“We can trust everyone here, Uncle,” Alessandro prompted impatiently. “Please continue.”
“A betrothal has been arranged,” Ser Iacopo said and broke into a maniacal grin. “My dear Duchessina, you are to wed Henri, Duke of Orléans!”
The Duke of Orléans: The title sounded familiar, but I could not place the man.
Donna Lucrezia, who could bear the excitement no longer, looked at my blank expression and exclaimed, “The son of the French King, Caterina! The son of King François!”
I sat, silent and dazed, unable to grasp the implications of this news. Maria was clapping her hands for joy; even Sandro was smiling.
“When is this to happen?” I asked.
“This summer.”
Ser Iacopo retrieved two boxes from a nearby table—both inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of a fleur-de-lis—and presented them to me. “Your prospective father-in-law, His Majesty King François, offers you these gifts on his son’s behalf.”
I took them. One box held a necklace of gold with three round sapphire pendants, each big as a cat’s eye; the other framed a miniature portrait of a somber, hollow-cheeked youth.
“He is young,” I said.
Donna Lucrezia squeezed my forearm enthusiastically. “Henri de Valois was born the same year as you.”
“He was to have married Mary Tudor of England,” Maria added. “Until King Henry put aside her mother, Catherine of Aragon. That ended those negotiations.” She reached out and grasped my hand, and clicked her tongue at finding it limp. “Caterina, aren’t you excited?”
I didn’t answer. I looked levelly at Ser Iacopo and asked, “What are the terms of the arrangement?”
The question took him aback. “Your dowry, of course. It is a sizable sum.”
“It’s not enough,” I said, even though I knew that France’s wealth had been greatly reduced by years of war; King François could certainly use the gold. “I’m only a commoner—not much of a match for a prince. There are other girls with larger dowries. What else do I bring?”
Ser Iacopo looked at me, amazed—though he should not have been, as I was his earnest pupil in the art of political negotiation. “Property, Duchess. King François has always yearned for holdings in Italy. Pope Clement has promised to deliver Reggio, Modena, Parma, and Pisa; he will also provide military support to France in order to take Milan, Genoa, and Urbino. These terms are confidential; even the news of the betrothal itself cannot be revealed for some time. Emperor Charles will not relish hearing that the Duke of Milan’s offer has been spurned.”
“I understand,” I said. I smoothed my palm over the surface of the box, pausing at the raised mother-of-pearl and tilting it gently so that it flashed, muted velvet shades of icy blue and rose.
“But are you not happy, Caterina?” Donna Lucrezia prompted loudly. “Are you not pleased?”
I opened the box again to stare at the young man inside. His features—even and unremarkable enough to be termed good-looking, if not handsome—were compressed into a stiff expression intended to convey stern regality.
“I am pleased,” I announced, though I still did not smile. “King François was my mother’s kinsman; I should be happy to call him father-in-law. He saw me removed from cruel conditions to the kind haven of Le Murate, for which I am forever grateful.”
I set down the box, which prompted Maria and Donna Lucrezia to descend on me with tears and kisses. Lucrezia told me, quite ecstatically, that Pope Clement had recruited the most fashionable noblewoman in all Italy, Isabella d’Este, to choose the fabrics and designs for my wedding attire and trousseau. I was to have a new tutor, fresh from the French Court, who would accelerate my instruction in the language and customs of my new country.
Ser Iacopo had pressing matters to discuss with Alessandro on behalf of His Holiness; we women were dismissed as the men prepared to leave for Sandro’s offices. At the doorway I lingered, gesturing to Lucrezia and Maria to go ahead of me, and waited until Sandro neared. Iacopo lowered his gaze and said, “I shall wait for you, Ser Alessandro,” then continued down the corridor.
When all were out of earshot, I said to Sandro, “You knew. Even a year ago, as you warned me to stay away from Ippolito. You and Clement knew even then.”
“I was not certain,” Sandro answered. “François’s offer had just been made, but we had no way of knowing whether it would be successfully negotiated. I wanted to tell you, but I was sworn to secrecy. The agreement was finalized less than a week ago.”
“You always planned I should never have Florence,” I charged. “You and your father.”
