The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  For another woman of a different character, the presence of such physical perfection as Simonetta would have been threatening, or at least irksome. But Colombina did not know or feel jealousy. In her studies with the Master, she had learned well the dangers of the Seven Patterns of Deadly Thought, and most corrosive of these was envy. Envy was an affront to God. To feel envy was to believe that you were not created perfectly as you were meant to be by your mother and father in heaven. To feel envy was to accuse God of caring for another more than yourself, which was not the nature of a loving parent. Parents were meant to love their children equally, and this was certainly true of our divine mother and father.

  No, Colombina felt no envy of Simonetta’s beauty or of the attention she received from men. She knew full well what it was like to be the object of intense male admiration, and it was not always an easy role to play. Beautiful women, no matter how virtuous, were often the subjects of scrutiny and gossip. Colombina had snapped at more than a few Florentine matrons whom she had overheard casting aspersions on her friend’s virtue. It infuriated her that the narrow-minded—and certainly jealous—women of Florence must immediately jump to the conclusion that Simonetta was Giuliano de’ Medici’s mistress, simply because he paid court to her loveliness during a joust. The Medici men, indeed all men of the Order, honored the troubadour traditions of celebrating beauty. During Giuliano’s giostra, the festival of jousting that celebrated his coming of age, Simonetta was chosen to represent the Queen of Beauty, just as Colombina had once been chosen for Lorenzo. It was symbolic, a festive and mythical throne occupied by the woman judged by the young men of Florence to be the closest embodiment of Venus.

  And from the day that Simonetta was introduced to Sandro Botticelli, the rumors in Florence became more vicious.

  Sandro was besotted with her. He stopped sleeping at night, so tormented was he with her physical perfection. She became his only muse, the model for every nymph and goddess he painted. He drew her face endlessly through the night, trying to capture its contours and the magical way that her hair flowed around it in a frame of shimmery golden curls. He imagined her body beneath its heavy Florentine gowns, knowing that the lithe perfection of it was more beautiful than any he had seen before. He never meant to create such scandal, but the whispers began throughout Florence that Simonetta was posing nude for Sandro. Those who were enemies of the Order poisoned these rumors further, embellishing them to create legends of orgies where Simonetta shared her body with Sandro first, then the Medici brothers later.

  Colombina was disgusted by it. The rumors challenged her belief that she could act only through love: there were times when it was very difficult to love those who reviled your family. And make no mistake, the members of the Order were her family, more than any blood relations had ever been. She loved Simonetta as a sister and wanted to protect her from the acid nature of the jealous and intolerant. And yet one of the many lessons Colombina would learn in her life came to her through the beautiful girl from Genoa.

  After hearing a particularly vile rumor about Simonetta in the marketplace, Colombina had taken the two spiteful Florentine girls who were its source to task publicly. She was infuriated that the sweet Simonetta was a constant source of gossip. Further, she was particularly sensitive as someone who had been victimized for years by those who whispered about her, referring to her by the title she carried behind the closed doors of Florence, “Lorenzo’s whore.”

  Simonetta heard the story, which was turning into legend across the city, and came to visit her friend and defender.

  “The little dove has claws, it is said,” she joked gently with her friend.

  Colombina hugged her. “I could not help myself. Those girls were so poisonous in their jealousy, so hateful in the unfair things they said about you. I could not allow it to pass.”

  Simonetta’s eyes were bright, but she did not shed tears. “It disturbs me less than you think, my sister, and certainly less than it does you. I know what those women say about me—and about you. But it matters not. As the Master has taught us, it is the struggle of all elements of beauty to be recognized and protected in this world. We mustn’t allow it to hurt us or turn us to anger. Wasn’t our own blessed Magdalena called a whore by so many?”

