The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

pen hovered over the paper; Ruggieri’s hand trembled. A pause, and then another spasm of writing:

       A question

      “Will the rebels kill me?” I asked. “Will I ever be freed?”

      The hand hesitated, then jerked and began to write.

       Do not fear, m’amie, Silvestro will see you safely returned

      The quill fell and left a dark blot upon the paper. Ser Cosimo’s hand went fully limp, then curled into a fist.

      “What more?” I cried, desperate. “There must be more …”

      Ser Cosimo’s head lolled upon his shoulders, then steadied. His eyes opened—blank and clouded—then slowly cleared until he saw me again.

      “She has gone,” he said.

      “Call her back!”

      He shook his head. “No.”

      I stared down at the impossible writing. “But what does it mean?”

      “Time will make it clear,” he said. “The dead see all: Yesterday, today, tomorrow are all the same for them.”

      I lifted the paper from the desk and held it to my heart; Ruggieri, the desk, the floor, suddenly began to whirl. I staggered; the room tilted sideways, and I fell into darkness.

      I woke in my bed. Sister Niccoletta sat beside me, reading the small psalter in her hands; light streamed through the window and glinted dazzlingly off one lens of her spectacles. She glanced up and smiled warmly.

      “Sweet girl, you’re awake.” She set aside her book and laid a cool palm upon my forehead. “The fever’s broken, praise be to God! How do you feel?”

      “Thirsty,” I said.

      She turned her back to me to fuss over a pitcher and cup on the nearby table. I sat up and quickly patted my chest, the last place I remembered putting my mother’s letter, but felt only the silk amulet that held the raven’s wing. I panicked. Had Ruggieri’s visit been the product of a fevered dream?

      I propped myself up with my palms behind me. They slid against the sheets and beneath my pillow, where my fingertips grazed the sharp edge of paper.

      I pulled it out quickly. It was folded in half, with the writing on the inside so that I could not make it out, but I recognized the large blot of dark ink.

      Ma fille, m’amie, ma chère, je t’adore

      As Sister Niccoletta turned with the cup in her hand, I slipped the letter beneath the blankets.

      “I’m hungry, too,” I told her. “Would it be possible to get something to eat?”

      I kept my mother’s letter beneath my pillow and every night tucked my hand there, palm resting upon the only memento I had of her; the rebels had taken all else. It brought warmth and sadness and a wistful welling of affection; it brought comfort the way no talisman could.

      Christmas came and Christmas passed, and the new year of our Lord 1530 arrived. In February, Pope Clement crowned Charles of Spain Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Clement had fulfilled his end of the bargain; now it was time for Charles to deliver Florence into Medici hands.

      In those early months, the cannon were silent. The Imperial commander realized that his advantage lay in striking not at Florence herself but at those towns that supplied her with arms and food. The summer before the siege all crops grown outside Florence’s walls had been torched months before the harvest, all livestock slaughtered. To eat, Florence relied upon supplies smuggled from Volterra. For goods, for news, for troops, she relied upon Volterra.

      As the weather warmed, the Imperial forces attacked our lifeline. We sent a garrison to defend our sister; Volterra survived the first battle. Deciding that the Emperor’s army had been decisively defeated, our garrison commander—against orders—left for the comforts of home. Hearing this, the Prince of Orange laid siege to the town a second time.

      I was at my embroidery when Mother Giustina appeared in the sewing room doorway. Her expression was troubled but furtively hopeful.

      “Volterra has fallen,” she said.

      Without help from the French and now without sustenance or arms, the rebel leaders faced certain defeat.

      I sat listening to the sisters’ unhappy murmurs and thought very hard.

      My hair fell past my hips, fine and thin, the color of olive bark. That day it was gathered up into a large net that rested heavily on the nape of my neck. I unfastened the net and shook my hair free, then took up the scissors and began to snip. It took a long time; the scissors were made for embroidery and could take only small bites. After each cut, I carefully placed the ribbon of hair neatly at my feet.

      The thunderstruck sisters watched silently; only Mother Giustina understood. She waited in the doorway, and when I was fully shorn, she said tersely, “I’ll find you a habit.”

      I took the veil but not the vows. I was an impostor, but not even Sister Pippa complained.

      Meanwhile, citizens grew desperate. Without Volterra’s grain stores, there was no wheat; without the hunters’ catch from the forest beyond the city walls, there was no meat. The poor were hit first and hardest, and began starving in the streets. Plague flourished, prompting Mother Giustina to remove the alms box and board up the lower grate.

      In the first days of July, I received my last letter from Ser Cosimo:

       I will not be corresponding for a while. This morning I saw my neighbor sitting propped against his front door, eyes closed as though he were sleeping. I thought hunger had made him faint. Fortunately, I had not advanced too far before I saw the buboes upon his neck. I called out to those inside but heard no reply.

       I went home immediately and bathed with lemon juice and rose water, a remedy I highly recommend. As a precaution, burn this letter and wash your hands.

       I have confidence we will meet again in the flesh.

      At dusk on the twentieth of July, I sat in the refectory flanked by Maddalena and Sister Niccoletta at the supper all sisters shared. Per custom, we observed silence as we dined on our minestra, whose broth now lacked meat or pasta.

      The eastern wall of the refectory bore a fresco of the Last Supper; the adjacent wall was broken by a large window overlooking the patio and the convent door, its grates now boarded shut.

      Atop my scapular, the work apron worn over the habit, I wore a golden crucifix, but beneath the habit I wore Ruggieri’s black amulet. I had assiduously studied my nativity until the greater details were committed to memory, and had followed the position of the planets and stars over the days and nights. Mars, hot red warrior, was conjunct Saturn, harbinger of death and destruction, and passing through my ascendant—Leo, the marker of royalty. Such a transit warrants danger and ofttimes violent ends. And Saturn, silent and dark, had sailed into my Eighth House, the House of Death. Like Florence’s, my stars boded catastrophic change.

      When I heard the pounding at the convent gate, I felt little surprise. For a moment, we women sat very still and listened to it echo off the worn cobblestone.

      Sister Antonia directed a pointed look at Mother Giustina; the abbess nodded, and Antonia rose and walked out of the refectory, her gaze guarded and avoiding mine. As she did, masculine voices at the door began to shout.

      I set down my spoon. The walls that for two and a half years had afforded protection were now a trap. I jumped up, thinking to run, knowing I could go nowhere.

      “Caterina” Mother Giustina warned. When I gaped at her, she ordered sternly, “Go to the chapel.”

      Outside at the gate, Sister Antonia cried out, “You cannot come inside. This is a nunnery!”

      Something slammed against the door, something heavier and thicker than a human fist. Giustina was on