The Poet Prince (19 page)

Lorenzo de’ Medici placed the slightest pressure on his heels, urging Morello into a canter. He never kicked or whipped his horses. Indeed, he revered them, and some said he even had the ability to communicate with them. Marsilio Ficino, Cosimo’s physician and astrologer, credited Lorenzo’s birth chart with this talent. Lorenzo was an earth sign, governed by the mythical sea goat called Capricornus. Ficino said that this sign, combined with other auspicious elements of Lorenzo’s chart, gave him an extraordinary affinity for animals, adding that they would figure into his destiny in unexpected ways.

With horses, particularly, Lorenzo was comfortable, and they appeared to return his love. The Medici horses were known to neigh and whinny when they sensed Lorenzo approaching the stables. His favorite mount, the high-spirited Morello, refused to take oats from any hand but Lorenzo’s if he so much as sensed the presence of his young master at the family’s country retreat here in Careggi.

Urging Morello into the woods, Lorenzo followed a path that he knew well. He had promised to take his little brother riding this afternoon, so he mustn’t stay out too long. He knew it would break his brother’s heart if he did not keep his promise, and that was something he could not bear. Giuliano worshipped him, and he would not give him any reason to do otherwise. But Lorenzo needed this time alone, to ride in the sun and feel the warmth on his hair, to listen to the sounds of spring coming alive in the forest. He was secretly composing a sonnet to the season, and he wanted to savor it a bit more before he finished his piece. Spring, the season of new beginnings, the time of promise. Florentines celebrated the New Year with the coming of spring, their calendars beginning on the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation. That was three days away, and Lorenzo would have his sonnet ready for the celebration that was to
come.

What was that sound?

He pulled gently on Morello’s reins to slow him to a stop and listened. There it was again, a sound on the wind that was unfamiliar in this place. Lorenzo stiffened in his saddle, completely alert now. These
were Medici lands, and while he felt safe here most often, a family of such wealth and power had many enemies. He could not be too careful. He heard the sound again—definitely a human sound—but he relaxed a little in his saddle now as he listened. The sound was small and sad, not threatening. Moving Morello slowly toward the noise, he stopped sharply when he heard a gasp.

Sitting in the leaves and looking up at him was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

Close to his age, perhaps slightly younger, the girl looked like one of the nymphs that Sandro sketched for him when they discussed the great Greek legends that they both loved so dearly. The most beautiful heart-shaped face, set with delicate features and a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth, were framed by a cloud of chestnut-colored ringlets that were streaked with a coppery gold. There were leaves in that hair and her clothing was disheveled, but it was clear that her attire was new and expensive despite her current state of disarray. The girl’s eyes were bright with tears that magnified their extraordinary light hazel color. Lorenzo would later come to know that these eyes changed color depending on her mood, sometimes amber, then the lightest sage green. But at that moment, she was the most exquisite mystery.

“Why are you crying?”

She moved to show him that she was holding something, something that fluttered and cooed, scattering white feathers.

“A dove? You have caught a dove?”

“I didn’t catch it,” she snapped, surprising him with her shift to anger. “I rescued it. It was caught in a trap, up in that tree. But it is injured. I think his wing is broken.”

Lorenzo sized up this spirited wood nymph as she stood, holding the dove against her fine-boned frame as she brought it closer for his inspection. That the bird was caught in a poacher’s trap was information he would have to turn over to his father later. But there was a more pressing matter at hand. He dismounted gracefully and put his hand on the struggling bird, gently stroking its neck.

“Shh, little one. It’s all right.”

To the girl’s surprise, the bird calmed and allowed Lorenzo to
stroke it.

“Lorenzo de’ Medici,” the nymph said, with a touch of awe in her lyrical voice.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard—his name on her lips. “Yes,” he said, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. “But you have an unfair advantage, as you clearly know me and yet I do not know you.”

