The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1)

by Sylvia Prince

  From the grassy slope, James studied the city. It looked familiar, though he’d never been to Siena—the white cap on the red tower was the mirror image of that on the Palazzo Signoria in Florence. The tan buildings could have easily been transported from the larger city to the north. All in all, Siena appeared like a smaller version of Florence burrowed into the swelling hill.

  A cool breeze rustled the tall brush near James. He broke his view of the city and glanced back at the path they’d traveled for days.

  “We should camp here,” he told Caterina.

  As expected, she contradicted him.

  “Why? The city is right there. In an hour, we could be at an inn.” She unconsciously brushed at the dirt on her dress, which wouldn’t come out without a good cleaning.

  James was used to living on the road, making camp at dusk and breaking it at dawn. He knew how to live out of a small saddlebag, eat the same food every meal, and ride thirty miles a day.

  But Caterina was clearly chafing under the schedule. Her once-neat hair was slipping out of the knot at the nape of her neck, and though she assiduously washed her face every evening, searching out streams or springs for her daily routine, she wrinkled her nose as if she felt unclean.

  James turned back to the city. It was so close he could almost reach out and touch the dull brown walls ringing the city. But a restless knot in his stomach warned against entering the city tonight. He’d learned the hard way to trust his instincts.

  Caterina was chewing on her bottom lip and staring at the city. She did that when she was frustrated. James expected her to protest, to wear him down with a torrent of words, but instead she turned away from the city. “Where should we set up the tent?”

  He bit back his surprise and pointed to a shady spot hidden behind a wall of trees. “There’s a stream that way.”

  She nodded and waited for him to lead the horse from the path before she trailed behind. The knot only grew tighter. Where had Caterina’s fire gone? He’d expected a fight, but instead she obeyed his commands as if she wasn’t a patrician. A tingle rose from his spine to the back of his neck. She had to be planning something. It wasn’t like Caterina to give in.

  The clear area was smaller than James thought—room for the tent but not much more. He moved silently, setting up the tent and laying out their blankets, carefully placing his sword in between the two beds. In the week they’d been sharing a tent, James had gone out of his way not to even speak to Caterina inside the tent. He was an interloper, and she might kick him out at any moment. And he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

  When James stuck his head back outside the tent, Caterina wasn’t in the clearing. His pulse quickened as he retraced his steps back to the path. Had she tried to sneak into the city while he wasn’t watching?

  But there she stood, her eyes on Siena. She didn’t turn when he approached, her entire concentration boring down on the hilltop town. From the edge of the trees, James studied her profile. Her jaw was tight set, her patrician nose lifted. She’d let down her hair, her caramel waves tossed over one shoulder. Something in her posture, the rigid stance as if an invisible string pulled her spine up, reminded James of a military general.

  Yes, she was planning something.

  He stepped back quietly, not wanting to disturb her. But he had to find out what she was plotting. He had to protect himself, after all. He didn’t want to end up in a cell. Again.

  James unsaddled the horse and lead the stallion to the stream, where he poured a cupped handful of water over the horse’s mane. As he rubbed down the dusty flanks of his mount, James tried to construct Caterina’s plans. She didn’t look over her shoulder anymore as she had the first few days. Now, her eyes were always turned toward Florence. She wanted to get home.

  But did she no longer trust James to get her there? He’d protected her so far, and they’d traveled more than halfway back to her hometown.

  A sinking feeling nearly knocked James off his feet. Of course. She’d try to contact some patricians in Siena for help. Even after everything he’d done for her, Caterina still thought patricians were better than a no-name guard.

  And he’d led her right to the edge of the city. Would she sneak away in the night, waiting until he fell asleep to slip out of the tent? No, the city walls would be closed. And even if she made it inside, no one would believe that the servant coated in dirt was truly the daughter of Piero de’ Medici. Italians liked tall tales, but a princess dressed like a maid was too much.

  No, she’d wait until the next day. Caterina needed James to vouch for her identity. He was the only person who could prove she was a Medici. No wonder she’d been so nice to him.

  And if he denied her identity? What if he said she was taken by some fancy, just a farmer’s daughter who dreamed of another life?

  Then she’d wait until he fell asleep and stab him with his own sword.

  James chuckled at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He almost jumped at the voice right behind him. “Oh, nothing.” Had his thoughts somehow summoned Caterina? Of course not. She was just looking for the stream.

  “Is Cosimo whispering sweet nothings into your ear again?” She gestured to the horse with a tilted head.

  Her words caught him off guard. Internally, his mind swirled with questions about Caterina’s next move, but here she stood, as casual as ever. He tried to mimic her tone. “No, Cosimo is angry that I let you name him Cosimo. He’d rather be called Bucephalus.”

  The corner of her mouth tilted upward. “The horse of Alexander the Great? Cosimo certainly thinks highly of himself. And of you, too, apparently.”

  “At my age, Alexander was already a king, and he’d nearly toppled the Persian Empire. I’m no Alexander.”

  She gave him a measured look. “You know your history.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was frank, and he knew she spoke the truth.

