The Red Lily Crown (2 page)

 

For my sister and brother,

Barbara Ann and Laurence Frederic,

Because family and home are at the heart of this book.

 

 

A list of characters is included with the Author's Note and the Readers Guide, at the back of the book.

Be warned, however—the identifying details included with some of the characters' names might give away parts of the story.

Chiara

The Silver Descensory

The Piazza della Signoria

20 APRIL 1574

T
he prince was a Medici, richer than Satan, and people said he loved only two things—women and alchemy. To feed her Nonna and her two little sisters, Chiara would have sold herself to him quick as a stray cat, but she wasn't very promising
concubina
material—her chest bones stuck out and her wrists and ankles were knobbly as a colt's fetlocks. True, she was fifteen and a virgin and had a braid of dark hair down to her hips, but on the other hand she had the curved scar on the left side of her head, just above her ear. Her hair covered the mark but she couldn't always hide the headaches and the falling-spells. Sometimes she heard demons' voices.

No, not very promising
concubina
material.

Alchemy, then.

Her father, her Babbo, had been a bookseller, just as his family the Nerini had been for two hundred years. Behind the backs of his guild, though, he'd dabbled in alchemy. After the accident and her brother Gian's death, the alchemy had turned to darker things. Babbo had let the business fall to ruin, and had eventually blown himself up along with half his secret laboratory. Sometimes Chiara heard his voice, too, whispering that he wished she'd died instead of Gian. He'd have beaten her black-and-blue if he'd known she was planning to sell the last few pieces of his alchemical equipment to Prince Francesco—he'd hated the Medici, Babbo had. Damned pawnbrokers, he and Nonna called them, staunch supporters of the old republic that they were. But pride was delicious, now wasn't it, with a little
olio
and a sprinkle of salt?

Oh, it was all so beautiful, Babbo's alchemical paraphernalia, hidden away in the burned-out cellar under the shop where the long-nosed masters of the booksellers' Arte would never find it. It was fantastical, disconnected from hunger, hunger, hunger, worn-out clothes and winter cold, as mysterious as if it had been created by some kind of magic. There was an athanor made of brick and clay from Trebizond—wherever that was—and a green glass alembic in the shape of a crescent moon. There was a gold-and-crystal double pelican and a silver funnel engraved with an intricate circular labyrinth design, supposedly a thousand years old. There were books of alchemy, too, ancient yellowed parchment pages scritch-scratched with Latin incantations she couldn't read. In the back of one book her father had written secret things in his own hand, in Italian, but she couldn't read more than a few words of that, either.

If Prince Francesco de' Medici was half the alchemist people said he was, he'd want it all. He'd pay for it all. Oh, how he'd pay. Chiara could almost taste the yeasty fresh bread, its crust hot and crisp as her teeth tore into it. The salt pork, luscious with fat. The briny olives. Her stomach twisted around itself and made growling noises. Her mouth watered.

She'd been waiting in the Piazza della Signoria for hours in a drizzle of rain, praying it would clear enough for the prince to come out. She was drenched—mantle, gown and camicia, all the way to the skin. Her linen cap was limp and her slippers were sodden. Chopines? She'd shared one last pair with Nonna, until she traded them for a loaf of bread in the marketplace. Now when she walked in the rain, her slippers got wet and that was that.

Devil damn him, couldn't he order that iron gate winched up and ride out for one last visit with his father, dying at the Villa di Castello? The piazza was empty. The streets were deserted. The whole city knew the old grand duke was going to die soon, tonight, tomorrow, the next day. People were creeping around under a black cloud of dread, because if Duke Cosimo had been an iron-fisted tyrant, at least he'd been a familiar tyrant. Prince Francesco, with his alchemy and his women, his favorites and his dark vengefulness, would change everything. Once he put the red lily crown of Tuscany on his head, who knew what he might do?

