“Is this dangerous?” she wished to know. “For I would not like you to go to this meeting and never come home again.”
“Indeed, the Monticecco are murdering thugs,” Jacopo interjected, “and they are—”
“Who have they murdered?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Everyone turned to stare at the daughter who had spoken without being spoken to first. Jacopo’s look was scathing.
Papa answered not to me but to my mother. “No one has been killed, Simonettina.” He never used the diminutive in front of those not family, a thought that further sickened me. “Jacopo spoke figuratively. And while the Monticecco are thugs, they dare not raise a finger against me”—now he nodded to me—“or my future partner while we are under Don Cosimo’s roof.”
Mama smiled at my father, relieved. “May I give you some beef?” she asked in a girlish voice.
“A small portion,” he replied.
“Juliet,” Mama said, “will you ask Jacopo if you might serve him?”
He turned and smiled at me, yellow teeth and all. I wanted to scream. Instead I lowered my eyes, the dutiful daughter and bride-to-be.
I claimed a sick head for an early excuse to leave the table, and climbed to my room. At the writing table I composed a letter to Lucrezia, begging her indulgence for a favor. Of Romeo she disapproved, I knew, but things were different now, or soon would be.
This is why Romeo has stayed away,
I told myself. His peace talks had been taking form. And here I had worried about him and another girl. What a fool I was. Never would I doubt him again.
I slept that night all through, no dreams that I remember, but woke before dawn with a sweet, fruity taste in my mouth.
Romeo had heard my call.
Chapter Nine
M
y stomach churned as we sat sewing, Lucrezia and I with Contessina de’ Medici, in her small salon. This had been the favor I’d asked of my friend—to arrange for my presence in Don Cosimo’s house on the day of Romeo’s peace works.
The Medici matriarch stitched a row of crosses and cherubim in silver-gilt shot on a priest’s chasuble. Lucrezia embroidered a pair of gauntlets for Piero in bright blues and yellows, and I a lawn shirt for cousin Marco’s birthday.
My eyes kept wandering to the open door, and I listened for the slightest sound. The time was approaching for the arrival of those summoned for the meet.
“Look how small and even your stitches are,” Contessina observed, praising Lucrezia’s work. My friend smiled with warmth at the cheerful woman with whom she would soon share the wifely responsibilities of the Palazzo Bardi.
“For whom is the chasuble?” I asked, by way of making polite conversation.
“For Carlo,” the older woman answered simply.
I saw an odd look flash for an instant across Lucrezia’s face. Contessina, too, had seen it.
“What is it?” I said to my friend, and she became flustered, trying to regain her composure.
“Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing.”
“It is all right, my dear,” Contessina said, patting her hand. She fixed me in her calm, steady eye. “Our Lucrezia has not yet accustomed herself to the thought of my husband’s bastard son.”
I forced myself to hold her gaze unfalteringly. “Carlo, the rector of Prato, is not
your
child?” I added.
Contessina resumed her sewing as she spoke. “Three years after our marriage Cosimo went to Rome to manage his branch there. A Circassian slave girl”—a pause as she swallowed was the only sign of emotion revealed—“had been bought by one of his agents, to look after him. She was young, pretty—the Circassians are known for their beauty. She bore him a son.”
Lucrezia looked at me.“Mona Contessina raised the boy along with her own children. Made sure he had a fine education.”
“How did you bear it?” I asked the older woman.
She closed her eyes, remembering. “I had been chaste and dutiful before marriage. Pious, loyal, and loving as a wife. I gave him pleasure in the bedroom”—her lips bowed into a smile—“and received it, too.” She looked at me then. “It was difficult, very difficult when I found out about her. Had Maddalena simply been a nubile young thing who warmed Cosimo’s lonely bed, it might have hurt me less. But she was of noble blood, taken as the plunder of war and sold to the highest bidder in the Venice slave market.” The next words were painfully spoken. “My husband was very much in love with her.”
She could see the looks of outrage on our faces. She spoke gently. “It is the way men are, my dears. Even good men.”
“Well,” said Lucrezia, “men may stray, but you were not required to take in his illegitimate child.”
