Alessandro watched me. He enjoyed drawing out his story, observing my anxiety. “François is to receive title to several major cities under the pope’s control: Pisa, Livorno, Parma, and others. And the pope promised to help François wrest Milan and Genoa away from Emperor Charles.”
“But what has any of this to do with me?” I cried, my impatience growing.
“Everything. Their secret agreement is a marriage contract, dear Frog Duchess. These cities make up a part of your dowry. When you marry, they become the property of your husband, the lucky devil!”
“My dowry?” I nearly shouted. “But whom am I to marry? Tell me, Alessandro! Tell me, damn you!”
I had lost control, and I immediately regretted it. Now Alessandro held the advantage, and I had handed it to him. He knew he could torment me, make me beg.
His lips twisted in a derisive smile. “You are to be the bride of Henri, Duke of Orléans, second son of King François. Our Duchessina is to marry the brother of the future king of France! Just think of it—a French prince!”
With those words Alessandro whipped his stallion into a mad gallop. I urged my little mare to follow. She was smaller but very brave, and we managed to catch up with him before he thundered across the bridge. He reined in his horse and waited, laughing cruelly. “What is it, Duchessina? Haven’t you heard enough?”
I was breathless and trembling, clutching the pommel. “There must be more. I’m sure you know more, Alessandro—tell me!”
Alessandro pulled on his lip, as though deep in thought. “Perhaps this will amuse you, then. King François requests that you come to live at the French court until you’re of an age to wed.” He looked me up and down in the insulting way I’d seen him eyeing the servant girls. “Anyone can see that you’re not yet woman enough for marriage.”
Not yet woman enough for marriage! I badly wanted to slap his ugly face. But it would not do to lose control again. I needed to hear the rest of his story.
His horse was dancing in nervous circles. Alessandro brought the stallion’s head close to my mare’s and thrust his own face close to mine. “The Holy Father refused that demand. His precious Duchessina is to remain under my loving care in Florence until the wedding.”
“Your care, Alessandro?” Surely not! It couldn’t be!
“Indeed. I’ll let you know when we’re leaving Rome.”
I HAD TO SPEAK to Ippolito one more time. I had to tell him myself about the future that lay in store for me. But how was I to accomplish that? I wasn’t permitted to go about in the streets of Rome without the company of at least one older woman, although I was certain I could convince Betta to go with me for a secret meeting. But where? When? And how to arrange it?
Then nothing short of a miracle happened: Monsieur Philippe brought me a letter. “I was walking near the river, as is my pleasure,” the Frenchman reported in his doleful voice, “and a young boy asked me to bring this to you. A servant to one of the cardinals, I think.”
I thought I recognized Ippolito’s writing. I could scarcely wait for Monsieur Philippe to leave so that I could read it. The lesson in French subjunctives seemed endless.
At last I was alone. “Visit the chapel in the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere tomorrow at midafternoon,” I read. “Seek out a monk at prayer. Do not reply to this message.”
I read the letter over several times. I was sure the monk would turn out to be Ippolito himself. Why did he want to see me? Had something changed? Maybe he had told the pope that he did not want to be a cardinal, that he had no vocation in the church. Maybe—and here my imagination took flight—he’d even told the Holy Father that he loved me, his Duchessina, and he wanted to marry me. Maybe he was even making plans to go away with me. In my excitement I pushed the French prince and the marriage contract far from my mind.
“I must see him, and you must come with me,” I insisted to Betta. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand that your uncle the pope would send me away if he found out,” she grumbled. But I knew her grumbling was only an act. Betta would give in and agree to do as I asked.
And she did. With each passing hour my conviction grew that my meeting with the “monk” would be a joyous one.
A cold rain had begun to fall. Wrapped in warm cloaks, Betta and I set off on foot. We crossed the Tiber and made our way through the narrow, crooked streets, unpaved and muddy. Soon our boots were caked with mud and our cloaks wet and splattered.
