My voice was ugly. “Then why did you carry tales about us to the Pope?”
“Because regardless of what you think and what Ippolito might say, I care about you. And if I read the signs aright, you’re allowing yourself to be put in a dangerous situation. Don’t let yourself be hurt.”
“How dare you.”
I turned and began again to climb the stairs. He advanced a step or two behind me.
“He loves wine and women too well,” Sandro said. “Or are you so smitten—like the rest of them—that you haven’t noticed?”
When I hurried my pace, he made a last, desperate effort to shock me. “When he comes to you again, ask him about Lucia da Pistoia. Ask him about Carmella Strozzi, and Charlotte Montblanc.”
“You lie!” I would not turn around.
“You’re being played, Caterina.”
I spoke over my shoulder, harshly, venomously, wanting to wound him as badly as he had me. “You are no brother of mine.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said softly. “I suppose everyone knows it by now.”
I did not understand at all but was too upset to pursue an explanation. I lifted my skirts and ran up to my room. Alessandro did not follow, but I felt his presence, lonely and disapproving, behind me on the stairs.
The new year of 1532 came, followed by an early spring. Donna Marcella rarely left my side; Ippolito and I were reduced to stealing glances over supper. Eventually, he recruited one of the chambermaids to deliver his impassioned letters to me, and return my lovesick responses to him.
Finally he wrote that he had petitioned Clement to allow us to become betrothed and said His Holiness had indicated an affirmative reply was forthcoming. A betrothal was as binding as a marriage: Once it was accomplished, no one, not even Clement, would keep us from each other. I quickly penned a reply expressing my eagerness. Within a day, I received another missive:
Why must we wait for Clement, or any ceremony? I will find a way so that we can be alone and undisturbed in each other’s arms until dawn. I am only awaiting the right opportunity.
I stared down at the paper in my hands with queasy excitement. If we were discovered, Donna Lucrezia would be scandalized, and Pope Clement furious.
I had done my best to dismiss Sandro’s words, but now they echoed dismally in my memory.
Ask him about Lucia. And Carmella. And Charlotte . . .
Several weeks of fervid correspondence ensued. In early April, Donna Marcella took ill and went to the countryside, leaving me in the care of one of the chambermaids, Selena. That afternoon, Selena combed lemon juice through my hair. I settled into an inconspicuous corner of the courtyard on a coverlet spread on the grass and absorbed sunlight in the hope of coaxing some gold from my drab locks. I sat for an hour and was getting up to leave when the sound of Ippolito’s voice made me pause.
He and Sandro passed by, sweating and disheveled from the hunt, and so absorbed in lighthearted conversation that neither saw me.
Happily, Ippolito was the closer to me, his body blocking me from Sandro’s view. I ventured a small, timid wave; Ippolito paused at the entrance to the palazzo and made an excuse to Sandro, who continued on.
Before I could get to my feet, Ippolito was beside me on the coverlet, his face incandescent with hope.
“Tonight, Caterina. I will come to your bedchamber tonight. You don’t know how hard it’s been all day—knowing this and trying to hide my excitement from Sandro, from everyone.”
I pressed a palm to my sun-warmed cheek. “It’s too dangerous,” I said. “They’ll discover us.” My protest sounded distant and small.
“They won’t.”
“And if I become with child?”
He brightened. “Clement will see us wed all the sooner. Only grant me this one night, and when we are married, I’ll reward your generosity a thousandfold.” He pressed his lips to the insides of my wrists, one by one. “Say you’ll wait for me tonight.”
“I’ll wait,” I answered, with a thrill of longing and guilt.
Fourteen
That night, I lay in my bed with agonizing expectancy. What if we were discovered? Might Clement’s anger be so great he would deny us our right to Florence? My fear paled beside the memory of Ippolito’s deft tongue and fingers. When the soft knock came on my antechamber door, I sat up listening to the whisper of Selena’s sheets as she rose, to the tread of her bare feet on the marble floor, to the creak of the door.