Contessina considered this. “Had I to do it again,” she said, “perhaps I would have refused him. But I’ve grown to love Carlo as my own. I’m very proud of him. And who am I to complain? Cosimo has given me everything. Great wealth. Children of my own. Respect.” Her eyes went soft as she spoke to Lucrezia. “I foresee no such problems with our Piero. He is deeply in love with you.”
“And she’ll allow no Circassian slave girls in their household,” I quipped.
We all laughed at that and went on sewing in silence.
But Contessina’s story was jarring
.
This is what happens in a marriage of convenience,
I told myself.
It would never happen in a marriage for love.
An hour passed with unnerving slowness. I pricked my finger so many times it made Mona Contessina laugh. Finally, when I thought I could bear the waiting no longer, I heard voices echoing in the hall outside the salon door. My father’s was clearly recognizable, as was Jacopo’s. I strained to hear Romeo’s, but was unrewarded.
Trying to remain calm, I asked permission to go and relieve myself. Contessina instructed Lucrezia to accompany me to her bedroom, but when I said I knew the way, Lucrezia reminded her soon-to-be mother-in-law of my visit before the betrothal ball. I could, indeed, find my own way, she said.
I hurried out and saw that the men had just repaired to the main salon at the end of the corridor. When I approached, I was gratified to see that while the door was closed, it was slightly ajar and voices could clearly be heard. Keeping my eyes peeled for servants, who would not have taken kindly to a girl eavesdropping on their master’s business, I stood with my back to the wall near the door. I could not see inside, but I imagined them all having taken places around a table.
“Welcome,” I heard Cosimo begin. “It is good that you have come. I think you all know my dear friend Poggio Bracciolini . . . at least by reputation. He will serve as my
consigliere
in this matter.”
How interesting, I thought. Poggio was a famous statesman, author, and orator, but most distinguished for his travels to the ends of the known world for the purpose of finding ancient manuscripts and codices to add to Cosimo’s already distinguished library.
“Capello. Jacopo. Roberto. Romeo.” He addressed them all with equal respect. “We are here at the suggestion of your boy, Roberto. Quite an unexpected request, but one that piqued my interest.” Cosimo paused before he spoke again. “Let us begin by admitting that wrongdoing has occurred between your houses.”
“With all due respect, Don Cosimo,” I heard my father say, “I refuse to admit that any of the wrongdoing was mine. Last month some damage was done to my factory on Via San Gallo, and one of my workers was roughed up. More recently a cargo of my silks was destroyed. We have proof that the Monticecco are responsible.”
“What say you to that, Roberto?”
“I do not deny it.” I heard a deep, melodious voice answer with neither flourish nor regret.
“You see?” Jacopo whined. “He admits his crime.”
No one spoke for a space of time, and I wondered what thoughts were whirling just then in Romeo’s head.
“What are you not telling us, Roberto?” This was the rich, eloquent voice of Poggio, whom I had heard speak at the Signoria at a public gathering. “Have you an unaired grievance against Capello Capelletti?”
“You may know that my father went to his maker last year,” said the Monticecco paterfamilias. He paused, but when he spoke again, his voice trembled with feeling. “On his deathbed he made a confession and last request of me.”
“We are sorry for your loss,” I heard Cosimo say with sincere compassion. “May he rest in peace.” A moment of respectful silence was observed before he went on. “Will you tell us what he said?”
“Very gladly.” Roberto’s voice grew hard and angry. “Many years ago your father”—I assumed he now spoke to Papa—“seduced my father’s youngest daughter.” There was more silence. “Do you deny any knowledge of this?”
“Most emphatically!” I heard my father say.
“Well, it is written in our family’s records, if not yours.”
“Let us, for a moment, assume the truth of this accusation,” Cosimo said. “Tell us more.”
“I was still a boy, but I remember my sister—pregnant and disgraced. There was never a marriage. She and the child—a boy—died in childbirth.”
“Again, we mourn the loss of your sister and nephew,” Cosimo said. I heard Papa and Jacopo muttering of their sorrow, too.
“Thank you.”
“But, Roberto,” Poggio said very gently, “that was many years ago, and—correct me if I am wrong—no steps were taken then to right the wrong.”
“That is so.”
