The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

door swung open silently. One of the men shoved me inside and shut the door firmly behind me.

The smell of vinegar was so sharp, I lifted a hand to my nose; the fabric wound around my head and face slipped, obscuring my vision. A cool hand caught my own and drew me several halting steps forward, away from the smell. When it let go, I pulled the veil down.

In a half circle before me stood twelve nuns-tall, graceful, veiled, and cloaked in black so that their forms disappeared into the darkness. I saw only their faces, lit by the lamps three of them bore-a dozen different gentle smiles, a dozen different pairs of kindly eyes.

The tallest of them stepped toward me. She was robust, broad-faced, middle-aged.

“Darling Caterina,” she said. “I am the abbess, Mother Giustina-like you a Medici. When you were born, I stood as your godmother. Welcome.”

Fearless of plague, she opened her arms to me, and I ran to them.

Eight

The Wing of Corvus had not failed. I found myself in Heaven, surrounded by angels: the Benedictine convent of Santissima Annunziata delle Murate, the Most Holy Annunciation of the Walled-In Ones, and the noblewomen who had taken vows there. Most were relatives of the Medici; only a few supported the new Republic.

The convent itself had been built and supported by Medici money; the fact showed in its broad corridors and elegant appointments. That night, Mother Giustina led me to my new quarters. Fear had left me exhausted, and I noticed no details except a large bed with heavy blankets and a plump pillow. I stood obediently as a servant stripped me; I palmed the stone and peered at the quiet, solemn woman. She had not noticed, being more concerned with filling a basin with heated water. She bathed me with a cloth, then pulled a clean nightgown of fine, soft wool over my head. I tucked the black stone into a pocket as she indicated the tray of cheese and bread on the bedside table. I devoured the food, then fell into bed. The servant laid a warmed brick at my feet and tucked the thick blankets around me tightly. For the first time that winter, I stopped shivering.

I slept for hours, the Wing of Corvus clutched in my fist. When I woke the next morning, I found myself in a vast chamber, with carved wainscoting on the walls and a marble fireplace. Honeyed light filtered through the large, arched window and revealed a large table and well-padded chairs, whose dark green velvet matched the drapes and bed coverings. On the wall in front of me was a large gold cross of filigree, beneath which sat a cushioned kneeling bench.

On the wall opposite the hearth were several shelves containing books. One of them, on the lowest shelf, caught my eye: it was bound in dark brown leather, with the title stamped in gold, of a familiar heft. I flew from the bed and dragged the heavy volume from the shelf.

Ficino. De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, Gaining Life from the Heavens, the very copy that had sat on Piero’s knees; I recognized the nicks on the leather and laughed aloud. Inspired, I scanned the shelves, hoping to find gems rescued from the Palazzo Medici. I found no more, although I discovered two other volumes with titles written in Ficino’s hand.

I was still poring over the titles when a knock came on the door, and two women and a nun appeared. The women carried a tub, and the bespectacled, elderly nun smiled brightly at me. Her body was plump and rounded, and her bearing and speech marked her as highborn. In her hand was a little tray bearing a glass and a dish of sweetmeats.

“Duchessina!” she said cheerfully. “So you have discovered your library. There is a larger one in the other wing, of course, but we put a few titles here we thought you might enjoy. I am Sister Niccoletta; if you have need of anything, ask me. I brought you some small treats and sweet wine to tide you over until breakfast arrives-you must still be so terribly hungry. Afterward, we’ll properly rid you of those fleas.”

Little duchess. The affectionately respectful term of address made me smile. I put my hand on Ficino’s work and, forgetting my manners altogether, said, “This book. How did it come to be here, in this room?”

She peered through her thick spectacles, which magnified her dark eyes. “Ambassador de la Roche brought some things for you yesterday. This must be one of them.”

“This was rescued from our palazzo,” I said.

“God be thanked,” she replied dismissively and turned as last night’s solemn-faced servant entered with a large kettle in each hand. “Dear Duchessina, our servant Barbara is here. You can call on her as well for whatever you need.” She set the tray on my night table, then from a pocket at her waist produced a letter sealed with wax. “Your breakfast will come shortly; in the meantime, you might enjoy reading this.”

Her knowing smile made me reach eagerly for it and break the seal. The handwriting was Clarice’s.

I pressed the letter to my heart. “Sister Niccoletta, please, forgive my rudeness. It’s just that I have not been shown kindness in such a long time that I have forgotten my manners. Thank you for everything.”

She beamed. “Why, your manners are lovely! You need not apologize to me, my dear, given all you have been through.” She made a small curtsy. “Enjoy your letter, Duchessina. I will return in an hour.”

Breathless, I unfolded the letter.

My dearest Caterina,

We are horrified at the news of your incarceration, and the cruel conditions you have been forced to endure. I hope you find your new surroundings more congenial. I shall remain in constant communication with the French ambassador from this time forward to ensure that you never again endure such privation. The rebels are desperate to keep the support of King Francois I of France, and His Majesty wishes his distant cousin to be well cared for.

Discretion precludes any discussion of my current whereabouts; it also precludes my visiting you in the flesh. Please know that I am working without rest to obtain your release. Pope Clement has escaped the ravaged landscape of Rome. He and Emperor Charles will soon be reconciled; I shall do whatever is in my power to nurture this newfound goodwill so that it leads to the restoration of the Medici to Florence.

I have not forgotten your bravery. Hold fast and never forget the destiny to which you are born.

With sincerest affection,

Your aunt,

Clarice de’ Medici Strozzi

P.S. Your uncle and cousins send their regards. Piero insists I write that he misses you dreadfully.

Reading Clarice’s elegant script made me ache to see her, but I was soon distracted by a plate of sausages and apples. After I ate, I submitted to the steaming tub. Barbara washed my hair, drowning the last of Santa-Caterina’s fleas, and dressed me in a tailored gown, then swathed me in fine wool shawls to protect me from the chill.

Life at Le Murate was pleasantly distracting. Every morning and evening I sat with the nuns in the refectory and drank good wine and ate good meals, often with meat and cake. Sister Niccoletta treated me like a favored granddaughter, always bringing me little gifts of candied fruits and nuts, or a bright ribbon for my hair. She and the other nuns allowed me free run of the convent.

I did not abuse their trust. I attended Mass each morning and afterward accompanied Niccoletta to the sewing room. Many of the nuns did fine embroidery, one of the skills by which they supported themselves. Without a single guiding mark upon the fabric, Sister Niccoletta could stitch a perfect lamb holding the banner of the cross, or the Holy Spirit descending as a dove from Heaven.

On that first morning I was introduced to the other seamstresses: Sister Antonia, the abbess’s second, tall, poised, and elderly; Sister Maria Elena, a Spanish woman with an angelic voice who led the choir; and a boarder, Maddalena, five years older than I, with chestnut hair that fell well past her shoulders. Maddalena was a