by Alana White
THE SIGN OF THE WEEPING VIRGIN
THE SIGN OF THE WEEPING VIRGIN
ALANA WHITE
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2012 by Alana White.
A reader's guide for “The Sign of the Weeping Virgin” can be found at the back of the book.
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
White, Alana.
The sign of the weeping virgin / Alana White. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4328-2623-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-2623-9 (hardcover)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2787-8 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2787-1
1. Italy—Civilization—1268-1559—Fiction. 2. Florence (Italy)—Politics and government—1421-1737—Fiction. 3. Renaissance—Italy—Fiction. 4. Art, Renaissance—Italy—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.H5685S55 2012
813'.6—dc23 2012028921
First Edition. First Printing: December 2012.
Published in conjunction with the Author.
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2787-8 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2787-1
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Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 16 15 14 13 12
For My Husband, Who Has Given Me the Gift of Time
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My life has been blessed by libraries, and so I would be remiss if I did not express my heartfelt gratitude for their calm and constant presence therein. In difficult times, they have been my safe place, my haven. In my childhood, they provided me with books—free. Later, they opened up the world of the Italian Renaissance as I began exploring that colorful and complex time in history. Bless Interlibrary Loan, which made it possible for me to place my hands on books written by scholars of the Italian Renaissance, present and past, whose work otherwise would not have been available to me. I want to thank in particular the Nashville Public Library for granting me the private use of one of their lovely, quiet writing rooms: a desk, a lamp, a bookshelf, and me. Heaven.
I want to thank my writing group, the Nashville Writers' Alliance, for many years of solid critiques, particularly Sallie Bissell and Madeena Nolan, who offered invaluable suggestions regarding this work in its early stages. Finally, I want to thank all the group's members for their enduring friendship and support. Family is everything.
HISTORICAL NOTE
In 1480, Florence was one of five major powers that dominated Italy's patchwork of independent city-states. High on the northern cuff of the sunny, boot-shaped peninsula were Venice and Milan. An oligarchy on the Adriatic Sea with a Doge appointed to rule for life, Venice's lifeblood was maritime trade—spices, slaves, precious metals and luxurious silks—an enterprise threatened by the steady advance of the Ottoman Turks who, by 1460, had, in the name of jihad, holy war, made significant inroads in Europe.
West of Venice lay Milan, stronghold of the Sforza dukes. Shifting alliances and family quarrels plagued the ducal succession. Relations between the Duchy of Milan and the Lion of the Adriatic were hostile, with each government aspiring to extend its frontier at the other's expense.
Far to the south, at the ankle of the Italian boot, King Ferrante ruled Naples. The elder of his two sons, Prince Alfonso (also titled Duke of Calabria), was a professional soldier with an eye to using Neapolitan military superiority to make his family's house (the House of Aragon) dominant in Italy.
North of Naples lay the Papal States, presided over in Rome by Pope Sixtus IV. While building and decorating the Sistine Chapel and adding to the Vatican library, Sixtus IV immersed himself in politics. Uncle to a slew of nephews, dedicated to nepotism on a grand scale, he made no fewer than six of them cardinals. For his favorite, Girolamo Riario, Sixtus IV wanted nothing less than a lordship in the Papal States where, in fact, the Pope ruled in name only. While giving lip service to papal authority, local families governed the towns of that sprawling province.
Set in the lush, rolling hills of the Arno Valley, Florence, built on an ancient Roman site, was a Republic whose citizens had clung to the trappings of a democratic form of government since the late thirteenth century. Not for them a king, lord, or duke. To prevent any one man from wielding power, the government changed with breathtaking frequency as members of duly elected committees were replaced by new men who qualified and had their names drawn from a “hat.” Ironically, what the fiercely democratic-thinking Florentines had created for themselves was a government that changed so often, Italy's other major powers sought one man or family to deal with, while they considered Florence easy prey.
The Florentine government's wobbly design kept the republic weak at home, too. Over time, within the city walls a select political class had come to rule, dominated by several hundred families. By the mid-1400s, these families in turn were ruled by about five hundred men at whose core the Medici family stood boldly front and center, acting from their palazzo on Via Larga as the de facto, or unofficial, leaders of Florence. Why did foreign leaders and Florentine citizens turn to one family for leadership? Because dealing with one family—one man, one faction, one voice—was the only recourse when faced with a government that, for the most part, changed every two months.
Only once over a period of fifty years was the Medici's towering influence truly challenged; this, as described in The Sign of the Weeping Virgin, by a rival family in 1478 in a bloody attempt to rid Florence of its leader, the brilliant Renaissance humanist poet and unelected statesman, Lorenzo de' Medici, and his supporters—elected and otherwise.
