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  ALLEGRA

  A Novel Set in the Italian Renaissance

  C. DE MELO

  Copyright 2016 C. De Melo

  www.cdemelo.com

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13:978-0999787816 (C. De Melo)

  ISBN-10: 0999787810

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  It has taken years of careful research in Florence, Italy to write this novel. Many of the dates, major events, and characters are historically accurate. One must not forget, however, that this is a work of fiction. This entitles the author to take certain artistic liberties—the greatest being the independence I have bestowed upon my female characters. In reality, women of good breeding had little or no freedom in the patriarchal society of 16th century Florence. There is speculation among historians on the facts surrounding the life of Bianca Cappello. As with many historical scandals, rumors have a way of becoming accepted truths with the passing of time.

  DEDICATION

  Thank you, D.

  “Never was anything great achieved without danger.”

  —Niccolò Machiavelli

  Chapter 1

  Florence, Tuscany

  October 1547

  The Tuscan landscape remained shrouded in gloom as a tempest unleashed its fury upon the city of Florence. Rain hammered against the windows of the spacious workshop where Vittorio Castagno sat repairing a gold necklace by the light of flickering candles. A servant entered the room to stoke the fire in the hearth.

  “Fetch me some undiluted wine when you’re done,” he said, hoping to drive the chill from his bones.

  “Yes, Signore.”

  He disliked fixing jewelry, but the exigent clients he’d inherited from his father were accustomed to the extra service. His father had transported exotic spices for a living for many years until Portugal undercut the Venetian spice trade by sailing around the Cape. With the need for middlemen eliminated, the resourceful businessman began moving precious metals and gemstones for the nobility who needed vast sums of money to fund wars. Jewelry served as portable wealth; a precious commodity always in high demand. Within a short period of time, his father had acquired a client base that spanned from the pope in Rome to the doge in Venice.

  The door opened and, without looking up, he pointed to a vacant spot on the cluttered workbench. “Set the chalice there, girl.”

  “Vittorio.”

  He didn’t expect to see his wife standing in the doorway. “Stefania.”

  “I am with child,” she said flatly, her face expressionless.

  He hesitated. “That’s wonderful news.”

  “Is it?”

  An awkward silence followed the question.

  Averting her gaze, she said, “The hour is late. I’m tired.”

  “Sleep well, my love.”

  He watched her go before resuming his work with a heavy heart.

  Gianna crept into the room shortly afterward. The faithful servant exchanged a meaningful look with her master. “The midwife is hopeful.”

  Vittorio pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the physician?”

  “The dottore believes that perhaps this time…”

  “Isn’t that what he said last time?” He’d only caught a glimpse of the premature infant before the servants wrapped the tiny body in linens. The sight of his son’s blue lips would haunt him forever.

  The servant girl appeared, handed Vittorio a chalice of red wine, then swiftly departed. He took a long sip of the ruby elixir, grateful for its numbing warmth.

  Gianna wrung her hands. “Signore—”

  “Go now,” he interjected. “Tend to your mistress. She could surely use one of your potent draughts tonight.”

  Without another word, Gianna slipped out the door, leaving her master alone with his troubled thoughts.

  Meanwhile, Stefania surrendered to despair in the privacy of her bedchamber. She’d been poked and prodded all afternoon until she was sore. Both the midwife and the physician seemed positive, each promising to pray for the health of the unborn babe. By now, she could see through the veneer of false hope and empty words.

  Sitting before a Venetian mirror on the dressing table, she studied her reflection in the mottled glass. A pale, weary face stared back at her. Where was the vibrant young woman who had accompanied her grandmother, Sabina Rossi, to Florence eight years ago? Oh, how happy and naïve she had been back then, pregnant with Cosimo de’ Medici’s lovechild. Her grandmother had tried to warn her of life’s unexpected pitfalls, but she’d paid little mind to the old woman’s unsolicited advice—until a bloody miscarriage, followed by Cosimo’s betrothal to Eleonora di Toledo, shattered her idyllic world.

  Gianna entered the room and handed her mistress a ceramic cup. “Best to drink it hot, Signora.”

  Stefania took a cautious sip. “What am I going to do?”

  “What you always do. Pray.”

  “I don’t believe it will be different this time. Do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Gianna replied with forced conviction.

  “I wish I had your spirit, Gianna.”

  “You possess more spirit than everyone in this household put together. I’ll be praying for you—all of us will.”

  Stefania attempted a smile. “Thank you.”

  “The dottore said you need plenty of rest, so I bid you goodnight.”

  Stefania stared blindly into the distance as she slowly drank the herbaceous brew. Despite her anxiety and racing thoughts, she went to bed and eventually fell into a deep slumber.

  Gianna went out of her way to glean as much helpful information as she could from the city’s apothecaries and various midwives. She oversaw her mistress’s diet with special care, stocking the kitchen with the finest quality wheat, non-acidic fruits, and dry red wine—all of which, supposedly, produced healthy boys.

  After years of bitter disappointment and heartbreak, Stefania remained stoic in regard to her condition. She quietly submitted to her maid’s dietary administrations and bitter green concoctions without complaint, and didn’t raise any objection when Gianna began applying foul-smelling plasters to her abdomen once a week.

