“What is this?” he said in disgust. His extended his hand disdainfully toward the rot.
Giorgio pushed him away.
Cardinale Ferdinando sputtered, “How dare you touch me—”
“I am concerned for your life, Cardinale.” Giorgio brought his mouth close to the duca’s ear. “The wallpaper hangers must wear masks and gloves. They must be as careful with the paper as they are with the art.”
Giorgio unrolled the second layer of wallpaper.
Both men stared at the vermillion, as intense as a pool of blood. The yellow-gold of the de’ Medici palle was emblazoned against the brilliant red background.
“Again. Regal. The red of a monarch,” pronounced the cardinale.
Giorgio nodded but didn’t speak.
Or a cardinale red. Or the blood red of a killer.
CHAPTER 76
Tuscany, Poggio a Cajano
SEPTEMBER 1586
A coach pulled by a matched pair of black geldings approached the estate of Poggio a Cajano at midday. A masculine hand wearing a golden ring pushed back the curtains.
Cardinale Ferdinando de’ Medici smiled wistfully at the sight of the villa, commissioned by his ancestor Lorenzo de’ Medici. Poggio a Cajano, perched on a high point amid the undulating swells of the Tuscan landscape, had been his childhood summer home. A sculptor had conceived both the palazzo and its magnificent gardens, sited and executed with geometric precision.
A cool breeze swept through the long rows of trees, rustling their summer-dusted leaves. Ferdinando imagined the early morning dew on the foliage, ushering the first earthy scent of autumn into the shady portico. It would come soon, the welcome freshness.
It had been a mercilessly hot summer in Rome. Here in Tuscany, he finally breathed cool air and noted the first splashes of gold and russet coloring the leaves. Summer and autumn played tug-of-war with the season, the cicadas still frenetic as if they knew their days were numbered.
The cardinale sighed, recalling the pleasant childhood memories, chasing his brothers and sisters across the shaded terrace and into the vast gardens. Then he tightened his lips; he would never look at Poggio a Cajano with the same nostalgia again.
The granduca and granduchessa of Tuscany greeted him in the marble hall of the palazzo.
“Saluti,” said the granduca, kissing the cardinale’s ring.
“I bid you welcome to Poggio a Cajano,” said the grandu-chessa, her voice a strained rasp.
Since the death of the two princesses, Cardinale Ferdinando had avoided Florence and his brother. Bianca had arranged the meeting, and Cardinale Ferdinando had reluctantly agreed. His fortune and ambitions were inextricably tied to those of his brother, the granduca. Pope Sixtus had employed the strife between the brothers as an excuse to ignore de’ Medici petitions. The de’ Medici power was splintered by their family feuds.
Ferdinando, who had not seen Bianca in several years, suppressed a wince at the sight of the frail woman who greeted him. Bianca looked bloodless, her once plump cheeks withered and pale. The fat she had accumulated over decades of de’ Medici indulgence had diminished, leaving white parchment skin sagging where once there had been plump flesh.
Bianca noticed his stare. Her hand flew up to her face, for she was still vain, even in illness. She coughed hard, trying to speak. The reconciliation between her husband and his brother was important to her—and all Tuscany.
“You are not well,” said the cardinale. He looked at his brother the granduca, who glared at him. A lady-in-waiting offered the granduchessa a linen handkerchief.
“Nonsense. I am as fit as a Tuscan peasant,” she said, dismissing his words with a sweep of her hand and moving on. “I must thank you, Ferdinando, for your generous gifts. We have enjoyed them all summer.
“The paintings are masterpieces . . . like none I have ever seen.”
“I am so pleased you like them. When I took the liberty of hanging the wallpaper and art, I hoped they would please you.”
“Please me? Oh, they do indeed! And that divine wallpaper matches the girl’s contrada colors! Exquisite. You selected the best of the two for me. The girl and stallion in the mossa, filled with energy, ready to explode into motion. She dominates my bedroom and cheers me when I am confined to my apartment. Ah, how I remember that day! The detail of the horse and rider are exquisite—”
Francesco interrupted his wife.
