The Red Lily Crown (32 page)

“An iron key. I know what key it is, because I am quite familiar with it—it is the key to the garden labyrinth.”

Bianca said nothing. Why didn't she protest, deny any knowledge of the key, make up a lie? The Bianca Cappello I know, Chiara thought, would fight back. She would hold up her head with pride and claim that as a Venetian noblewoman she was above suspicion. Who was this meek Bianca, this Bia?

The silence lengthened.

“So,” the grand duke said at last. “Here I have a woman who spent a night locked in my particular labyrinth. She is covered with scratches, some of them quite deep, and yet before me she stands, healthy and well. The only way this can be possible is if she has stolen something from me, something unique and valuable.”

Chiara held her breath. Saints and angels, she prayed, please don't let him take the
sonnodolce
away from me. The only reason I'm not dead is that I've been taking the
sonnodolce
. I'm not dead, and I'm not having headaches and falling-spells and hearing demons. I have to have it, until I can create the
Lapis Philosophorum
and heal myself completely.

“At the same time,” the grand duke went on, “I have a woman with a key in her possession, the key to that very same particular labyrinth, stolen from its hiding-place. Why would she want this key? To lock the first woman in the maze, of course, and expect it to be the death of her.”

Bianca Cappello didn't look up or defend herself.

“Two thieves. The worst kind of thieves, who steal from their liege lord. How shall they be punished?”

“Serenissimo,” Chiara said. By the Baptist, she was going to defend herself, even if Bianca Cappello wasn't. “May I speak?”

The grand duke nodded. “Please do.”

“I confess to taking one tiny flask of the substance called
sonnodolce
.” I won't call it a poison, she thought, even though they both know it. Nonna always says, if you don't speak a word, it doesn't exist. “I confess to using it as you described, the night I helped you create it—one drop on the skin, one day in seven. But of course you know this, because only the effect of this stolen
sonnodolce
kept me alive as I made my way through the maze.”

“Indeed.”

“The flask I took is barely the size of my thumb, and it's two-thirds empty. That's a very small amount, and in exchange, I am alive this morning. You continue to have a
soror mystica
to serve you.”

“I do not begrudge you the
sonnodolce
itself. In point of fact, I am pleased that your experience proves beyond a doubt that the small doses will ultimately protect against a large dose. I do expect you to do penance, however, for taking something from the laboratory without my knowledge and permission.”

If you only knew, Chiara thought. In a steady voice she said, “I will do penance, Serenissimo.”

“And I will allow you to have a small amount of the
sonnodolce
, so you can continue to take it. I would have you safe against any further attempts.”

Chiara said nothing. She couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to, her relief was so great.

“I myself know,” the grand duke went on, “that one cannot simply start and stop taking the
sonnodolce
at will.” He sounded rather pleased about it. “By continuing to take it, you will be bound more closely to me, and all the more willing to do whatever I ask of you.”

I will find the formula, Chiara swore to herself. For that reason alone, I will find the formula so I can make it myself. I will be free of every tie—I will find a priest to absolve me of my vow of virginity as well. Not because of the virginity itself—oh, Ruan, Ruan—but because I will be free of the Medici in every way.

The grand duke continued. “Here is your penance, then. You will enter Donna Bianca's household, to serve her—”

“But—”

“Be silent. To serve her as you served the late grand duchess, and my late sister. It is my pleasure to have you close by, both here in Florence and at the Villa di Pratolino, so you will be readily available when I choose to work in my laboratories. In order to avoid scandal, it is necessary for you to be a member of a lady's household.”

Bianca Cappello raised her head. For all her submissive mien, her eyes were stormy. “I do not want her around me, Franco,” she said, in a little girl's voice. “She will be a constant reminder.”

“A reminder, yes, my Bia, that you attempted to murder her and did not succeed. Every day you will look at her and know that if you had succeeded in your plot, you would have committed a mortal sin. And by my hand you would have suffered for it.”

You're a fine one to be talking about mortal sins, Chiara thought. She might not have murdered me this time, but if we have to live in the same apartments and see each other every day, she'll try again. If I don't murder her first.

“You, Soror Chiara,” the grand duke said. “Do you agree to these terms?”