“Everyone in Florence knows you. I saw you during the procession of the Magi, riding that same horse.” She paused for a moment before asking, “Will you have me arrested for trespassing on your lands?” She looked most earnest in her question.

Lorenzo stopped himself from laughing out loud and maintained a most serious demeanor, asking, “And does everyone in Florence say that I am a tyrant?”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . oh, I am sorry, Lorenzo. Everyone in Florence says that you are . . . magnificent. I just know that my father tells me to stay in our own lands, yet your forest is so much more inviting that I sometimes walk here when no one is watch-
ing, and . . .”

He interrupted in an effort to alleviate her obvious discomfort. “Would you like to enlighten me as to who your father is?”

“I am a Donati. Lucrezia Donati.” She curtsied slightly, while juggling the dove. Clearly, this was a girl of extraordinary breeding.

“Ah. A Donati.” He should have guessed by the quality of her attire. The Donati lands backed up to the Medicis’, even exceeding their own in terms of usable acreage. They were the nearest thing to royalty in Tuscany, with an illustrious heritage traceable all the way to ancient Rome. The revered Tuscan poet Dante had married a Donati, adding further cachet to that already exalted family name.

“Well, Your Highness.” Lorenzo gave a deep bow as he smiled at her. “Given that your family is one of the most aristocratic in this part of Italy, it doesn’t appear that this mere Medici has a hope of arresting you. Much as I might like to. Instead, your punishment is to give that dove to me.”

“But . . . what will you do with it? You won’t eat it, will you?”

“Of course I won’t eat it! My lord, what must you think of me?
I shall take it to Ficino. He is one of my teachers, but also a doctor. He is a maestro, a master of many arts. If anyone can mend this wing, Ficino can. And he lives just over the ridge in Montevecchio, behind our house.”

Lucrezia considered him thoughtfully before stating rather than asking, “I’m coming with you. After all, I did go to all of this trouble to fall out of a tree to rescue him. I’d say I deserve to go. Besides, it’s my birthday today and you would be terribly cruel to deny me.”

Lorenzo laughed again at this spirited, enchanting creature. “Mistress Lucrezia Donati, I doubt that I would ever have the strength to deny you anything. You didn’t hurt yourself when you fell from the tree, did you?”

“Not nearly as much as my mother will hurt me when she sees what I have done to my new dress.” She brushed at the dirt and the leaves, straightening herself as she did so. Lorenzo inspected her, using the excuse to circle and take in every inch of her beauty.

“I think you got very lucky this time,” he observed with mock seriousness. “It will brush off and nothing is ripped.” His tone lightened as he added, “And if Mona Donati asks, tell her that your clumsy neighbor Lorenzo de’ Medici fell from his horse and you came to his aid. I will tell my father the same, and everyone will shower you with gifts on your birthday!”

It was Lucrezia’s turn to laugh now, revealing her delicate dimples. “A good plan, Lorenzo, except that you have forgotten one thing. Your skill as an equestrian is legendary, and no one will believe for a moment that you fell from your horse—particularly that horse. No, I must take the blame for what I have done. Besides, I am a terrible liar. Honesty suits me better.”

“Then you are a noble woman in every sense of the word. Can you ride?”

She tossed her chestnut hair and raised her chin at him. “Of course I can ride. Do you think yours is the only family in Florence that edu
cates its daughters?” But the dove flapped in her arms again and she deflated. “Although it may be difficult while holding our little friend.”

Lorenzo devised a solution. He helped Lucrezia up and onto Morello, who was very cooperative. Mounting behind her, he kept his arms around the girl’s shoulders to steady her as she clutched the dove to her body. Together, they rode off slowly in the springtime sun, looking very much the way that teenagers in the throes of a first crush have looked since the beginning of civilization.

