Imelda de’ Pazzi
Imelda de’ Pazzi
On Imelda’s nineteenth birthday her parents hosted a lavish banquet in her honor.
All of Florence’s glittering society were invited: members of the Signoria, lower-ranking nobility, and the wealthiest of merchants.
The Medici and Luni families were deliberately and notably excluded. Not that Imelda noticed.
She had other things on her mind that night.
Her parents had ordered the most beautiful gown Imelda had ever seen for the occasion, and as she brushed a finger against the rich velvet, she suddenly remembered the other reason behind the banquet.
This wasn’t just about her birthday.
Her parents wanted to marry her off. Tonight they would parade her in front of all the eligible bachelors they’d summoned, observing them carefully to see who showed promising interest in their daughter.
Like all daughters of wealthy families, Imelda had known her fate before her first bleeding. She would marry whomever her parents chose for her, and there was nothing else to say about the matter. Except she did have something to say.
She would not marry at all if she could not marry Alessandro.
As the banquet hall filled with her parents’ friends and none of her own, she crept outside to the palazzo’s stables.
Her home rivaled that of the Luni family’s residence.
It had the same limestone blocks, built up to three stories tall, immense loggia on the main floor, and massive wooden doors at the entrance, intricately carved with her family’s coat of arms: a blue shield displaying golden crosses hovering above a pair of dolphins, the Latin motto at the bottom: Macte animo.
Be of good courage.
Imelda was living up to the words that had guided her family for years.
Even if her parents wouldn’t agree.
“Imelda,” a voice came from behind her.
She turned to meet her lover’s arms. He pulled her into an empty stall, the train of her gown dragging over stone, hay, and dirt.
Everything faded to a hush: the arrival of the guests, her parents’ expectations, her older brother urging caution.
None of it mattered. Imelda was where she wanted to be, held tight in Alessandro’s embrace, his lips on hers, kissing her urgently, his hands exploring her body, cupping her breasts.
He whispered his devotion against her skin, sweet words she’d carry with her wherever she went.
Five minutes later, they were discovered by one of the biggest gossips in Florence. It took only a quarter of an hour for Imelda’s reputation to go up in flames.
Papà bid the guests to leave, her birthday banquet canceled.
His wishes were respected, and now there was only the family in his study left to deal with her.
Her mother was sitting in a chair, tucked in the corner of the room, her lavish gown a heap around her.
She tugged at a string of pearls around her neck, nervously playing with the gemstones.
“You know our place in this city is precarious,” Papà seethed, pacing up and down the floor. “You know His Holiness looks to me to expel the Medici threat. Does any of that mean anything to you?”
It didn’t; it never did.
Imelda sat before him in an upholstered velvet chair, staring up at him with an expression she had learned from her own mother.
Perfect disinterest. Her brother stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed tightly across his broad frame, his brows knitted.
He met her eyes, inclined his head toward their father.
His frustration at her stubbornness was all too clear.
Listen to him, he communicated with his glaring eyes. Ascoltare.
She set her jaw. Papà could yell whatever he wished to her. They could not force her to marry. Her mind raced with what she could say. If he knew she loved Alessandro, would her father possibly understand? Sentencing her to a life with a stranger would kill her. He could not—
“Pay attention,” Papà snapped. “You have been indulged in this family long enough. I will not let you tear us down, I will not let your ruined reputation destroy my plans. No daughter of mine will tarnish our name, our position in Florence, our good standing with the pope.”
“Padre,” Pietro murmured, uncrossing his arms.
“Do you think a convent is in store for you, Imelda?” Papà asked quietly. “Do you think I’ll send you to our home in the country where you can do whatever the hell you want, with whomever the hell you want? That won’t teach you to keep your fucking legs closed.”
“Padre,” Pietro said, this time louder, alarmed, stepping closer to him. “Enough.”
Papà sliced his hand through the air.
Her brother fell silent, shooting her a quick glance. It was brief, but Imelda saw the panic flaring in his expression. The sense of doom approaching. Perhaps she ought to apologize after all. She sat up straighter, opened her mouth to speak, but her father beat her to it.
“I cast you out of this family, Imelda,” Papà said quietly. “That will be the last time you’ll ever hear your name out of my mouth.”
The ground seemed to tremble, as if the moon had fallen out of the sky, fallen out of grace. Imelda clutched at her heart; it was beating too fast, the thumping sound roaring in her ears. What would happen to her? What would happen to Alessandro? Did her father know—
“Jacopo,” Mamma exclaimed, half rising out of chair.
But he strode out of the room, saying, “Throw her out.”
Imelda was out of the palazzo within the hour. She was not allowed her clothes, or money, or jewelry. Mamma was locked away in her room to keep from interfering. Pietro raged against Papà, urging him to change his mind. Imelda cried, she begged, she apologized, but none of it mattered.
Papà threw her out anyway, wearing her beautiful dress and a single hairpin adorned with pearls.
She was living in an apartment in Santa Croce, her neighbors the working class and beating heart of Florence. It was a vibrant community, the piazza filled with market stalls and workshops. Blacksmiths hammered on their anvils throughout the day while vendors called out prices for their wares.
Not that she could afford any of it.
Her brother visited her weekly, bringing enough money for her to survive on; enough for a roof over her head and simple fare to fill her belly. He helped Alessandro find another position in a different household across town. She was thankful for it, even though she didn’t want to see her lover.
Not like this.
Soiled clothes, dirty fingernails, unwashed hair, tired eyes.
Alessandro would fall out of love with her. Men only liked pretty and shiny things.
It was better he yearned for her, better that he remembered her as a delicate beauty who had never scrubbed chamber pots or swept floors. Because that was the kind of work she did now, the only work available to her. No one from her previous life would ever recognize her.
But one day, Imelda opened the door to find a mysterious man, his hood up over the upper portion of his face. He had a hard mouth with a jaded quality to it.
Wordlessly, he handed her an envelope. It was closed with red wax, stamped with a seal featuring triple crowns. Imelda stared at the missive, her head spinning from a loud ringing noise, as if the iron bells of the cathedral were between her ears.
The pope had written to her himself.
“What is this?” she asked the man.
“Read it,” he said, his voice low and rough. “If you agree, His Holiness will restore you to your family, your reputation saved.”
Imelda read the letter, brow scrunching. His Holiness wanted her to work as a maid in the Palazzo dei Luni. She was to collect whatever information she could, by any means necessary, and pass it on to the man standing before her. Known simply as the courier.
Her father’s face swam in her mind, etched in contempt, disappointment. “My father will never take me back.”
“He already said that he would.”
Hope covered her from head to foot, and she was shaking. This was how she would reclaim what she had lost—her name, her beauty, her love.
“Well?”
Imelda pretended to consider. She had her own terms. She was her father’s daughter, after all. “I want to be able to marry whomever I wish.”
“Done,” he said, gruff. “Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Imelda de Pazzi said, nodding. “It’s an honor to have the trust of His Holiness.”
“You don’t have it,” the courier said flatly. “You’ll have to earn it, first.”
He turned away, vanishing into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.