Caterina leaned forward. ‘But even then,’ she said, ‘they would have no mantle to lay at the feet of the Virgin, for you need brocade and ermine and silver and gold for such a mantle, and these were only prayers.’

‘But you have not heard all, Duchessina. On the day when the gifts were to be given, many people were gathered in the piazza before the municipal palace.

The great figure of the Virgin was placed there, waiting to receive the gifts; and gifts there were in plenty― beautiful gold and silver and precious stones. And there stood the Reverend Mother and sisters of the Murate empty-handed, but faces shining, for in their minds they saw the beautiful mantle that was made of prayers. And then― what do you think? Two men came forward, and at the feet of the Virgin, on behalf of the Murate, they said, they laid a mantle of brocade lined with ermine, embroidered with roses in exactly the detail the Reverend Mother had described to her nuns. The two men were angels, and that was the miracle of the Virgin’s Cloak. There, Duchessina. What do you think of that? I might say that from that time the Murate passed into prosperity, for the tale spread and many rich ladies came to share the life of the convent, and many donations were given. It was a great miracle.’

‘Oh, it was wonderful!’ cried Maria; but Caterina said nothing.

‘Well, Duchessina?’ asked Lucia.

‘I think,’ said Caterina, ‘that it was a very good miracle, and I think that the two angels were two men.’

‘Two men! You mean it was no miracle?’

Caterina’s solemn dark eyes surveyed the nuns. She felt old and wise in spite of her youth. ‘It was a miracle,’ she said, and as she spoke she felt that this was how the present Reverend Mother would have explained it to her, ‘because the Holy Virgin would have put the idea of the cloak into that Reverend Mother’s head. “Make a mantle of prayers,” she would have been told, “but at the same time have one mode embroidered with jewels. Let two men appear as angels and lay it at my feet. For if you made such a mantle yourself, rich as it is, it would please the people so much as one made of prayers and presented by two whom they could think of as angels.’

‘You mean you believe it to have been a trick?’

‘It was a miracle,’ insisted Caterina. ‘It brought prosperity to the convent.

The object of miracles is to do good. Miracles from Heaven, but they are sometimes mode on Earth.’

Lucia put an arm about Caterina and kissed her. ‘You are too clever for us,’

she said.


* * *

Knots of people stood outside the convent walls. They murmured amongst themselves.

‘She is but a child.’

‘A child of serpents.’

‘We could not harm a child.’

‘She will be eleven or twelve― old enough for mischief, if she be a Medici.’

‘The nuns will keep her from doing harm.’

‘She will lure the nuns into mischief. You know not these crafty Medici.

They are born cunning. The city is in a state of siege. A Medici is sending those shots into Florence. A Medici is preventing our food reaching us, and here we stand starved, and wounded, and there are those among us who say: Spare the Medici child! ‘

‘Shall we spare the spawn of tyrants?’

From inside the convent walls, Caterina heard the shouts of the people. She knew there was no longer safety for her at the Murate. Trouble had risen in Florence and was creeping close to the sanctuary of the walled-in-ones. Even her friends who loved her, even the Reverend Mother, could not save her now.

The whole of Florence was rising in hatred against the Pope. Some time ago, dressed as a peddler, he had escaped from St. Angelo, and when the plague had driven its ravishers from Rome, he had returned to the Vatican. Now he was determined to subdue Florence, but Florence was not easily subdued.

Florentines had relentlessly cleared a space one mile wide all round the city, burning beautiful villas and destroying rich lands so as to give the enemy no cover. Every one of them had given himself up to the task of defence― even artists like Michelangelo had left their work to join in the fight. For months the struggle had gone on, and Caterina knew that the citizens of Florence had not forgotten that the Convent of the Murate sheltered her, a daughter of that house which was bringing death and disaster to Florence.

She knew that another happy period of her life was fast coming to an end.

She had grown to love the convent, her lessons, the sensuously stirring chants for which, at one time, the convent had been censured by Savonarola; she had loved the spice of intrigue, the sending out of baskets of pastry by certain nuns of the convent to members of their families, baskets which would be embroidered with the Medici sign of seven balls, and were meant to indicate that, shut away from the world though the nuns were, they retained their interest in politics.