  She’d underestimated him when they’d first met, assuming he couldn’t even read. But he’d read of Alexander at Aunt Ina’s knee, and discussed the man’s military campaigns with his Uncle Wallace when James was still a boy. Something about the young prince who conquered the world appealed to James. But that had been a foolish boyhood fantasy.

  James shook off the memories of Scotland, which always carried a whiff of sea air. He hadn’t seen the ocean in four years, even avoiding the Mediterranean coast on his journey from France. Seeing that wide stretch of blue would either make James crumble with longing for his lost childhood or sweep him back to the months he’d spent rowing on a slave ship. He didn’t particularly want to revisit either set of memories.

  Caterina was still giving him that look that made James feel like she was measuring him up, weighing his worth.

  He wanted to lead her away from his most intimate thoughts, which somehow seemed to spring up around her. “And you? You must know your history, too.”

  “Of course, my tutors taught me history. But while my brothers played at being Alexander, I was stuck with less desirable roles. Who wants to act as Cleopatra opposite Julius Caesar? The history books all turn her into an evil foreign temptress. Or poor Perpetua, thrown to the lions for her faith. No, I’d rather be the Emperor Septimius Severus, passing judgment on my subjects. Sometimes I pretended to be the fierce Queen Boudicca, battling against the Romans to defend my lands. But that story still ends in blood.” Her voice fell silent for a moment. “History has not been kind to women.”

  James fumbled for a reply. He hadn’t considered the lack of women in his history lessons, even as the tales were spun by his aunt. Had Ina wished for warrior queens and wise priestesses, too? James had never thought to ask.

  Caterina’s voice broke the silence. “But things are changing. Right here in Italy, women are seizing power and ruling when the men can’t. When they write the history books about us, it will tell the story of women emerging from the shadows to take our place in the sun.”


  “You think?”

  “I know. Someday they’ll write about me, I guarantee it.” Fire curled around her words, and her eyes gleamed emerald in the golden evening light.

  The conviction in Caterina’s voice drew him in. As he studied the contours of her face, he did believe she would change history.

  That night, James lay awake in the tent long after Caterina’s breathing had fallen into the regular rhythm of sleep. If she was plotting something, how could he possibly stop her?

  And did he want to stop her?

  James was returning Caterina to Florence because that’s what Piero would want, and that’s what would keep Caterina safe. But now he wondered if he should instead be guided by what Caterina wanted.

  The knot seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his stomach.

  At dawn, James’s eyes flew open. He looked over to Caterina’s blankets, sure that she would have slipped away in the night. But no, she lay there, sleep still smoothing the lines of her face. What was she planning?

  An hour later, they were nearly at the walls of Siena. Caterina had been quiet all morning, lost in her own thoughts. James watched her cautiously, waiting for her plot to unfold.

  But what did he expect? She wasn’t going to suddenly grow fifty feet tall and walk back to Florence in only a hundred strides. She wasn’t going to grow wings and fly home. She was only a young woman, the daughter of a patrician. But somehow he couldn’t shake the sensation from the previous night that she was larger than life, destined for the history books.

  When they stepped through the city walls, they found a town like most others in Italy. Shopkeepers sold leather and fruit from their stores, artisans shaped clay into bowls and pitchers, and men coursed through the streets on all kinds of business.

  How many days had it been since they’d left Florence? James couldn’t be completely sure. Close to three weeks, at least.

  Here, the silence of the woods was replaced by shouting voices and the stomp of horses’ hooves. The sweet, earthly scent of the forest vanished, consumed by the odors emerging from ten thousand human bodies in close quarters. Caterina came alive as they moved deeper into the city, sitting taller on the horse and looking up every street they passed. James, on the other hand, felt a pull back to the deserted path that had been their home. He wanted to get out of the city as soon as possible.

  But not before Caterina slept in a bed—that had been their deal.

  So they wandered through the winding streets until they popped out in a wide piazza, slightly curved like a Greek theater. At the bottom of the red brick square, Siena’s town hall towered over everything, the beating heart of the city.

  “We’ll find a place to stay nearby,” Caterina declared.

  “No,” James said in a low voice. “This is a place for politicians and diplomats. Not for servants and guards.” He tipped his head toward her dress, reminding her that she wasn’t a Medici today.

  “Then where?”

  “Back near the city walls.”

  But instead of turning around, they walked through the piazza, gazing up at the buildings ringing the square and stepping around a group of men dressed in brightly colored silks. James felt himself getting pulled into the city, wondering what the man standing guard outside the town hall had seen that day. What kind of trouble would a guard find here in Siena? Did guards break up fistfights between patricians, or throw out supplicants who tried to beg at the door of the city’s government?

  Lost in his thoughts, James barely noticed Caterina staring down the men dressed in silks. But they had noticed her. By the time James turned back, two of the patricians were glaring at Caterina, and another was reaching for his sword.

  James tugged on the horse’s lead, pulling Caterina away from the men. “What are you doing?” he hissed under his breath.

  She still looked over her shoulder at the men, but fortunately they didn’t seem likely to follow. “I heard them say something about Florence. About my father.”

  “And what were you planning to do?”

  “A Medici never lets a slight pass without a response.”

