Heart of Gold (13 page)

Elizabeth blushed at the compliment, turning her face skyward.

“He is a master,” Michelangelo said proudly. “In my studio, Phillipe is the youngest of the ten masters. He will be the finest.” The maestro paused and put his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Someday, he’ll be another Raphael, Don Giovanni. This young man has the potential to surpass even the great Leonardo...God rest his old bones. You wait and see. It won’t be long.”

Giovanni de Medici smiled encouragingly on the young painter and turned away. “What other marvels do you have in store for me today, Michelangelo.”

And as quickly as they had entered, they were gone, leaving an excited Pico gazing admiringly across the chapel rotunda at Elizabeth.

“How can you stand there so calmly?” The young man ran over and snatched Elizabeth’s hat off her head and teasingly threw it into the air. “Look up there, Phillipe. Your angels are smiling at you.”

Elizabeth looked up, but all she could see was a smirk.

“This calls for a celebration!” Pico caught the hat and placed it firmly on his friend’s short-cropped hair. “I’ll run and get the others at the studio, and we’ll meet you at the baths off the Piazza del Duomo.”

“Pico, you know that I don’t—”

“Come on, Phillipe! This is a special occasion. It isn’t every day that Giovanni de Medici, the Duke of Nemours, gushes over your work. Come on!”

Elizabeth looked up at the handsome Genoan apprentice and smiled. She’d been working with him for two years, and he’d never even guessed that she was a woman. Pico was a young, squarely built man with large callused hands that showed the signs of his trade. From the first moment when they’d met, the young sculptor had taken the task of looking after the frail, boyish-looking painter. Elizabeth knew it would have been much easier for Pico just to call her weak and to ignore her as some of the other artists in the master’s studio had done early on.

But he hadn’t. In fact, Pico had often been the shield behind whom Elizabeth had been able to hide during these very public years. He had the strength; she had the talent. He protected the young man he knew as Phillipe. And she shared with him a sensitivity for art that elevated him in the skills of his trade beyond his imagination. She spoke of the softness, the elegance, the way each curve of a sculpture must relay feeling, emotion, a story, even. These concepts of art had been foreign to Pico until he’d met up with Phillipe. And the two artists understood one another in a way that was nearly spiritual.

“My sister is expecting me, Pico. Why don’t you go on without me.”

“I won’t,” Pico said adamantly, turning on the surprised painter and planting his fists on his hips. “Phillipe, how long must this go on?”

“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth asked, raising an eyebrow at the vehemence of the young man’s tone.

“You have the right to live your life as much as she does.” The sculptor paused. He hadn’t intended to speak so brusquely to his friend. “Phillipe, everyone is talking about you two.”

“Talking?” Elizabeth face flushed angrily. “Who is talking that has any right? No one, Pico. No one has any right to speak about Mary or about me. I have never given anyone reason to.”

Pico grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders. “Listen to me, my friend. I’m about to tell you things that you should have heard long ago.”

“I don’t want to hear.” Elizabeth tried to turn and shrug off the man’s grip on her shoulder, but Pico’s large hands held her securely in place.

“It’s too late, Phillipe. You must listen to what I have to say.”

Elizabeth pushed away the man’s hands and walked to the scaffolding, turning and sagging heavily against the ladder.

Following her and leaning against one of the columns, Pico looked down into the sad, black eyes of the young painter. So talented, but so naive. For the entire time he’d known Phillipe, he’d never once heard him speak of any kin other than his sister and her child. It was true that the three lived in the modest villa of Joseph Bardi, the wool merchant. But Joseph and his wife Ernesta were not kin to Phillipe. From what Pico had gathered, the lonely older couple had taken in the three as tenants at first, and from what Phillipe had said, they’d become close over years. But what Pico needed to say to Phillipe was not something that those two people would have any knowledge of. No, there was no one else who would do this. Pico knew it was up to him.

“What I have to tell you regards your sister.”

“You’re about to badmouth her. Because she rejected your advances.”

“I don’t know what she tells you every night, but your sister didn’t refuse my attentions. It happened quite a while ago, and it was wrong, I know. But I slept with her, Phillipe, as more than half of Florence has.” Pico held up his hand as Elizabeth shot to her feet and began to interrupt. “Wait, my friend. Hear me out.”

