The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  “You’re going to keep me safe?” she shot back. “You might want to start by looking after yourself.”

  Her green eyes shone with flecks of gold when she was angry. Another wave of dizziness forced him to steady himself on the wagon.

  The fire in Caterina’s eyes vanished as she watched him. “I’ll pack the rest. It’s almost done, anyway. You should watch for more attackers.” She gently touched his left forearm, guiding him to the chest. He leaned against it, grateful for the moment of rest.

  She was right. About the supplies, about avoiding Viterbo. He should have realized. But it felt like he was walking through a fog, the sharpness of battle dulled. He’d taken injuries in battle before, but this felt different.

  He looked down at the arrow, its fletching quivering in the slight breeze. The skin around the shaft was already swollen and a trickle of dried blood ran down his arm. James pressed the skin around the arrow, hissing at the pain. If the head had struck bone, he was in trouble. Gritting his teeth, James pushed on his bicep, looking for the arrowhead. He felt it rolling under his fingers. Another centimeter and it would have shattered his bone. An inch the other direction, and his lung would be punctured.

  Lucky, he thought. A lucky hit.

  Around him, Caterina moved like a falcon, dipping and raising as she ferried goods from the wagon to his horse. Her loose hair billowed behind her, trailing down her back like flowering vines.

  James blinked. The fog pressed down on him. He felt almost intoxicated, though he hadn’t had anything but water all day.

  Caterina stood in front of him, her eyes narrow.

  “You look like a falcon,” James said, and then wished he hadn’t.

  “Get on the horse,” Caterina ordered.

  He tried to comply, but his legs shook when he stood, nearly dropping out from under him. In a flash, she was under his arm, guiding him to the horse. Had his stallion grown taller? The saddle was so high. But with Caterina’s help, he got a foot in the stirrup and threw himself over the horse.

  The movement made his head spin, and for a moment he saw stars.

  Somewhere on the ground, he heard Caterina sigh. “I hope I don’t have to lash you to the horse,” she said.

  The horse shifted under him and James reached for the reins. But they were gone. Caterina must have taken them, because someone had to be guiding the horse north, into the woods. And it wasn’t James.

  And just like that, Caterina had taken charge of her own rescue mission.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beneath her composed exterior, Caterina’s emotions swirled and threatened to knock her over. But she couldn’t afford to give in to the tempest. One of them had to stay alert.

  They were an hour into the woods. An hour of backtracking when they faced a rocky ledge and avoiding an open patch that looked like a wild pig’s wallow. And checking on Lancelot every three minutes.

  She had forgotten to ask his name, and now she couldn’t. His eyes were closed and he swayed dangerously on the horse. Caterina wondered if he harbored hidden wounds, a cut to his chest or leg that drained his life while she tried to save them. Otherwise, his reaction to the arrow didn’t make sense. Could one arrow really throw a man into a stupor that quickly?

  Of course, Caterina had never been hit by an arrow. She’d fired a few when she was younger, but only training arrows, lacking the metal head that did damage.

  Was it possible that the arrow carried some kind of poison?

  If it did, Caterina had limited options. She’d refilled the two waterskins in a spring, but unless she could whip up an antidote from water, apples, and meat, she was in trouble.

  The floor of the forest was covered in plants of all kinds. Caterina knew some of them had to be useful for healing, but which ones? Did the green leaves with five points hold the solution, or would they only harm? What about the purple flowers that grew on the vines wrapped around the dark tree trunks?

  Herbology hadn’t seemed a useful skill back in Florence, but right now she would trade her favorite dress for a remedy.

  And the woods were so quiet. Caterina hadn’t spent much time outside the city walls, and certainly not in deserted woods. The silence made her yearn for the bustling streets of Florence. The horse’s whinnies echoed through the thin trees. Twigs crunched under foot.

  At least she wasn’t completely alone. Lancelot might be dying, but Caterina had his horse. Cosimo, she’d named him, for the white star at the top of his soft, brown nose and because he reminded her of her grandfather.