  “She still is,” Colombina replied. That Maria Magdalena, the beloved of Jesus and the apostle of the apostles, was referred to as a repentant sinner and even as a prostitute was an injustice that rankled Colombina. It was in studying Madonna Magdalena that she had first come to understand the terrible struggle that the teachings of the Way of Love had encountered over the centuries. Maria Magdalena had become dangerous to the established church in Rome in the early days of Christianity. She represented a shadow side of Christianity, a set of teachings not beholden to the political strategies or economic goals of the Roman Church. The Way of Love was pure, taught as it was from the Book of Love and its later editions of the Libro Rosso—and taught most often by women.

  Colombina had a special role in the Order. She was the new scribe, committing the old prophecies of the Magdalene lineage to writing under the guidance of Fra Francesco. It was Colombina’s responsibility to ensure that the oral traditions of the Order did not die. Her current task was recording the story of the French prophetess called Jeanne, who had been executed at the stake for heresy a generation earlier. Colombina felt a special connection to the little maid from Lorraine, whom she dreamed about periodically. Sometimes Jeanne visited her in dreams and spoke to her of truth and courage, but Colombina only discussed these things with Fra Francesco and Lorenzo.

  Along with Ginevra, Colombina was evolving into a very powerful and devoted force in the cause of absolute heresy in Florence.

  Florence

  1473

  “CLARICE DE’ Medici is pregnant—again. Can you believe it?”

  Costanza Donati, Colombina’s younger sister, couldn’t wait to deliver the news. Costanza was a pretty girl but a gossip, made all the more malicious by the jealousy she felt for her more beautiful sister.

  “How I envy her,” Colombina sighed. “Does she appreciate it, I wonder? That she carries his name and wakes in his arms each day, as naturally as the sun rises. That she . . . bears his children.” Her throat caught at these last words, as they represented a terrible and private pain she had never expressed to anyone, and certainly not to Lorenzo.

  “You don’t know that she wakes in his arms.” Costanza’s tone turned conspiratorial. “You know what they say, don’t you? His personal apothecary mixes a tincture that makes Lorenzo more potent so that when he is forced to bed his wretched wife, he impregnates her immediately. Then he can be free of her for the next ten months.”

  “That is idle gossip, sister. Lorenzo is the most noble man I have ever known. He treats his wife as a queen. She is the mother of his children, and he reveres her for that.”

  “Oh, of course Madonna Clarice wants for nothing,” Costanza said dramatically, before adding, “but she is colder than a slab of Carrara marble, that creature, and dull as dishwater. She is as far from you as it is possible to be, and Lorenzo worships at your altar. So to speak.”

  Colombina indulged the inane giggling for a moment and then continued with her original thought. Costanza was hardly the perfect audience, but she was family and generally loyal, in spite of her petty nature. And Colombina needed to talk.

  “But do you know what I am saying, ’Stanza? Clarice lives in his house and his crest is engraved in their marriage bed. What I wouldn’t give to know how that feels.”

  Surprisingly, Costanza actually appeared to be listening. Her next comment was even insightful.

  “Do you know what is tragic? I am certain that she envies you even more. Can you imagine what it is to have such a magnificent man for a husband and know that you will never satisfy him in any way? That his eyes are closed and he thinks of another each time he touches you? I bet he never kisses her.”

  Colombina’s expression was wan. Costanza would
never understand just how accurate she was, or why. Kissing was considered a great sacrament in the hieros-gamos tradition, known as the sharing of the sacred breath. It was an act that blended two spirits together by combining their life force energies, and was not to be shared by anyone except one’s most beloved. “No, I’m quite sure he does not kiss her.”

  “Well, that would be torture for any woman married to a man like Lorenzo, even one as heartless as that Roman Medea.”

  “She’s really not so bad, you know,” Lucrezia felt real sympathy for Clarice, who was, in her way, just as much a victim of circumstance as she and Lorenzo. “Clarice is quite kind beneath all that Roman coldness. And I don’t think she really cares that much how Lorenzo feels or whom he beds so long as he is discreet and provides for his family. And he is expert at both those things. Lorenzo says Clarice is happiest when he leaves her alone, which suits him perfectly.”