We entered the church, glad to be out of the rain. The sanctuary was dim and silent; a few old women, veiled in black, hovered near the altar, fingering their beads. We hurried past the chancel, where mosaics glowed in the light of dozens of flickering candles. The chapel was nearly empty, except for a monk in a rough woolen robe kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin.
Betta nodded and retired to the rear of the chapel, and I approached the monk, eager to be with Ippolito but suddenly uneasy about whatever had led him to summon me there. What if I’m wrong? My knees were trembling as I knelt beside him. The monk turned toward me, pulling back his cowl to reveal his face.
It was not Ippolito.
“Alessandro!” I cried, shattering the silence.
He hushed me. “Are you disappointed, little Frog Duchess? Sad that your beloved Cardinal Ippolito couldn’t come to you? He sent me in his place, with his profound apologies.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said angrily. “Everything you say to me is a lie!”
“Duchessina, Duchessina!” Alessandro drawled, shaking his head. “You’re being very childish. Ippolito left this morning for Hungary, where he’s to serve as papal legate. Our cousin asked me to tell you how happy he is to learn of your coming marriage and wishes you great joy. I promised him I’d take good care of you in Florence.”
Nearly ill with disappointment, I staggered clumsily to my feet. I could hardly speak. “Couldn’t you have given me the same message at Palazzo Medici?” I stammered. “Why are you dressed like a monk? Why do you go to so much trouble to torment me?”
“Because it amuses me,” said Alessandro. “You should also know that Cardinal Ippolito was quite eager to leave for his new assignment. Pope Clement has made it well worth his while, assigning him so many rich benefices that he couldn’t refuse.”
I glared at him in disgust. “Are you saying that the pope bribed him?”
“I’m saying that His Holiness offered Ippolito the income from a great deal of church property, and our cousin willingly accepted the pope’s terms. Call that what you want.” Alessandro rose and raised the cowl of the monk’s robe. “I’ve delivered the message I was asked to give you. Now, with your permission, Duchessina, I leave you to your prayers to the Blessed Virgin.”
He made his usual scornful bow and strode out of the chapel, and I sank to the stone floor. Betta knelt and wrapped her arms around me and rocked me like an infant as I wept.
IPPOLITO WAS GONE, without even a chance to say one last good-bye. Francesca, cheerful at last, had packed up her trousseau—and it was considerable—and left for Florence for her wedding to Ottavio de’ Medici, accompanied by Lucrezia and Maria. Without Lucrezia, Pope Clement had no official hostess, and the number of dinners to which I was invited dwindled to nothing. This suited me very well.
I spent my days alone or with my tutors and buried myself in my studies. I made rapid strides in all my courses. Knowing now that I would one day live in France, I threw myself into the new language with as much energy as I could muster. I questioned Monsieur Philippe relentlessly about France and anything to do with the royal family.
“François, the Most Christian King, is the greatest ruler in all Europe,” the tutor declared proudly. “Queen Claude was loved by all before her death. She presented her husband the king with a child nearly every year, as was her duty. There are five children, three sons and two daughters. The new queen, Eleanor, is the most admirable of women.”
“The names of the children, s’il vous plaît?�
�� I prepared to write them down.
“François, the eldest who will one day be king, then Henri, followed by Madeleine, Charles, and Marguerite.”
Henri, my future husband, interested me most, of course: What is he like? How old is he? Is he handsome, intelligent, kind, like Ippolito? Or like Alessandro—ugly, badly spoiled, cruel? But these weren’t questions suitable to ask Monsieur Philippe, who presumably knew nothing of the secret agreement between the pope and the king.
“Are there many royal palazzi?” I asked, settling for a less difficult question.
“We call them châteaux, mademoiselle, and the answer is certainly,” he replied. “Fontainebleau is the king’s favorite. Also Amboise, Blois, Chambord, and many others as well. But why these questions, mademoiselle?”
“I may have occasion to travel to France some day soon. To visit the king,” I added.
“Ahh,” he replied, nodding. “I understand. Then undoubtedly you will see the châteaux for yourself.”
