Chapter Text
The Medici family courtyard stood as a testament to grandeur, an expanse of elegant architecture adorned with intricate sculptures and manicured greenery. Today, however, the usual hum of activity was absent, replaced by a sombre stillness that seemed to hang heavy in the air like a funeral shroud.
For young Catalina de Medici, who wasn't accustomed to silence, it was an excuse to retreat to her favourite spot — a hidden alcove nestled behind one of her grandfather's cherished sculptures. It was a space she had claimed as her own, a sanctuary where she could escape the prying eyes of the world
As she hunched over her latest mechanical contraption, the alcove enveloped her in a cocoon of shadows, broken only by the dim light filtering through the jagged opening. Dust danced in the air, stirred up by her movements, and Catalina couldn't help but sneeze, the sound echoing softly against the stone walls.
Dressed in mourning attire, the girl glanced down at her black dress, a stark reminder of the solemn occasion, and she could almost envision her mother's disapproving gaze, a silent reproach for having already tarnished the pristine fabric with dust and grime. Despite the silent admonition, she remained undeterred, her focus unwavering as she continued her tinkering.
Her fingers deftly worked at the intricate mechanisms of her creation, spinning wheels into place with practiced precision, but today, even her usually steady hands seemed to betray her, faltering as she applied too much pressure. With a small gasp of dismay, one of the wheels popped off, springing from her grasp and rolling away into the courtyard.
A grumble threatened to escape her lips, her exasperation getting the better of her. Yet, despite the urge to unleash a colourful string of profanities, she held her tongue, the solemnity of the day reminding her of the importance of restraint. One didn't swear on funeral days, she sternly reminded herself, though the temptation lingered, fueled by the expletive-laden vocabulary she had inadvertently acquired from Marco Bello's colourful language.
Catalina's gaze followed the trajectory of the wayward wheel as it came to a stop at the foot of someone nearby. With a furrowed brow, she watched as the figure bent down to retrieve it, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected interruption. It was one of the Pazzi boys, Francesco, his dark eyes narrowing in concentration as he examined the intricacies of the mechanical component.
Peering out from her hidden alcove, the Medici girl's attempt to get a better view was met with an unexpected obstacle - the low stone roof that collided with her head. With a muffled curse that did slip past her lips now, she recoiled, the sharp pain of impact echoing through her skull. Francesco's eyebrows jumped in concern, his gaze flickering towards the source of the disturbance.
Flushed with embarrassment, Catalina scowled, half in frustration and half in mortification at her own clumsiness. "That's mine," she snapped, her tone sharper than intended as she reached out to reclaim her wayward creation.
The brunette boy's solemn expression softened, his concern giving way to understanding as he quickly handed the wheel back to her. For a moment, Catalina felt a pang of guilt at her own abruptness, realizing that his intentions had been nothing but helpful. And besides, for all her faults, she wasn't about to add being cruel to a person whose parents had just died, to the list.
With a sheepish smile, she accepted the wheel, fingers tracing the familiar contours with a sense of relief.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice softened by gratitude as she tucked the wheel safely into the folds of her mourning dress. "Sorry."
As Francesco nodded in response to her gratitude, he turned back to rejoin her older brother, Lorenzo, who stood leaning over the edge of the old well. Catalina, unable to resist the lure of their conversation, peered out from her alcove, straining to catch snippets of their hushed exchange. Her ever-curious nature urged her to eavesdrop, and she crept forward on her hands and knees.
From her vantage point, Catalina watched as the Pazzi forcefully flung another rock into the depths of the well, the sound of its impact reverberating through the courtyard.
"Maybe your uncle will let you live with us, Francesco," Lorenzo spoke hopefully.
Catalina couldn't help but notice the grimacing twist of the other boy's lips as he muttered under his breath, "Of course he won't."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and her heart sank at the resignation in Francesco's voice. Yet, strangely, she found herself hoping against hope that the Pazzi's uncle would allow for the impossible request. She quite liked Francesco, for he had always been kind to her, and he never failed to inquire about her latest inventions, a gesture even her own siblings so rarely indulged in.
On the other side of the courtyard, Catalina's gaze drifted to her sister, Bianca, who sat with Francesco's brother, Guglielmo. The two of them were gentle souls, engaged in quiet conversation as they swung their legs from their perch. A pang of loneliness gripped her heart as she watched them, feeling strangely isolated amidst the camaraderie that surrounded her.
Her brother, Giuliano, her usual companion in mischief, had banished her from his presence for reasons she could not discern, and while Bianca had found solace in Guglielmo's company and Lorenzo had Francesco by his side, Catalina found herself adrift, without a confidante to share her burdens.
