by D. V. Bishop
Rebecca looked at the doctor, seeing him with new eyes. Many a daughter had been put in his path, without success. A few women whispered about the reasons why. Some said his heart was broken, others that he had little time for women. But the doctor had only ever been kind to Rebecca. She nodded her understanding.
‘Whatever you decide to do, I could be there when you share your choice with Joshua,’ Orvieto said. ‘To congratulate you both, or to help him understand.’
‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said, feeling as though she could breathe again. A knock at the door had her up and crossing the room without thinking. No doubt it was another neighbour, come to sit with her. But she paused at the door to look back. ‘Doctor, you do so much for everyone else. Is there anything I could do for you?’
Orvieto rose. ‘Actually, yes, there is. An officer of the Otto – Aldo, I think his name was – came to see me about your father. Is he any nearer to discovering what happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘The men who broke in, they said Aldo had been accused of plotting to overthrow the Duke. Apparently he’s in Le Stinche.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bindi had come to Palazzo Medici with his morning report, fearful at having no answer to the question of Aldo’s fellow conspirators. It was a relief to hear the Duke wasn’t ready for him yet, but the segretario was still obliged to remain should Alessandro appear. After a fruitless hour in an antechamber, Bindi realized nobody at the palazzo was sure where the Duke was, or when he might return, so the segretario abandoned his vigil.
On his way out Bindi spied Francesco Campana pacing the courtyard. The Duke’s administrative secretary was a man of considerable guile, known for having the ear of those in power. He bent with the breeze no matter how the wind was blowing, a strong trait in uncertain times. Campana could be trusted never to betray a confidence, so his agitation was intriguing. Bindi approached, bowing a respectful head. ‘I came with a report for the Duke, but he’s not here.’
Campana studied the windows overlooking the courtyard. Was he worried they might be overheard? ‘The Duke made plans for a . . . private visit last night and has yet to return. I’ve no doubt he’ll be back soon.’ It was an obvious lie. Bindi sensed a chance to be useful.
‘If you thought it might be helpful, I could have one of my officers – one of the Otto’s officers – make discreet enquiries.’
Campana appeared tempted, but shook his head. ‘I’m sure that will not be necessary,’ he replied, rather too fast. ‘But thank you for the offer.’
Before the segretario could respond, Cardinal Cibo strode into the courtyard, his crimson cape billowing. As the Emperor’s representative in Florence, Cibo was a man of considerable importance. His brisk arrival suggested there was more to the Duke’s absence than Campana had admitted. Even more surprising was the figure beside Cibo. What was Strocchi – one of the Otto’s constables – doing at the cardinal’s side?
Campana repeated his explanation about the Duke, but Cibo dismissed that. He revealed Alessandro had likely spent the night at Casa Vecchia, for reasons unknown.
‘I might have the answer,’ Bindi volunteered. ‘Yesterday I witnessed the Duke and his cousin discussing a woman whose guardian was away in Naples. Lorenzino suggested it was the perfect time for the Duke to become acquainted with her. I did not hear all that was said, but mention was made of an appuntamento. The Duke was most . . . enthusiastic.’
Cibo and Campana exchanged a weary look. ‘Unfortunate,’ the cardinal said, ‘but better than the alternative. I shall visit Casa Vecchia.’ Cibo caught Bindi glaring at the constable. ‘Segretario, I believe Strocchi here is one of your men. He has been assisting me this morning. It may be useful to have his help a while longer. By your leave, of course.’
‘Of course, Your Eminence.’ Bindi forced a smile. As if there was any choice in the matter. ‘I’m sure the Otto can endure a day without one of its more junior constables.’
‘Most kind. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .’
‘Forgive me, but there is another matter,’ Campana said. ‘The Duke was to host a joust this morning. It will be noticed if that doesn’t go ahead.’
‘His Grace is sometimes unwell on such occasions,’ Bindi observed. ‘So long as the joust takes place, the citizens will still be happy.’
‘Well said,’ Cibo agreed, his words a balm to the segretario. ‘Have sand put down outside, and all other necessary preparations made. If the Duke does not return in time to attend, you can announce he’s unwell. As Bindi says, it is not uncommon.’