Still I wasn’t satisfied. “What sort of music does the king enjoy? What does the royal family eat? I’ve grown so accustomed to the ways of the papal court that I’m afraid I won’t know what to do,” I explained.
“Do not worry, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Philippe, stroking his long nose. “If you will just learn to speak the language beautifully, with the proper accent, I assure you that you will learn everything in good time.”
MY COMING MARRIAGE was announced in January of 1533. But instead of Pope Clement himself telling me the news or sending me word through Cardinal Giovanni, I received a visit from the new French ambassador to Rome, John Stuart, Duke of Albany.
The ambassador turned out to be a relative by marriage—my uncle on my mother’s side. Born in Scotland but raised in France, the duke had married my mother’s sister. I had never known my aunt, Anne d’Auvergne; she’d died when I was a small child. Now her husband, the ambassador, called on me at Palazzo Medici to make a brief formal statement surrounded by a lot of flowery language: Caterina de Medici is to wed Henri, Duke of Orleans.
I liked the ambassador at once. A stocky man with white streaks in his ruddy brown hair and beard, Albany lacked the elegance of the Frenchman who had once rescued me from the convent of Santa Lucia, but I felt that perhaps at last I had an ally. I plied him with questions.
“When am I to be married?” I asked.
“In October, Mademoiselle Catherine,” he said, calling me by my French name.
“Why was my betrothal kept secret?”
“Allow me to explain a few things, mademoiselle. Pope Clement wanted to keep his agreement with King François a secret from Emperor Charles. Those two rulers have been enemies for many years. The Holy Father feared that if Charles learned of the agreement too soon, he would put a stop to the marriage contract. Now it’s too late; there’s nothing Charles can do about it. You’re a most desirable bride—one of the richest women in Europe. The pope will not let you go cheaply.”
But I had other things on my mind. What about Henri?— that’s what mattered. Will I like him? Will he care for me?
But I couldn’t bring myself to ask this honest-seeming ambassador. I would have to discover that for myself.
A NEW FACE appeared among the familiar ones at Palazzo Medici. It belonged to a distant Medici cousin called Lorenzino. Eighteen years old, nearly as handsome as Ippolito, and nearly as cruel and arrogant as Alessandro, Lorenzino quickly became Alessandro’s constant companion in mischief. The pair soon brought down the wrath of Pope Clement for their malicious pranks, which included knocking the heads off antique statuary. Anyone could see that Lorenzino meant trouble, but the trouble was tolerated.
Pope Clement now announced that Alessandro would return to Florence to assume his new role as duke and lord over the city. Forenzino, his loutish companion, would stand ready to help him. And I would accompany them both to the seat of Medici family power, to serve as Alessandro’s official hostess and to prepare for my wedding.
When Lucrezia and Maria returned to Rome from Francesca’s wedding, they were as surprised as anyone to learn of the marriage plans Pope Clement had made for me. Once again I would be separated from people I’d come to care for, especially Maria. Now they helped me get ready to leave Rome.
Lucrezia offered practical advice. “You’re going to be expected to entertain a lot of people at a lot of dinners. Hire the best cooks you can find and pay them well, keep an eye on the budget, fire anyone you suspect of cheating you, and smile at your guests no matter how terrible you feel. Act as though you know exactly what you’re doing. I’m sure you’ll be a brilliant hostess.” I hoped she was right.
At the end of January, His Holiness arranged a farewell dinner for me. Maria laughed as she arranged my hair, recalling the stubble I’d arrived with, but our laughter turned to weeping before she’d finished. We left Palazzo Medici with Lucrezia to ride together to the pope’s residence for the last time.
Pope Clement’s tears flowed as freely as they had two years earlier when I’d first arrived in Rome. “I’ve made the greatest match in the world for you, dear niece,” he whispered as I knelt and kissed his ring.
“Mille grazie, Holy Father,” I replied softly. “I am most grateful.”
On a cold February day I embraced Lucrezia and Maria and rode out of the Eternal City with Alessandro’s huge retinue headed north, thinking of all that I was leaving behind and all that lay ahead.
