May 4, 1528
Dear Caterina,
I am sorry to inform you that my wife, Clarice Strozzi, died yesterday. She suffered the last week with fever, but insisted on leaving her bed to entertain a visitor from Rome.
The night before she died, she sat at her desk writing letters to those persons most able to help her cause; morning found her still at her desk, so ill that she could not rise. We helped her to her bed and summoned the physician, but by then she realized she was dying.
Even in her suffering she did not forget you. She instructed me to write this letter, and tell you that your fortunes shall soon improve.
Look to Ambassador de la Roche from this time forth. He shall see that you are cared for and protected, as King François remains your faithful ally.
I am bereft.
Your uncle,
Filippo Strozzi
Like Uncle Filippo, I was disconsolate. I buried my face in Sister Niccoletta’s lap while she wrapped her arms about me. I felt abandoned: Uncle Filippo was not bound by blood to me; my welfare now depended on the vague, distant interest of the King of France.
For two days I sat in my bed and refused to eat. Surrounded by my books, I read obsessively about Saturn, harbinger of death, and of his heavy, cold attributes, and wondered how he had been placed in Clarice’s chart in the hour of her demise. I read all through the night; morning found me still reading, my eyes burning from strain, when Sister Niccoletta burst in abruptly, with her reticent servant Barbara in tow.
“Duchessina,” she said, “a man has come to see you to pay his condolences.”
I scowled. “Who is it?”
“I don’t recall,” Niccoletta replied, “but Mother Giustina knows him, and says it’s all right for you to speak to him at the grate. I must hurry back to the sewing room, but Barbara will attend you.” She turned to the servant. “Make sure that his behavior is appropriate and that no one overhears.”
Uncle Filippo? I wondered. Perhaps he had risked coming to Florence. Or perhaps—this thought brought a small thrill—Piero had managed to come see me. Quickly I asked, “Was he young or old, this man?”
Niccoletta looked blankly at me before turning to leave. “Mother Giustina did not say.”
Barbara led me outside to the convent wall. The door’s upper grate was curtained, but near the basket of alms—reeking of the vinegar used to prevent the spread of plague—the lower grate was uncovered. I saw a man’s boots.
Barbara knocked on the door and loudly announced, “The girl is here, sir. Mind your conversation remains discreet.” In a weak gesture of privacy, she took two steps back from me.
“Donna Caterina,” the man said, in a voice so resonant and deep I longed to hear it sing the words, “I come to bring heartfelt condolences on the death of your aunt. These have been cruel times for you.”
Had I been tall enough, I would have thrown back the veil and looked on his ugly visage—on the pitted, sickly looking skin, the crooked nose and overlarge ears—to see whether he had changed over the chaotic months that had separated us. I rose onto my toes, wanting to be closer.
“Ser Cosimo.” My tone held wonder. “How did you find me?”
“Did you think I had ever abandoned you? At Santa-Caterina, I brought you the stone. I thought surely you would know who sent it. You have it in your possession, do you not?”
“I do. I’m never without it.”
“Good.” He paused. “And the books rescued from the palazzo …?”
“That was you …” It had been not Clarice but Cosimo Ruggieri all along. “But how did you save the books from the rebels? And I left the stone at Poggio a Caiano. How could you possibly have known …?”
“You need not worry about the how, Madonna. You only need know that you have never been alone, and never will be.”
Tears threatened, but I censored them. “I thank you. But how can I contact you if I need you?”
“Through the French ambassador.”
“Why are you so kind to me?”
“I told you before, Caterina. You and I are bound by the stars. I am simply protecting my own interests.”
“The stars,” I said. “I want to learn everything I can about them.”
“You are only a girl of nine,” he countered quickly, then added, “but a most precocious one.” He sighed. “Read Ficino, then. And al-Biruni is a helpful guide.”
“I have to learn,” I said. “I need to know what will happen to me, whether the Pope and Emperor Charles will come to an agreement, whether I will ever be rescued.”
“The Pope and Emperor will come to an agreement,” Ser Cosimo said easily. “Even so, there is no point in worrying about the future now. Just know that I am at your disposal whenever you have need of me.” He took a step away; his voice grew distant. “I must leave now; for your sake, I cannot risk being seen. God be with you, Caterina.”
I listened to his footsteps as they slowly faded away.
“Ser Cosimo,” I said and pressed my palm to the door. I did not move until Barbara caught my elbow and pulled me away.
The summer passed without further incident, as did the next fall and winter. I grew and became more proficient in French. In my dreams at night, I told the bloody man, Je ne veux pas ces reves, I do not want these dreams.
When summer came again, I and most of the sisters at Le Murate rejoiced to learn that the Pope would soon return to Rome; Clement had agreed to crown Charles in return for Charles’s support of the Medici cause. Having lost too many battles to the Imperial forces, the French King, François, had likewise made peace with Charles and was withdrawing all support from Florence’s rebel Republic.
One warm, sticky morning in June, surrounded by the sisters, I stared beyond the open windows of the sewing room to find charcoal-colored clouds billowing on the horizon: Outside the city, crops and barns were burning, set ablaze by soldiers of the rebel government. Emperor Charles was coming—or at least his troops were, led by the Prince of Orange—and the rebels did not intend for them to find succor beyond the walls of Florence.
Outside the confines of Le Murate, a militia ten thousand men strong was forming. Walking outside in the garden or on the patio, I heard the terse shouts of commanders trying to organize untrained troops. Fearful of the coming battle, hundreds fled Florence. With Maddalena standing watch, I climbed the alder in the garden and tried to look beyond the city walls but saw only rooftops and the grey haze hanging over the city. Florence stank of smoke; it clung to our clothes and hair, and permeated every corner of the convent.
September brought happy news: King François had signed a treaty with Emperor Charles. No French troops would aid the rebel Republic. I celebrated silently when I heard these things yet at the same time was afraid. I remembered the horrific Sack of Rome, when the Emperor’s men ignored orders and laid siege to the Holy City, breaking down the doors of convents and raping nuns.
On the twenty-fourth of October, I sat sewing in my usual spot between Maddalena and Sister Niccoletta, both of them as anxious as Pippa and Lisabetta, who huddled over their work in silence. Sister Antonia’s normally serene visage was troubled.
Beyond the window, the day was gloomy with smoke and the threat of an autumn storm; the alder had lost most of its leaves and stood bleak and jagged.
I was working on a white linen altar cloth;