  “What do you think of her being pregnant again so immediately? You must admit, il Magnifico is shockingly fertile where his wife is concerned.” Costanza look pointedly at Colombina, who conspicuously had never become pregnant during her lengthy affair with Lorenzo. What Costanza did not know was that the same apothecary mixed an equally potent tincture for her, which she had used many times to bring about her courses and force bleeding. It was the same potion used by the high-market courtesans in Venice, who could not afford to allow pregnancy to interfere with their trade. Their clientele, ranking nobles and more than a few cardinals of the Church, paid handsomely for their ladies to remain beautiful and unmarred. Colombina tried not to fixate on this detail, on the idea that she was viewed by many in Florence as Lorenzo’s personal courtesan, albeit a highly pedigreed and exquisite one. No one dared speak it for fear of the Magnificent wrath that it would invoke, but she was not a fool. Colombina knew what was said of her by those who had no love of the Medici. And yet, she allowed it little time to disrupt her. She had taken an oath to belong to Lorenzo for eternity, and nothing mattered to her more than that. Jealous and malicious Florentines be damned.

  Yet on early mornings when the mist covered the Arno and Florence was peaceful before the bustle of the day began, she would take walks along the river and allow herself to weep at the injustice of it all.

  Each time she bled, Colombina prayed to Maria Magdalena to forgive her for violating the laws of the Order and sobbed over the loss of a child she would give anything to bear.

  Niccolò was back in Florence, home from his latest excursion. These were always the hardest times for Colombina.

  When he was away, she was the absolute mistress of her own destiny, spending most of her time with Ginevra and Simonetta, and with the Master when he was in the city, pursuing the business of the Order. And her sweetest, most secret stolen moments came about when Lorenzo was able to meet her at the Antica Torre. Here they were alone in their own world, together as the most intimate of friends and ardent of lovers. It was blissful.

  But when Niccolò returned from his seafaring adventures, she was expected to be home with him as a proper wife should be. It was wretched.

  On this particular night, Colombina had thought she would be safe enough keeping her meeting with Lorenzo, as Niccolò was going out to the tavern with his friends to regale them with his latest tales of pirates and lost treasure, and likely a few ribald details about slave girls and harlots in Constantinople. None of these details bothered or even interested her, so long as they meant that Niccolò wasn’t around to demand her attention physically or emotionally. When he did decide he wanted to take advantage of his marital rights, he was relatively quick about it, for which Colombina was grateful, although it had given her cause to grieve for all her sisters in the world who would never know any other kind of husband, never know what it was like to have a man make love to them with all his heart and soul, as well as his body, in the way that Lorenzo did with her. So many women only knew arranged marriages to the Niccolòs of the world, who might just as well have had a hole in the bed as a flesh-and-blood wife.

  She was thinking about this as she made the walk home from her all-too-brief evening with Lorenzo, about how blessed she was to have found him and how enriched her life had become through the teachings of the Order. How she wished she could share these understandings of love and equality with women who would never know anything of the kind. That was one of the objectives of the Order, and certainly Colombina’s dream—to bring about a time when arranged marriages were seen as a crime committed upon women, and female children would no longer be treated as pawns in a family’s game of wealth and power.

  As Colombina rounded the corner to their city house, she stopped. There was a light on in Niccolò’s study. Why was he home so early? She would have to think of something, quick, to explain away her absence in the night like this. She knew it was risky to see Lorenzo during the periods when Niccolò was home, but it was far more painful to be separated from her beloved for too long. She was willing to take the chance, always. She gritted her teeth and entered her house, praying he would be preoccupied with some new map or idea for a voyage.

  “Where have you been so late into the night?”

  Niccolò was waiting for her, and he was drunk.

  “I was with the Gianfigliazza women, preparing for the Saint John’s Eve carnival. We have so much to do that I lost track of the hours passing. I’m sorry, Nico. Can I get you something? More wine? Come, have some wine with me and tell me of your evening.”

