Medici: The Queen's Perfume

By Lorraine Blundell

1527. In Florence, jewel city of the Renaissance, a premeditated murder unexpectedly opens the door to the rise of Rene Bianco, a man capable of both cruelty and creative genius. His inclusion as part of the retinue of Catherine de Medici propels him into the highest levels of the French royal court. As the queens perfumer, Rene becomes entangled in the power politics of the day, maintaining a delicate balance between his devotion to her and his vulnerability to the scheming ambition of Diane de Poitiers.

1906. Wealthy heiress Cristina Haig flees an unwanted marriage proposal in England for the French Riviera. While visiting her friends Michel and Madie at their parfumerie in Nice, they stumble upon a secret worth a fortune.

From the volatility, corruption, and creativity of sixteenth century Florence to the intrigue of the French court, snowy London and the fragrant flower-growing centres of the French Riviera, they follow the clues that bring them closer and closer to danger and, ultimately, to Rene himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504993999

Lorraine Blundell

Lorraine Blundell (Dance), a gold award winning author, was born in Brisbane, Australia. She lives in Melbourne and has a daughter, Jenni, and a son, Steve. Lorraine graduated from the University of Queensland with a Bachelor of Arts Degree majoring in English and History. She holds a teaching qualification in Drama from Trinity College, London. She trained as a classical singer at the Queensland State Conservatorium of Music, Brisbane. During that period, she sang professionally on television as a solo vocalist, regularly performing for six years on channels BTQ7 and QTQ9 Brisbane as well as nationally on HSV7 Melbourne. She is an experienced performer in musical theatre productions. Her interests are singing, ancient history and archaeology.

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2015 Lorraine Blundell. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/30/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9398-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9399-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART I Italy

1 ITALY

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

PART II France

9 1556

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

PART III England

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

PART IV France

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

PART V France

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

PART VI Italy

48

49

50

51

52

53

PART VII England

54

55

56

57

58

Epilogue France

List Of Characters

Historical Notes

Rene Bianco

Diane De Poitiers’ Beauty

Catherine De’ Medici’s Hairpin

Cosimo Ruggieri’s Death Prediction

Gabriel Montgomery

Farmaceutica Di Santa Maria Novella

Michelangelo’s Hidden Room

Palazzo Magnani Feroni

Palazzo Medici

The Negresco Hotel

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

The Author

For Olly

Born 2015

Special Thanks

To Isabelle Roberts, for her friendship, loyalty, professionalism and high degree of musicianship over the past ten years.

You helped give me back a precious joy I thought I had lost.

A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future

Coco Chanel

OTHER NOVELS BY THIS AUTHOR

Whispers from Pompeii

The Titus Conspiracy

Arsinoe of Ephesus

PART I

ITALY

Oranges and Lemons

1527-1530

1

ITALY

Florence

Le Murate Benedictine Convent

Via Ghibeline

Ave Maria, gratia plena…

I n the chapel Caterina softly utters the holy words as she lowers her head. Some of them she struggles to get her tongue around and many she doesn’t understand. She knows who Maria is though. She lifts her eyes to the painting of the pretty lady she’s grown to love. This is her mother, the nuns have told her many times. That’s why Caterina is praying to her and why she must do what she’s told and not cause any trouble. She wonders why the lady looks so sad that a tear actually runs down her cheek. Is it, perhaps, because of something she herself has done wrong?

Reluctantly, Caterina turns her eyes towards the dying man on the rustic crucifix above the altar. She doesn’t like to look at it.

It makes her feel uncomfortable.

Caterina can see nothing of the gardens outside. Light streams through the gloriously multi-coloured stained glass windows, creating beams of ethereal sunlight flecked with gold, red and blue. Like everything else, they are concentrated inwards towards the congregation.

She looks forward eagerly to the time each day when she’s allowed to wander outside amongst the medicinal herbs, fragrant lavender, oleanders and heavenly roses. Involuntarily, her eyes close. In her imagination, her senses rejoice in the perfume of her favourite flowers – damask roses.

The convent has high walls, but through the gates she can see the busy street outside and the rabble gathered there. It’s not so very far from the Medici Palazzo where she lived until just a couple of years ago.

Caterina remembers the cavernous, grand central courtyard surrounded by a covered gallery, and a pretty garden courtyard to the side of it. She recalls sitting by the large fountain with its intricate mosaic surround. How she loved the peacefulness and watching the shadows creep across the grass as dusk settled over her world.