“It is romanticized too much by the artist for my taste,” he sniffed. When he saw his wife’s shoulders fold like an injured bird, he repented by adding his own compliment.
“The true masterpiece is the horse shying at the Via del Capitano turn.” Francesco’s lips pursed in satisfaction. “The white-ringed eye of the horse, the girl’s determined face dissolving in shock at having victory snatched from her grasp. Two other riders galloping past her, leaving her defeated in the dust. Magnificent!”
Bianca managed a smile.
“The red wallpaper on the south-facing wall is brilliant,” she said. “So masculine in comparison with my ethereal green. Who created such exquisite wallpaper? And wherever did you find the artist, Ferdinando? Such passion!”
“An anonymous illustrator at the Siena Palio charged with capturing the action at the last stretch of the race. He was employed by the Balia to produce sketches for the archives. He made the paintings from his sketches and peddled them in the market of Il Campo. A servant of mine purchased them, seeing great talent. I had him repaint them with the best pigments Florence could procure. I hope they cheer you.”
The cardinale looked out toward the splashing fountain in the garden. “I meant them to remind you of our father’s conquest of Siena.”
“I have had my bed moved so the painting is the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning,” said Bianca. “When I hear the cry of the morning hounds of the hunt, I rush to the window to see their departure. I am bidden by my handmaidens to return to my bed. I look at the Senese girl and pretend I still ride the hunt.”
Francesco grunted at the reference to Virginia Tacci. And he had never liked Bianca’s following along with her ladies on the hunt, their chatter disturbing the hounds and alerting the prey.
“And you, brother?” asked the cardinale.
“I have moved the painting closer to my writing desk,” said Francesco. “I like to remember the great folly of having a girl ride a Palio. Especially a Senese girl.”
“Over your writing desk, you say?”
The granduca felt his brother’s eyes inspecting his face. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Of course not,” said the cardinale. “Why do you ask?””
“You are staring at me in a strange way, brother.”
“It has been such a long time since we have met in person. I feel I have almost forgotten your face.”
Bianca took her brother-in-law’s hand and joined it with her husband’s.
“No more estrangements, I pray,” she said, smiling at both of them.
She began to cough. Her bony shoulders heaved with the effort. A lady-in-waiting rushed to her side, leading her away.
“With your permission, I will accompany the granduchessa to her apartments,” the maid said, curtsying to the granduca. She glanced at Ferdinando. There was something about the younger brother that bode ominous, despite his holy red robes, the swinging crucifix around his neck, and the cardinale’s ring on his finger.
The evening meal was celebrated with a fine prosecco from a de’ Medici vineyard only a few miles from Poggio a Cajano. A servant approached the table with a silver bowl of water scented with lemon.
“How did you pass the afternoon, brother?” asked the granduca, dipping his hands in the bowl and drying them with the offered towel.
“I walked the gardens, remembering our childhood,” said the cardinale.
“How delicious a pastime!” said Bianca, smiling. “These gardens, this house, must be full of mem
ories for the two of you.”
Francesco shot an ugly glare at his wife. Her smile dissolved.
“And you, brother?” said the cardinale, pushing up the sleeves of his robe to wash his hands. “How did you pass the afternoon hours?”
“In my laboratory,” the granduca answered.
Bianca tsked. “Stifling hot in that room. Dark and stuffy as a coffin. A miniature version of the studiolo in Palazzo Vecchio, without the grandeur.”
Ferdinando looked at his brother.
“What are you working on, Francesco?”
He had heard rumors that the granduca had grown overly fond of his studiolo and the alchemical foundry in Florence. The cardinale was startled to hear of a similar room here in the family summer villa.
“I am testing some alchemy experiments, notes I have obtained from Emperor Rudolf’s chemists,” said Francesco.