Strocchi followed Cibo to Casa Vecchia. The constable was uncertain of his role, so stayed a respectful two steps behind the cardinal. Giomo was waiting outside with the Duke’s other guard, having been sent ahead to ensure the palazzo remained closed to visitors. Hammering at the door brought a wary servant with thinning hair and a silver beard.
Cibo swept inside, Strocchi following close behind. The servant confirmed the Duke had visited the previous night, but begged them not to go near Lorenzino’s bedchamber on the middle level. Lorenzino’s servant Scoronconcolo had made terrible threats about what would happen to anyone who dared enter the room without his permission.
The cardinal marched to the door, but it was locked. Lorenzino had the only key, the servant confessed. Strocchi noticed boot marks on the floor, a crimson so dark it was close to brown. ‘How often is this cleaned?’ he asked, crouching to rub a finger through the marks.
‘Every day,’ the servant said, taking offence. ‘But not yet today.’
Strocchi dabbed the fingertip to his tongue, then spat out – blood. Cibo dismissed the aged servant, warning him to keep others away. Once they were alone, Strocchi studied the boot marks. They led away from the bedchamber, becoming less distinct the further they went from the door. There were more than one set – two, perhaps three. The constable noticed Cibo beside the locked door, breathing in deeply, his face twisting with distaste. Yes, there was an ill odour outside the bedchamber, one Strocchi knew. His uncle had died alone at home one winter, but the body wasn’t found for days. The stench had been overwhelming.
‘Do you wish me to break down the door, Your Eminence?’
The cardinal shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Could somebody please explain what is going on?’ A woman in the robes of a widow bustled into the hallway behind Cibo, her face pinched and impatient. ‘Well?’
The cardinal turned. ‘Signora Salviati, I did not realize you were staying here at present. Please, forgive the intrusion.’
The widow gave Strocchi the briefest of glances before glaring at Cibo. ‘Cardinal, the servants are keeping me confined to the upper level. I’d plans to travel home to my castello soon. I never enjoy being away from my son for long.’
No wonder the servant with the silver beard looked so wary, Strocchi realized. Keeping this widow confined to one place must have taken all his efforts.
‘Your affection for Cosimo does you credit,’ Cibo said, in a soothing voice. ‘I’m sure the household staff here can assist if you wish to depart.’
Strocchi noticed the widow gazing at the boot marks on the floor, her eyes narrowing. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she said as Cibo led her away. Once they were gone Strocchi went to the bedchamber and peered through its keyhole. The room was dark, shutters across the windows. But a shaft of light fell on the floor, revealing thick scarlet stains. The stench of death was almost overpowering. Strocchi clamped a hand over his nose and mouth.
Why didn’t Cibo want the door opened?
Everything suggested the Duke was inside Lorenzino’s bedchamber – dead or dying, most likely murdered by his own cousin. Opening the door would remove any doubt . . .
Ahh. That was why.
So long as nobody knew for certain the Duke was dead, life in the city would carry on. People would go to mass, courtesans would strive to catch the eye of lusty men. Families would gather for meals, giving thanks for their good fortune or
comforting each other over tragedies. Everything would continue as it did on any other Sunday. But once Alessandro’s murder was known, it would create an unstoppable cascade of events.
By keeping the door closed, Cibo hoped to delay those events for a few hours more. It would give him time to prepare, to shape what came next. The secret could not stay secret long, there were too many people who knew a little of what had happened. Strocchi shivered. He knew more than most, and that put him in danger. The sooner he got away—
‘Constable, I need you to stay where you are.’ Cibo advanced on him. ‘I have certain tasks to complete before the bedchamber can be opened. I’m sure you understand.’
Strocchi nodded, unsure what was coming next.
‘I must ask you to remain by this door, ensuring nobody goes in. It may be a few hours before someone can take your place.’ The cardinal paused on his way out. ‘Alessandro’s guards will also remain, one at each entrance.’
Even if Strocchi wanted to leave, he couldn’t.
