The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) by Alana White

had received astonishing news from Bartolomeo Scala: one month earlier, Lorenzo had sailed to Naples to present King Ferrante with his personal plan for peace.
    Lorenzo's move was daring. If it worked, it would strip Sixtus IV of his most powerful ally. But the young, informal leader of Florence in the hands of the Neapolitan king? That thought made Guid'Antonio sweat with fear for his friend and for the future of their city. Lorenzo and King Ferrante had enjoyed friendly relations in the past, but tales of the king's cruelty ran rampant in Italy. People said Ferrante embalmed his enemies and displayed their corpses in the cellars of Castel Dell'Ovo on the Bay of Naples. In France, Guid'Antonio crossed himself and prayed for Lorenzo's safety. Lose Lorenzo, and Florence's legs would be open to the Pope and the nephew many people thought was the Pope's own bastard, the rapacious, insatiable Girolamo Riario.
    And then one afternoon in early April 1480 a courier had found Guid'Antonio in Paris walking with Ameliane Vely, one of the young women of the French court, in Louis XI's gardens along the bank of the River Seine, she having chanced upon Guid'Antonio, as was so often the case, whether here among the winding pathways or in the halls of the royal household. Hardly daring to breathe, Guid'Antonio had read Bartolomeo Scala's latest missive from Italy. Two weeks earlier, in mid-March, Lorenzo had arrived home from Naples bearing a peace treaty fixed with King Ferrante's royal seal.
    The Parisian sky over Guid'Antonio's head had turned bluer, the sun brighter, the clouds impossibly puffy and white. He broke into an elated smile, hugged Ameliane, and kissed her on the mouth.
    Ameliane blushed. “Good news?”
    “
Oui!
The war's over.”
    “Praise God and all the saints.”
    “Praise God and Lorenzo,” Guid'Antonio said, smiling.
    Her sparkling gaze flicked toward the rose bushes along the garden path, ripe with tight buds, about to bloom. “And now, Ambassador Guid'Antonio Vespucci, you're no longer obliged to abide here in France?”
    “Not much longer. No.” Having lost his main ally to Lorenzo, the Pope would now have no choice but to call off his troops. Rome was a mighty power, but even Rome could not fight alone. Still smiling, Guid'Antonio kissed Ameliene's fingertips. “I must tell Amerigo.
Excuze-moi, s'il vous plaît.
”
    “Naturellement.”
She ducked her head. When she looked up, the Italian ambassador was fading down the path, a ghost Guid'Antonio in animated conversation with the courier whose unexpected good news had brought the lovely rare smile to the ambassador's luscious mouth.
    “But then,” Guid'Antonio said, sitting back in his chair at one end of the meeting table, his gaze fixed on Chairman Tommaso Soderini. “You know most of this already.” He passed Chancellor Bartolomeo Scala his credentials written on parchment, in Latin, along with a statement of his expenses on a
per diem
basis.
    Tommaso agreed with a slight inclination of the head. Snowy-haired, with bones as frail as a thrush, Tommaso's pale skin made a stark contrast against his robe's vivid crimson hue. “
Grazie
, Guid'Antonio. Your service will be duly noted in our official records.” A tiny smile tweaked Tommaso's lips. “Perhaps your sojourn in France will prove your continuing loyalty to Florence.”
    The other Priors, heretofore glancing impatiently around the chamber, snapped to attention. Beside Guid'Antonio, Amerigo stiffened. Seated at a podium beneath the windows overlooking Piazza della Signoria—those same windows where Francesco de' Pazzi had been hanged—Bartolomeo Scala's assistant, Alessandro Braccesi, sighed deeply.
    Continuing loyalty? Guid'Antonio could remind Tommaso Soderini a thing or two about allegiance. He told himself to tread carefully. Tommaso had honey in his mouth and a knife at his belt. Guid'Antonio said, “And I, like you, appreciate Lorenzo's continued trust in both our houses. Despite the