"Francesco!"
The tranquil ambiance of the courtyard was abruptly shattered by the sharp intrusion of a thunderous voice. Heads turned in unison as a man strode purposefully into the space, his demeanour radiating an aura of authority and command. He barked out his nephew's name with a force that sent ripples of apprehension through the air, drawing the attention of those nearby.
In his wake, the formidable figure of Contessina emerged from one of the adjacent rooms, and Marco Bello was a silent sentinel at her side, mirroring her stoic presence, his eyes keenly assessing the unfolding situation.
"Francesco, Guglielmo, come! You are my wards now."
The intruder wasted no time in asserting his dominance, his grip firm as he practically dragged his mourning nephew from Bianca's side to his own. The young boy offered little resistance, his demeanour subdued under the weight of Jacopo's imposing presence.
Contessina, ever the voice of reason, was quick to interject, her tone laced with thinly veiled irritation.
"Jacopo, their parents have just been buried. Let them spend a while with their friends," she placated.
But Jacopo, unmoved by her protests, remained resolute in his stance. "I'm calling off the engagement between Guglielmo and your granddaughter, Madonna," he declared, his tone arrogant and uncompromising.
Contessina bristled at his words, her composure faltering for a fleeting moment before regaining its steely resolve, "But they are pledged to one another."
"Not by me, not anymore."
"Guglielmo's late father wished peace between our families and this union would ensure it."
Jacopo's expression hardened, his gaze locking with Contessina's in a silent battle of wills.
"Peace?" he scoffed derisively, stepping into the older woman's personal space. "There will never be peace between the families, Madonna. Best you put your foolish ideals to rest!"
Catalina marvelled at her grandmother's composure then, because if she were in her position, she imagined she would very much like to swing her fists at the disrespectful man. Or perhaps she'd tell Marco Bello to run him through with his sword. Or perhaps—
No, she had to reign in her fanciful thoughts before they got the better of her.
Jacopo Pazzi had turned his attention to his other nephew, "Come, Francesco!"
"Stay where you are," Lorenzo as quick to protest.
The brunette boy took a few hesitant steps forward before coming to a stuttering halt. His head hung in defeat for a few moments, anxious eyes darting to and fro, caught between the beckoning call of his uncle and the silent plea of his friend.
But before he could utter a single word, Jacopo was already striding purposefully toward him, his demeanour seething with unchecked fury. With a firm grip, he seized Francesco by the arm, his fingers digging into the boy's flesh with a vice-like grip. As he instinctively recoiled, Jacopo's temper flared, his patience worn thin, and in a swift and brutal motion, he delivered a punishing blow to his nephew's cheek, the sound of impact reverberating through the courtyard like a thunderclap. Everyone watched aghast, their eyes widening in disbelief at the sudden eruption of violence.
Her grandmother flinched and lowered her gaze, and Catalina felt a surge of rage course through her veins. She was particularly affected by the stunned expression etched upon Francesco's features. His fingers crept up to touch his smarting cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief and hurt. In that moment, the Medici girl felt an odd sense of protectiveness wash over her, a fierce determination to stand in solidarity with the Pazzi boy who had been wronged.
It seemed as though her brother had the same idea, and he stepped forward before she could move, his expression a mask of steely resolve as he placed himself between Jacopo and Francesco.
"Don't touch him," Lorenzo snapped. His stance was defiant, his gaze unwavering as he faced down the older man with a courage that belied his years.
"Get out of my way, or you'll face the force of my hand too," Jacopo snarled, his words dripping with venom as he issued the menacing ultimatum.
With a surge of determination, Catalina scrambled to her feet, her movements swift and purposeful as she positioned herself behind the still-cowering Pazzi boy. There, for a few brief moments, flanked by the protective barrier of the Medici siblings, Francesco found himself shielded from the storm of his uncle's fury.
Catalina had always been told that she possessed a short temper, a fiery spirit far too tempestuous for one her young age. And now, as she stood poised on the precipice of confrontation, she felt the full weight of her indignation fueling her resolve. If Jacopo dared to lay a hand on her brother, they would have to peel her off of him, propriety be damned, and he'd certainly be leaving their residence missing a few teeth.
But before the situation could escalate further, Contessina intervened. "Not in this house, Messer Pazzi," she declared, her tone commanding and unyielding.
Her words hung in the air like a solemn decree, a reminder of the authority she wielded within the confines of her own domain. As she turned her attention to her grandson, Lorenzo met her gaze with a mixture of defiance and deference, his jaw set in a firm line as he stood his ground. But when Contessina jerked her head in a subtle gesture, urging him to step away from the brewing conflict, he complied, still torn between his loyalty to his friend and his respect for his grandmother's wishes.