Aldo woke in all kinds of pain, but it was good pain – or as good as pain could be. His shoulder was throbbing, the cut hand just as bad, along with stiffness from bruises. But he could feel his fingers and toes. Most of all, he was warm. Aldo rolled on his back, and groaned. Maybe all the pain wasn’t so welcome. Not when it hurt this bad.
The gruff-faced woman sat with her back against a wall, staring at him. ‘Awake?’
‘Alive, at least,’ Aldo replied.
‘You’ve Tomasia to thank for that.’ The woman smirked. ‘I took a turn as well. Been a while since I lay with a man.’
It’d been even longer since Aldo lay with a woman, but she needn’t know that. ‘Thank you.’ He pushed himself up onto an elbow.
Her smirk widened. ‘My pleasure.’ She threw Aldo’s clothes across, and watched him dress. He went out into the courtyard and nodded to Tomasia, who was talking with another female inmate. Tomasia joined him on a bench against one of the walls. ‘You look better.’
‘Thanks to you,’ Aldo replied. ‘Most people would have left me to die.’
Her gaze flickered to the condemned cell. ‘Most people would have left me to suffer.’ She looked round the courtyard. ‘Where’s your friend with the one arm?’
‘Doing his best to stay out of my way.’ Aldo flexed his injured shoulder, wincing. ‘Why are you here, in Le Stinche? You needn’t say, but I may be able to help.’
‘How? You’re an inmate, not an officer.’
True, but Epiphany was over. No executioner had come for him. If the plotters had sought only to end the Duke’s life, the fate of a troublesome officer from the Otto was likely to be of little consequence. And there was another possibility: the plot had failed. If so, Lorenzino’s denunzia would be worthless. The danger was passing.
Aldo smiled at Tomasia. ‘Indulge me.’
‘My brother Sandro worked for a silk merchant, but he fell ill. What I made at the mercato wasn’t enough for both of us. The landlord offered me another way to pay, but I wouldn’t be his whore. When Sandro died, I couldn’t meet the debts. And the longer I’m in here, the more I owe.’
The entrance door opened, admitting visitors to the courtyard. Aldo smiled when he saw who was among them. ‘Maybe I can do something about that.’
Maria remained at the palazzo most of the morning, finding out more about what had taken place in Lorenzino’s bedchamber. If servant gossip was true, it seemed a chance might be arising for Cosimo to take his rightful place in the city. No more would her son be left in the country, an occasional companion for hawking and hunting with the Duke.
When she could learn no more from those inside the palazzo, Maria announced she was going to church. By the time she reached San Lorenzo, mass was concluding. The doors opened, letting the faithful and their servants into the piazza. Maria spied the notorious gossip Cecilia Paoletti whispering behind her hand to a maid. The Paoletti were a minor merchant family, but Cecilia’s husband was close to the Palleschi. If Maria’s suspicions were correct, Cibo might have already sought help from the Palleschi – if so, Cecilia would know.
‘My dear, what a pleasure to see you,’ Cecilia gushed when Maria caught her eye.
‘And you, my dearest.’ They exchanged pleasantries, Cecilia taking the lead with talk of her new gown – Renato Patricio was performing wonders, as ever – and the latest courtly intrigues. Maria let her prattle on, giving nods of agreement and making surprised noises when appropriate. Eventually Cecilia paused to breathe, and Maria seized the opportunity. ‘My dear, you will never believe who I saw this morning.’
Cecilia’s eyes widened, a predator spying a fresh morsel. ‘Who?’
Maria gave a brief description of her encounter with Cibo. The locked bedchamber, the bloody boot marks on the floor – they hadn’t escaped her notice, oh no – and the fear in the cardinal’s eyes. ‘Whatever can it mean?’
Cecilia licked her lips, ushering Maria away from the maid. ‘I believe I know the answer, dearest. The cardinal has been very busy this morning, talking to friends of the Medici. My beloved just happened to be visiting Guicciardini when Cibo arrived, quite unannounced. You will never guess what he had to say. Go on, guess!’
