The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici by Jeanne Kalogridis

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 hadagreed 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