Suddenly Chiara saw how she could turn the grand duke's so-called penance to her own advantage. Keeping her eyes down, she said earnestly, “I would serve your children, Serenissimo. You have placed them in Donna Bianca's household, after all, and if I were to care for them, it would give Donna Bianca all the more freedom for—other demands upon her time.”

All the
Donna Biancas
made her mouth taste as sour as Nonna's apple vinegar. They worked, though. Bianca Cappello's mouth twisted in a self-satisfied smile at the thought of her enemy being reduced to the status of a nursemaid.

“An excellent suggestion,” the grand duke said. “You are dismissed, Soror Chiara. Go to the children's apartments now, and I will order my physician to wait upon you there.”

“Thank you, Serenissimo.”

As she withdrew she kept her face turned aside, so Bianca Cappello wouldn't see she was smiling a self-satisfied smile of her own.

The Palazzo Pitti

31 JULY 1578

“M
aria!” Chiara called. “Come along,
principessina
, we are going inside.”

“Doggies!” The stubby-legged three-year-old ran after Rina, laughing with delight. “Catch doggies!” Vivi, Rina and Leia romped over the grass, barking, their long russet ears flying. Clearly none of them had the slightest intention of being caught.

“She will spoil her dress with grass stains if she falls.” Eleonora, the eldest of the Grand Duchess Giovanna's three surviving daughters, was eleven, dark and narrow-faced like her father but with her mother's devout and scrupulous character. “Call the dogs, Signorina Chiara—you are the only one they will answer to.”

“Vivi!” Chiara whistled, something the dignified Eleonora would never do. Vivi responded at once, and when she ran up to Chiara the other two followed. Chiara snapped the red leather leashes to their collars. Maria pounded up behind them, laughing and sticky, her honey-colored curls tangled. Eleonora clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“You look like a peasant girl,” she said. “I do not envy your nurse's task, getting that hair brushed out.”

Maria scowled at the thought of a hairbrush, and would have run away again if Chiara had not caught her hand firmly. They started up the broad steps to the palazzo, just as Maria's nurse and Eleonora's lady-in-waiting—at eleven she was far too grown-up for a nursemaid—came down to meet them.

“I'll leave you to go in, Donna Eleonora,” Chiara said. “I'd like to walk a little longer with the dogs, until they calm down.”

“Very well,” Eleonora said. “We will look for you at suppertime.”

The children had been cool to her at first, until she brought them the dogs. Starved for affection as they were, they'd welcomed Rina and Leia into their lives with delight. Anna, the middle girl, was too frail to run around in the gardens, but she particularly loved resting in a cushioned chair with Leia cuddled close to her. Filippo, of course—well, poor little Filippo was only a little over a year old and could barely sit up by himself, much less walk in the gardens. Somewhat to her own surprise, Chiara found herself loving them all with a fierce, Nonna-like protectiveness.

So the black canker of vengeance hadn't completely eaten up her heart. There was a warm, living place left for the children. And another for Ruan Pencarrow—Magister Ruanno dell' Inghilterra, who had still not returned to Florence. When was he coming? And when he did arrive, what would he do? What would he expect of her?

Eleonora and Maria and their attendants went into the palazzo. Chiara started back down the stairs with the hounds on their leashes. To her surprise three gentlemen came walking toward her. Where had they come from? She hadn't seen them before. It was almost as if they'd been concealing themselves deliberately, waiting for the children to go in.

“Signorina Chiara.” One of the men stepped ahead of the other two and addressed her. His voice was familiar, and after a moment, to her astonishment, she recognized him as Cardinal Prince Ferdinando de' Medici, dressed not in the scarlet of a prince of the church but in fine, rather plain secular clothing.

“Eminenza,” she said. “I didn't—”

“Shush. No titles, if you please. I am here in secret, and when I learned you had been placed in the children's household, I determined to find a way to speak with you privately.”

More plots. I have enough plots of my own, she thought. I don't want to find myself tangled up in yours.

On the other hand, I know you hate your brother, and hate Bianca Cappello, and how can I help but be curious?

“It isn't very private here,” she said. “Anyone could walk by. And I have the dogs.”