  It was usually easy enough to distract him, but not this night. Something—or someone—had gotten to Niccolò Ardinghelli.

  “You . . . are . . . a liar!” Niccolo yelled as he slapped her, hard enough to make her stumble as he continued his tirade, stalking her across the room. “Do you think I don’t know where you are? Where you go when I am not in Florence? Do you think I don’t know that you whore for the Medici every chance you get and have done so for years?”

  He slapped her again. She fell to the ground this time with the force of the blow.

  Colombina picked herself up, her expression reflecting a blend of dignity and contempt. She faced her husband and said with quiet strength, “I do not whore for that Medici. I give myself to him freely. I always have and I always will. Lorenzo has my heart; why shouldn’t he also possess my body?”

  Her husband was incredulous. He blinked at this, trying in his drunken state to grasp the reasoning. “Because . . . because you are my wife.”

  “You just said I was a whore.”

  “You behave as one!”

  Lucrezia allowed the bitterness of her enforced years with him to flow from her lips for the first time. “Perhaps you’re right on one account. A whore beds a man because she must for her very survival. It is an act of empty rutting, done by a woman with no choice. So if I am a whore for anyone, it is for you.”

  Niccolò sputtered for a moment, taken aback by a defiance he had never before seen in a woman, much less his wife. Blinded by rage, he swung, hitting her full in the face with his fist. Horrified by what he had done, he ran from the room and closed himself in his studio. Colombina picked herself up, gingerly touching the place where his fist hit the mark. Moving to the mirror that graced her entry hall, she examined her face. Niccolò’s blow would leave a welt and a deep black bruise on her cheekbone for days to come. And there was a meeting of the Order in three days’ time.

  Colombina arrived three days later for the gathering of the Order at the Antica Torre. Niccolò had avoided her since the night of her beating, out of a combination of guilt, anger, and humiliation. The positive side effect of this was that she was able to attend this meeting without asking for his permission.

  She had done her best to conceal Niccolò’s mark on her face, rubbing it with ice and with an oil from the apothecary. While it was less vivid than before, there was still a purplish shadow, which was impossible to disguise completely. She knew that Lorenzo would notice instantly and demand an explanation. She had prepared one, not because she cared a
bout protecting Niccolò, but because she cared about protecting Lorenzo. He had enough worries without her victimization adding to them. And she believed that her husband had felt real remorse. While he was a braggart, Niccolò wasn’t inherently evil, and she was convinced that this was a singular incident and he would never hit her again. Colombina had to forgive him, as that was the Way of Love. Besides, Niccolò would be leaving again soon enough. She just needed to be patient.

  Careful to enter the Torre in the presence of others so that she would not have to answer Lorenzo privately, Colombina knew that she could not avoid the issue indefinitely. As he came to kiss her in greeting, he stopped suddenly and raised one gentle index finger to run it lightly over her face. His questioning of her was deceptively gentle.

  “What happened here, Colombina?”

  She could not look at him and lie. Lowering her eyes, she replied, “It’s nothing. A careless cleaning woman did not dry the floors properly after washing them. She left water on the marble for me to slip in. I hit the side of my face on the stairs.”

  Lorenzo said nothing. Instead, he used that same gentle finger to lift her chin and forced her to look at him. He held her eyes for a moment, and Colombina shuddered at what she saw in them. In all their time together, they had never truly quarreled. Their love was so strong, and so selfless, that there had never been any lie or betrayal between them. But Lorenzo’s dark eyes were like burning coals as they bored into hers. He released her, gently, and walked away. For the remainder of the evening, he sat on the opposite side of the room and refused to speak with her. He was morose and contributed very little to the evening’s conversation. When he did speak, it was in clipped tones and short phrases. It was clear to everyone that il Magnifico was in a difficult mood, and the meeting was cut short with little of the usual socializing at the end.