Sometimes she even thinks that she can still smell the tang of oranges and lemons from the trees nearby, and wonder at the beauty of the many silent statues. Any memories of those times, however, are already beginning to fade.

She feels like a prisoner here.

Caterina glances at the nun next to her. She really badly wants to scratch away the itch that annoys her from the rough, white wool shift she’s wearing. She thinks about the night that she’d been hurried here in secret, after fleeing from the plague at the convent where she’d been sheltered. The nuns had gathered around her, unafraid for their own health, and welcomed her to their care.

The abbess, who is also Caterina’s godmother, sits nearby watching her.

She has carefully studied this child with her plain face and slightly bulging eyes who, nonetheless, has been born to wealth and power. Caterina, herself, has shown only a nature of sweetness and obedience since her arrival. The abbess wonders if that will last, once she’s old enough to realise that she’s simply a pawn to be traded by the Pope for something he considers more valuable.

She softly utters a prayer.

‘The Lord bless you and keep you, Caterina de’ Medici.’

2

The Bargello Prison

Via del Proconsolo

T he melancholy bell stopped tolling and for a few moments the crowd was still. Then a ghastly creaking started, as the headless, monstrous lump of humanity swung from side to side from a hook, in the breeze that accosted the walls of the Bargello. The officer in charge of the police execution squad proceeded to impale the bloodied head on a stump, placed outside to allow viewing by those on the street. The drizzling rain that had begun several hours earlier fell from leaden skies onto uncaring eyes now closed forever in death.

All things considered, it seemed a suitable day for death.

Rene Bianco gazed around him then his eyes tracked the swaying body above. This was the first time he’d been inside the prison in its vast, open courtyard. It was a forbidding, two storey Gothic building with a crenelated tower at the side. A high, covered staircase led to a loggia on the upper storey. Replicas of the coats of arms of a cavalcade of past prison judges, adorning the courtyard walls, added flashes of colour.

Rene had purposely arrived well before the execution, hoping to look around the rest of the prison. He’d heard stories of screams coming from torture chambers in the cellar, and fancied a first-hand look at them. On approaching the heavy wooden door leading to the cellar steps, however, he’d been firmly turned back by a guard.

‘I wouldn’t be too eager to go down there, lad!’ the guard hissed at him. ‘You mightn’t get out again. Get your backside out of here before I change my mind!’

Rene skulked away. A voyeur and a sadist, he was also a coward when it came to personal physical danger. An orphan, he’d been taken in by the monks at the Dominican Monastery of Santa Maria Novella, not far from the Bargello, when he was twelve years old. He’d always been kept within the security of its walls.

Until now.

As a student of Fra’Attilio, one of the monks, a doddery old alchemist, Rene quickly learned the secrets of herbs, medicinal creams and fragrances. He also laboured in the monastery gardens - work that he hated. Now, as a scrawny seventeen year old, he suddenly found that he’d achieved at least a degree of freedom.

The alchemist is dead!

How wonderful! The alchemist is dead! The alchemist is dead! The words formed a kind of tantalizing jingle. It went around and around in his mind until he felt quite lightheaded.

Rene wondered at how slow he’d been over the years, to see the remedy to all of his problems. It had been such a simple task to poison his teacher with belladonna. The old man was pathetically grateful to his apprentice for the ointment offered to him to ease his arthritis. Despite the delusions and nightmares that followed, he never did suspect that the ointment was killing him.

With the sick monk out of the way, the young apprentice was automatically called upon to step into his superior’s role. As far as Rene was concerned, as soon as the coup was over, the fact that he would become the new official perfumer to the prestigious Medici banking family completely served to justify his decision to commit the murder. He was determined to improve his lot in life as quickly as possible. Anything and anyone was fair game, regardless of the cost.

And the man who had just been executed at the Bargello?

His was the crime of murder.

That seemed to worry Rene not a jot.

The Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, an ancient shop in Via delle Scala, had for many years supplied various medicinal ointments, creams and scented water to the public. The flourishing business provided the monks with a substantial income. The spacious shop was famous for its refreshing Rose Water, as well as Almond Paste for softening the hands.

After visiting the Bargello, Rene arrogantly sauntered uphill through the narrow streets towards the Farmaceutica on his way back to the convent.