The cardinal, the prince—whatever he wanted people to think he was—snapped his fingers to one of his gentlemen. The man took the dogs' leashes from her hands. The cardinal then wrapped his own princely fingers firmly around her elbow.

“Have you ever walked through the Vasari Corridor?” he said pleasantly. “It is quite private, as only the family uses it. The entrance is here, in the garden, just a bit farther on.”

So what were her choices? Pull her arm free, make a scene, run back and demand the dogs' leashes from the presumptuous gentleman? Or go with him and find out what he wanted? Surely she wasn't in any danger, not from Cardinal Prince Ferdinando de' Medici, who had been Grand Duchess Giovanna's beloved friend. She was probably in less danger from him than she was from the grand duke himself.

On the other hand, he was a Medici, and they were all dangerous. Always.

“I walked through it a few times, with the grand duchess,” she said. “Up over the city, all the way from the Palazzo Vecchio to the Palazzo Pitti. My Nonna says it's typical Medici—cut straight through ordinary people's houses and shops, all for their own privacy and luxury.”

Prince Ferdinando—that's what I'll call him for the moment, she thought, since he's not wearing his cardinal's robes—laughed. “Ah, yes, your Nonna—Mona Agnesa Nerini, that is her name, is it not? A great supporter of the old republic. Here, here is the entrance.”

Mona Agnesa Nerini, that is her name, is it not?
How much did he know about Nonna? Had he found Pierino Ridolfi, far away in Germany, and learned the truth about his escape? It wouldn't matter to him one way or the other, but if he were to drop a word or two to his brother—

He guided her through an archway in the stone wall surrounding the garden. They walked up a good number of steps to a doorway; the single guardsman, recognizing Prince Ferdinando, unlocked the door and swung it open. A long corridor stretched out before them, full of light from the small square windows on one side and the round windows on the other. A few paintings hung along the walls between the windows; the ceiling was frescoed and the floor was tiled with polished russet-colored stone.

“My father and my brother have collected some fine pieces of art here, where only the family can enjoy them,” the prince said. “Come, let us walk a way—I have the perfect spot in mind.”

A short distance down the corridor a
loggiato
, a small balcony, looked out over the nave of a magnificent church. The prince gestured to the upholstered benches.

“Seat yourself,
signorina
,” he said. He made himself comfortable and waited until she had taken a seat as well. “Now. I have heard one or two disturbing pieces of gossip regarding your new mistress.”

“If you mean Bianca Cappello,” Chiara said, “she is not my mistress.” After a moment she added, “My lord.”

The prince laughed again. Was all his laughing meant to disarm her? “Mistress or not,” he said, “I am told she tried to have you poisoned.”

Chiara said nothing.

“I am also told my brother has been mad enough to marry her in secret.”

“I wish I could say that isn't true.”

“Ah. I see. I have been writing to my brother from Rome, suggesting suitable princesses for a second marriage—and all the while he has been married to the Venetian.”

“I don't see why he has to marry again at all,” Chiara burst out. “The grand duchess is only a few months dead. Couldn't he wait a year, for decency's sake? Couldn't you wait, my lord, before you began suggesting new wives?”

“My dear,” he said. No smile or laughter. He was sincere, if he could ever be sincere. “I loved Giovanna as if she were my own sister. I think you know that. I was shocked and saddened to hear of her death.”

Chiara looked away, out over the church. She blinked hard. If you only knew the truth about her death, she thought. Aloud she said, “I know, my lord.”

“There are two reasons, however, why I wished to arrange a new marriage for my brother at once, and I think Giovanna herself would have agreed with me. Firstly, to keep him out of the claws of the Venetian. Secondly, to breed up another true heir if possible—little Filippino is very fragile. If Francesco is fool enough to legitimate the Venetian's changeling brat, I will have the boy strangled. I will never allow a bastard without a drop of Medici blood to inherit our crown.”

Chiara swallowed. “You're very frank, my lord.”

“You will not betray me, will you?”

“Of course not.”

Once, when she had been just herself, Chiara Nerini, the bookseller's daughter, she would have felt amazed and self-important and a little frightened that such a great man had opened his innermost heart and mind to her. Now—now, after four years at the Medici court, she had learned guile and she knew exactly why he had done it. To put her in his power. At any point, if what he told her became public—even if he himself started the whispers—he could blame her, and ruin her.

