Lancelot. His piercing blue eyes caught Caterina as she was turning back toward Lorenzo and for a moment they locked eyes. Then the guard looked down, a slight tinge touching his cheeks.
Before Caterina could take another step, Ercole gripped her arm roughly and pointed her toward the wagon. “Time to go. We can’t wait for a maid.” He stomped off to mount his horse.
Caterina scowled as she rubbed her arm. She’d have to find another opportunity to speak with Lorenzo. Maybe that night.
But then, after hours of staring out the window of the carriage, avoiding making eye contact with Fiametta, they stopped to water the horses. Caterina was about to follow Fiametta, who had stepped out of the carriage to stretch her legs, when the door swung open. That had never happened before—none of the men touched the wagon, other than the guard assigned to drive the team of horses.
Lorenzo climbed into the carriage. With a quick tug of his arm, he pulled the curtains to give them privacy.
Caterina’s eyebrows shot up. If she was superstitious, she might have wondered if their sibling bond had called to him somehow. But Caterina didn’t put much stock in folk tales.
And now that her brother was finally in front of her, Caterina’s tongue felt tied in knots. She’d practiced her speech to him a dozen times in her head, but only one thought flew through her mind—why was Lorenzo in her wagon?
His earth-colored eyes were hard, as if he had news that he knew Caterina wouldn’t like. Before she could sort out what that meant, he spoke.
“Today our party splits in two. Fiametta will see you to Viterbo so that you aren’t left alone with the guards. It’s time for us to say farewell.”
Heat rose in Caterina’s belly. “Now just wait. I’m not going to Viterbo. You’re taking me to Rome.” Lorenzo’s expression didn’t change, though Caterina saw one eyebrow twitch upward. “Just let me explain. I’ve done this all out of order. You see, it doesn’t matter to you whether I enter the convent. So why not take me to Rome? After all, I could be an asset to you there. And you owe me.” She was blathering on, but she couldn’t stop herself. Lorenzo’s blank stare unnerved her. “And Father will get used to the idea. I don’t belong in a convent.”
She fell silent, shifting her weight on the uncomfortable bench.
A moment later, Lorenzo spoke, his voice hard as marble. “You will go to the convent. There is no discussion on that point.”
Caterina’s hands clutched at the fabric of her skirt. She blurted out, “I saw you with Fiametta last night. I doubt Father would be happy to learn of your little affair. He doesn’t have to know, though. Just take me with you to Rome.”
She’d expected a reaction from Lorenzo, but his face remained frozen.
“Father already knows about Fiametta.”
Caterina’s blood ran cold. No. That wasn’t possible.
“Or, rather,” Lorenzo corrected himself, “He knows I’ve had my share of relationships. I’m nineteen. I’m not a monk.”
Caterina could only blink in shock.
“Wipe that expression off your face, sister, or your disguise will be ruined. You’re going to the convent. It’s for your own good.” A grin spread across his face. “You don’t have the patience to win against me. Why did you think you could outmaneuver a Medici?”
“I’m a Medici,” she shot back.
Lorenzo leaned forward. “You’re a woman. And right now, you’re a liability. You will go to Viterbo.” And in a flash, he left her alone in the carriage.
Caterina’s rage sputtered and collapsed, leaving her feeling hollow. Her last chance to escape the monastic life had come to nothing. Worse, it had blown up in her face. Lorenzo was more like his father than Caterina had realized.
Some farewell, Caterina thought bitterly.
She blinked back tears, refusing to cry when Fiametta might return any minute. All her plotting, all her schemes, and she was still stuck. Was Lorenzo right? Was it because she was a woman? Her parents couldn’t seem to imagine her value outside of the marriage market, and every time she tried to seize control of her life, it exploded in her face.
Outside the carriage, Caterina heard the sound of voices. Men saying their goodbyes, she imagined, and Lorenzo play-acting a farewell with his false sister. Fiametta would surely get a more heartfelt sendoff than Caterina had earned from her own flesh and blood.
She wiped away the evidence of her emotional turmoil, pulling the hem of her sleeve up to her eye. Fiametta would be back any second. She’d never, not in a million years, speak another word to her maid. Fiametta had probably used Caterina to get close to her brother. What was she after? Wealth? A patch of land? A Medici bastard to give her leverage? If last night was proof, Fiametta might already be with child.
Relationships. Is that what Lorenzo called the stream of mistresses it sounded like he trailed behind him? Caterina almost felt sorry for Fiametta. Her brother would use her and then discard her.
The carriage door squeaked open again. Caterina turned her back on Fiametta, not even glancing toward the woman. They were no more than two days away from the convent. There was no reason not to take a vow of silence today.
Caterina held her tongue for the next two hours. She refused to turn her face toward Fiametta as they sat next to each other in the small carriage.
Fiametta must have picked up on Caterina’s mood, because the woman didn’t try to disrupt Caterina’s dark interior monologue.
Or maybe she was planning her next dalliance. With Ercole, maybe.