Marsilio Ficino watched Lorenzo carefully, if surreptitiously, as he examined the wounded bird. He had been charged with Lorenzo’s intellectual and philosophical well-being since the boy’s infancy, and he knew and loved the boy like his own child. He had never seen him like this, as giddy and self-conscious as he was in the presence of the Donati heiress. At least she was worthy of him and not some farmer’s daughter from Pistoia. On the other hand, this pairing posed its own complications. How would the Donati patriarch feel about his treasured daughter frolicking in the forest with the Medici heir? While Lorenzo’s family was the wealthiest and subsequently the most influential in Florence, they were not nobility. To the regal elite of Italy, the Medici were merchants who had struck it rich, whereas the Donati were of an ancient and storied lineage. Merchant class versus the aristocracy: it was unlikely that the Donati would ever approve of anything beyond the friendship of these children. Perhaps not even that.

“His wing is broken, but I have seen worse,” Ficino declared in his gentle voice. He watched Lucrezia’s face light up at this pronouncement.

“Can he be saved? Can you heal him?”

The hope that radiated from the girl was infectious. Ficino, in spite of himself, was softened by her warmth. He smiled at her.

“It is up to God’s will if the creature is healed, my dear. But we will do our best to use our human skills and see what comes next. Lorenzo, hold him for a moment while I gather some supplies.”

Ficino handed the bird to Lorenzo, who took him gingerly, cooing to the dove all the while. He looked up and caught Lucrezia’s eyes, seeing them bright again with tears. He rushed to reassure her.

“He will be all right, I know he will. The maestro will help him, and you and I . . . we will pray together for his healing.”

Ficino returned with two small sticks and some linen strips and bound the bird’s wing to his body. Lorenzo held the dove while his teacher ministered to it, Lucrezia watching both with wide-eyed fascination.

“I will keep him here, but he will need to be fed by hand,” Ficino explained, feigning irritation. “I do not have the time to play nursemaid to this bird, so it will be up to the two of you to be sure that he is fed.”

Lorenzo glanced at Lucrezia, who nodded solemnly. “I will come
every day, if I am able.” Her father spent his days in Florence proper, and her mother was lenient with her free-spirited daughter when they were at their country villa. Lucrezia was able to get away on most
days, provided she gave her family no cause to worry by staying away too long.

“I will come too,” Lorenzo promised. “I will meet Lucrezia at the edge of her lands and bring her here on Morello.”

Ficino nodded, emitting a grunt. “Good enough. Now away with the two of you, as this old man has work to do. I am translating something of great importance for your grandfather, and his legendary impatience has not been diminished by his illness. And don’t get into any more trouble for today, at least.”

Lorenzo took Lucrezia lightly by the arm and escorted her out the door. “This way,” he whispered.

“Where are we going?”

“Shh. You’ll see.”

He led her along a winding, overgrown path, pushing aside the low tree branches that threatened to obscure the way. But Lorenzo could find this place with his eyes closed. It was his favorite place in the world and would remain so for the rest of his life. They turned a final corner and he escorted her through the opening in a wall.

“What is this place?”

They were on the edge of a large and enclosed circular garden. In the midst of the tangled flowers was a temple in the Greek fashion: a dome supported by columns. In the center was a statue of Cupid mounted on a pillar. A plaque on the pillar carried the motto
Amor vincit omnia
.

“Love conquers all,” Lorenzo translated. “Virgil. The inscription, that is. And . . . something else too. But the temple was built by the great Alberti.”

“It’s pagan!” Lucrezia exclaimed, shocked.

“Is it?” Lorenzo laughed. “Come over here.”

Lorenzo took her to one side of the garden, where an altar in stone had been erected. It was the base to a stunning marble crucifixion scene.

“From Master Verrocchio’s hand. Now this
is
Christian.”

“It’s amazing.” Lucrezia was awestruck. “But . . . I don’t under-
stand it.”

Lorenzo smiled at her. It was absolutely forbidden to bring anyone here who was not indoctrinated into the Order, but Lorenzo wanted to share this magical place with her. He knew instinctively that she would learn to love it as he did—and that somehow she belonged here. She was a part of this place just as he was. It was something that he knew, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. She belonged in every place that he loved, at his side.