Ippolito’s silhouette appeared in my bedchamber doorway. “Caterina,” he whispered. “At last.”
He strode to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid next to me to lie on his side, propped upon one elbow.
Ippolito, I tried to say, but he hushed me and ran the flat of his palm from my neck to my thigh, up and down, languidly, only the thin lawn of my nightgown separating us. His mouth was open, his breath quick and reeking of wine. I was entranced, but the spell was broken when he said, brusquely, “Sit up.”
I did. With surprising skill, he pulled my nightgown over my head and upraised arms; I was suddenly naked, sheepish. He, however, was inflamed, and while I sat, he pressed his face against my small breasts and began to suckle them.
I seized his head and buried my spread fingers in his hair, thinking to pull him away out of embarrassment. But as his tongue and teeth worked my nipple, I felt as though an invisible cord ran from that tender spot directly to my womb and tugged at the muscles below, causing them to twitch deliciously. When he was satisfied, he ordered, “Lie back.”
I complied. He rose to his feet and pulled his loose shirt over his head; balancing on one foot at a time, he pulled off his leggings. He was very unsteady and fell twice against the mattress, but at last he was free.
Male genitalia are, at first glance, odd-looking. Beneath a thick spray of black hair at Ippolito’s groin, a shaft of flesh emerged, tilted upward at an angle I estimated to be thirty degrees. It unnerved and fascinated me. As I lay back, Ippolito stepped up to the edge of the mattress; I reached out and squeezed it hard. It was firm as brick, yet velvety to the touch. He flexed it so that it pulsed once, twice in my hand, and we both giggled softly.
“Kiss it,” he said. The idea was unappealing, if not appalling, and I balked. He caught the braided hair at the base of my neck and pulled my head toward it. “Kiss it,” he repeated. His words were slurred, his eyes half-closed; for the first time, I saw how very drunk he was.
He pulled my hair again, hard enough to cause pain, and I indulged him. I kissed it, briefly, softly, wrinkling my nose at the tickle of wiry hair, careful not to turn away too quickly from the smell of musk. It was not all that he wanted, but he chose to let it pass and pressed my shoulders against the mattress.
Then he spat into his palm and slicked the shaft. I stared at that strange, seductive, glistening bit of flesh and—quite insanely—wished to feel it inside me. He wedged both hands between my thighs so that they were obliged to part until I lay with my legs spread wide, forbidden fruit ready to tumble from the tree.
He slipped his middle finger deep inside me, plumbed a bit, then plunged a second finger in with it, causing me to draw in my breath sharply. A third finger soon followed. Despite my excitement, I groaned at the discomfort, but he pumped his hand steadily until I relaxed and grew still.
As he drew his fingers out, with a moist, sucking sound, he smiled evilly and said, in full voice, “The goose is not too young. She is fully cooked and succulent, and waiting to be pierced.”
He eased himself down on me and pushed his legs between mine; propping himself up on one hand, he spat again into the other and applied it as before.
“I will visit tomorrow, and the night after,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Again and again, so long as Donna Marcella is ill. Let me lie with you tonight many times, and take care, once I release my seed, to remain flat and still. The sooner you conceive, the sooner Clement will marry us.”
He put his free hand around the rod, which probed hard and
smooth against my thigh, between my legs, searching.
It was Lorenzo’s blood, I think, that pulled me up short—his talent for political manipulation and for recognizing the same when he witnessed it. Perhaps too, Ser Iacopo’s careful tutelage in diplomacy had paid off , in teaching me that social niceties often masked the basest of political goals.
Clement’s warning, and Sandro’s, and Ippolito’s sudden urge to impregnate me all converged with the Medici nose for deception.
I tried to clamp my legs shut, but Ippolito’s bulk intervened. I slipped my hand between my womb and his turgid flesh.
“What of Lucia?” I asked.
He let go a gasp that was also a nervous laugh and rested on both hands again. “She’s a liar; the child isn’t mine.”
