They'd found him at the gate, his arm knotted in the reins to keep him aloft and his horse's leg covered in her rider's blood.
It had rained and the urgent message to the rider's wife had been delayed by nearly a day. The road to the Bardi estate was ill-cared for and, though it was not far from the city, the journey took the day's hours of light to complete in the driest of conditions.
The carrier arrived early in the morning—his horse was covered in mud and the rider had left his boots in the earth nearly three hours prior. Her father awoke her, giving her the message by candlelight.
She darted out of bed, dressing in the most appropriate riding clothes she had brought. Sitting for a moment as her mother's maid addressed her hair, Contessina confided in her father.
"Is this the correct decision—to go to him? With mother in such a state?" she asked.
Alessandro took his daughter's cloak from her trunk, still folded neatly in its place. "Your mother is well on her way to recovery. He is your husband."
His answer gave her no comfort.
"What if he dies?" Contessina felt her heart flutter painfully in her chest.
"He will not."
She sharply turned her head to him, causing the maid to tug at her hair. "And if he does? What will I do then? What will we do?" Contessina knew as well as all the servants in their household the family was near collapse without the Medici funds.
"There is nothing we can do." Alessandro stepped forward as the maid stepped aside and kissed his daughter on the top of the head. "God has His will. The most we can do is pray for Cosimo's recovery and pray you have a son in your belly."
There was no such child.
"But what about you and mother?" Her thoughts were tearful. She pictured her mother lying cold in her bed.
"We will be fine, my child. We always have been." Messer Bardi urged his daughter to her feet. "Your mother's physicians assure me since her fever has broken and she is eating that she will recover. We are fine and will continue to be content in our lives. We are your past, my daughter, and he is your future. You must go forward."
Contessina leaned forward and hugged her father tightly. He planted a kiss on her forehead.
"Ride hard and ride safe. You know the way. Take the trail—the road has disappeared in the rain. Your horse is ready." Before she left, she slipped in and kissed her mother on the forehead. The woman did not stir. Quickly, she jotted down a note of her love and left it beside the woman before exiting the room at a run.
Contessina rode towards Florence on her horse at a speed only riders who knew the terrain they traveled by heart could summon. The trail continued over a hill the road had chosen to avoid thus keeping the ground more stable and drier. The sun rose and the rainy skies grew purple and gray. Her clothes weighed her down and her hair and long since relieved itself of the braid it had been woven into. Her horse slowed but Contessina nudged it with her foot, making it hasten its speed.
Taking the trail, the trip was nearly cut in two as it was a straightforward route through fields rather than the curving path of the road. She bound into Florence and arrived at the Medici home within 3 hours of receiving the message. She'd left everything—her trunk and the last remaining apology presents organized by her father—in the care of the Bardi men. They would see they arrived safely when the weather cleared.
"Madonna Medici, welcome home." The guard who opened the door for her lowered his head and took the reins of her horse as he helped her from it.
"Madonna!" Emilia rushed down the stairs having heard the sound of running horse hooves on the stone streets and seen her mistress through the window.
"Where is he?" Contessina asked, wasting no time. She breathed heavily from her journey and her legs burned from the ride. Emilia led her up the stairs to Cosimo's chamber.
Inside, the family was gathered. Cosimo lay on the bed, his body covered in blankets aside from his leg which was left uncovered, his thigh wrapped in bandages. Piccarda stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed, her eyes closed. Lorenzo sat next to the bed in a chair, his foot on the mattress and a book in his lap. Giovanni sat with his son's hand in his own, his head bowed with sleep or prayer.
They all looked up when the door creaked and Contessina entered.
"Contessina." Piccarda seemed almost shocked at her appearance. "We sent for you nearly two days ago."
Contessina stepped forward, water dripping from her clothes. "Yes, the road was washed out. I only received your message this morning."
"You arrive alone?" Giovanni asked.
"Yes. I rode the trail here. My things will be brought by my father's men when the weather clears." She unfasted her cloak from around her shoulders and handed it to her maid.
Piccarda looked at her with wide eyes. "The trail is dangerous, stalked by robbers and roamers."
"They must have taken the morning off," Contessina replied, unaware of the unfiltered slip she had allowed in the presence of her mother-in-law. Lorenzo smiled.
"How is he?" Giovanni stood and allowed Contessina to take his place. She took Cosimo's hand in hers. He was pale, his hand burning to the touch. Sweat dripped from his forehead.
"There is infection," Giovanni said, standing behind the chair. "His fever is high. A piece of the knife broke off in his leg and the physician had to remove it. He lost a lot of blood."
"Who?"
"There is no way of knowing who did it," Lorenzo replied. Contessina nodded in response.
Giovanni moved to sit at the foot of the bed. "How is your mother?" he asked.
"I fear I will not be seeing my mother alive again," Contessina said, composed acceptance masking her. They sat in silence. Not long after, Giovanni was called to urgent business at the bank. Then, Piccarda found waiting too inactive and she left to make herself busy. Lorenzo disappeared later to find something to eat. Contessina sat, her eyes heavy, and drifted to sleep with her husband's hand in hers.
Cosimo knew very little of what happened. He'd felt the pain explode in his thigh, had felt his horse race away. He did not recall the consequential events. He'd no recollection if he'd returned to Florence nor if he'd lived to return with his body. Minutes after escaping the stream, a cold sleep engulfed him, and, feeling himself starting to fall deeper into the abyss, he'd wrapped the reins tightly around his wrist.