This woman and her parlour games would be the death of Maria’s patience, but she played along as Cecilia recalled her husband’s boastful tale. It seemed the Duke was missing, and nobody knew where to find him. There were rumours of a conspiracy, even of an attempt on his life. Cibo planned to summon militia from different communes to protect the city. There was even talk of a special Senate session of the Forty-Eight for the next day.
If half that was true, it was still extraordinary. Should the Duke die without a legitimate heir, Florence would be vulnerable to threats from inside and outside the city. Cecilia babbled on, but Maria was no longer listening. So, this could be Cosimo’s moment. He was still at the castello. She would send a messenger once she was certain, summoning him to Florence. Yes, that was the next step.
Maria noticed Cecilia staring at her. ‘Sorry, dearest, I missed that.’
‘I asked if you knew what Guicciardini said after the cardinal revealed they had searched and searched, but nobody could find the Duke?’
‘Pray, tell me.’
‘“Search better!” Isn’t that just so Guicciardini.’ Cecilia burst into loud, braying laughter, and Maria smiled along. But she suspected Cibo already knew where Alessandro was. When the Duke’s body was finally found, Maria would be ready.
Aldo was so happy to see Orvieto, he let himself be persuaded into the ospedale. ‘You look like you’ve been run over by a coach and horses,’ the doctor said. Fortunately, Maso was still senseless after having his head caved in by Tomasia, while the surviving Basso brother looked equally bad. Neither man was a threat for the moment. Aldo sat on a bench, away from other patients.
Orvieto helped Aldo undress to the waist, carefully pulling his torn tunic over his head. The right shoulder was swollen, while his torso was mottled with bruises, the most recent blue and black, the others yellow and purple. The doctor unwrapped the bloody fabric round Aldo’s hand, wincing at the deep wound.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Aldo asked.
‘Levi’s daughter,’ Orvieto replied while tending to the hand. ‘An officer from the Otto and two other men ransacked her home, searching for evidence.’
‘Somebody is still investigating her father’s murder?’
‘No, they were looking for evidence of your conspiracy against the Duke.’
‘Did this officer have a name?’
‘Cerchi, I think she said.’
Of course. ‘Has he approached you yet?’ Orvieto shook his head. ‘Be careful if he does. Cerchi is a devious little merda. Tell him nothing he doesn’t need to know.’
The doctor nodded, tying a fresh bandage round Aldo’s hand. ‘There’s not much I can do for your shoulder. Try not to make any vigorous movements with your right arm. No horse riding, and no fighting. Sleep on y
our left side, if you can.’ He examined Aldo’s head. ‘You must have a skull like an anvil. These blows could’ve killed you.’ Orvieto closed his satchel. ‘That shoulder will be weakened from now on. But stay out of trouble the next few days and most of your injuries will heal. Can you manage that?’
‘Probably not,’ Aldo admitted.
Bindi enjoyed making those who knocked at his door wait. It reminded them who held power within these walls. Men of importance rarely visited the Podestà, and those that did sent ahead with word of their arrival to ensure the proper deference and ceremony was waiting. The segretario was ill prepared for the impatient fist hammering at his officio door, and even less ready for Cibo bursting in, the cardinal’s face as crimson as his cape.
‘Y-Your Eminence,’ Bindi stammered, struggling to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I did not realize it was you.’
‘I don’t have time for your apologies,’ Cibo said, striding towards the desk. ‘You will release Cesare Aldo from Le Stinche immediately.’
‘May I ask, on what grounds? Aldo faces a serious allegation—’
‘Yes, I know about the denunzia made by Lorenzino de’ Medici. But he subsequently fled the city, and the Duke is missing. When was Aldo incarcerated?’
‘Two nights ago – Friday.’
‘Aldo can hardly have led an attempt to overthrow the Duke from inside a cell, can he? Or is Le Stinche so lax prisoners can come and go as they wish?’
‘Of course not.’ The segretario struggled to swallow, his mouth and throat gone dry. ‘I simply . . . The Otto would have to . . . It is beyond my authority . . .’
‘Enough!’ Cibo slammed a fist down on Bindi’s desk, making the inkpot jump. ‘With the Duke missing, it falls to me as the Emperor’s representative in Florence to ensure that everything possible is done to find Alessandro.’