All at once the lovesick veil lifted, and I saw things as they were: Ippolito had felt the need for a great deal of wine before coming to me. Indeed, our most lascivious encounters had occurred when he was drunk. His own answer apparently startled him; he grinned stupidly at it, then at me.
“And who is Carmella?” I demanded. “And Charlotte?”
“Caterina,” he cajoled, smiling. Then, realizing that I was furious at his inadvertent admission, and that he would lose me, he feigned anger. “Who told you such lies? It was Sandro, wasn’t it, trying to ruin things for us both!”
“Get out,” I said. “You are drunk and despicable. Get out now.”
“You can’t deny me this,” he hissed threateningly. “You can’t. You are my birthright.”
“I am not,” I countered with equal ferocity.
He seized my wrist with such force that I yelped. With one hand, he pinioned both of mine above my head; with the other, he grasped the shaft of flesh with the clear aim of pushing it inside me.
Many thoughts are born in the time it takes to draw a breath, and during that time, I weighed my options. I could submit and pray I would not be impregnated and, in the morning, seek Donna Lucrezia’s protection; I could continue struggling, which would obviously fail; or I could scream in earnest, which would bring Selena running in from the antechamber. None of these appealed, as they all gave Ippolito enough time to deflower me. Given my earlier flirtatious behavior, no one would believe me innocent. That left only negotiation—but Ippolito was too frenzied for discussion.
I spat as much saliva as I could muster into his eyes. He obeyed the natural reflex to wipe them, which left him off balance, allowing me to drag my prized virginity up toward the pillows.
Before he could gather himself, I said, “I will struggle. And scream. And tell the truth, that I was raped. You are drunk, after all.”
“You little bitch.” His tone was soft and filled with wonder.
“Sandro will support me,” I said. “He will say that you are worried, with good reason, that your drunkenness and womanizing have sullied your reputation and given Clement pause.”
I didn’t want to be right; I wanted very much for Ippolito to laugh gently and explain my reasoning away with better logic of his own. But his long and guilty silence shattered the fantasy that I was brilliantly loved, that I would soon have a home and family of my own. I was, after all, a homely girl, and he the most handsome man in all the world.
I crawled as far away as I could, sat up, pressed my back against the headboard, curled my arms about my legs, and wished to die. But like Sandro, I was cool and hid my hurt.
“Shall I continue?” I asked him. “Shall I take this to its natural conclusion, that whoever marries me will be seen as the more legitimate ruler of Florence?”
He sat up and stared at me. He was drunk, impetuous, and cruel, but he was not a monster. The flesh between his legs had shrunk into a sad, dangling thing. At my question, he shook his head.
It was a gesture of defeat, but I misread it and countered hotly, “Alessandro is my brother, true, but only my half brother. An exception from Clement and we could be wed.”
Without smiling, he let go a soft, bitter laugh. “You’re wrong,” he said.
“I am not.”
“You are wrong,” he repeated. “Sandro is not your brother. He’s Clement’s bastard, born while His Holiness was still a cardinal and foisted off on us. Perhaps now you better understand my concern.”
For a long time we sat breathing hard as we stared at each other. I think he considered forcing himself upon me again, but had lost the taste for it.
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said finally. “I do care for you, and there is real heat between us. Can’t I be with you tonight? Clement will come to his senses and wed us, install us in Florence, all the more so if you are pregnant . . .”
“No,” I said.
He hesitated, then made as if to reach for me.
“No,” I repeated. “I’ll scream for Selena.”
He rose and dressed without another word. I waited until he was out the door and well down the corridor before I began to cry.
Sandro had done me a kindness. Three months after my nocturnal encounter with my cousin, Pope Clement announced that Ippolito was to become a cardinal and would serve as Papal legate to Hungary. He was to be properly schooled, then sent off within a year.
Alessandro left for Florence soon after the announcement to acquaint himself with the politics of the city he would soon govern.
