The Red Lily Crown by Elizabeth Loupas Page A

describe in their letters to the pope and to the kings and queens of Europe. He said the Latin words by rote, all the while thinking of alchemy, of his laboratory, of his English alchemist and the girl Chiara Nerini, his
soror mystica
now, initiated and vowed. She would make the difference, and the
Lapis Philosophorum
would be his at last. When he had finished the psalm he stood up and looked about him.
    â€œWhere,” he demanded, “is Signora Cammilla?”
    The priests and physicians and courtiers murmured and looked away. One young fellow, braver than the others, perhaps, or less well-versed in the intricacies of the Medici court, said, “She has retired to her apartments, Serenissimo, to dress herself in the proper mourning garments for a grand duke’s widow.”
    â€œI have garments in mind for her.” The new grand duke gestured to two of his gentlemen. “See to moving my father’s body to the Pitti Palace at once. Send for carpenters and upholsterers, so that a proper catafalque may be constructed. Also engage the embalmers, and notify my secretaries and messengers—letters must be sent.”
    The two gentlemen ran out of the room.
    â€œYou, priests,” he continued. “I desire that there will be no fewer than six priests attending my father’s body at all times, praying for his soul.”
    The priests looked furtively at each other, counting. There were seven of them. All of them clustered around the bed, knelt, and reached for their beads.
    â€œPhysicians, you are needed no longer. You may apply to my majordomo for your fees.”
    The physicians left. There was a distinct flavor of relief in their flight. Bereaved sons so often held physicians to blame for a father’s death.
    â€œYou.” The grand duke indicated the young man who had spoken. “Lead me to Signora Cammilla’s apartments.”
    â€œBut she—”
    â€œLead me.”
    The young man went out, and the grand duke followed him. After him trailed his remaining gentlemen, pushing each other unobtrusively for position. The apartments in question were at the back of the villa, with windows overlooking the garden. The grand duke knew the rooms well—they had been his mother’s, in the days of his childhood. He did not remember Eleonora of Toledo fondly, but it enraged him that his father’s morganatic wife—little more than a mistress, and four years younger than he himself, by the bleeding severed neck of the Baptist—had dared to occupy them.
    â€œOpen the door,” he said.
    â€œBut Serenissimo, Donna Cammilla asked to be undisturbed in her grief.”
    â€œSignora Cammilla,” the grand duke said, stressing the lesser title, “will be disturbed if it is my pleasure to disturb her. Open the door.”
    The young man pushed the door open, and the grand duke walked in. Two waiting-women froze in attitudes of surprise. One held a pair of silver scissors and a red silk skirt-front embroidered with rubies and pearls; she was in the midst of cutting the gems from the decorated fabric and collecting them in a small leather box. The other woman had a glass of golden wine and a plate of cakes on a tray.
    At a gesture from the grand duke, two of his gentlemen moved forward to take the women into custody. The woman with the scissors tried to run, slashing at her captor with the pointed blades. The other one dropped her tray—a smash of glass, a spray of wine, a scatter of sticky cakes bouncing and rolling—and screamed a warning. The grand duke walked on serenely through the chaos, past the inner receiving room and into the privy bedchamber.
    Cammilla Martelli was on her feet, with three more waiting-ladies surrounding her—they had all heard the woman in the anteroom scream. Her hair, a bright terra-cotta auburn that clearly had its origin in a dye-pot, was loose over her shoulders; her night-gown was rich but wrinkled and spotted by wear,