  Grandfather had always seemed so certain of himself. He knew which strings to pull to bring Florence to his side. Years ago, when her father Piero was still a boy, Cosimo had been exiled from Florence. Grandfather had told her the story when Caterina was young enough to sit on his knee, the daring tale of his travels in Italy during the exile. Had he been to Viterbo? He’d certainly visited Rome, traveling the same road as their ill-fated journey.

  In Grandfather’s story, his enemies had conspired to evict him from Florence, anxious over Medici wealth and power. But Cosimo was smarter—he used that power to rig the next election, even in exile, so that Medici loyalists swept into office and reversed Cosimo’s sentence. In a matter of weeks, his enemies found themselves in exile.

  At that part of the story, Grandfather had always stopped and let out a short laugh. Then he’d look Caterina right in her eyes and say, “Never show weakness. Even if they think you’re on the run. Never show it.”

  And so she didn’t. She kept her chin up as she guided the horse through the woods, trying to keep the last rays of sunlight at her left shoulder. Checking on Lancelot to make sure he hadn’t fallen from the horse or died. Letting the tempest rage inside, even as she kept her face completely smooth.

  ………………….

  Setting up the tent was harder than she’d thought.

  Lancelot had made it look so easy back in their camp. Not that she’d watched, exactly. But they’d stop for the day, Caterina would take a short walk to stretch her legs, and by the time she was back in camp, the tent was standing.

  She stared at the pile of white canvas and wooden poles sitting at her feet. In some arrangement, these pieces made the tent stand. It was like trying to read a Greek manuscript. Or, not quite, because she did read some Greek.

  If only Lancelot would wake up and help her. He still sat atop the horse, his eyes closed, either sleeping or passed out. She couldn’t get him off the horse, but it didn’t seem wise to leave him up there all night, either.

  Caterina notched the poles together one way, but when she released her hands they clattered to the ground. She tried another arrangement, and this time it stood. But was she supposed to put on the canvas before she tied the pole? When she threw a corner of the canvas over the tent, they didn’t quite reach the ground, and the whole thing looked like it might collapse at any moment.

  It certainly didn’t look like a tent.

  But it was better than nothing.

  She couldn’t find the door––had she put the canvas on backward?––so she simply lifted a side and dragged the blankets inside. Without a cot, she’d have to sleep on the ground. At least she’d found a small patch of grass and clovers in the woods.

  Lancelot. Where would he sleep? They certainly weren’t going to sleep in the tent together—no, that was unacceptable. He’d just have to sleep outside. Yes.

  Which meant it was time to wake him up.

  Caterina slipped back outside the tent, freezing for a moment as the poles shifted, and watched the mounted rider. He didn’t look dead. And she couldn’t keep putting off the inevitable. If Lancelot was going to abandon her, she’d rather know now so she could ride the horse.

  Still, her hand shook as she reached out for his leg. She didn’t want to be alone. She wanted someone to take charge and promise her that everything would work out.

  She shook Lancelot’s thick calf. “Wake up,” she ordered.

  He didn’t stir.
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br />   She reached higher. Punching his left arm couldn’t do much damage, since the arrow was on the other side. Caterina swung, connecting with his shoulder. The blow sent Lancelot over the side of the horse. He let out a grunt when he hit the ground.

  “Oh no,” Caterina gasped, flying around the horse.

  Lancelot sat on the ground, his eyes blinking slowly as he rubbed his head.

  She ran to his side. “Are you alright?”

  He looked up at her. “I don’t know.”

  “Here, have some water.” Caterina held out the waterskin for Lancelot, who reached for it with his right arm. Fresh blood trickled onto his sleeve.

  “Is your arm—You’re bleeding,” Caterina said.

  Lancelot looked down at his arm, as if surprised to see the arrow sticking out. “I think the fall pushed it through my arm.”

  Caterina’s breath caught in her throat. She felt hot tears rush to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” How had she managed to shove a dying man off his horse?