12
Preparing for Marriage
WHEN BETTA AND I arrived in Florence with Alessandro’s entourage, we found the Palazzo Medici in a sorry state of disrepair, with the furnishings stolen or vandalized during the siege. Alessandro angrily dismissed the trusted servant who had been left in charge of the palazzo and ordered the flogging of the slaves under his direction.
Dismayed, I laid a hand on his arm and tried to restrain him. “Surely it’s not their fault,” I ventured. “The mobs—”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Alessandro interrupted rudely, shaking me off.
Soon he’d installed a new staff, including a Turkish slave girl to attend to my personal needs. Her name was Akasma. She had been brought from Constantinople with her mother, who had died on the voyage, and put in a group of slaves bought by Alessandro. At fifteen she was only a year older than I but a dozen years wiser. She was very tall, exotically beautiful with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, graceful and intelligent. She had a fine singing voice the choir nuns at Le Murate would have welcomed, but she hadn’t been trained in the virtues and had a worrisome way of meeting a man’s stares.
I hadn’t been around girls my own age since I’d left Le Murate more than two years earlier. In Akasma I found someone who could be a friend, in spite of our social differences, and I quickly became attached to her. I invented excuses to have her come to my apartment on some trivial errand. Sometimes she talked her way into the servants’ kitchen late in the evening and prepared an orange-flavored pudding, which we then shared.
Akasma was thrilled to learn that I would soon travel to France to be married. I was determined to take her with me, an idea that appealed to her adventurous spirit.
“Tell me about France,” she begged.
“No doubt we’ll live in huge castles even grander than this one, and we’ll be well cared for by the king of France himself.” Beyond that, I had no more idea than she did what to expect.
“And Alessandro—will he come to the wedding, too?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “I don’t like him.”
“Oh, Akasma,” I said. “Nobody does.”
WITHIN A WEEK of my return to Florence, I arranged to visit Fe Murate. I went first to see the abbess, Suor Margherita, who assured me that all was well—the gardens had been restored to their earlier beauty, the nuns were again plump and in good health, and loyal patrons had placed orders for bridal trousseaux and for copies of the Book of Hours.
I asked about m
y dear friends. “Are they still here?”
“Niccolà and Giulietta are waiting for the next stage in their lives to begin, when dowry negotiations are complete,” the abbess reported. “And Tomassa weeps constantly, still fearing that her father hasn’t enough dowry to find her a suitable husband and that she will have to spend the rest of her life as a nun.”
“I want to invite them to travel with me to France for my wedding,” I told her.
“Go speak to them. I’ll grant them leave for the journey, if their parents are agreeable.”
The rules had not changed: Visits were still limited to a few minutes at the grille, with no chance to speak face-to-face.
“Oh, Duchessina, it’s you!” I recognized Niccolà’s voice. “We’ve missed you! Tell us everything!”
This was the first time I had stood on the outside of the grille to visit someone on the inside. It was better than nothing, I thought, but unsatisfying when there was so much more to say. “You know I have only minutes here. But I want to ask you—all three of you—to my wedding. I’m to marry Henri, Duke of Orléans, second son of the king of France. Will you join my retinue and make the journey to France?”
Such excitement! Of course they would. “If our parents allow it,” Tomassa added.
“I’ll write to them,” I promised.
Suor Margherita signaled the end of the visit. “Come back soon, Duchessina!” they called after me.
BEFORE I LEFT ROME, the Duke of Albany had promised to send me a dancing master to teach me to dance in the French manner. Now a short, round man with a small black mustache and dainty white hands appeared at Palazzo Medici. “Monsieur Sagnier, master of the dance, at your service, mademoiselle.”
I remembered the nights in the convent when Argentina boldly organized secret dancing parties while the nuns slept. Under Monsieur Sagnier’s instruction I learned that, with slight differences, the French dances were much the same—the slow basse danse, the stately pavane. Next he added the gaillarde, full of leaps and hops. Akasma was drafted to serve as my partner.
Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici Page 13
