James’s steps were heavy and wooden. He barely noticed the people on the street shying away from him.
The Piazza Santa Maria Novella was empty, too—but how? The wooden platform that had nearly been a funeral pyre stood, abandoned and singed, near the center of the piazza. There wasn’t a Dominican in sight.
Something awoke in James at the sight of the platform. Anger boiled up in his chest until it pressed against his ribs. He stormed toward the quiet church, bursting through the doors. His eyes searched the dim space for someone—anyone—to blame for the travesty.
Here—a Dominican friar near the altar.
Before James thought about what he was doing, he was on the man, grabbing his cassock in tight fists and pulling the man—more a boy, really—nearly off his feet.
“Where’s Fra Razzo?” The demand came out in a low growl.
“He’s, he’s fled,” the boy quivered. “The Medici are after him.”
Of course. James couldn’t be the only Medici guard who’d alerted the family to Fra Razzo’s performance.
Or was he still a Medici guard?
He forced himself to release the young friar. The boy scurried away like a frightened mouse, and James was alone again.
He sank to the ground, sitting beneath the altar. His eyes fell to his hands, caked in deep rust-colored stains. His blood. Caterina’s blood. The blood of Mole and Sunburn. But all he wanted to see was Fra Razzo’s blood.
As soon as the mad preacher had left the room, Mole stepped too close to James. He’d spun the surprised Dominican, grasping for the knife on the man’s belt. The blade punctured Sunburn before James managed to slice through his binds, but by then Mole was on him, fists pummeling James’s face and body.
But a knife beat fists in most fights.
Sunburn tried to slink off to nurse his wounds, but once James had dispatched with Mole, he found the coward and ended him.
The whole thing had taken maybe five minutes—less than ten, certainly. But the entire time, James had been counting down the seconds since Fra Razzo had left the room, heading somewhere to harm Caterina.
When he burst from the dark room, James had frantically turned his head up and down the alley. His next decision would take him closer to Caterina or farther away. And a wrong decision could cost her life—a price he couldn’t live with.
Finally he ran to the right, slightly uphill. Away from the river, James hoped. The winding street eventually lead to the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where his eyes locked onto Fra Razzo, his back to the crowd. He’d shoved through the men, ignoring their angry grumbles, until Fra Razzo stepped back and James saw Caterina.
She looked like a saint from Rome’s days of making Christian martyrs. Blood spilled down her cheek and her eyes darted in fear. Then she closed them, her chest rising and falling against the ties binding her.
He couldn’t remember crossing the distance between them. He barely remembered pulling her away from the flames, beating off the men who advanced on them, running through the streets . . .
Had it been only an hour earlier? The piazza looked completely different now that the mob had abandoned the square.
James wanted to find Fra Razzo and rip him apart, but instead he destroyed the platform, plank by plank, until it was just a pile of wood. His hands were cut and bleeding by the end.
It was only then that James realized he should find the room where Sunburn and Mole lay dead—Fra Razzo might have fled back to that building. But no matter how many alleys James scoured in the western neighborhoods of Florence, he couldn’t find the worn door that marked Fra Razzo’s hiding place.
He rumbled with frustration, loud enough that a city patroller approached, his hand on his sword. “What’s your business here?”
James tried to pull himself back to his senses, hold back the animal that had been unleashed inside of him. “I’m a Medici guard,” he managed to say.
The patrolman nodded. “Any news on the preacher?”
Then it was known throughout the city. James shook his head. “If I have my way, he’ll be strung up from the Piazza Signoria by nightfall.”
“Good luck.”
And James was alone again.
Somehow, speaking to another human unleashed a torrent of suppressed senses. Fatigue crushed him. His wounds stung. Every breath brought a sharp pang, and he ran a hand across his ribs to see if any were broken. His hands. They were a mess of cuts and new scabs, and his left pinky was dark blue and swollen.
He couldn’t think straight.
James followed his feet back to his room, refusing to make eye contact with anyone on the walk.
His small room looked just like it had on the morning he’d left Florence with a caravan to Rome. Had it only been a few weeks earlier? James tried to count the days and lost track. Three weeks? Fatigue hung a thick drape over his mind.
He sank onto the bed and almost groaned at the sense of relief. He stretched out, enjoying the feeling of pulling his muscles to their limits, the tightness slowly seeping out of them.
And then, without meaning to, he fell asleep.
When he rolled over and blinked his eyes open, it was still light out. But James sat up with a start—this was not the light of late afternoon, not the light he’d fallen asleep to. No, this was the light of morning.
An entire night, lost, because he’d let himself drift off.
He left sleep behind and checked his face gently with his hands. Caked blood met his fingertips, along with tender wounds barely scabbed over. He needed to clean up before he visited the Medici palace again. What would Caterina think if she saw him like this?
James walked north to the city wall and then turned east, following the outside of the wall along the long, curving stretch that lead to the Arno River. A few more minutes walking along the bank upstream and he was back at his spot on the river. He checked for fishermen and pulled his clothes over his head, dipping a foot into the cool, autumn water. The river slowed here, as it pooled around a wide, flat area on the northern shore. Perfect for a bath.