  ***

  Invitations for the Medici Christmas banquet were distributed in early December. The most prominent members of Florentine society were expected to attend, including the Castagno family. Plagued by persistent nausea, Stefania had no desire to leave her home.

  “Go and enjoy yourself, Vittorio,” she urged. “Given my condition, you can easily make an excuse for my absence.”

  “Gianna will prepare a tonic to settle your stomach.”

  “None of them work.”

  “Then I will personally consult with every apothecary in the city until I find one that does.”

  “I am not well,” she persisted. “I feel weak.”

  “Your cheeks are radiant and you’ve grown robust! The way Gianna frets over you, I’d wager you’re the healthiest woman in Florence.”

  “I don’t want to take any chances…”

  “Stefania, I honestly believe it will be different this time.”

  “Dear God, I hope so.”

  Pulling her into his arms, he kissed the top of her head. “Why not take a respite from the constant worrying and celebrate the birth of our lord in high style? The Medici are generous hosts who always provide excellent food and entertainment.”

  “Eleonora is pregnant again.”

  Vittorio knew that Stefania’s reluctance to accompany him to the banquet had more to do with the duchess’s condition than her own. “We cannot refuse every invitation we receive during your pregnancy, my love. Especially from the Medici.”

  Stefania acknowledged his prudent words with a nod. Social occasions served as opportunities to keep a close eye on rival families while forging new alliances. “
Very well. I will accompany you.”

  He smiled encouragingly. “That’s better.”

  On Christmas morning, Stefania consumed the bitter elixir her husband had procured from the Santa Maria Novella monks. Thankfully, the expensive medicine diminished her nausea, allowing her to confront the day in relative comfort. Arrayed in a velvet gown matching the green of her eyes, she accompanied Vittorio to Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral for Holy Mass, then followed the Medici retinue to the Palazzo Ducale, formerly the Palazzo della Signoria. Transforming the government headquarters into his private domicile had proved a cunning strategy on Cosimo’s part since it further solidified his power in Florence.

  Stefania stood beside Vittorio and did her best to maintain a cheerful disposition. At one point, she discreetly studied Cosimo while he addressed a cluster of elderly magistrates. What was it like to embody such power? His marriage to Eleonora had secured an alliance with the formidable Kingdom of Spain, and his distant cousin, Caterina, had become Queen of France last March. The cards seemed to be in his favor.

  Her eyes slid to Eleonora, who hovered near her husband in a costly gown of burgundy brocade. The growing mound beneath the luxuriant fabric drew many stares. Cosimo’s broodmare was pregnant. Again. She had to admit, the woman’s fecundity was impressive. By sheer coincidence—or God’s cruel humor—she and Eleonora had been pregnant roughly around the same times throughout the years. One woman was blessed, the other, cursed.

  Two ambitious courtiers drew Vittorio into conversation, compelling Stefania to wander off in order to afford them a measure of privacy. She walked toward an adjoining room where a few guests were congregated beneath the much-acclaimed portrait of Eleonora. Bronzino created the fine painting shortly after she had given birth to her fifth child. Dripping with gemstones and pearls to accentuate her royal status, the duchess was depicted in an exquisite black and white gown flaunting the pomegranate motif—a symbol of fertility.

  Eleonora, the perfect wife.

  At the sound of rustling fabric and footsteps, Stefania tore her eyes from the propagandistic portrait to see the duchess standing beside her. Surprised, she immediately inclined her head in greeting. “Your Grace.”

  “Bronzino’s talent is impressive, is it not?”

  “Most definitely, but it was aided by your natural beauty.”

  The corners of the duchess’s lips lifted a fraction of an inch. It wasn’t the first silver-tongued compliment she’d received that day, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “I wish to have a word with you, Signora Stefania.”

  Many sets of eyes followed the women as they retreated to a quiet corner.

  “I know how difficult it has been for you and your husband these last few years.” Eleonora’s eyes dropped to Stefania’s belly. “Be assured that His Grace and I are praying for you and your unborn child.”

  “You are most kind, my lady.”

  Taking hold of Stefania’s hand in an unprecedented gesture of friendliness, she said, “God will bless you.” Although she didn’t say the word ‘eventually,’ her tone implied it. “You must never give up hope.”

  “We never do.”

  She offered Stefania a genuine smile, then retreated to the main hall.

  A moment later, Vittorio appeared carrying two chalices of mulled wine. Offering one of them to his wife, he inquired, “What did she say to you?”

  “Everyone is staring at me,” Stefania observed, ignoring his question.

  “The most important woman in Tuscany has gone out of her way to speak with you privately,” he pointed out. “Naturally, people are curious.”

  “She is praying for me and the baby.”

  ***

  Vittorio departed for Rome in mid-February. The night after his departure, Gianna was startled from sleep by the sound of Stefania’s cries. Scrambling out of bed, she uttered a quick prayer before grabbing a handful of linen cloths from the cupboard. Running to her mistress’s bedchamber, she mentally prepared herself for the gruesome task ahead.

  She pulled back the coverlet and froze. No bloodied sheets? “Wake up, Signora!”