  “No, it’s better this way,” Lancelot said.

  “How can it be better to have an arrow sticking through your arm?”

  “Now I can pull it out. Hand me that knife.”

  “No!”

  “I need to get the arrow out.”

  “You can’t even hold a knife. I’ll do it. Just tell me what to do.” It was the least she could offer after knocking him off his horse.

  “You’ll have to cut through the shaft. Cut off the fletching so I can pull it through.”

  He held out his arm and for the first time Caterina saw the head of the arrow, coated in his blood and sticking through the inside of his bicep. A wave of dizziness hit her. She took a deep breath and looked at Lancelot. He seemed better, somehow, than a few hours earlier, but he was clearly in no condition to cut the arrow sticking out of his arm.

  So she had to do it.

  She pulled a knife out of the saddlebag and looked at Lancelot’s arm again. This time, the dizziness passed quicker. There was no point delaying.

  Caterina reached out a trembling hand to hold the arrow. But when she touched it, Lancelot hissed in pain. She pulled back as if burned.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quiet,” he muttered.

  He was sorry? Caterina tried to focus on the hint of fire that sparked in her chest. Well, he should be sorry. If he hadn’t passed out, and abandoned her, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  She reached out and took the arrow in her left hand, ignoring his flinch. Lancelot should have been awake to set up the tent. He was a Medici guard, after all.

  She placed the sharp blade onto the wooden shaft of the arrow, two inches from Lancelot’s skin. Tomorrow she’d ride on the horse and Lancelot could lead her through the woods. See how he’d like it.

  She sawed gently, and then harder when the wood started to give under the knife’s force. Lancelot’s body was rigid at her shoulder. And then, with a snap, the arrow split in two, the fletching falling to the ground.

  The next step was pulling the arrow through his arm. Lancelot was already reaching for it with his left hand, but Caterina shooed him away. She reached up to grab an underskirt from the saddlebag and ripped it into strips. Wrapping the cloth in a ball, she moved Lancelot’s arm perpendicular to his body.

  The sun was already starting to set, and she didn’t know how to start a fire. She had to pull the arrow out now.

  Was it better to go slow, or fast?

  As if he’d read her mind, Lancelot groaned, “Quickly. Quickly.”

  With her left hand, Caterina gripped the head of the arrow. Her right, with the cloth, was poised over the top of Lancelot’s arm. With one clean movement, Caterina pulled the arrow out of his arm. Blood welled up from the wound and she clamped the cloth over it. As she held the cloth, Caterina grabbed one of the strips and tied it tightly around Lancelot’s arm.

  Finally, she dared to glance at his face. He looked pale, but at least he hadn’t passed out again. He met her eyes, blue against green, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Caterina blushed and turned away before he could see her. “You must be hungry.”

  “Starving.”

  “I hope you like apples.” Without looking at him, Caterina rifled through the saddlebags until she pulled out an apple and some of their dried meat. It might last them a few days if they rationed. Not long enough to get anywhere safe.

  Her own appetite had vanished completely. Her eyes were drawn to the broken arrow sitting in the grass, its dark shaft stained with blood. As Lancelot ate, ignoring her, Caterina picked it up. The wood was so light in her hand and the narrow metal head of the arrow looked so small compared to the damage it could cause. Her stomach twisted as she remembered the driver of her wagon, who looked as young as Caterina. Those arrows had taken his life.

  What if that had been Lancelot?

  Caterina shivered even though the woods still held on to the day’s heat.

  The broad-shouldered man sitting on the ground chewing dried meat looked so different from the pale, silent form that had swayed on the horse all afternoon. Was it just this small bit of wood and metal, now free from his arm, that caused the change?

  Lancelot turned and gave her a quizzical look. “You’re not eating?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He shrugged and took another bite of the apple.

  “Tomorrow, I want to ride on the horse.” She stuck out her chin as she spoke, hoping to recapture some of her Medici confidence.