‘What are you on about?’ snarled a vendor on one of the street corners as Rene deliberately knocked the corner of his stall, sending his well-arranged stock of hand-made shoes flying.

‘Go to hell!’ Rene called over his shoulder, ‘and I hope you get there soon!’ His tone of voice was nasty and deliberately offensive.

The vendor had no option but to immediately retrieve his goods before they were stolen by passers-by. Consequently, Rene was well out of sight by the time he’d finished and in no danger of being caught.

Having passed through the ornate, timber panelled entry and hallway at the Farmaceutica, he studied the gleaming glass counter and the decorated cabinets behind it.

Then, his gaze moved downwards.

His lip curled with disgust as he realised he’d inadvertently stepped in horse dung in the street. He saw that some had fallen onto the shop floor.

‘This floor’s filthy!’ he declared, staring at the mess he’d left on a decorated tile near his foot. ‘Who cleans the floors?’

‘Giulietta, sir,’ the young serving girl standing behind the counter answered hesitantly.

‘You’re telling me that these floors have been washed this morning?’ Rene questioned her, disbelief apparent in every sarcastic syllable.

‘Yes. But it’s raining, sir. The streets are muddy.’

‘That’s no excuse. I want them all cleaned again. Get the woman back here immediately before any more customers come!’ Rene demanded. He left the shop, satisfied that he’d asserted his authority. It was a pleasurable experience. He enjoyed the novelty of possessing the small amount of power that had come his way.

A short walk brought him back to Santa Maria Novella. The church stood at the head of a huge, open piazza. Rene entered through the side garden archway glancing disdainfully as he walked, at the quiet, shadowed retreat with its ancient, mouldering graves.

‘Good day to you brother.’ A young monk spoke to him from where he sat leaning against one of the gravestones. ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

‘You should have been with me, Alessio, it was fascinating!’ Rene stopped momentarily to talk to him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m wondering what’s for dinner tonight,’ Alessio replied, licking his lips.

Rene almost felt sorry for him. A lifetime of poverty spent amongst graves was no life at all. Soon, he’d be away from all of this. It couldn’t come fast enough. Someone else would have to do the backbreaking weeding and planting from now on.

He wanted none of it.

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The Villa Poggio a Caiano

Medici Family Summer Villa

(Outside Florence)

A soft, golden glow enveloped the spacious villa, as the sun gently rose once more to breathe life into the tranquil countryside. Not a hint of a breeze stirred the cypress pines, to disrupt the order of the formal gardens with their meticulously manicured hedges.

Rome had been burnt by the Habsburg Emperor and its treasures pillaged. The Pope had barely managed to escape to take refuge in the Castel Sant’Angelo. Such a violation was unthinkable.

And yet it had happened!

Reports of unimaginable horror continued to find their way outside Rome. Imperial troops ran riot with bloodlust and greed, their superiors unable to control them. Precious works of art disappeared or were destroyed and those unable to leave their homes to escape the city, found themselves the victims of rape and murder.

Cardinal Silvio Passerini da Cortona gazed, distressed, through the windows of his villa outside Florence. Disturbing visions of the Pope, fleeing in disarray, like a thief in the night, through the passageway between his apartments and the sanctuary of the foreboding Castel, sickened him. He hoped that the other cardinals had escaped unharmed.

The world had finally gone mad!

He was lucky, he knew, as the religious representative of the Pope and the Medici, to be out of Florence before the same fate befell that volatile city. To the matter of his own safety, however, he actually paid little regard. A tall, thin man of unremarkable appearance and deep faith, he was blessed with a resonant speaking voice capable of great persuasion. He used it now, instead, to express his own frustration.

‘Damn the Habsburg’s and the Strozzi’s of Florence to hell!’ he exclaimed aloud irritably, throwing the papers he’d been holding across his gilded desk. He’d return to Rome, he decided, to see what he could do. He looked up as there was a soft knock at the door.

‘Come!’

‘Eminence, we have finally received the latest news from Florence.’ Passerini’s young aide spluttered to get the words out as he bowed low. He’d heard Cardinal Passerini’s outburst through the door, and feared he’d chosen an inopportune time to bring news that could only make the situation worse.

‘There’s already been a riot at the town hall.’ He paused to watch his superior’s reaction before continuing. ‘The republicans were in the building trying to hold out against our Medici supporters. The whole thing turned ugly. I regret to report that many on both sides were killed or injured.’