One thing was certain—once the old grand duke died, the prince would disappear into the ceremonies of funerals and coronations, into crowds of courtiers fawning for favors like packs of wolves. If a bookseller's daughter was going to empty his princely purse for him, it would have to be soon. Today. Now. Please—

Metal chains shrieked and grated. The iron
cancello
set into the palazzo's arched gateway began to inch upward. Chiara could hear horses' hooves on the stones and men's voices calling and laughing; no sorrow or respect for Duke Cosimo, then. Chiara made her way closer, keeping flat against the outer wall of the palazzo so the guardsmen wouldn't notice her. She reached into the pouch tied to her belt and touched the silver funnel, reassuring herself it was there. Her hands were as wet and cold as the metal. No fingernails left—she'd bitten them down to the quick.

The prince rode out first, on a gray horse with a thick arched neck and a tail like a banner of white silk. Its nostrils flared crimson as if it were breathing fire. Chiara hated the huge, terrifying horses of the nobles—it was one of them, after all, that had knocked her down and with one of its iron shoes made the crescent-shaped scar on the side of her head. Two steps later it had trampled her brother Gian to death.

Breathe, breathe—terror—hunger—terror—just do it—

“Serenissimo!” she cried.

She ran up to the horse and caught one of its reins. The leather was decorated with gilding and small colored stones, every single one of them worth enough to pay for a month's bread. She looked up at the prince. He was dark and didn't look any bigger than an ordinary man. He didn't look back at her. She said, just loud enough for him to hear, “
Qui vult secreta scire, secreta secrete sciat custodire.
”

Whosoever would know secrets, let him know how to keep secret things secretly.

It was the first line in one of Babbo's books, the one sentence in Latin he had ever taught her, sounding it out, telling her what it meant. The prince would recognize it. Please please, let the prince recognize it, the prince and the prince alone.

The horse threw up its head and stepped sideways, delicate as a dancer for all its size. Sparks scattered where its shoes struck against the stones. At the same time rough hands caught Chiara from behind. The guardsmen, may they be damned straight to the deepest pits of hell for being so attentive to their duty. The gems on the rein cut into her palms as her grip was torn away.

The prince never turned his head. He rode on, trailed by his friends and courtiers, the scarlet feather in his hat blowing gaily in the rain-wet breeze.

“
Qui vult secreta scire!
” Chiara screamed. “Serenissimo!
Secreta secrete
—”

Something crashed into the side of her face. Her vision flashed bright white and her head jolted around; the inner flesh of her cheek burst open against her teeth and she tasted blood. The paving stones of the piazza slammed into her knees. More hooves clattered around her. If she fainted now she'd be kicked again—she had a vivid sickening flash of Gian's face, crushed and misshapen.

“Up with you, witch girl.” A guardsman dragged her to her feet. “Cast spells at the prince, will you? The Dominicani will make quick work of you.”

The Dominicans. The Dogs of God they were called, Domini-Cani, a grim play on San Domenico's name and his symbol, the little dog with a torch in its mouth.

The Inquisition.

“I'm not a witch.” Chiara swung at him with her free arm. Her head throbbed and the demons clawed at the backs of her eyes. “It wasn't a spell,
bischero
. I'm as good a Christian as you are, and probably better. Let go of me.”

The guardsman only laughed and twisted both her arms behind her, hard enough to make her cry out and arch her back. Another guardsman stepped up in front of her, jerked her mantle off, and tore the front of her gown. In the rush of air she could feel the thin wet linen of her camicia clinging to her breasts. She'd only been angry up to that point but suddenly she realized what they intended and her belly turned liquid with terror.

“Bit skinny for my taste.” The guardsman in front of her drew his poniard and cut the cord at the neckline of her camicia. “Let's have a better look.”

Her slippers were soft and her kicks were useless. Her mouth was so dry she had nothing to spit. The first man jerked her cap off and began to pull the thick coiled braid of her hair loose from its pins; the second man laughed and squeezed her breasts with his calloused hands. It hurt. She could see his eyes darken with lust.

“Let's take her to that wine shop over on the Via della Ninna,” the first man said. “They have rooms upstairs, and the barkeep won't mind a few screams. We can take our time driving the devil out of her, and then sell her for a few—”

A sharp cracking noise exploded. A scarlet weal appeared on the second guardsman's face, from his cheek across his mouth and down to his chin. He stared at Chiara for the space of a breath, his mouth still open, his fingers still sunk into the flesh of her breasts. Then blood beaded up along the line of the weal and he shrieked, letting go of her and throwing up his hands to cover his face instead.