If she refused to do what he asked her to do—and of course he was going to ask her to do something, that was obvious—he could ruin her.

And ruin Nonna. Worse than ruin. That was why he'd made such a point to mentioning her full name.

So be it. If he wanted to play with her, she would play her side of the game.

“I would ask you a question, my lord.” She made her voice gentle and innocent.

“And what is that?”

A tapestry in red and gold had been draped over the stone balustrade. Chiara traced some of the tiny stitches, the shield and
palle
of the Medici interspersed with the red lily of Florence. The great altar of the church, far below, gleamed with gold.

“Why do you make such confidences to me, my lord? You're a great prince, a secular prince by birth and a prince of the church as well. Surely there are people of your own rank who would be more suitable as confidantes.”

“People of my own rank are all the more likely to have purposes of their own, and so to betray me. I must go back to Rome, and I need someone in the Venetian's household who will keep me informed. I think you loved Giovanna too, and for her sake will become my—correspondent.”

“Your spy.”

“A harsh word.”

“I did love her, my lord. For me she was the one truly good person at the court. I've been happy to help to take care of her children, and her little hounds.”

The prince laughed. “She did love those dogs,” he said. “Where are the two old ones? I did not see them in the park.”

“My grandmother has them. She's taking very good care of them.”

“Turning them into four-legged republicans, no doubt.” He smiled, his eyes dark and merry. He was like his brother in appearance, but seemed to be utterly unlike him in character. Did the difference go all the way down to his heart, or was it a game he played? A snake in a new skin, Nonna would say, is still a snake.

And for all his apparent friendliness, all his openness, there was that underlying threat.
Mona Agnesa Nerini, that is her name, is it not?

“So what can I do for you,” he said, “in exchange for your correspondence? My brother is already paying you generously, I think, for your services as his
soror mystica
.”

What could he do for her?

She thought of her wish to be free of every tie to the Medici. If she asked him now to absolve her from her vow, would he guess her true desire, and refuse her? He wouldn't want her to be free, because he himself wanted to use her. But if he thought it was for a lover's sake—he would like that, sensualist that he was. He would want to imagine her in bed with her lover, and he wouldn't even think it was only for the sake of her freedom.

We are bound to each other, and in the end we will find a way.

Well, perhaps for a lover too. But the cardinal didn't have to know that.

She said, “I don't want gold, my lord. Only—are you a priest?”

She could tell she'd surprised him. “Not exactly,” he said. “I am a lay cardinal, not ordained to one of the major orders, although I am in minor orders. Why?”

“Can you absolve a person from a vow? A vow taken on a holy relic?”

He tilted his head to one side. “What sort of vow?”

She looked out over the church again. What would it be like, to hear mass like this, high above the crowd of ordinary people? Did a priest bring the Body and Blood of Christ to them up a secret staircase?

“A vow of chastity,” she said. “Not a religious vow—a secular vow, but taken with my hands on the Sacra Cintola of the Virgin.”

“Ah. I remember—Giovanna mentioned the business with the Sacra Cintola, the first day I met you. Do you remember?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And my brother subjected you to some sort of pagan initiation, and imposed a vow of chastity upon you. You do not need a priest to absolve you of such mummery, my dear.”

Now you must vow that you will remain a virgin while you are in my service, upon pain of death
. The grand duke's voice, in the laboratory at the Casino di San Marco.
Magister Ruanno, the relic
.

She remembered thinking, relic? Pain of death? She remembered the rock crystal reliquary, cool and polished, the fluting of the scallop shell perfectly carved.

With my hands on the Sacra Cintola of the Holy Virgin, I swear I will remain a virgin, upon penalty of death, for as long as I am in the service of the prince.

“I feel as if I do.” To her dismay and anger her eyes stung with tears. “It was a true relic, my lord, the girdle of the Holy Virgin herself.”

He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of her head.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,”
he said, his voice calm and low. “I relieve and dispense you from the bond of your vow of chastity made upon the relic of the Holy Virgin, now and forever. Amen.”

It was so quick. Only a few words. But she felt her heart lighten.

“You are now free,” he said. “Is there some particular reason why you wished to be free of your vow? Some particular person you—are attached to?”