“He thinks he will turn mercury into gold,” retorted Bianca. “I thought with the death of Giovanna, we had rid ourselves of the chicanery of the Habsburg Court.”
The granduca winced at the indelicacy of his wife’s remark. He started to open his mouth, then shut it again, seeing Bianca’s pale moon face.
“There is treacherous gossip that accuses the granduca of manufacturing poisons,” continued Bianca. “That he carries killing powders in his ring. Arsenic, is it not, my sweet?”
The granduca looked pointedly at the servants who lined the walls.
“Malicious rumors,” he said. “I am not Lucrezia Borgia, if that is what they mean to imply. Nor am I the Duca di Ferrara!”
A servant approached Ferdinando with a pasticcio alla fiorentina, a honey-crusted pie with pasta and shimmering meat sauce.
“I had the cooks prepare your favorite foods, Ferdinando,” said Bianca quickly, smiling. “Wild hare stewed in wine with candied orange peel, pine nuts, and raisins. Then partridge with juniper berries—so delicious this year!—cooked in marsala. Delectable, I assure you—”
Cardinale Ferdinando gave a curt nod. “I thank you for your excellent memory and kindness.”
As he met Bianca’s eyes, he nearly regretted the purpose for his visit. Then he remembered how she intended to place her Antonio, a peasant’s son, as the Granduca of Tuscany.
“How fares your health, my lady?” inquired Ferdinando, as a servant offered him partridge.
“She is the granduchessa. You shall address her as such!” snapped Francesco.
Startled, the servant almost dropped the platter of partridge. Three escaping juniper berries stained the ivory tablecloth with splotches of deep wine. The servant sucked in his breath in horror.
“Voi mi perdonate, mio serenissimo!”
Ferdinando stared down at the stains.
“I will not allow any disrespect of the granduchessa!” continued Francesco, fuming.
“The cardinale meant no disrespect, I am sure,” said Bianca, coloring for the first time. “Martino, continue serving our guest.”
“Of course, Serenissima,” said the servant.
“Granduchessa,” Ferdinando said, articulating the word with great difficulty. He raised his eyes from the stains to his brother, then to Bianca. “I beg your pardon.”
“Thank you . . . for inquiring about my health. I am recovering slowly,” she said. “The pregnancy and loss of child were difficult. It is only that.”
She darted a look at her husband. “I do not suffer the marsh fever, as some would claim. It was the pregnancy. So debilitating. It reminds me of my difficult confinement with our first son.”
With a wave of her hand, she changed the subject.
“After dinner, I should like to invite you to visit my apartments, along with my husband. You may see where I have placed your magnificent gift. Every time I look at it, I see another nuance in the horses. And the girl—ah, the girl. I remember that day so clearly.”
“I should very much like to see it once more,” said the cardinale.
“You shall see my painting as well,” said the granduca. “The defeat in the girl’s eyes is palpable.” Francesco plunged a finger into his mouth, digging at a piece of partridge lodged in his back molars. He leaned back, smiling in satisfaction, remembering.
“It is said that the girl Virginia Tacci disappeared from Siena,” the cardinale said. “Shortly after the Palio.”
Francesco blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Perhaps she has married and moved away. A husband wouldn’t want her seen astride a horse once he had taken her as his wife.”
“It is doubtful she would simply vanish,” said the cardinale, watching his brother across the table. “She is a Senese legend.”
“Siena!” said the granduca, scowling. “Such a wretched thorn in my side. I wish we had starved them all to dust and bones in the siege.”
Ferdinando studied the mask of hatred that contorted his brother’s face.
“What did you think of the artist’s execution of the horses?” The cardinale steered toward safer waters.
The granduca’s eyes lit up, his ugly expression fading. A smile spread across his face.
“Truly remarkable. The artist is most certainly a horseman. You say he worked chronicling the Palio for the Balia?”
“Sì,” said Ferdinando, surveying the fruit tray the servant offered. He selected a ripe pear.
“He obviously knows his way around a horse,” said the granduca, peeling an orange with a knife. “I do not know that I have ever seen such skill at expressing an equine.”
