I glanced at myself in the mirror. My skin was nut brown. - Just like a peasant working in the fields - Francesca would say and my mother would nod in agreement and manage, in that same moment, to give me a withering look.
A bead of sweat ran down my face. Impatiently, I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
“Maria”, I said. “Do you ever go swimming?” Maria continued to tug at my hair. “Mmm...swimming”. She paused a moment. “Why do you ask that Madonna?”, suspicion in her voice.
“This heat is insufferable. I cannot bear it and I dream of floating in deep, cold, icy water,” I said as I looked at my reflection in the mirrored glass.
“Mmm.. swimming is not for young ladies”. Maria paused a moment, pulled my hair again and continued. “My brother and our cousins often swim in the Arno, outside the city walls. No, swimming is not for young ladies – peasant boys, yes. After all, they never get a chance to have a wash, do they?”
She adjusted a curl and after interlacing the last blue flower, she added a string of pearls.
Maria was silent for a moment, and then stepped back and admired her handiwork.
“You look beautiful, Madonna,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
“Thank you, Maria” I said, as I hastily patted my hair, smoothed down the creases in my gown, and swooping up my fan and a jade velvet shawl, I slipped out of the door and down the marble stairs to the Palazzo dining room.
Our dining room was small by the standards of Florence’s wealthy merchants. The floor was laid with uneven, black wood, and creaked with every step. I stared at the wall and I hesitated for a moment, as I realised that the tapestries on the wooden panels had not been taken down. I need to remind Mama, I mused, as I stared at the familiar scenes of David and Bathsheba and Italian hunting scenes, bright hues of red, gold and blue woven into a flourish of a tale.
“Good evening, little sister”, Francesca said, her mouth curled in a smile. At her side sat Niccolo, who was playing with a carved wooden figure of a knight, his head bowed and so engrossed in his game, that he did not appear to notice my presence.
Francesca was dressed in blue velvet and sapphires were scattered in her raven black hair, accentuating her ivory, white skin.
“Very unusual indeed - your sister’s fair skin and blue eyes,” Maria commented on an almost daily basis, as she laid out my gowns or attended to my hair.
“Have you ever seen a Florentine with blue eyes and that pale, pale skin? I never have, in all my given days. Never.”
To this, I would shake my head and concede that I had not.
“My Giovanni says it’s the Irish that have blue eyes, black hair and skin as white as ivory. Seen them in the slave markets ‘e 'as; in Venice, Messina and Constantinople. Captured by the English, the poor wretches and sold, only God knows who to. Puts me in mind of the tale of the slave girl and the King of Naples....”
“Francesca”, I said curtly and sat down at the oak table, nearly knocking over a large ornate pot.
“For God’s sake Caterina, that’s Mama’s best pot from Montelupo!”, Francesca exclaimed.
I said naught, and this seemed to madden Francesca even more.
“Ungainly girls never get married”, Francesca said tartly.
“Caterina does not want to get married”, blurted out Niccolo without looking up from his game. I glared at Niccolo. My little brother was dressed in a red doublet and brown breeches, looking very much like a Roman patrician with his tight, black curls, aquiline nose and pallid skin.
“We know Caterina does not want to get married,” Francesca said slowly emphasizing each word. “God knows what else she thinks she can do”, she countered.
“She can go to a convent, if no-one wishes to marry her,” Niccolo piped up, as he attacked a bowl of fruit with his wooden knight and not noticing my scowl, he picked up a small bread knife and proceeded to gouge a hole into an apple.
Shrieks of laughter and heavy footsteps against marble.
“Where are my darling children!” It was my father’s voice booming across the Palazzo. We all jumped up, and Mama and Papa entered the dining hall, followed by the servants. My mother smiled, fanning her face with her hand, and sat down at her place at the end of the table and my father waited at his seat at the head. Once my mother was seated, we all sat down. My father, resplendent in his silk and velvet jerkin bejeweled with gold chains, precious stones and the signature black biretta on his head, motioned to the servants who bowed and curtsied and, in much haste, then left the dining hall.
“So, my dearest children. What have you learnt today?” my father questioned, whilst picking up his napkin and placing it on his lap.