As Jacopo's grip tightened around Francesco's arm once more, Catalina felt a surge of defiance rise within her. Without a second thought, she pressed her unfinished creation into Francesco's other hand, a silent offering of solidarity and support. It wasn't much — just a mass of interconnected wheels, still in the early stages of development - but she gave it away willingly. He hadn't gotten a chance to ask her about this one, so now it was his.
The boy accepted the gift with a mixture of surprise and gratitude, his fingers curling as he tucked it into his pocket before his uncle could notice. His eyes flickered back to the Medici siblings, a sense of longing evident in his gaze as Jacopo dragged him toward the exit.
As they disappeared from view, Contessina turned her attention to both her granddaughters, her gaze sharp and observant as she took them each by the hand and led them back inside. Bianca, pleasant as ever, matched her grandmother's pace, her dress and dark gauzy veil perfectly in place with not a single stain marring them.
As the older woman's gaze fell upon her younger granddaughter, her expression softened into a reluctant smile, her disappointment tempered by the warmth of familial affection.
"You've lost it again, haven't you Catalina?"
Catalina gave her an abashed grin, "I haven't the faintest idea where it went, grandmother. The veil seemed to have walked right off my head."
Beside them, Bianca snorted, rolling her eyes in disbelief, "Because veils can certainly grow legs and are in want of a stroll."
"It's true!"
"It is not!" Bianca turned to look at her grandmother in protest. "Grandmother, she probably stuck it in some tree somewhere."
"I did not!"
"Liar!" Bianca huffed as she sped off toward her room, leaving them behind.
Contessina's smile deepened, a fondness evident in the crinkle of her eyes as she reached out to tousle Catalina's hair affectionately.
"Do not vex your sister, Catalina."
"Yes, grandmother, I'm sorry."
"You do not sound very apologetic."
The young girl's grin widened, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she shrugged sheepishly in response. She grasped her grandmother's hand with both her hands, swinging it between them.
"You should have hit him."
Contessina inhaled sharply, stifling a chuckle.
"You could have taken him, I am sure of it," Catalina continued, referring to Jacopo. "One strike across his jaw and he'd be—"
"That's enough of such talk, Catalina," her grandmother chastised. "A lady does not go around striking men."
"Even if she were certain she'd win?"
"Yes, even so. And I'll tell you what, there are better ways for a woman to ensure that her point is understood, and obeyed, ways that are certainly less—" another suppressed chuckle, "—less conspicuous but equally as effective."
Catalina was silent, prompting Contessina to nudge her chin.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, grandmother."
"Good girl."
"Grandmother..." Catalina began after a pause, almost in a sing-song voice.
Contessina sighed, looking to the heavens for patience and waited for the inevitable question.
"Yes, my love?"
"Will you tell me the story again?"
"But Cat—"
"Oh, please, please, please, grandmother. You know it is my favourite story ever."
"There are ever so many more interesting ones to tell, my dearest Cat."
"But I like the ones about you best! You were ever so brave, and wonderful, and brilliant."
"Laying it on a little thick, aren't we?"
"Lying is a sin. I speak only the truth!"
Contessina couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. The story in question was not entirely a happy one, as it brought about what was perhaps the loneliest time of her life. What with her husband blaming her for his exile, and everyone else thinking her utterly reckless or perhaps insane for storming into the Signoria as she did. Still, there was something about the way her young charge looked up at her when she told the tale, a sentiment akin to reverence. Contessina had been called many things in her life, and had received many praises, but so rarely did anyone speak of her as if she were a hero, like someone from the myths. That was her husband's place, lorded as a champion of Florence, so it was with an unfamiliar warmth that she received such compliments from her granddaughter.
"You already know how the story goes, Cat."
"Yes, but I want to hear you tell it. Please, oh please, I'll love you forever."
"I already hold at least some of your affections as your grandmother, I should hope?" Contessina raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, but if you tell me the story again, I'll adore you a thousand times more!"
"Very well, Catalina, but only if you promise to take up your bible with me this evening."
"Yes, grandmother."
"And this shall be the very last time."
"No, it will not," the young girl giggled, and the older woman sighed.
No, it would not. God knew she couldn't deny her darling girl. As a grandmother, it was perhaps improper to play favourites, but Catalina was hers in a way none of the others were. Perhaps it was because she was the youngest, or perhaps it was because, despite their significantly different temperaments, the young girl seemed glued to her side, following her around everywhere she went.
It was difficult after all, not to develop a fondness for a disciple who worshipped so sincerely.