He stepped farther and farther into the water, watching the dirt and blood turn into a cloud around him in the water. Old scars mingled with new wounds on his chest, and his cut skin stung when it touched water. Finally he brought handfuls of cupped water to his face, washing off the evidence of yesterday’s confrontations. His skin tingled as the chilly water flowed through his shoulder-length hair.
When he stepped from the water, James felt like a new man. The darkness of the last two days was washed away, and he was ready to return to the Medici palace and insist on seeing Caterina.
But the gate was firmly sealed, and so was the small door that James had used every day as a guard. No amount of knocking brought anyone to the door.
He returned again the next day, and the next. But the palace was sealed up as if under quarantine. Or under siege.
And then a week had passed. There was no news of Fra Razzo, whether he was dead or alive. No news of the Medici supporters who had formed a posse to find the preacher.
The wounds marking James’s face and body had slowly started to heal, but his heart pounded every time he thought about Caterina. Had she recovered from the attack? Had Fra Razzo’s men done anything to her?
Did she want to see him?
His mind manufactured answers, some that he wanted to hear and others that turned his blood cold.
On the first of October, James climbed the hill south of Florence and watched the city, as if seeing Florence laid out in front of his eyes could magically solve the riddles plaguing him. Somewhere in that maze of red roofs and stone walls, Caterina lived.
From here, he could pick out the top of the Medici Palace, wedged between the massive Duomo and the smaller domes on the church of San Lorenzo. The wide crenelated roof towered over the surrounding buildings. Why wouldn’t they open the door when he knocked? Why hadn’t he seen any other Medici guards patrolling the building?
A thought struck James. What if
Caterina wasn’t in the palace? What if her entire family had fled? It wasn’t unheard of—at times of great danger, patricians often either holed up in their palaces as if preparing for a siege or fled to their estates, or even friendly neighboring cities.
If they hadn’t found Fra Razzo, if his followers still walked the streets of Florence, Piero wouldn’t leave his family vulnerable.
Especially not if he couldn’t trust his own guards.
There were at least four traitors on the trip to Rome, maybe more. Men who’d infiltrated the guard with ill intentions. Piero must know about them, either from Caterina or earlier reports that reached Florence before their return.
Of course. It all made sense now.
James had been knocking on the door of an empty building.
His eyes dropped from the city’s skyline. He’d lost Caterina. He’d probably lost his job. And all he had to show for his efforts were the white lines of newly forming scars.
His limbs felt heavy. He wanted to leave Florence and find a new city, adopt a new name. Leave behind the ties that bound him to Florence, to Italy. He’d find a new place—Hungary, maybe, or the new Ottoman capital of Istanbul.
Allowing himself to get pulled in had only ended in pain.
James had lost the horse he’d ridden south, the one Caterina named Cosimo. Maybe the stallion was still in Siena. James hoped the horse would be well-treated by whoever cared for him now. And even though Cosimo had never belonged to him, James’s heart felt heavy at the loss. A horse meant a faster trip away from Florence.
He thought of the meager belongings he’d accumulated in two years working for the Medici. A sketch of the Duomo in black ink, bought from a monk who needed money. A slim stack of clothes, barely touched since he always wore his uniform of Medici red, provided by the family. An old coin that he’d found in the ground and imagined might date back to the Romans.
Nothing that couldn’t be replaced.
He was already outside the city walls, his feet itching to put miles between the city and himself. He looked back at the tall, proud walls, the dome standing testament to Florence’s ingenuity, its smaller sisters throughout the city marking churches and holy spaces.
And James turned away.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The field of grass smelled sweet in the October sun. Caterina gazed out at the field and forced her mind to stay blank.
If she didn’t, it would lead back to Fra Razzo’s eyes, burning brighter than the fire licking at her legs. And the crowd, salivating for blood. And James, walking into the fire to save her.
James. Where was he?
No one would tell her anything. They’d whisked her off to the family’s country villa in Trebbio, a half-day’s ride north of Florence, as soon as night fell without capturing Fra Razzo.
Villa del Trebbio reminded Caterina of a fortress, with its tall tower and the moat ringing the building. And it felt like a fortress, too.
Her father had brought a handful of guards, only the ones he knew were trustworthy. He’d fired the rest. Caterina had learned that much from eavesdropping when they thought she was sleeping.
Her mother’s worried voice hung over the first days after Caterina’s rescue. The family physician forced her to stay in bed, claiming she needed to rest and stay off of her feet. Caterina didn’t need much convincing. She was exhausted down to her bones, the terror having drained her last reserves.
Lucrezia was there every time Caterina opened her eyes, holding warm broth to her lips or offering a thin smile. When Caterina closed her eyes, Lucrezia’s true feelings emerged.
“How do we know what happened to her during those three weeks?” Lucrezia whispered to someone. Caterina hadn’t heard the answer. And, another time, “What if no one had stopped that madman? What if he’d succeeded?” Caterina assumed she meant Fra Razzo, but the same could apply to whoever had tried to kidnap her in the first place.
Or had Fra Razzo been behind that, too?