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll be sleeping in the tent tonight.”

  He nodded, barely looking up from his food. Then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke. “Rest up. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

  She glared at him. Had he forgotten who she was? She had saved his life, probably more than once in the last five hours! But now he was telling her to rest? Her hand tightened around the arrow, and for a moment she imagined throwing it at him. But instead, she stomped off to the tent. Or, tried to stomp. The clover wasn’t very conducive to storming off.

  Once again, she had to lift the entire edge of the tent to enter. She still clutched the broken arrow in her hand. Caterina set it next to her blankets and lay down. It was just getting dark outside, and it was only once she cocooned herself in the blankets that she realized how exhausted she felt. Had it only been that morning that she’d woken up, scheming to confront Lorenzo to avoid the convent?

  And now, at the end of the day, she was in hiding, running for her life.

  Fiametta.

  Where was her maid as the sun went down? Had the men let her go when they realized she wasn’t a Medici? The icy knot of worry in Caterina’s belly gave the lie to her childish fantasy. Guilt choked her, pressing down on her entire body. Fiametta had been kidnapped because of her. Because Caterina had snuck out of the carriage, leaving her maid defenseless. Because Caterina had switched clothes with her, protecting herself at Fiametta’s expense. Fiametta wouldn’t even be on the road to Viterbo if it weren’t for Caterina.

  And yet Caterina was safe—for now—while Fiametta suffered in her place.

  She hadn’t even been kind to Fiametta on the journey. Caterina had all but written her off as a scheming whore, after her family’s power and riches. And before that, she’d blamed Fiametta for the rough dress Caterina had to wear, the dress that might have saved her life today.

  Caterina buried her face in her blankets to hide her tears.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dawn was a welcome sight. It meant James could stop pretending to sleep and start preparing for the day ahead of them.

  He looked down at his arm, still bound by the white fabric of Caterina’s underskirt, and marveled at how much better he felt today, even after a rough night of sleep. As long as he avoided making a fist, the pain in his arm was dull background noise that he could ignore.

  He rose, rolling up his blanket and tending to his horse.

  Had there been some kind of poison on the arrow’
s tip? James didn’t know of anything that could cause a man to lose his senses but regain them so quickly once removed. Last night, he’d looked for the arrow on the ground to inspect the arrowhead, as if he could see an invisible venom, but he couldn’t find the arrow anywhere.

  His eyes had darted to the tent—nearly collapsing in the middle and apparently only standing by force of Caterina’s will. No. She wouldn’t have taken the arrow.

  Caterina de’ Medici. He couldn’t stop saying her name. On the one hand, she was what he expected in a patrician’s daughter: forceful, sharp-tongued, and drawn to vanities like those dresses he’d made her leave behind. On the other hand, she had sat down and pulled an arrow out of his arm without flinching. She had guided them through the woods when he was passed out. And her mind was quick, rooting out the dangers of Viterbo and their need for supplies before he’d reached the same conclusions.

  She couldn’t make a tent, though.

  As if his thoughts had summoned her, Caterina emerged from the tent. Her dress looked like she’d slept in it, but her cheeks glowed and her caramel hair tumbled down her back as if she’d styled it that way.

  “You look better this morning,” she said.

  James imagined what he’d looked like the previous day, in her eyes. His stupor must have frightened her, but she hadn’t shown any signs of it. Maybe she hadn’t taken charge because she was used to being obeyed, but because there was no other option. James certainly couldn’t have led them anywhere in his state.

  “Thank you for your help yesterday.”

  Caterina froze, halfway between the tent and the horse. Had his words surprised her? That didn’t make sense. But then she was moving again, reaching into the saddlebags for food.

  “We’ll need more than a bushel of apples and some dried meat,” Caterina said, her voice all business. “I have a few coins, so if we come upon a farmer we can get more provisions. I won’t condone stealing, however.”

  So she hadn’t just taken charge because of his condition. And stealing? What did she take him for?