Everyone in her life was only looking out for themselves, Caterina decided as she stared at the dark curtain wall of the carriage. Piero only cared about what made him more powerful, and his eldest son was following the same path. The plots against her family, whether real or imagined, were exactly the same. Luca Pitti, or Jacopo de’ Pazzi, or Filippo Strozzi—they only wanted power and wealth, at any cost.
And women were no different. Lucrezia loved her private garden in the Medici palace, and Nannina couldn’t stop talking about how her children would grow up as Rucellai. And then there was Fiametta. The maid was power hungry, stalking rich men who would drop a few coins in her hand in exchange for a kiss.
Maybe the preacher had been right. Maybe the wealth of the Medici was a black cancer, spreading across Florence and darkening everything it touched. The brightly-painted frescoes, the towering churches, they were all just a distraction from the rot at the core of Florence. The rot that came from the Medici.
Well, she wouldn’t be a Medici for much longer.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’ll write you often, dear sister, please take comfort in that fact.” Lorenzo leaned over to give Caterina a gentle kiss on her hand.
From where James stood tending to the horses harnessed to the wagon, he could see the tears in Caterina’s eyes. She blotted at them with a handkerchief.
So she has some redeeming qualities, James decided. She clearly loved her brother.
The two embraced, a close hug that lingered as Lorenzo whispered something to his sister, and then they broke apart.
Lorenzo mounted his horse without looking back. The four guards heading to Rome took their position at his sides. Mazzeo gave James a nod, followed by a wink.
The pack of five men rode down the Via Romana, their pace much faster without the wagon, leaving James behind. Before Mazzeo disappeared, he raised a hand in a final wave.
A sigh broke through James’s lips. It would have been nice to see Rome. The Eternal City. But Mazzeo would surely return with tales of his adventures. James would probably tire of the man’s stories before long. And he was only twenty-two. There were years ahead of him to visit Rome.
James gave the harness one last check before he swung a leg over his own horse. Ercole whistled, the signal to get back on the road, this time the smaller offshoot from the Via Romana that led to Viterbo. The path looked deserted.
James took his reins in one hand and used his legs to turn his horse to the right. Cate
rina was still standing next to the wagon, watching her brother ride away.
A minute later, they were moving.
“I’ve got a bastard of a headache,” one of the new guards, Carlo, muttered as he rode past James.
At Ercole’s orders, the riders spread out, three in front of the wagon and two behind. Instead of riding in pairs, they made a long, trailing snake, gaps growing between each mount.
The youngest guard, practically still a boy, sat atop the wagon, driving the team. James tried to remember the man’s name. Nico, he thought. The boy had been silent around the campfire every night, as if self conscious about his age. He seemed to know his way around a wagon team, though.
Instead of riding south, as they had been for five days, they cut to the west. The sun was already past its zenith, and soon it would shine directly into their eyes. Not good riding conditions, but there were no clouds in the sky.
Ercole rode by. “We’ll make camp in about four hours. That should give us a short ride to Viterbo tomorrow.” He eyed James. “Are you feeling alright?”
James nodded. But looking around, he saw that he was the only one sitting up straight on his horse. Most of the other guards slumped in their saddles. Carlo rubbed his temples, dropping his reins completely. Only Nico and James, plus Ercole, seemed untouched by the hangover.
Ercole let out a short, barking laugh. “Some men can’t hold their liquor.” He gave James another look and tossed him a waterskin. “This should help. It’s my own remedy for a night of drinking.”
James shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Just give it a taste. I really should charge for the stuff, it’s so effective.”
James raised the skin to his lips and took one sip. Citrus. It was nice. But he tossed it back to Ercole. “Carlo needs it more,” he said, nodding to the man still rubbing his temples ahead of them.
“Like I said, some men can’t hold their liquor.” Ercole rode to the back of the line, just behind the wagon. James glanced back at the man. He was always pushing food and drink on his crew. Try this rabbit. Taste the stew. Ercole should have been a restauranteur, not a guard.
An hour passed. And then another. James stuck close to the wagon, his senses tingling. The path suddenly felt more isolated, to James, whether because their group had shrunk or because they traveled on a smaller road.
The sun, scorching hot, made James squint as they continued toward Viterbo. He’d close one eye, and then the other, alternating to keep one fresh. Every few minutes he turned to the left or right, shading his face with one hand. He hadn’t thought to bring a hat, which had obviously been a mistake.
The trees grew thicker, at first just a single tree or two, and then a wall of forest. Here, the road was bordered by a hundred yards of grass before woods swallowed everything.
As James scanned the tree line south of the road, he caught a glimmer of light. Sun flashed off of something in the woods.
He strained, trying to see what it was.
And then the first arrow struck, landing only inches from James’s horse.
The horse, trained for combat, didn’t shy away. James quickly gripped the reins in one hand to reach for his sword with the other. It might not do much against arrows, but if they were under attack, he’d need it soon.
“Bandits! Bandits!” the guards at the front of the line called.
James scanned ahead and behind on the road, his stomach sinking as he realized how strung out their caravan had become. His eye darted back to the woods. “They’re coming from the woods!” he yelled, turning his horse off the road to position himself between the wagon and the dark forest.
Another arrow whizzed past.