PROLOGUE
Guid'Antonio entered Florence Cathedral late that Easter Sunday morning, blinking as the front door closed and the sun lost itself to darkness. Inside the sanctuary, he cut through the nave past whooshing torches, jostling men from his path, his aggravation mounting. Already the choir's singular, sweet voice had fallen to a hush, and people were bowing their heads, anticipating the Elevation of the Host. Determined, he pushed through the crowd to Lorenzo de' Medici's dark, muscular figure near the south side of the altar, where they had agreed to meet this morning, but drew back when he glimpsed Lorenzo's brother, Giuliano, strangely isolated with Francesco de' Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini on the far opposite side of the church, near Via Servi. Those three were not friends. Wiry, whey-haired Francesco seemed nervous, snaking his arm
around Giuliano's shoulders, casting furtive glances here and there.
Guid'Antonio's eyes flicked toward Lorenzo, and then back again. He did not see Bandini's axe till the blade flashed in the candlelight and sliced down on Giuliano's head. After that, time slowed down, as if luxuriously uncoiling itself in a long dark strand. Giuliano fell to his knees, his hood pouring blood. Francesco jumped on him in wild excitement, ripping his knife into the soft flesh of Giuliano's bare neck. Near them, a boy cried out, “The dome's coming down!” Men, women, and children flailed and fell over one another in a wave of fear and panic.
“No!” Guid'Antonio roared. “Giuliano!” He clawed forward, but repeatedly lost ground, as if ghost hands had hold of his crimson cloak, pulling him back by the hem. “Giuliano!” His good, young friend, stabbed over and over again as if he were a plaything made of scrap cloth, rather than hardened muscle and bone.
Murdered, while Guid'Antonio watched from a distance.
How could he have been so helpless?
He caught the sound of thunder rumbling outside his chateau apartment in Plessis-les-Tours and heard the French wind moan and howl. Restless and sweaty, he threw aside the bedsheet and stared up into the void, bound to memories that sank their talons into him and would not surrender their hold.
Twenty-six April 1478, two years ago. He could still feel the cool air inside Florence Cathedral and smell winter's lingering odor. He could hear the tinkling of the priest's bell. What he saw when he lay awake at night was Giuliano de' Medici on the church pavement with blood pouring from his head.
Pain sliced Guid'Antonio's chest. Why hadn't his gut turned to water when he saw Giuliano with Francesco de' Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini, those two malcontents? Why hadn't a voice inside him shrieked a warning? The Medici and Pazzi families were not friends. Their houses were too old, too well known, and too rich. Rivalries between them were raw. Yet until that April morning, those two mighty Florentine houses had managed the niceties. Swimming the surface of glassy waters, they did not sink.
Lies on top of lies.
Why hadn't he gone to Giuliano when he first noticed him in the church? Why hadn't he stood beside him and prayed? But no. No. Instead of saving Florence's favorite son, he had knelt beside his mutilated body on the cold stone floor and raised his hands to heaven in the raw fullness of disbelief. He had lain across him, protecting him from stampeding sandals, boots, and rough bare feet. He had helped the monks wrap Giuliano's corpse in the young Medici's black velvet cape, deeply grateful Lorenzo had eluded the armed priest who had attacked him, managing only to lightly slice Lorenzo's throat—if what the monks said was true. How could they know? The monks' inkstained fingers were as shaky as Guid'Antonio's own.
He had accompanied Giuliano home to the Medici Palace through stinking, abandoned alleyways, while other Medici supporters hunted the conspirators down and slaughtered them in the streets like pigs. What now? Guid'Antonio had wondered. What now? Soon enough, he had received his answer in the shape of this ambassadorship to the French court. His reward for steadfast friendship and loyalty to the Medici, Florence's unofficial first family. But did he deserve it, really? Time and again, he had tried to tell Lorenzo what had happened that bloody Sunday. And each time he had caught the words back in his mouth, consumed with guilt. Since Giuliano's death in the Cathedral, beneath his olive skin, Lorenzo de' Medici's face was watchful and unnaturally pale.
Anyway, didn't all men have secrets?
His chamber was warmer now, the atmosphere lighter by degrees, though outside the windows, the sky over Plessisles-Tours appeared gloomy and wet. Morning. Nineteen June 1480. In a moment his nephew, Amerigo Vespucci, would enter the richly appointed apartment provided Guid'Antonio by King Louis XI of France, all alight with anticipation and energy, eager to begin their ride across the Apennines and down the Italian peninsula to Tuscany. “Andiamo, Uncle Guid'Antonio! Let's go! I can't wait to leave this ball-shriveling French weather!”
And so Ambassador Guid'Antonio Vespucci swung his feet off the feather mattress and reached for his shirt and traveling pants. Rising, he saw himself and Amerigo step out into the pouring rain and sprint toward the stable, where Amerigo had both their horses saddled and waiting. He saw himself shrug into his rain cloak and pull the hood down over his forehead, its oiled edges coiling around his face. Troubled in spirit and uneasy, he saw the ground shifting beneath him as he glanced up at the darkening clouds and rode out into the storm.