“Release her.”

A foreign voice.

A man on a red-brown horse. Not the prince. Not an aristocrat at all, and Chiara had seen enough of them to know. He was a workman, an outsider in a courtier's clothes. A whip in his hand. As Chiara stared at him he flicked the braided leather back into its coil, neat as a tame snake.

“And who the devil are you,” said the first guardsman, “to take your whip to us? Don't you see the Medici colors? We're the prince's own guardsmen, and this girl cast a spell at him as he rode by—she's for the Dominicani, she is, and little they'll care if we have a bit of fun with her first.”

“All words in Latin are not spells,” said the foreigner. “And I know the Medici colors well enough, as I am also in the prince's service. Now let the girl go and be off with you, both of you. It is the prince's command that I deal with this matter.”

“I know you.” The guardsman with the whip-cut across his face looked at the foreigner between bloodied fingers, hate in his eyes. “You're the English alchemist, the prince's pet sorcerer. The Dominicani—”

“I am a metallurgist and a scientist, not a sorcerer. If you value your places you will do as I say, and be quick about it.”

A metallurgist. That meant something to do with metals and mines. He had the look of a miner, a man who'd worked in the dark depths of the earth and lifted great weights of rock and ore. His Italian was fluent enough but accented, with the careful precision of a person who thought in one language and spoke in another. Educated, then. Like the courtier's fine dark doublet and hose, his manner of speaking didn't fit with his workman's look.

And English? She'd heard Englishmen try to speak proper Italian before, because foreigners from all over the world came to the booksellers' quarter to buy and sell. This one didn't sound the same as the others—there was a peculiar lilting pitch to his voice, and at the same time hard edges in unexpected places. She wasn't at all certain she'd be any safer with him than she was with the prince's guardsmen.

“Take her, then.” The fellow behind Chiara let go of her arms and pushed her, hard. She stumbled forward and only barely managed to keep herself from falling on the slippery wet paving stones. She fumbled with the cloth of her mantle, trying to cover herself, wiping the blood from her mouth. Somehow she couldn't seem to breathe all the way down to the bottom of her lungs.

Saints and angels—how had it all gone so wrong, so quickly? But for the foreigner and his whip—

“You, girl,” the foreigner said. He looped the whip over his shoulder and swung down from his big red horse. “Are you hurt?”

She caught her breath. He'd saved her from the guardsmen but she was angry with him anyway. Angry with him and the prince and every man in Florence, just for being men. “What do you care?” she said.

“I dislike seeing women mishandled. Where did you learn what you said? Do you know what it means?”

“I learned it from a book.” She managed to find the cut ends of her camicia's cord and tie them back together so she was decent again. Her hair was hopeless, the thick braid swinging, heavy with rainwater. “A book that belonged to my father. Yes, I know what it means.”

“Do you have this book in your possession?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I have it, but not with me now. It's hidden away.”

The foreigner smiled. His face was sharp-boned and sun-weathered, so his teeth looked wolfishly white; the lines at the corners of his mouth were cruel. His head was uncovered and his crest of dark hair had spangles of rain amid the glints of copper. Unexpectedly his eyes were sad, so sad there was no bottom to their sorrow.

“The prince will have the book,” he said.

“For the right price.” Chiara watched the man's face for any sign of a threat. “And I have other things. I have this.”

She took the silver funnel out of her pouch and held it up, taking care to keep it away from his immediate reach.

He said something she didn't understand, an oath by the sound of it, a collection of alien syllables that rolled off his tongue smoothly enough to be his true language. Whatever it was, it wasn't English, and it certainly wasn't Italian. “That is a descensory,” he said, when he was finished swearing. “Thracian silver, from the look of it, and the labyrinth engraving— Who are you, and how do you come to have such a thing?”

Arrogant foreigner. Mine-crawler. She might be poor and scrawny and her camicia torn by a pair of stupid guardsmen, but by the Baptist she was a Florentine citizen born and bred and that was more than he could say.

“My name,” she said, “is Chiara Ne—”

She stopped. If she told him her whole name he'd be able to find her father's shop, and if he found the shop he might be able to find the rest of her father's equipment and books and take it all for himself without ever telling the prince or paying her so much as a
picciolo
.