The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ led the other girls away. I waited in agony. Perhaps another sister had seen the the stranger who had looked for me; perhaps Tommasa had revealed the secret. Now the rebels would kill me, or take me to a prison even worse than Santa-Caterina.

      Moments passed, until footsteps sounded in the corridor—ringing ones, the unfamiliar sound of leather bootheels against stone. A rebel, I thought with despair. They had come for me.

      But the man who appeared in my doorway looked nothing like Rinuccini and his soldiers. He wore a heavy cape of pink velvet lined with ermine, and a brown velvet cap with a small white plume; his goatee was fastidiously trimmed, and carefully crafted long black ringlets spilled onto his shoulders. He pressed a lace handkerchief to his nose; even at a distance, he exuded the fragrance of roses.

      Beside him, Sister Violetta said softly, “This is the girl,” then disappeared.

      “Ugh!” the stranger said, his words muffled by lace. “Forgive me, but the stink! How do you bear it?” He lowered the kerchief to doff his cap and bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Catherine de’ Medici, Duchessa of Urbino, daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici and Madeleine de La Tour d’Auvergne?”

      Catherine, he said, like the man in my bloodstained dream.

      “I am,” I replied.

      “I am—ugh!—I am Robert Saint-Denis de la Roche, ambassador to the Republic of Florence at the will of His Majesty King François the First. Your late mother was a cousin of His Majesty, and it came to our attention yesterday that you, Duchessa—a kinswoman—were being held in the most egregious of circumstances. Is it true that those are the clothes you are forced to wear, and this is the bed upon which you are forced to sleep?”

      My fist, hidden beneath my scapular and clutching the Raven’s Wing, began slowly to uncurl.

      “Yes,” I said.

      I wanted to run my fingers over the folds of his velvet cloak, to step out of my itchy wool dress into a fine gown, to have Ginevra lace up my bodice and bring me my pick of sleeves. I wanted to see Piero again. Most of all, I wanted to thank Aunt Clarice for finding me, and that last thought brought me very close to tears.

      The ambassador’s expression softened. “How terrible for you, a child. It is freezing here. It is a wonder you are not sick.”

      “There is plague here,” I said. “Most of the sisters have it.”

      He swore in his foreign tongue; the square of lace fluttered to the ground. “The abbess said nothing to me of this!” He took almost immediate control of his temper and fright. “Then it is done,” he said. “I’ll arrange to have you moved from this flea-ridden cesspool today. This is no place for a cousin of the King!”

      “The rebels won’t let me go,” I said. “They want me dead.”

      One of his black brows lifted slyly. “The rebels want a secure republic, which they do not have. They need the goodwill of King François, and they will not have it until they show proper respect to his kinswoman.” He bowed again, suddenly. “I shall not linger, Duchessa—if there is plague in this building, I must move all the more swiftly. Give me a few hours, and we will take you to a home that is more suitable.”

      He began to move away; I called out, “Please tell my aunt Clarice how grateful I am that you have come!”

      He stopped and faced me, his expression quizzical. “I have not been in contact with her, though I will certainly try to send her your message.”

      “But who sent you?”

      “An old friend of your family alerted me,” he said. “He said that you would know it was he. Ruggieri, I believe his name was.” He paused. “Let me go now, Duchessa, for the plague moves swiftly. I swear before God, you will not spend another night here. So be of good cheer and brave heart.”

      “I will,” I said, but the instant he disappeared down the corridor, I burst into tears. I cried because Ser Cosimo, a near stranger, had found me and taken pity; I cried because Aunt Clarice had not. I picked up the abandoned square of spiderweb-fine lace to wipe my eyes, and inhaled the scent of flowers.

      I told myself that the Raven’s Wing would protect me from plague and see me freed from Santa-Caterina; I vowed never to let it go again.

      But the French ambassador did not come for me that morning, nor did anyone come for me that afternoon. I sat with the other girls sewing shrouds, so exhilarated and distracted that 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 СКАЧАТЬ