I did my best to lose myself in my studies. The sordid unraveling of my first love affair had wounded me, but I found comfort in the fact that I still had Florence. I aspired to become worthy of ruling a city, of being a fitting partner to Alessandro, who had shown himself to be wise and decent.
Clement sent me home to Florence that April to attend Alessandro as he was installed as the first Duke of Florence, a title bestowed on him by Emperor Charles as part of the treaty with Clement after the Sack of Rome. Bedecked in ermine and rubies, I stood proudly beside my cousin during his installation; in that moment, Ippolito faded into a youthful indiscretion.
An obscenely magnificent banquet followed the ceremony. Late that evening, I stood in my bechamber as Donna Marcella unlaced me from my complicated finery. I was still exhilarated, reluctant to retire, and chatted with Maria about the day’s events.
“When do you think His Holiness will announce our engagement?” I asked her.
“Engagement?” She seemed honestly puzzled by my question.
“Mine to Sandro, of course.”
Maria glanced away quickly as she sought the proper words. “His Holiness is considering several possible suitors for you.”
I had to repeat the words silently to myself three times before I fully understood them.
“I’m so sorry,” Maria said. “They said nothing to you, then?”
“No,” I answered slowly. “No, they did not.”
Pity sullied her features. “Alessandro has been secretly betrothed since last year to Margaret of Austria, the Emperor’s daughter. His Holiness will make the official announcement soon.”
I was humiliated, privately seething, but I continued to attend public functions at Sandro’s side, aware that I was there not as a partner but as a symbol. I was the ghost of my father—my father, whose birthright was Florence. As his sole legitimate heir, I alone should have ruled—but I was female, a politically unpardonable sin.
With each day, my concern over the future grew. At thirteen, I was of marriageable age, but if Sandro was not to be my groom, then who was? Maria confessed that Clement was entertaining a proposal from the Duke of Milan, an ailing, elderly man with fewer wits than the coins in his empty coffers. Although Clement was not infatuated with the idea, he had been forced to consider it because Emperor Charles wanted the match, as the Duke had always been a staunch Imperial supporter. The thought so disgusted me that Maria spent a fruitless hour trying to soothe me.
“God willing, he will not be the final choice,” she said. “Let us just say that he is the least of the options. There are other suitors—one so marvelous I have been sworn to secrecy. His Holiness is working hard to negotiate to you
r very best advantage.”
“Are any of the men from Florence?” I had lost everyone; my home was all I had.
She did not understand the significance of the question; she shook her head and smiled mischievously. “We mustn’t speak of it any more, my dear. No point in raising your hopes only to have them dashed.”
Too late, I wanted to tell her. I thought of the day I first met His Holiness: how he had asked that I look upon him as a father and confessed his sorrow that he would never have a child of his own. Even then, he had been negotiating with Emperor Charles to find his son Alessandro a proper bride, one who brought the greatest possible prestige to the new young Duke. I was simply another gem in Clement’s crown, one with which to bargain—just as I had been for the rebels. The circumstances of my captivity were much improved, but I was a prisoner of politics no less.
I survived an uneasy fall and Christmas. An outward observer might have envied me; dressed in ermine and thread of gold, I danced and dined with dukes, princes, and ambassadors. The new year brought a fresh spasm of celebration. Late in January 1533, Iacopo and Lucrezia arrived from Rome in their gilded carriage.
They brought news from His Holiness: I saw it in Lucrezia’s smug, secretive smile. The morning after their arrival, they summoned us to a reception chamber; only Iacopo, Lucrezia, Maria, and I were allowed entry—and Alessandro, of course, who had set aside his obligations to come.
I sat between Maria and Lucrezia while Ser Iacopo stood in front of the snapping hearth. A shaft of winter sunlight caught his hair, white as cotton. He cleared his throat, and I died, thinking of the Duke of Milan.
“I have an announcement,” he said, “a very happy one, but my words must be kept scrupulously secret. No one else must learn it, or it will all be in sore jeopardy.”
The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici Page 13