He knew they were dreams. Illogical events filled the plots to the brim but Cosimo could not help but let himself sink further into them. Ugo running away with his mother. His father trading the bank for a herd of goats. Lorenzo finally finding a woman to marry only to reveal she is fifty years his senior.
Cosimo stood in his chamber, a woman with dark hair lay in his bed and a woman with ringleted auburn hair stood over her.
"Bianca?" he'd asked. The woman turned, her face exactly as he'd recalled.
"Don't worry, my lover, I've taken care of our little problem."
He took unwanted steps forward and the light in the room became brighter. His sheets turned red and Bianca's face became a ghastly snarl. In his bed, Contessina lay still with her face as beautiful and unmarked as the day he married her. Pulling back the sheets, though, a massacre was revealed. Her blood was drained from her body, her nightgown a pool of crimson.
"Now we can be together." The woman with auburn hair wrapped herself around him.
Cosimo couldn't catch his breath. His father spoke to him in his ear, but he could not make out the words. Bianca pulled herself from him to reveal a shapeless and shadowed face.
He awoke long enough to fall back into the abyss.
He stood at the edge of the river at Cafaggiolo. His brother laughed as he ran into the river. It was not Lorenzo. Damiano was always small for his age but as he bobbed in the flowing water he seemed a giant.
"Come in! Come in!" he screeched and a woman with dark hair bound in after him—her face hidden from Cosimo. They wore matching robes of red velvet that seemed to keep them from getting wet. A torrent roared from upstream. The swimmers screamed out to Cosimo, begging him to save them. The man raced into the water but it congealed around his legs, slowing him catastrophically. Finally, he saw their faces closer, Contessina gripped Damiano's arms trying to keep him close to her.
Something in him knew the way all rules are known in dreams, he could only save one. He moved as fast as he could toward the pair but their grip on each other were loosening.
"I'm dead brother," the child shouted. "I've always been dead." Cosimo stared into his eyes, the eyes they shared, and watched as his small hands released their grip and his dark hair sank under the waves of the current.
His sacrifice calmed the stream. Cosimo stood on the bank, his boots gone, and his feet buried in mud. Contessina called out to him, a whisper in the bellowing of a storm. He flew into the water, wrapping his arms around her before she too went under. He kissed her hard. She was cold.
He awoke and drifted back to sleep throughout the day. He dreamt and moaned and muttered. Contessina sat near him for nearly five hours in the between stage of wakeful and dozing. Someone had brought her a blanket, but she did not recall their identity. Her dress stuck to her skin and dried dust and rainwater crackled when she moved.
It was not until dusk that she was roused.
"I'll sit with him," Lorenzo said. "Find yourself something to eat. I've asked for a bath to be drawn for you."
Contessina did as she was instructed. She was not hungry, but she quickly ate the meal Emilia brought her. Her dress pulled at the skin of her body as she peeled it from her person and stepped into the bath. The water was refreshing but uninviting. She dunked her head swiftly and used the small bar of soap to clean the dirt from her hair—she bathed as if the water was boiling.
Emilia helped her into the spare nightgown that had been left and a robe Contessina did not recognize.
"Messer Cosimo does not wear this anymore," her maid explained. "It will do for now."
Her hair was tangled and her legs still dripped with water, but she returned to the chair next to her husband.
Contessina's mind drifted that night. She did not know where it wandered nor that it had wandered until her mother-in-law grasped her shoulder.
"The physician is here," she said. Understanding what was expected of her, Contessina stood and stepped out of the room.
Piccarda followed her out. "I've made some tea," she said. Contessina followed her to the library where a cup was poured for her. The taste bombarded her mouth and she sputtered.
"Motherwort and chamomile," Piccarda explained, downing her cup in one gulp. "Not for sipping. It calms the nerves." Contessina finished her tea with one large swallow.
The two women sat in silence for what felt like hours.
"You look exhausted, child."
Contessina nodded. "I am."
Silence again.
"Lorenzo tells me your trip to the villa did not end well." Piccarda spoke of it as if she were speaking about the weather. Contessina gazed down at her hands, digging at imaginary dirt under her nails.
"Just a quarrel is all."
"Give him time," Piccarda replied. Contessina looked up at her with suspicion. "Give him more time. My son has never been one to catch on. It's the Medici in him. They are geniuses in business but cannot tell a lover's cheek from an ass's hind."
Contessina smirked. A door loudly closed in the corridor.
Piccarda stood and motioned for her daughter-in-law to take her arm. "I've put the herbs you sent with the lamb in your chamber."
Contessina was not aware of any herbs.
"I prefer the stinging nettle to the red clover. The clover tastes awful. Give the majority of that to Cosimo."
Giovanni stood in the hall with the physician.
"He is greatly improved. There has been little bleeding and the infection seems to be subsiding. His fever has broken," the man said, his beard bobbing up and down.
Piccarda thanked him and saw him out.
Giovanni yawned. "With that news, and seeing you are here to sit vigil, I am off to bed." He turned away from Contessina. She entered her husband's chamber to find Lorenzo opening drawers.
"Cosimo stole a shirt from me a month ago and has yet to return it," he explained to his brother's wife. "I figure now is the best time to get it back." The pair chuckled. Within seconds he pulled a shirt from the wardrobe.
"Contessina," he said, taking a step towards her. "I am sorry to hear about your mother."
She'd not thought of her mother since her return. Her thoughts had been away but the image of her mother alone and dying had not come to mind until this moment. Tears rose in her eyes but she brushed them away.
"Thank you, Lorenzo."
She returned to her seat next to Cosimo's bed.