The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

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       Three

      I ran to the library and threw open the shutters to let in the sun and any sounds from the street or the stables near the gate. Then I found De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, written in the author’s script on yellowing parchment. Piero had left it on the bottom shelf so he could easily retrieve it, which allowed me to slide it off and guide it clumsily down to the floor.

      I sat cross-legged, pulled the volume onto my lap, and opened it. I was far too agitated to read, but pressed my palms against the cool pages and stared at the words. I calmed myself by lifting a page, turning it, and smoothing it down with my hand. I turned another page, and another, until my breathing slowed, until my eyes relaxed and began to recognize a word here, a phrase there.

      I had finally settled down enough to read when my eyes caught a flash of movement. Piero stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving. His face betrayed such misery and guilt I could not bear to look at him but lowered my gaze back to the book in my lap.

      “I told them I couldn’t leave you,” he said. “If you can’t go, then I won’t.”

      “It doesn’t matter what we want,” I said flatly. If I was in grave danger, then Piero was better off abandoning my company; the kindest thing I could do for him now was to be cruel. “I’m an heir and must remain. You’re not, so you must respect your mother’s bargain and leave.”

      “They want Ippolito and Sandro, not you,” he persisted. “I’ll talk to Mother. They’ll see reason….”

      I ran my finger down a page and said coldly, “It’s already decided, Piero. There’s no point in talking about it.”

      “Cat,” he said, with such anguish that my resolve wavered—but I kept my gaze fixed on the page.

      He stood in the doorway a bit longer, but I would not look up, not until the sound of his footsteps had faded.

      I sat alone in the library until the sun passed midheaven and did not stir until a sound drew me to the window.

      The coach bearing Piero, his brothers, and Uncle Filippo had rolled up to the gate and paused there while our soldiers moved aside to let the gate swing inward. As they did, two men walked through the opening onto our estate. Both were of noble birth; one wore a self-important air and an embroidered blue tunic. The other was dark and muscular, with a military commander’s bearing. Once they made their way past our guards, the man in blue signaled the carriage driver.

      I stared, stricken, as the carriage rumbled through the gate and onto the street outside. There was no chance Piero could see me: The low sun created a blinding glare, and I could not see the windows of the carriage. Even so I waved, and watched as it headed north down the Via de’ Gori and disappeared.

      At suppertime, Paola found me and shooed me to my room, where a plate of food awaited me. She also brought a talisman on a leather thong and hung it round my neck. I agreed to remain in my room in exchange for Ficino’s book, but before Paola could deliver it and leave, I pelted her with questions: What were the names of the two men at the gate? How long were they expected to stay?

      She was overworked and exasperated, but I managed to tease from her the phrase “Niccolò Capponi, leader of the rebels, and his general, Bernardo Rinuccini.”

      I obeyed her and kept to my room. After many hours of anxious reading, I fell asleep.

      I woke to the sound of shouting and hurried to the main landing. In the foyer at the foot of the stairs, Passerini—in his scarlet cardinal’s gown trimmed with ermine, his ample jowls spilling over the too-tight neck—stood shouting, flanked by Ippolito and Sandro. The Cardinal had apparently drunk a good portion of wine.

      “It’s an outrage!” he shrieked. “I am the regent, I alone possess the authority to make such decisions. And I denounce this one!” He stood inches from Aunt Clarice, who, accompanied by two men at arms, barred entry to the dining hall. “You insult us!”

      He seized Clarice’s right wrist, wrenching it so violently that she cried out in surprise and pain.

      “Worthless bastard!” she shouted. “Let go of me!”

      On either side of her, the guards unsheathed their swords. Passerini dropped hold of her at once. The younger of the guards was ready to strike, but Clarice signaled for peace and caught Ippolito’s gaze.

      “Get them from my sight,” she hissed.

      Cradling her injured wrist, she turned and swept imperiously back into the dining hall. The door closed behind her, and the guards positioned themselves in front of it. The Cardinal lurched slightly, as if considering whether to charge the door, but Ippolito caught his arm.

      “They’ve made the decision to deal with her,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do here. Come.” Still gripping Passerini’s arm, he moved for the stairs; Sandro followed.

      I held my ground on the landing as they ascended toward me and looked questioningly at Ippolito.

      “Our aunt has chosen to humiliate us, Caterina,” Ippolito said tautly, “by barring us from the negotiations at the request of the rebels. I’m sure they’ll find her more accommodating.” His voice grew very low and soft. “She has humiliated us. And she will pay.”