Notes were sent into the convent in the baskets. It was thus that she had heard that Ippolito was safe in Rome. She had felt lightheaded with joy when she had heard that; but it was not such good news that Alessandro was also in Rome. In all the years that Caterina had been away from Ippolito, she had never forgotten him.

And now, outside the convent walls, an angry mob was shouting for her.

‘Give us the Medici girl! Give us the witch! We are going to hang her in a basket on the wall of the city so that Clement’s men may have her for their target.’

‘Hang her in a basket! That’s too good for her. Give her to the soldiers! Let them have their sport with her. Then we can decide how she shall die.’

Night came and the city was quieter. Another day of siege had been lived through.

There was a sudden knocking on the outer door of the convent, a knocking that echoed through those great corridors and seemed to be answered by the violent beating of Caterina’s heart.

The Reverend Mother took her lantern and, going to the door, found there three senators from the Government of the city. They had come for Caterina de’

Medici.

Caterina knew this could mean only one thing. It was sequel to that obscene shouting which had been going on all day outside the convent walls. Death for Caterina! Death? Such horror, indeed, that death seemed preferable. their cells the nuns were praying― praying to the Virgin for a miracle that would save their Duchessina. But Caterina had no time for prayers. She ran to her cell, and there, in a frenzy of terror, she cut off all her lovely fair hair. When she had done this, she ran from cell to cell until she found a dress of the Order, and this she put on. After that, she felt composed, and ready to face what might be awaiting her.

She went down to the men who had come for her. The Reverend Mother and the nuns, as well as the men, stared at her in astonishment.

‘I am Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici,’ she said haughtily. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘I am Salvestro Aldobrandini,’ said the leader of the men. ‘A senator of the Florentine Government. It has been decided that you shall leave the Convent of the Murate, where you suspected of carrying on intrigues against the Government. You are to be transferred to the Convent of Santa Lucia, and we order you to leave with us at once.’

‘I shall not go,’ she said.

‘Then we must take you by force.’

‘You would not dare walk through the streets with me in these clothes.’

‘You have no right to wear those clothes. Take them off.’

‘I refuse. Will you take a nun, a bride of Christ, through the streets of Florence?’

That was a clever stroke. They all knew it. Nuns were sacred, vowed to Christ; and it would not be easy to carry a struggling female, her head shorn and her dress proclaiming her to be a nun, through the streets of Florence.

‘We do not wish harm to befall you,’ said Aldobrandini. ‘We have men to defend you as we pass through the streets.

Caterina, alert of mind, was quick to sum up the character of this Aldobrandini; he did not like the task which had been allotted to him. He was wavering.

‘I refuse to take off these clothes,’ said Caterina.

The Reverend Mother said: ‘Good sir, leave her with me until morning. I will pray with her. She will then find in her heart the courage she needs.’

To the astonishment of all, Aldobrandini agreed to wait until morning; and all that night the nuns of the Murate prayed for Caterina.

The little procession rode silently through the city. Aldobrandini had chosen the quiet streets, but it did not take long for the news to spread. ‘They are taking the little Medici out of Florence. They seek to protect her.’

Rough jests passed from hp to hp; obscene threats were murmured, then shouted.

Aldobrandini wanted no violence. If anything happened to the girl now, he would be held responsible at a later date. Already Clement’s brief humiliation was over. He had made peace with the mighty Charles of Spain, who, for a consideration, was now his ally; and Florence was realizing her mistake in siding with France and England instead of with Spain.

‘Give us the Medici!’ shouted a voice. ‘Give to us the daughter of tyrants.

Let her learn to suffer― as we have.’

The hoarse cry was taken up. ‘Give us the Medici!’

Caterina had need of all her courage, but her long training helped her to hide her fear, and she was glad of it now. She looked neither to right nor left; she sat her horse with haughty grace and seeming indifference to the snarling cry of the mob.

Suddenly there was a rush, a flurry of blows and cries, and the ranks of her guards were broken. The little Medici was seen clearly for the first time.