As James watched, an entire band of riders burst from the woods where they’d been concealed. The attackers wore matching red and white uniforms, more organized than simple bandits. And still arrows continued to fall around him. Between the riders and the archers concealed in the woods, there had to be at least twenty men barreling down on their caravan.
In seconds, the first of the horsemen reached him, brandishing a sword. James ducked, knowing the man’s forward momentum would make a parry unwise. Instead, he thwapped the man’s horse on the rump with the hilt of his sword. The mount reared, nearly throwing its rider.
The next rider pulled up, positioning himself on James’s weak side. James quickly tossed the sword to his left hand, tucking the horse’s reins under the saddle. He met the man’s swing early in its arc. With his empty right hand, James pulled a dagger from his leather vest and slammed it at his attacker’s chest.
He didn’t wait to see if the blade had hit its mark.
Instead, he used his legs to spin his horse around, making his way back to the wagon. None of the riders had reached the carriage, yet, but only a thin strip of cloth protected the two defenseless women inside.
As he rode, James quickly scanned the rest of his party. One guard had been knocked from his horse. Another crossed swords with an attacker. Ercole was nowhere to be seen.
James didn’t have much time to look for allies.
A third rider closed in on him, trying to pin his horse between the wagon and the man’s blade, already dark with blood. James shifted his sword back to his right hand and drew another dagger.
He could use the wagon, too.
Instead of retreating, as the bandit expected, James pushed the horse forward, startling the attacker’s mount. In the second that the man spent getting his horse under control, James loosed his dagger. It struck the man’s sword arm.
James heard the blade fall to the ground. He didn’t see it. He was already on to the next threat.
A sheen of sweat broke out on James’s body. His horse was already lathered from the exertion. But the men in red and white kept coming, as if an entire army had been disturbed by their passing.
They weren’t simple highway robbers. No, these men were aiming to kill. Now that the mounted attackers rode among their caravan, the arrows had stopped falling, at least. But the gleaming blades of the attackers proved even more deadly.
Two men approached James on foot, stalking him from opposite directions. He shifted his position, trying to keep an eye on each—where had their horses gone? He’d only seen mounted men ride from the trees.
The man on the right darted forward, aiming not at James but at his horse. James blocked the blow, barely, but it left him unbalanced. They were trying to turn him toward the sun, James realized, so that its rays would blind him but leave them with clear sight.
Well, two could play at that game.
James urged his mount forward, breaking out from between the men but keeping the wagon well away from them. The men had a choice—follow James, or follow the wagon. They followed him.
Maybe it wasn’t a raid on their party, then. If the men were targeting their group, surely they’d try to take the wagon, where the curtains remained firmly drawn.
Maybe the Medici caravan had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But the wrong place could still get you killed.
James was caught out in the open. The wagon and the two men were to his left, and the deadly tree line was to his right. If he didn’t move, soon, the archers would realize they could target him without endangering their comrades.
And if the wagon was safe, James could risk drawing the men further away. They would be his shield against the archers.
But in order for his plan to work, he’d have to leave his horse.
The stallion was solid and dependable. James hated to risk him, but there was no other option. He could almost hear the bowstrings in the woods tightening. So James swung one leg over his horse’s back and kept the other in his stirrup. Thankfully, he’d tightened his saddle when they split off the Via Romana, or it would have slid under his uneven weight.
James used the position to take a wide swing at the man nearest to him, cutting into the man’s body with his sharp blade, before leveraging himself off the horse and throwing himself
at the second man. Their swords clanged off each other once, twice, a third time. Sweat dripped from James’s brow but he couldn’t afford to brush it away. Any slip, any error, and he’d be dead.
And then, a horn blared through the clearing. James’s opponent froze for a second, just long enough for James to slide his sword in between the man’s ribs.
Silence. James couldn’t hear the sound of arrows falling or the clash of swords.
He spun around, looking for more enemies. The two men at his feet didn’t move. In the taller grass, closer to the woods, James could see more fallen men, but from here he couldn’t tell if they were attackers or his comrades.
His breath came in ragged pulls, his lungs burning. His sword arm ached. His horse. There it was, standing at the edge of the ring where James had met the swordsmen. The stallion looked uninjured, thankfully.
And then his eyes sought the wagon.
It no longer stood in the middle of the road. Somehow, it had tipped over, the shaded roof facing James. The team of horses had been cut loose from the wagon and they were nowhere to be seen.
The fallen wagon looked, to James, like the carcass of an enormous felled animal.
James ignored the searing pain in his lungs and ran toward the wagon. It was silent—no crying women, no screams of terror. Were the women dead? Or had they been taken by the attackers? He’d been a fool to leave the women unguarded.
His chest heaved as he crossed the space in seconds, his sword still clutched in his right hand.
James raised his sword in front of his body as he inched around the edge of the wagon. What would he find on the other side? The slain bodies of Caterina de’ Medici and her maid? Or a trail of blood leading into the dense woods on the north side of the road?
James rounded the corner and froze.
Standing next to the fallen wagon, her hair blowing around her shoulders in a whirlwind of gold and caramel, a trickle of blood marring her perfect face, he found Caterina’s maid, pointing a sword at his chest.
The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1) Page 12