  “You’re not a Medici,” he whispered desperately. Caterina’s lack of sense was going to land them both in trouble, especially if she lashed out at a group of Sienese patricians who were already enemies of her family. Couldn’t she pretend to be a servant for at least one day without getting swept away by her pride?

  Caterina finally broke eye contact with the men. Instead, she turned her angry glare on James. “I will always be a Medici. It’s in my bones.” At least her voice was low. Still, he glanced around to make sure no one had overheard. “You wouldn’t understand,” she added, her nose turned up. “I was raised to always put my family first. No matter what.”

  His lip curled. “I couldn’t possibly understand, since I’m an orphan. Is that what you mean?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t deny it. James turned his back on her, leaving behind the piazza for the narrow, twisted streets that lead back toward the city wall. He didn’t look back at Caterina during the walk, nor did he speak to her when he stopped in front of an inn, its faded sign reading The Weary Traveler.

  She thought she knew him, but she didn’t. She was a sheltered patrician’s daughter—she never worried about money, or putting a roof over her head. That left her more time to worry about her family’s honor.

  “Looking for a room?” The innkeeper broke the silence between James and Caterina.

  “Yes, for one night.” James handed over the reins to the horse. Let Caterina get down on her own. If she could.

  A second later she stood next to him. “My brother will handle the arrangements. But could you show me to the baths? I’d like to clean up after our long ride.” She swept past James and into the inn as if she owned it.

  She might be dressed as a servant, but she still acted like a queen.

  James shook his head. It was past time to find the Medici agents who must be stationed in Siena and hand over Caterina. He stopped by the room to check that it was suitable and set back out into the city by himself.

  Finally, James could blend into the crowds and slip through the streets without drawing attention. He walked as if he knew where he was going, retracing their steps back to the town hall. From there, he set out making rings through the neighborhoods, casting his net wider and wider. He was listening for any mention of Florence, or the Medici.

  He stopped into several taverns, plunking down the coin for an ale that he only sipped while he eavesdropped on the chatter.

  But he heard nothing useful. One merchant mentioned Florence, and James, thirsty for news, nearly spun around to hear the rest of the sentence. But the man was only discussing cloth prices in different cities. No one spoke of the Medici.

  James’s mood darkened as the sun tilted lower in the sky. How was it possible that Caterina had heard her family’s name spoken within their first half-hour in the city, but he couldn’t find a whisper of the Medici in hours of searching? Did she somehow draw in mentions of her name?

  What was Caterina doing right now? Surely she couldn’t still be bathing. James knew women could be vain about their cleanliness, but no one could soak for hours. Right?

  Would she stay in the room, as he had ordered her to do when they passed through the city walls? James didn’t count on that. If she was wandering the city, was she drawing the wrong kind of attention to herself, a beacon for enemies of the Medici?

  The thought chilled him. As much as Caterina got under his skin, he couldn’t live with the guilt if anything happened to her.

  His feet turned back toward the inn just as the sun dipped behind the hills to the west of the city.

  How had he been so foolish? He’d left her, alone, in a city where Medici enemies might lurk behind every corner. And all because she’d implied that he didn’t understand family honor.

  He understood it all too well after years working in the service of nobles. Honor drove men to make poor choices
, pulling swords when soothing words would suffice. But hadn’t honor sent James off into the city, away from Caterina, because of hurt feelings? He wasn’t noble, but he’d still prickled at the implication that he couldn’t possibly understand her life.

  James raced back to The Weary Traveler. His mind imagined all kinds of possibilities when he burst into their room: Caterina, sitting on the bed with that quizzical look, teasing him about his red face. Or an empty room, Caterina long gone, run off with some Piccolomini who promised to return her to Florence.

  But he hadn’t expected the heavily armed men waiting in the room who leapt toward him with swords drawn as soon as he walked through the door.

  Chapter Thirty

  Caterina waited until James was gone, coiled her still-wet hair atop her head, and set out into Siena.

  The bath had been amazing—what a luxury, to submerge her entire body in warm water, holding her breath until her lungs burned. It made her feel alive. As she counted down the minutes while the water cooled around her, Caterina tapped her finger against the wooden side of the bath.

  By now, James had to be out in the city somewhere, doing whatever men did in cities. Though, knowing James, he was probably working. He never dropped the alert gaze, constantly scanning the woods for threats. As if a sparrow sitting on a tree branch might cast off its feathers and emerge as a knight.

  She rolled her eyes.

  If James was away, Caterina couldn’t keep wasting time in the bath. She gave the surface of the water a small slap, wishing she could spend the rest of the day soaking. But when the innkeeper’s wife tapped at the door to see if she needed more hot water, Caterina waved her off and stepped out of the bath, her resolve hardening.

  It was time to reclaim her name.

  Unfortunately, Caterina had limited options. The servant’s dress she’d worn for days was already soaking in a laundry bucket somewhere in the inn. She’d carefully concealed the only other dress she’d taken from the wrecked wagon, since it was a gown that would surely identify her as a patrician. If James had known it was wrapped up at the bottom of the saddlebag, he surely would have scolded her. It was a brilliant blue, the finest silk from Florentine looms, slashed with gold along the sleeves.