Cardinale Ferdinando found it hard to sleep at Poggio a Cajano. The crickets had not yet quieted into their winter slumber. And in his restless nights, memories plagued him, keeping sleep further away.
During one such night, the cardinale heard noises and hushed voices in the hallway.
He opened the door and saw a rush of servants and two doctors he recognized from Court.
He caught a manservant by the arm.
“What is it?”
“The granduca is suffering convulsions,” said the servant. “As if the devil himself were shaking him.”
After that, night after restless night, he would hear the servants hurrying through the villa—and if he listened very carefully, he could hear the violent sounds of a man vomiting.
In the mornings following such nights, nothing would be said. Each day, both Francesco and Bianca looked more pale and wan. The black circles under the granduca’s eyes deepened into bruised shadows.
One morning, the cardinale ventured to ask about his brother’s health.
“You are not looking well, brother,” he said. “Did you sleep last night?”
The granduca straightened his posture. He looked disdainfully at his brother. “Like a baby.”
“And yet,” the cardinale persisted, “the dark circles beneath your eyes . . .”
“The doctors tell me I have a poor diet. Incompetent quacks! They say I eat too many sweets, too much rich meat. And some nonsense about drinking young wines.”
“Certainly the fare we have dined on would fit that description, Francesco.”
“Bah!” said the granduca. “I have no faith in doctors. They say my piss is too dark—you should see them gathered around my chamber pot, sniffing and prodding the contents. All charlatans!
“Besides, Ferdinando. I am developing my own cure in my laboratories at the studiolo. An essence of scorpion. Young Antonio is distilling the experimental oil at the Uffizi foundry. But until I return to Florence, I cannot finish the preparation. Antonio carries on in my stead.”
The cardinale watched his brother struggle to swallow.
“This terrible dryness in my throat. Bring me cold water,” said the granduca to a servant.
A silver pitcher flashed, catching the morning sunlight.
“And the granduchessa? Will she be joining us for breakfast?”
“No,” said Francesco, gulping down the water and nodding for more. “No, but she begs you to accompany her at tea on the terrace this afternoon.”
The cardinale watched the glass tremble in his brother’s hand. “Francesco. You should not take such cool liquid on a hot day. It—”
“Mind your own business, Ferdinando! And you will call me granduca, especially in front of the servants.”
CHAPTER 77
Tuscany, Poggio a Cajano
SEPTEMBER 1586
Cardinale Ferdinando de’ Medici frowned at himself in the looking glass. He did not relish the idea of spending time with his shallow, conniving sister-in-law.
He descended the sweeping stairs to the loggia terrace.
“Ah! Brother Ferdinando, please join me.” Granduchessa Bianca sat at a wrought-iron table tiled in azure. The wind lifted a strand of her blond hair from under her lace cap. “I am afraid my husband cannot join us. May I pour you some tea?”
“Yes, please. Is the granduca in poor health?” he asked.
Bianca shot a look at the cardinale.
“The doctors say he is rash with his diet. He drinks new wines, exercises in the heat, then insists on drinking cold water.”
“Yes. I know he has been advised against it. And your health, my lady?”
Bianca looked out over the sun-scorched hills. “More delicate than I would like. I hoped this sojourn at Poggio a Cajano would restore my equilibrium, but I sleep fitfully. I have strange dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“You are a man of the cloth. Perhaps you can counsel me, dear cardinale. You will think me strange, but I often wake and look at the painting of the Senese girl. The youthful determination, the excitement in her eyes—”
The cardinale swallowed his tea, waiting. “Yes?”
“It is as if she wanted to tell me something.” The granduchessa frowned. “Something urgent, but I cannot decipher the words. You know, I saw her race, saw the horse stumble—”
A cuckoo called from a knot of trees.
“How divine! A cuckoo! I so rarely hear them now, confined as I am. Whatever is he doing away from the forest?” Bianca chattered.
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