Passerini’s shoulders slumped, his face grey with fatigue.

‘Is that all?’

‘No, Eminence. It seems that stones, tiles and even benches were thrown out of the Palazzo windows. The great statue of David was damaged. Its left arm is reported to have been broken into several pieces.’

‘My God, where will all this end?’ Passerini shook his head. He sank to his knees and crossed himself, his scarlet robes cascading gracefully down around him.

He knew that he would need a confessor before long. His mind told him that he should grieve more for the dead and injured, than the imposing and strangely erotic statue that had filled him with awe from the first time he’d ever set eyes upon it.

His soul, however, whispered something quite different.

3

A noisy, jeering rabble gathered in the early morning chill at the piazza in front of the town hall of Florence. They swarmed into the centre of the city, spilling out of the narrow, winding streets. Cheering and laughing they watched, as a plaque was set up above the entrance to the Palazzo. Surely, this would ensure that the Medici remained banished from power over them forever.

Jesus Christus Rex Fiorentini Populi

S.P. Decreto Electus

Christ had just been proclaimed King of Florence by the Council Signoria. In Via Ghibelline nearby, a crowd had also gathered to make their feelings known about the Le Murate Benedictine convent.

The huge convent, surrounding by grim protective walls covered almost a city block. Built very close to the Arno, this was usually a quiet place, one more for reflection than violence. What had changed, however, was the presence over the last couple of years of one particular resident.

Events had finally come to a head.

It was a glorious Florentine day, sunny and mild, with the worst of the heat yet to come. Yelling and aggressive, many of the protestors grasped large rocks and sticks.

‘Hang the Duchessina from the city walls!’ shouted someone in the crowd. The cry gathered momentum until it became a roar. ‘Hang Caterina - the Duchessina!’

‘I’ve got a better idea!’ someone else yelled. ‘Give her to the soldiers to enjoy!’ Animalistic laughter rippled through the crowd at the lewd suggestion.

Filippo Strozzi, whose family was prominent in the struggle against the Medici, arrived on the scene. He reined in his horse as he waited for the noise to subside.

‘Good people! I understand your anger, but you must return to your homes.’ He held his hand up in a gesture of restraint. ‘It is not appropriate to attack the convent. It must be respected as a place of peace,’ he shouted loudly enough for all to hear.

At first they stood their ground, muttering angrily. Then little by little, singly or in small groups, the crowd dispersed and wandered off to vent their anger elsewhere.

It still surprised Filippo how easy it was to control them. One simply needed to understand how. He’d learned that the rabble responded to a man whose authority they were willing to recognise, provided he’d earned their respect. At the moment, he was that man.

‘Caterina! Caterina!’ A loud whisper reached the girl in the next cell.

‘What?’

Caterina de’ Medici, eleven years old, smiled at her friend through the wall. Both girls knew that they were fortunate to have their own cells, rather than the usual shared rooms.

‘Guido’s coming today to give us another music lesson,’ Francesca giggled, her voice rising with excitement. ‘I like music.’

‘So do I. Anything’s better than chapel,’ Caterina replied.

An affable, popular musician, Guido Guitani visited the convent to give harpsichord and singing lessons to those permitted the privilege. Caterina had been taken hostage during the Medici’s overthrow in Florence two years earlier. She’d been held at the convent of Santa Lucia, a strict establishment that followed the dictates of Savonarola. Following an outbreak of the plague, however, it had been decided to shelter her at Le Murate. There the girl would be offered all of the privileges that could be granted according to her status. Caterina was a tool not only in the battle for the city, but also in the Pope’s future marriage stakes game that would be played out for land and power.

Her value was beyond measure

‘Come along, girls. This is the Lord’s time,’ they heard Sister Niccolini murmur gently, as she made her way along the long passage. She unlocked the heavy, creaking cell doors.

‘Yes, sister,’ they uttered in unison.

Holding hands, the two youngsters made their way to the group of nuns waiting to enter the chapel. It was their least favourite time of the day.

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Following the Treaty of Barcelona, Pope Clement VII regained power in Rome and the republican government in Florence resigned. The Medici returned with their enforcers to rule the city and its people.

On a cool, overcast day, a messenger on a fast horse left the Medici Palazzo with its grey stone exterior and arrived soon after at the Benedictine convent. He banged loudly upon the outer door. The noise brought one of the sisters as well as the abbess to see who had disturbed their peace.

‘My