“If, heaven forfend, we fail to find my mistress, and it is to your liking, I will serve you in the capacity of cook and maidservant in your country home. Perhaps you have tasted a bit of what I have to offer?” She held her breath, watching his face.
“Ah, yes. You are the author of that lovely breast of pheasant.” He closed his eyes and she prayed the memory of the pheasant would do its work. To Clara’s great relief, Messer Provenzano’s face softened into a smile, and as he opened his eyes he patted the seat beside him. “Jump up here with me. I daresay there’s room for your small self, and perhaps we will find your mistress on our way. If not, I will welcome your company and talent in the kitchen.”
“I shall come,” Clara said, relieved but also despairing at the thought of leaving her mistress, wherever she might be. She climbed back up beside Provenzano, closing her eyes with fatigue. When she opened them again she saw the high walls of the city with the hills looming beyond them. She said a quiet prayer for Monna Trovato and herself as the cart rumbled out of the gates.
They had traveled no more than a few minutes before she saw a woman dressed in blue, slumped under a tree by the side of the road.
“Stop your horse!” she cried shrilly, feeling her heart begin to pound. Clara clambered down from the high seat, nearly falling in her haste, and ran across the grass to the base of the tree. Small brown pears still hung from the branches.
Her mistress leaned against the tree’s trunk, her eyes closed and face flushed. Was it heat or fever? The blue eyes opened, grave and deep, those remarkable eyes that made loyalty inevitable.
“I thought I’d lost you! Why are you here? Did you find the painter? Why is your face so red?” The hint of a smile briefly curved her mistress’s lips.
“I found him, yes. You have so many questions.” Her answer was unusually short. “I had to leave him there—he’s sick.”
“Will he recover?”
“I don’t know, Clara, I don’t know.” Her voice trailed off. “Clara, I’m so incredibly thirsty . . . can you please find me something to drink?” Her mistress closed her eyes again. This was very strange—in all their time together Monna Trovato had never stayed still while asking anything of her. And she never complained of anything affecting her own self—decidedly strange, and troubling.
“Are you ailing, Signora?”
“Ailing? I hope not. I don’t know.” She did not look at all well; sweat had started to collect at the line where her black hair met her smooth brow.
“I shall go and fetch you water straight away,” Clara said breathlessly. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?” Signora Trovato opened her eyes again. “The water bottle is in my bag, there.” Clara reached into the bag and found a peculiar flask, perfectly cylindrical and made of a hard, shining metal—could it be silver? Her mistress had never shown it to her. It felt cool in her hands.
“I will be back soon. The fountains are not far from the city gates.” Her mistress nodded listlessly. Clara said another prayer, imploring all the saints she knew, and the Virgin, to protect them both. Provenzano stepped down from the cart.
“She’s thirsty, have you any water, Ser?” Clara asked anxiously. Provenzano shook his head.
“I’ve just finished the last bit of wine. May I offer you an oat cake, Monna Trovato?”
“No, thank you. I’m too thirsty.”
Provenzano’s horse whinnied loudly, frightened by a few wild dogs who had come too near. As he lumbered back to his cart to deal with the beasts, Clara walked back to the city gates. The guards remembered her and let her through. By the time she’d found the fountain, filled the curious vessel, and passed through the gates again, the light was fading. Provenzano and his cart were still waiting. He’d pulled off the road, and he and his horse had both fallen asleep. But when Clara returned to the base of the pear tree, her mistress was gone.
PART VIII
THE RIVAL
Giovanni de’ Medici’s confraternity, the Brotherhood of San Giovanni Battista, met in an underground chamber of the Medici palazzo. Iacopo sat uncomfortably in his father’s chair and gripped the wooden armrests until the decorative scrolls etched themselves into his palms. The scribe beside him penned the date on a sheet of parchment, quill scratching audibly. Iacopo watched the black letters spidering across the page: In the year one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, this month of February . . .
The light from golden sconces flickered on the walls, illuminating tapestries that depicted the life of San Giovanni Battista. Named for Firenze’s patron saint, the Brotherhood included some of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city. Eight of them sat around the long table, and to Iacopo they seemed to evaluate and dismiss him with one communal glance. His breastbone barely cleared the top of the massive table in the center of the room.
“I have a matter of grave import to discuss today.” Iacopo’s voice squeaked, and he paused to collect himself.
“What graver purpose can we have than to serve God through charitable works?” Ser Acciaioli bore his devotion like a badge as vivid as his family’s crest, spouting a relentless flow of piety to all within earshot.
“Do you not have an answer for Ser Acciaioli, young Medici?” The objectionable adjective came from Ser Albizzi, a prominent member of the Arte di Lana—the guild of wool cloth-makers.
“All in God’s name, and with God’s help,” Iacopo intoned. The eight other men nodded, apparently pleased by his answer. But the day’s agenda was long, and Iacopo’s business was postponed until after Ser Acciaioli completed a discussion of a program to supply bread to the urban poor through a subsidy to local bakers. The room was cold, and all the men kept their cloaks drawn about them. A fire in the hearth warmed mostly Ser Acciaioli, who, despite his preoccupation with the afterlife, always managed to sit closest to the earthly source of heat.
Finally, it was Iacopo’s turn, and he cleared his throat. “I grieve my great father still.” A good beginning, he saw, as several of the Brotherhood nodded gravely.
“As do we all,” Ser Albizzi said, but Iacopo felt a stab of worry—was Albizzi implying that the son was a poor substitute?
“His plan should live on.”
Albizzi’s gaze sharpened. “Ah. So your good father did take you into his confidence before his untimely death?”
Iacopo swallowed, a lump in his throat. “He did, Ser.” The other members of the confraternity exchanged a shared, knowing glance. They do not trust me as they did my father—not yet.
Albizzi gestured at the scribe, who was scratching dutifully away at his parchment. “Buonfiglio, you may leave now. Thank you for your service this evening.” The scribe bowed, gathered his papers, and left.