ONE
Florence, three weeks later. . . .
He felt like a ghost Guid'Antonio, looming at the courtyard gate in the ethereal hours just before daybreak. Draped in fog, the workshops of the weavers and dyers and loom makers all along Borg'Ognissanti, All Saints Street, were still, the water mills closed down. The sole sound on the air was the faint echo of hooves striking rain-slick stones as a weary but content Amerigo led Flora and Bucephalus around the Vespucci Palace toward the family stables. But no, not so quiet after all, nor completely free of other movement. From where he stood, a hesitant figure alone at the wrought-iron gate, he could see the fountain in the palace garden and hear the soft gurgle of water flowing from the stone lion's jaws. Torches sputtered either side of the gate. In the dim light, he searched his scrip for his key. Amongst the jingle of coins, his fingers found the key, and he inserted it into the lock, only to discover it would not turn over. He jiggled the key, removed it, blew on it and, frowning, tried again without success. “God,” he breathed.
“Messer Guid'Antonio,” whispered the form detaching itself from the garden shadows. “I'm here. Just a moment, please.”
It was not God, but Guid'Antonio's manservant, Cesare Ridolfi, who unlocked the gate, then swung it open on squeaky hinges. A warm smile lit the young man's face. “Messer Guid'Antonio, welcome home.”
“Thank you,” Guid'Antonio said, embracing Cesare, patting his back, “but what's this?” He gestured toward the lock, wondering what preternatural force had whispered in Cesare Ridolfi's ear, “Messer Guid'Antonio and Amerigo are arriving home very early today. Moreover, Guid'Antonio will need the lock opened for him at the courtyard gate.”
“Changed,” Cesare said. “Like so many other things.” His arms went out, encompassing the dawn and the stars emerging from behind scattering clouds. “But now, you're home. Will you have a bath to start this interminable day?”
Interminable? Guid'Antonio felt too tired to ask. “No. I'll start it by seeing my wife.”
“Ah.” Smiling slightly, Cesare slipped back into the shadowy darkness from whence he came.
“Maria?”
Languidly, she turned in the canopied bed, her hair a curtain of black, her cotton nightgown hiked high above shapely thighs. She raised her arms in sleepy welcome.
And then her eyes fluttered open. “Guid'Antonio?”
Yes. Guid'Antonio. For one instant, he paused, standing booted and spurred at their bedchamber door, not liking the direction of his thoughts.
“I don't believe it!” Maria sat up, and, as he crossed the room, she held his gaze with hers. He removed his damp traveling cloak and sat, shivering, on the bed.
“I didn't know when to expect you,” she said. “Exactly, I mean.” Her eyes searched his, as if he might be an apparition.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said.
“And did!” She laughed with unbridled delight. In the soft light cast by the brass lamps placed here and there around the room, her face shone.
A smile touched Guid'Antonio's lips. His wife was so lovely, her complexion dark olive brown, her skin glowing against the ruby hue of silk bed hangings. In the lamplight, her hair gleamed like the fine ebony ambitious timber traders transported from afar, black and sweetly smooth to the touch. “You're beautiful,” he said, admiring her figure on the bed, the long, graceful legs flowing smoothly from curving hips. He felt shy, now he was here with her after two years.
“What did you expect?” she said. “While you were gone, I'd change into a hag
?” Tears welled in her eyes, deep dark pools with glints of gold. “There were times I feared you'd never come home.”
“I wanted to.” He brushed her hair with his fingers, basking in the pleasure of her touch as she caressed his face, waiting while she traced the line of his jaw and the fine new lines radiating outward from the corners of his eyes.
Her fingers strayed to his temples. Gently, she clasped his face in her hands. What did she see? A man of advancing years drinking in the perfection of his young wife? What did she think? Not only has he been gone two years, he's not as I remembered him?
And then she was down before him, the bare flesh of her knees pressing into the hard marble floor. She removed one of his muddy boots, then the other. She rose up like Aphrodite rising from the sea, her eyes connecting with his, and ran her hands along his thighs. High, her thumbs inside, caressing him. There.
A shudder ran through him. He slipped her gown up over her head, and they lay back on the sheets. He kissed her eyelashes, her mouth, and her breasts. “I love your eyes,” she said. “Such a tender gray, I can almost see through them.”
“Non parlare, baciami. Don't talk, kiss me.”
She did, her mouth hot and yearning against his. “Do you think you can still satisfy me, Ambassador Guid'Antonio Vespucci?”
“I always have.”
“You're mighty sure of yourself.”
“Yes,” he said.
Not a whit, he thought, and then: When it comes to love, how could I be?
“The women at King Louis's court must have been half mad in love with you.” Gently, she bit his lip.
“More like completely,” he said, and she punched him playfully. He felt his passion flare. “Not with me,” he amended, “but with Amerigo.”
