felt it settling heavy inside me, against my lungs, my heart.
. . .
continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the
Arrabbiati.
I thought of Francesco faithfully attending Savonarola’s every sermon. Listening carefully to every word. Coming home to his lavish palace and spoiling me with jewels. Riding out each night to visit his harlots.
. . .
willing to deal with him as you did with Pico.
I thought of Pico with the goblet in his hands, smiling at Lorenzo; of Pico, hollow-eyed and gaunt. Of Francesco saying softly,
Pico . . . ? He was an associate of Lorenzo’s, was he not? Alas . . . he is not expected to survive much longer
.
I had thought the greatest danger to myself, my father, was for Francesco simply to open his mouth, to reveal my connection to the Medici. To speak.
It would be a terrible thing for your father to undergo any more suffering. A terrible thing, if he were to die.
I thought I had understood my husband. I understood nothing.
The world was hot and heavy and stifling. I put my head upon my knees, but couldn’t catch my breath to cry.
My body opened up; I heard the splash of liquid and realized that I was the source. My chair, my legs, my gown were all soaked, and when I stood, startled, a cramp seized me so violently I thought I was turning inside out.
I cried out and seized the balcony’s edge, and when Zalumma, wide-eyed and gasping, appeared, I told her to bring the midwife.
F
rancesco named the boy Matteo Massimo: Massimo, after Francesco’s father, and Matteo, after his grandfather. I accepted the patriarchial naming dutifully; I had always known I could not name him Giuliano. And I was pleased to learn that Matteo meant “gift of God.” God could have given me none better.
Matteo was amazing and beautiful, and gave me back my heart. Without him, I could not have borne what I had learned in my husband’s study; without him, I had no reason to be courageous. But for his sake, I kept my counsel, and told only Zalumma of the letter—a necessity, since she would notice the key I had kept, and which Francesco never mentioned.
When I recited the line about Pico, she understood at once and crossed herself in fear.
Matteo was baptized the day after his birth, at San Giovanni, where I had been married for the second time. The formal christening was held two weeks after, at Santissima Annunziata, some distance to the north in the neighboring district of San Giovanni. For many generations, Francesco’s family had maintained a private chapel there. The
church stood on one side of the piazza with the orphanage, the Ospedale della Santa Maria degli Innocenti, opposite. The gracefully arching colonnades of the buildings—each bearing Michelozzo’s stamp—faced the street.
I found the chapel comforting. Save for the bronze crucifix of an anguished Christ, whitewashed walls rose bare above an altar carved from dark wood, braced on either side by two iron candelabra as tall and twice as broad as I. The blond glow from twenty-four candles fought to ease the windowless gloom. The room smelled of dust, of wood and stone, of sweet incense and candlewax, and echoed silently with centuries of murmured prayers.
Since my son’s birth, I had kept my distance from Francesco; my hatred, my disgust, my fear, were so great I could scarcely bring myself to look at him. His manner remained unchanged—solicitous and mild—but now, when I studied him, I saw a man capable of Pico’s murder and perhaps Lorenzo’s. I saw a man who had helped to oust Piero, and thus brought about my Giuliano’s death.
I had tried to let my maternal devotion obliterate any consideration of my husband’s dark dealings with Savonarola, as if forgetfulness could magically protect Matteo from them. I had tried—but as I sat in the chapel and beamed at my child, the knowledge that Francesco sat beside me sickened me.
Uncle Lauro and Giovanna Maria served as godparents. Matteo was an impossibly content child; he slept through most of the ceremony, and when he woke, he smiled. I sat, still weary after the long labor, and watched with joy as my father held the baby and Lauro answered for him.
Afterward, as my father proudly bore his grandchild down the aisle and the others followed, I paused to take Matteo’s certificate from the priest. He was young and nervous; his voice had cracked several times during the ceremony. When I took hold of the certificate, he did not let go, but glanced surreptitiously at the others; when he reassured himself they were preoccupied with the baby, he hissed at me:
“At night. Read this only at night—tonight, when you are alone.”
I recoiled . . . then looked down at my hands. He had given me
more than the single piece of parchment; beneath it he had tucked a piece of paper, neatly folded.
Thinking he was mad, I walked swiftly away from him and hurried after the others.
Outside, in the piazza, I had almost joined up with them when a young monk stepped into my path. He wore the black robes of the Servants of Mary, the monastic order whose convent was housed there, at Santissima Annunziata. His cowl had been raised, leaving his brow and eyes in shadow; over his arm was a large basket filled with eggs. As I swept by him, he said, in a low voice, “A beautiful child, Monna.”
I turned back to smile. And found myself looking at the familiar smirk of the Devil himself.
“You,”
I whispered.
The recognition pleased him. He leaned into the light, which revealed amusement in his eyes—tempered by anxiety that my husband might notice. “Tonight,” he said softly. “Alone.” Then he turned and walked briskly on.
As I joined the others, who were talking and fawning over Matteo before Francesco returned to work at his
bottega,
my husband looked up from his presumed son, his gaze gentle, absent. “Who was that?” he asked.
“No one,” I said, moving to join him. I held the certificate tightly in my hand, making sure it entirely covered the smuggled note. “No one at all.”
I told no one about the note—not even Zalumma. But after she went downstairs at noon to eat with the other servants and left me alone with Matteo on my balcony, I unfolded the piece of paper. The sun was overhead in a cloudless sky, but I could not wait—nor did I see any reason to. Matteo lay, warm and soft, against me. Dared I become embroiled in more deceit?