The sculptor watched as Elizabeth stopped, averting her eyes. “What she did reject were my half-empty pockets. But this was after...” Pico paused for effect, “after she came to my bed.”

Elizabeth sat down on the pedestal at the base of the column and took her head in her hands.

“My friend, you have to put a stop to this. It is no secret that you are the highest-paid apprentice Michelangelo has. With the wages you make, you should be living in comfort, with a servant to attend to you. Instead, where are you? Still living under someone else’s roof. You could marry and have a woman and children of your own. But instead, all you do is work. And for what? For wages your sister spends.”

Elizabeth felt a knot in her throat, but she knew she wouldn’t cry. Even if she were alone, she knew she wouldn’t. She’d forgotten how to cry.

“Everyone in the studio knows that you are doing outside work. Everyone knows you need the money.”

Elizabeth looked up in surprise. She had worked hard to keep her outside commissions a secret.

“Yes, the portraits. Everyone knows. Including Michelangelo. And don’t be so surprised. Your style, your brushwork—it is so obvious, Phillipe. You can call yourself what you want, but everyone knows who you are.” Pico looked earnestly into Elizabeth’s face. “And tell me, Phillipe. What do you do with that money?”

“I keep what I earn.”

“No, you don’t. We see your sister spending it.”

“Why are you doing this to me, Pico?” Elizabeth’s face reflected the pain in her heart. “Why now?”

“Because I am your friend. Your only friend. Phillipe, what just happened here today is nothing you can simply ignore, nothing you can just forget.” Pico had to get his friend’s attention. “The word will be out in no time. Everyone will want you. You’ll have opportunities, commissions far more grand than any you’ve yet had. But she could ruin it all. You need to put her in her place. She has to curb her...excesses. You need to talk to her. It’s your right because you’re her brother, and because you support her and the little one. You can order her to stop. Or at least to be more discreet.”

Elizabeth had known for a long time about Mary’s wildness. But there was not much she’d been able to do about it. Mary was twenty-one years old. A grown woman. Elizabeth could not lock her away, and she could not put her out on the street. Neither option was acceptable.

So all she did was divert what free time she had to Mary’s daughter. Jaime. The three-year-old Jaime was the only bright spot that Elizabeth had outside of her work. Truly, the young child was the reason Elizabeth put up with all she did. Elizabeth had loved her sister once, but now she wondered if her love had not turned into an emotion closer to pity.

“She made a scene the night before last.”

Elizabeth looked up.

“At the Palazzo Vecchio. Your sister was there...mingling with all the friends of the Duke of Urbino. From what Gino told me, her dress alone must have been worth half a year’s wages.”

Elizabeth knew Pico’s friend Gino. The son of one of the wealthiest families in Florence. She doubted he ever paid for anything in his life. What could he know of the value of money?

“There were also a large number of foreigners there. Guests of the duke. From what I hear, your sister took quite a fancy to an Englishman. They danced and spent most of the evening together. Gino didn’t know what happened or what was said between them, but suddenly Mary was screaming at the man to leave her alone. It was quite an embarrassing scene. The duke was mortified, and she left before anything more could be said. Gino said she was as pale as death, Phillipe. I don’t think she’ll be welcomed back there.” Pico fell silent.

After a moment Elizabeth stood and walked toward the door. “I’m sorry, Phillipe.” Elizabeth turned and looked at the sculptor. “I’ll talk to her,” she said quietly, before disappearing through the door.

Pico stood alone in the rotunda. Above him the faces of angels looked on gloomily as the evening’s encroaching darkness began to settle on the room.

Don Giovanni waited for the strolling musicians to move on before continuing his conversation with Ambrose Macpherson, Baron of Roxburgh, Lord Protector of the Borders, Ambassador and Special Emissary of His Majesty, James V of Scotland.

“I tell you, my friend, the French king has an eye on Florence. My sources bring news of him moving his troops east.”

“What makes you think it is your land that he is after?” Ambrose pushed back his chair and looked at his host, Giovanni de Medici, the Duke of Nemours, perhaps the wealthiest man in Europe, and the uncontested ruler of the flourishing Florentine city-state. “You know it is more likely that he would be after the Emperor Charles. Francis’s feud with him far exceeds any ill will he feels toward you or your family.”

