The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

I pricked myself a dozen times. By dusk my good spirits had faded. What if the rebels were not as desperate to please King François as Monsieur la Roche had thought?

      Night fell. I refused to undress, but lay in the bed beside Tommasa and scanned the darkness for signs of movement. Hours passed, until I saw the glow of a lamp outside. I hurried into the corridor to find Sister Violetta, who smiled fleetingly at my enthusiasm and gestured for me to follow.

      She led me to her cell and dressed me in a regular nun’s habit and winter cloak.

      “Where am I going?” I asked.

      “Child, I don’t know.”

      She guided me outside, to the door leading to the street.

      A male voice on the other side heard our footsteps and asked, “Do you have her?”

      “I do,” Sister Violetta said and opened the door.

      The man on the other side wore a heavy cloak, and the long sword of a fighting man on his belt. Behind him, four mounted men waited.

      “Here now,” the man said. He held out his gloved hand to me. “Keep your face covered and come quickly, and without a peep. More’s the danger if you cause a stir.”

      I balked. “Where are you taking me?”

      A corner of his mustache quirked upward. “You’ll learn soon enough. Give me your hand. I won’t ask nicely again.”

      Reluctantly, I took it. He swung me up onto his horse, then took his place behind me on the saddle, and off we rode in the company of his men.

      The night was moonless and cold. We made our way through empty streets that echoed with the clatter of our horses’ hooves. I tried to figure out where we were going, but the gauzy wool limited my vision.

      The journey lasted only a quarter hour. We stopped in front of a wooden door set in an expanse of stone wall; I was to be confined to yet another nunnery. I panicked, and dug beneath my cloak and habit for the black stone talisman.

      My host dismounted and lifted me down while one of his soldiers banged on the heavy wood. In a moment, the door swung open silently. One of the men shoved me inside and shut the door firmly behind me.

      The smell of vinegar was so sharp, I lifted a hand to my nose; the fabric wound around my head and face slipped, obscuring my vision. A cool hand caught my own and drew me several halting steps forward, away from the smell. When it let go, I pulled the veil down.

      In a half circle before me stood twelve nuns—tall, graceful, veiled, and cloaked in black so that their forms disappeared into the darkness. I saw only their faces, lit by the lamps three of them bore—a dozen different gentle smiles, a dozen different pairs of kindly eyes.

      The tallest of them stepped toward me. She was robust, broad-faced, middle-aged.

      “Darling Caterina,” she said. “I am the abbess, Mother Giustina—like you a Medici. When you were born, I stood as your godmother. Welcome.”

      Fearless of plague, she opened her arms to me, and I ran to them.

       Eight

      The Wing of Corvus had not failed. I found myself in Heaven, surrounded by angels: the Benedictine convent of Santissima Annunziata delle Murate, the Most Holy Annunciation of the Walled-In Ones, and the noblewomen who had taken vows there. Most were relatives of the Medici; only a few supported the new Republic.

      The convent itself had been built and supported by Medici money; the fact showed in its broad corridors and elegant appointments. That night, Mother Giustina led me to my new quarters. Fear had left me exhausted, and I noticed no details except a large bed with heavy blankets and a plump pillow. I stood obediently as a servant stripped me; I palmed the stone and peered at the quiet, solemn woman. She had not noticed, being more concerned with filling a basin with heated water. She bathed me with a cloth, then pulled a clean nightgown of fine, soft wool over my head. I tucked the black stone into a pocket as she indicated the tray of cheese and bread on the bedside table. I devoured the food, then fell into bed. The servant laid a warmed brick at my feet and tucked the thick blankets around me tightly. For the first time that winter, I stopped shivering.

      I slept for hours, the Wing of Corvus clutched in my fist. When I woke the next morning, I found myself in a vast chamber, with carved wainscoting on the walls and a marble fireplace. Honeyed light filtered through the large, arched window and revealed a large table and well-padded chairs, whose dark green velvet matched the drapes and bed coverings. On the wall in front of me was a large gold cross of filigree, beneath which sat a cushioned kneeling bench.

      On the wall opposite the hearth were several shelves containing books. One of them, on the lowest shelf, caught my eye: it was bound in dark brown leather, with the title stamped in gold, of a familiar heft. I flew from the bed and dragged the heavy volume from the shelf.

      Ficino. De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, Gaining Life from the Heavens, the very copy that had sat on Piero’s knees; I recognized the nicks on the leather and laughed aloud. Inspired, I scanned the shelves, hoping to find gems rescued from the Palazzo Medici. I found no more, although I discovered two other volumes with titles written in Ficino’s hand.

      I was still poring over the titles when a knock came on the door, and two women and a nun appeared. The women carried a tub, and the bespectacled, elderly nun smiled brightly at me. Her body was plump and rounded, and her bearing and speech marked her as highborn. In her hand was a little tray bearing a glass and a dish of sweetmeats.

      “Duchessina!” she said cheerfully. “So you have discovered your library. There is a larger one in the other wing, of course, but we put a few titles here we thought you might enjoy. I am Sister Niccoletta; if you have need of anything, ask me. I brought you some small treats and sweet wine to tide you over until breakfast arrives—you must still be so terribly hungry. Afterward, we’ll properly rid you of those fleas.”

      Little duchess. The affectionately respectful term of address made me smile. I put my hand on Ficino’s work and, forgetting my manners altogether, said, “This book. How did it come to be here, in this room?”

      She peered through her thick spectacles, which magnified her dark eyes. “Ambassador de la Roche brought some things for you yesterday. This must be one of them.”

      “This was rescued from our palazzo,” I said.

      “God be thanked,” she replied dismissively and turned as last night’s solemn-faced servant entered with a large kettle in each hand. “Dear Duchessina, our servant Barbara is here. You can call on her as well for whatever you need.” She set the tray on my night table, then from a pocket at her waist produced a letter sealed with wax. “Your breakfast will come shortly; in the meantime, you might enjoy reading this.”

      Her knowing smile made me reach eagerly for it and break the seal. The handwriting was Clarice’s.

      I pressed the letter to my heart. “Sister Niccoletta, please, forgive my rudeness. It’s just that I have not been shown kindness in such a long time that I have forgotten my manners. Thank you for everything.”

      She beamed. “Why, your manners are lovely! You need not apologize to me, my dear, given all you have been through.” She made a small curtsy. “Enjoy your letter, Duchessina. I will return in an hour.”

      Breathless, I unfolded the letter.

       My dearest Caterina,

       We are horrified at the news of your incarceration, and the cruel conditions you have been forced to endure. I hope you find your new surroundings more congenial. I shall remain in constant communication with the French ambassador from this time forward to ensure that you never again endure such privation. The rebels are desperate to keep the support of King François I of France, and His Majesty wishes his distant cousin to be well cared for.