  Stefania sat up in bed. “Santa Madonna!”

  “There, there, it was only a nightmare. Shall I fix you a draught?”

  “I had a dream,” Stefania said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I saw a baby girl seated upon on a bed of jewels, completely covered in gold dust. She even smiled at me!”

  “God be praised.”

  “My baby is alive, I know it.”

  Gianna crossed herself before kissing the silver crucifix around her neck. “Thank the Blessed Virgin. This is an omen.”

  Stefania’s hands flew to her belly and her eyes welled with tears of joy. “The baby moved inside of me! Another sign!”

  “We should attend Holy Mass first thing in the morning to thank God for this miracle.”

  “I want you to summon the city’s best astrologer as soon as possible.”

  Gianna almost recoiled. “Signore Vittorio would not approve of an astrologer coming here. Would it not be better to go to church, instead?”

  Stefania’s brow shot upward. “My husband will be none the wiser as long as the matter remains between us.”

  Nodding reluctantly, Gianna murmured, “As you wish.”

  Snuggling under the warm covers, Stefania went back to sleep with the mental image of her healthy, golden baby.

  A few days later, a dark eyed man in a fur-lined cloak and orange doublet arrived at the Palazzo Castagno.

  “Messer Mancini is waiting downstairs,” Gianna said from the doorway of her mistress’s bedchamber.

  Stefania closed the lid of her jewelry chest. “Mancini?” she repeated with a furrowed brow. She’d heard the rumors about him and wondered if there could there be any truth in them. “Are you certain he’s the best?”

  “Everyone seems to think so. The Strozzi and the Pucci employed his services not long ago.”

  Pandolfo Pucci was one of Cosimo’s close companions, a man of considerable influence within the Medici court. Stefania’s curiosity was piqued. “Help me don this necklace, hurry.”

  The maid wrung her hands nervously before obeying the command. “It’s not too late for me to send him away. We can still go to church.”

  “I shall meet with him in my sitting room.”

  A moment later, Messer Mancini’s presence dominated the small, feminine room. Doffing his plumed hat with flourish, he said, “Signora Stefania, I am at your service.”

  “Please, sit.” She waited for the extravagantly dressed man to take a seat before inquiring, “Are your readings accurate?”

  “Certo,” he assured. “Perhaps you’ve heard that my father was a famous astrologer, as was my grandfather before him. I am proud to say that even the Medici children have benefitted from my expertise.”

  Surprised by this revelation, she said, “My maid mentioned the Strozzi and Pucci, but she said nothing about the Medici.”

  “I don’t share that information with just anyone.” The enormous topaz adorning his pinky finger flashed in the sunlight as he stroked his black goatee. “May I speak frankly?”

  “You may.”

  “The duchess herself summoned me more than once,” he bragged in a conspiratorial tone.

  If this astrologer was good enough for Eleonora’s children…

  Stefania cleared her throat. “Can you perform readings on the unborn?”

  “No one in Florence can do that.” Sensing her disappointment, he added, “My mother’s midwifery skills were legendary, and she taught me how to discern the sex of a child inside the womb.”

  “Can you see if my baby will survive the birth, too?”

  “I can determine its progress,” he replied cautiously.

  Stefania hesitated, embarrassed. “My husband doesn’t approve of such things. He’s unaware of your visit today.”

  “I assure you, madam, that I’m the very incarnation of discretion.” Messer Mancini slowly reached out his hand
s and paused two inches short of Stefania’ midsection. “May I proceed?”

  She nodded and the man pressed both of his palms against the bulge beneath her satin gown. After several seconds, she prompted, “Well?”

  “You’re carrying a healthy girl.”

  “Thank God and all the saints!”

  The astrologer’s eyes focused blindly on Stefania’s gold necklace as a crystal-clear vision unfurled in his head. “She’ll be gifted; a blessing and a curse,” he whispered unwittingly.

  “A curse?” she repeated, alarmed.

  “Forgive me, I misspoke,” he lied, regretting his lapse of judgement.

  “What did you see?”

  Witchcraft was a serious offense in Florence. Performing a public Act of Faith or hanging from the gallows at Fort Belvedere held little appeal for him, so he replied blandly, “I saw nothing, Signora Stefania. Rest assured that she’ll be a healthy child, fortunate to have such loving parents.”

  Stefania regarded him dubiously before placing some coins in his upturned palm. The moment her fingers brushed against his skin, his eyes grew wide. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” he lied again, hastily pocketing the coins. “Be sure to record the exact date and hour of your daughter’s birth so that I can create an accurate astrological chart.”

  Stefania watched from the window as the astrologer exited the courtyard. He took a few steps down the street, stopped, then turned around to meet her gaze before disappearing around the corner.

  Chapter 2

  On the seventh day of April in the year 1548, as the church bells rang under the midday sun, Stefania Rossi, wife of Vittorio Castagno, gave birth to a living infant. The delivery wasn’t without serious complications, and the physician quietly informed the parents that this child would be their last.

  Vittorio took a seat beside his wife and gazed in wonder at the baby in her arms. In that instant, Stefania was more beautiful than all of the Madonna and Child paintings in Florence.