“But why?”
“Our family had been weakened by my elder brothers’ move to Verona—they had bought a large and prosperous vineyard there. By himself, with only one young son left in the household, my father feared retaliation would lead to annihilation. So he swallowed his pride and did nothing. But on his deathbed his fury—one that been long forgotten by all but him—was renewed. He demanded that I exact revenge for the Capelletti outrage against our family. Should I disregard a dying man’s wishes?”
“Of course not,” Cosimo replied carefully. “Such promises are sacrosanct.”
“But you cannot be suggesting he has a right to ruin me?” said Papa, his voice simmering with anger.
Cosimo did not immediately answer, and I heard a whispering consultation with Poggio. The orator was the next to speak.
“Since the cessation of fighting between the Ghibellines and the Guelfs, and the resolution of Cosimo’s ‘disagreement’ with the Albizzi family, Florence has been a peaceful city. With peace comes prosperity, a condition that benefits all.”
“In this case,” Cosimo went on, choosing his words carefully, “the good of our city must—respectfully—be weighed against the wishes of one dying man. What I propose is that the Monticecco pay the Capelletti for the full loss of the cargo.”
“Fair enough,” I heard Jacopo say.
“Please let me finish. You, Capello, should then pay a thousand florins to the Monticecco to settle the ‘debt of revenge.’ I realize, Roberto, this is not altogether satisfying—no eye is taken for an eye. Nothing brings back the dead, nor a family’s lost honor. But I am thinking that perhaps with this monetary solution, my friend Poggio has discovered a new way to settle blood feuds without the spilling of blood.”
“With respect,” I heard Jacopo say with no trace of that sentiment in his voice, “the repayment for the lost cargo only brings my future partner even. If he then pays the Monticecco for an insult many decades in the past, Capello is suddenly out of pocket. And
he
is the injured party here.”
Everyone started talking at once, arguing really. Their voices were growing louder and more bellicose.
“May I speak?” The voice was Romeo’s.
My heart fluttered in my chest. I moved closer to the open door, afraid to miss a word he spoke.
“I would suggest this. Let my father pay more for the lost cargo than its worth—a price equal to the ‘revenge payment’ Signor Capelletti is paying him. That way, each man receives something to satisfy the losses and dishonors done to their families, but neither one ends up the richer.”
There was silence as everyone digested the proposal. At that moment I heard a servant’s footsteps echoing up the stairway. I darted away and into Contessina’s bedroom, took a moment to do my business in her chamber pot, and peeked out the door in time to see the gathering of men emerge from the great salon.
Cosimo stood with arms about the shoulders of Papa and Roberto Monticecco, gently forcing them to embrace. At first it was reluctant, but when they parted, I saw their expressions had softened. Then Jacopo came forth with Poggio behind, speaking quietly in his ear. I could see my soon-to-be betrothed was unconvinced of this unique solution, but now he was confronted by the two enemies, genial and basking in the warm approval of the great man of Florence.
Yet Jacopo’s tone and posture were groveling to Poggio. I heard mention of the scholar’s famous treatise
On Avarice
, a defense of greed as the emotion that made civilization possible.
“I agree with you, signor,” said Strozzi. “It
is
a good sign if a merchant has ink-stained fingers.” He held out his hands. “Here are mine.”
Poggio laughed, then excused himself to speak to Don Cosimo.
Jacopo hung back at the door and now I saw why. Romeo emerged and Strozzi blocked his full exit. I could see both their faces, Romeo’s calm, Jacopo’s strangely pleasant.
“I have cause to believe that you and the woman I plan to marry are
simpatico
in ways of the heart,” Jacopo began.
Romeo seemed unsurprised, and remained wholly silent.
“Therefore,” said Jacopo, “I propose that after a respectable period I will allow you to pay court to her. You may see her in private, share your . . . poetry”—he uttered the word with a distinct sneer. “You may lay your lovesick head upon her knee.” He smiled and shook his head condescendingly. “Publicly adore her. Meanwhile, she will live in my mother’s house, subservient and groveling. She will obey me and stay cloistered there except to go to confession. She will bear my children, as many as I can get on her. I will, of course, have my mistresses.”