Caterina’s head ached as she tried to sort through the twists and turns. Had it been the pope’s men who attacked their caravan? Fra Razzo’s? Or, she remembered with a jolt, Luca Pitti, the man she thought responsible for plotting against the Medici in the warm days of July?
In the early summer, Caterina had foolishly thought her family safe. Since then, she’d learned that her family’s list of enemies was longer than she’d ever imagined.
She knew Giuliano was at Trebbio, somewhere, but he didn’t come to see her. She wanted to ask him about Bettina, and about Luca Pitti. She wanted to see the lopsided grin that meant he was plotting. But either he chose not to visit her, or he’d been ordered to stay away.
Three days after they’d retreated to the villa, her father spoke to her for the first time.
“Caterina.” His voice was low and even. She looked up from the bench where she sat watching the bees buzz around the last blooms of summer. “We need to talk about what happened.”
Her chest tightened and she sat up straighter. Would he tell her that Fiametta was dead? That Lorenzo had been ambushed as well, but he hadn’t lived? Or was there even worse news?
“I need to know,” her father began slowly, still standing, “Did that man hurt you?”
Her father didn’t have to explain further. Caterina knew what he was asking––his first question wasn’t about Fra Razzo, who had nearly burned a Medici in public. Nor did he care about the emotional harm Caterina had suffered in the last month. Instead, Piero de’ Medici wanted to know if Caterina still held on to her virtue. He wanted to know if Caterina had slept with James.
She lifted her lip in a sneer. What would he say if she told him the truth—that she’d shared a tent with a man night after night? Her father would never believe that she was still pure if she revealed that.
And what would Piero de’ Medici do if he thought his youngest daughter had been sullied? Caterina had heard whispers of patrician girls who grew too close with ineligible men. Some vanished to live with uncles in other cities. Some married quickly to men much below their station. Even rumors could ruin a girl’s honor.
Would Caterina lose her worth if she told the truth—that she’d crossed half of Italy traveling alone with a man, that she’d pretended to be his wife, and later his sister, so they wouldn’t have to pay for separate rooms, that they’d laid across from each other night after night in a tent?
No woman’s reputation could withstand that kind of ambiguity, even if Caterina knew nothing had happened.
Still, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, are you sure nothing happened?
She shook it off.
No, now wasn’t the time to rock the boat. “I am a virtuous and honorable daughter of the Medici, as always, Father.” The words sounded hollow in her ears.
“And Fra Razzo? You were never alone with him?”
Caterina looked down at the burn marks on her legs. The bright red, angry slashes had faded to purple. “No, he was in too much of a hurry to execute me for being a Medici,” she said dryly.
Piero didn’t argue. Instead, he changed the subject. “Lorenzo writes that he is on his way back with reinforcements from Rome.”
“From Rome? But the Pope—”
“The Pope’s men didn’t attack you,” her father said firmly. “We are closely allied with the pontiff. It would destroy our family to accuse him of trying to kidnap a Medici.”
Ah, Caterina thought. It would be inconvenient to accuse the Pope. That didn’t make the man innocent. She looked back to the orange and yellow blossoms and wished her father would leave. She didn’t have the stomach to hear about Piero’s political calculations.
“Lorenzo tracked down the guards who tried to take you and made sure they won’t bother the Medici ever again,” Piero continued.
Caterina’s head sprung up. “What about Fiametta?”
“Who?”
“My maid,” she answered impatiently.
“I don’t know,” Piero said with a shrug of
his shoulders. “Lorenzo didn’t say anything about your maid.”
A hard nugget of guilt had taken residence in Caterina’s stomach. She’d convinced herself that Fiametta had to be safe, but why hadn’t Lorenzo mentioned her? If he’d found the false guards, he must have found Fiametta, or at least he knew what happened to her. But why would Lorenzo leave that out of his letter?
Because he doesn’t want Father to know about Fiametta. Caterina answered her own question.
Lorenzo must feel guilty, too. Guilty for bringing the maid, or for taking up with her in the first place. His bravado when Caterina had confronted him was manufactured, she realized.
Everything looked different after the lessons she’d learned in the last weeks. Or maybe she was the one who was different.
“When Lorenzo returns, he will escort you back to Viterbo—”
“What?” Caterina spat out the word, interrupting her father. It was unspeakably rude, but she didn’t care. “You can’t send me back!” She was on her feet before she knew what was happening.
Piero’s voice remained calm. “This . . . trouble has only provided more evidence that you are in danger. This time, we’ll send you with twenty guards, all new men and hand picked by Lorenzo. No one will dare assault you.”
Caterina’s fury took control, burning away her fatigue. “And what about when we arrive? Are you still going to force me into a convent against my will? Have you even considered the cost of protecting me? What if I don’t want your protection?”
She’d never spoken to her father with such open anger, with such contempt for his wishes. But he had no idea what she’d been through—he had no idea. She couldn’t go back. Not to the convent, not to the road where she’d search for blood stains from the dead driver, whose name she still couldn’t remember. The field where she’d still hear the thrum of arrows coming from the tree line.
Where she’d remember James, shielding her from harm with his body, even as he bled from the wound in his arm.
No, she’d never go back.
The Medici Prize (The Stolen Crown Trilogy Book 1) Page 24