Giovanni paused, looking down into his jeweled goblet. Ambrose had arrived just two nights ago, after spending a week with Francis. If anyone could offer insights into France’s intentions, that man was Ambrose Macpherson.

“It’s true. Francis would be a fool to move into Italy, turning his back to Charles. This could work to my advantage. After all, the Holy Roman Emperor is the greater threat of the two. Just think, if Francis is busy fighting Charles, he might leave Florence alone.”

“Except that Charles has a large number of troops guarding the Pope in Rome.
”
Ambrose looked at the duke straight on. “Just remember, whatever happens this summer,
don’t
let your guard down.”

The duke’s face creased with a slight smile. “What is this I hear? First you talk me out of my worries; now you fan the flames of my concern. So much for the politician I have learned to admire. You speak as though Scotland, Francis’s oldest ally, is at last taking sides with me. Does this mean that you’ll help the poor Florentines, my friend?”

“You are pushing your luck, Giovanni!” Ambrose stretched his long legs out before him, while a servant refilled his goblet. “I’m just making you think out loud. There is sometimes more than one way out of a predicament. We’ve known one another a long time—”

“And I know you to be a man of integrity,” Giovanni interrupted.

“The obligations of friendship never outweigh the obligations of duty and honor.”

“You can’t change who you are, Ambrose. But I have heard some interesting news, lately. Of Francis giving you yet another title to add to your property.”

“You know I care very little about titles,” Ambrose interjected. “And do not forget, my well-informed friend, that I paid for my estate there with Macpherson gold. Many years ago.”

“I know, my friend. Everyone knows the truth. You can’t be bought. All of these things—friendship, duty, honor—they all reside within you. They are not separable from you. They are the qualities that make you who you are. You know how much I’ve wanted you and Scotland on my side. Fight beside me. Help me.”

Ambrose brought his cup to his lips and then, without drinking, placed it back on the table. He looked hard at the man beside him. “You continue to survive in these unsettled times because you are a sharp-witted, practical man. Scotland, however, is in a different position. We have a twelve-year-old king who needs all the alliances he can get. Most of all, though, James needs France. Our nations have been allied for centuries, and we are positioned such that we can keep England between us. But you, Giovanni, you need neither me nor my country. You will remain capable of defending yourself, my friend, so long as...so long as you remember never to trust an armed man who gazes longingly at your neighbor’s fields. Now stop pestering me and use your brains.”

The duke’s dark eyes bore into the Highlander’s. “Let me see if I hear you correctly.” He paused for effect. “In a few weeks, depending on Francis’s whim, he may be standing at my door.”

Ambrose looked about the huge hall and let his eyes take in the series of sensational paintings that graced the room. Together, the works formed a series depicting the history of Florence and the triumphs of the Medici family. Before them six huge statues representing the toils of Hercules seemed almost trivial.

The Medici ruler held up his hand and smiled at the Scot. “I understand. We are done talking of politics and war.” The duke sat for a moment, savoring the comradeship the two enjoyed. They were friends, and their friendship transcended the limits of borders and national alliances. This gave Giovanni de Medici a warm feeling inside. No one else in Florence, perhaps in Europe, ever dared to address him the way this Scottish nobleman did. Good and honest men are so often fools, Giovanni thought. But Ambrose Macpherson was a man to listen to. He could almost picture it...Francis, giving Ambrose a title that the Highlander cared little about, then revealing to him his secret intention of attacking Charles. Of course, the French king would know that the Scottish nobleman was on his way to Rome to meet with the Pope. And naturally he would stop in Florence en route. It was no secret that Giovanni and Ambrose had been friends for years. Perhaps Francis cunningly planned on the Scottish warrior passing such information on to the Medici ruler. But that was what set Ambrose apart from other politicians. He would not allow anyone to manipulate him in any way.

“Sí, it is true what you say about my ability to live by my wits. The great sculptor Michelangelo says that, to grace a family tomb, he is planning a series of marble figures that will together be called, ‘Victory of the Mind over Brute Strength.’ Isn’t that wonderful, Ambrose?”