He drew back slightly at the venom in my tone but answered calmly, “It was decided the instant Clement set eyes on you. I am shrewd enough to govern a city. But you . . . You’re brilliant; God help the world once you learn the art of cunning! I have no need of a wife with more brains than I. I can secure my father Florence. But you . . .”
“I can bring him a nation,” I finished, bitter.
“I’m sorry, Caterina,” Alessandro said, and for an instant, his cool reserve slipped, and I saw that he truly was.
It was a long day with Donna Lucrezia and Maria, and I went to bed after an early supper. Alone, I tried to take stock of my new fate, though it seemed hazy and unreal. How could I leave everything and everyone I had known and loved to go live among foreigners? The picture of the aloof, uneasy boy in the wooden box gave me no comfort at all. Eventually, exhaustion trumped anxiety and I dozed.
I dreamt that I stood in an open field, staring into the coral rays of the failing sun. In front of its great, sinking disk stood the black silhouette of a man broad-shouldered and strong. He faced me, his arms stretched out, imploring.
Catherine, ma Catherine . . .
The utterance of my name in that foreign tongue no longer seemed barbarous. I called a reply.
Je suis ici, je suis Catherine . . . Mais qui etes-vous?
Catherine! he cried, as though he had not heard my question.
My ears roared. The landscape altered magically until he lay writhing at my feet, his face still in shadow. As I tried vainly to make out his features, blood welled up from his face like water from a burbling spring.
I knelt beside the fallen man. Ah, monsieur! Comment est-ce que je peux aider? How can I help?
His face lolled out of the shadows. His beard was caked with thickening blood, his head limned by a dark red halo. His eyes, wild with agony, finally beheld mine.
Catherine, he whispered. Venez a moi. Aidez-moi.
Come to me, help me.
A great convulsion seized him; he arched like a bow. When it released him, the air in his lungs rushed out with an enormous hiss and he fell limp, mouth gaping, eyes wide and unseeing.
I glimpsed something troublingly familiar in his lifeless features—something I did not recognize, something I recognized all too well—and cried out.
I woke to find my lady-in-waiting, Donna Marcella, standing over me. “Who?” she demanded. “Who do you mean?”
Disoriented, speechless, I stared at her.
“The man,” she persisted. “You were calling out, ‘Bring him here at once!’ But whom should I bring, Duchessina? Are you ill? Do you require a doctor?”
I sat up and put my hand to my heart, where the Wing of Corvus lay.
“Cosimo Ruggieri, the astrologer’s son,” I said. “Come morning, have him found and brought to me.”
Fifteen
Ruggieri could not be found. An old woman came to his door and said that the day after the siege, Ser Cosimo had disappeared. Two and a half years had passed without word from him.
“Good riddance,” she said. “He went altogether mad—raving about wicked, horrid things, refusing to eat or sleep. I’d be surprised if he were still alive.”
The news devastated me, but I had no time to indulge in disappointment. I had ceased being Caterina, a thirteen-year-old girl, to become an entity: The Duchess of Urbino, future wife of the Duke of Orléans
and daughter-in-law of a king. Like any precious object, I was on constant display.
For my fourteenth birthday in April, a reception was held at the Palazzo Medici and attended by His Holiness, who had made the long trip from Rome. Weighed down by jewels, I held Pope Clement’s hand as he presented me to each distinguished guest as “my darling Caterina, my greatest treasure.”
Surely there was no greater treasure than that which was heaped on me now; I suspected His Holiness had leveraged half of Rome and his papal tiara to cover the expense. Later I learned that Sandro—that is, Duke Alessandro—had forwarded the taxes paid by the citizens of Florence to help with the costs.
Swaths of brocade, damask, lace, and silk arrived, hand-picked by the stylish Isabella d’Este. Heaps of jewels—rubies, diamonds, emeralds, necklaces and belts of gem-studded gold, and a pair of earrings made from pear-shaped pearls so huge I wondered how I should wear them and still hold my head up—were spread out for my inspection. When I was not sorting through precious stones or metals or fine cloth, I met with a tutor to sharpen my proficiency in French and the protocol of the French Court. I learned French dances and practiced them until my legs ached. I learned King François was overly fond of the hunt, and so I mounted a stallion and practiced jumping—and, as a necessary corollary, falling. The tutor remonstrated when I used my sidesaddle; it was indecent, he charged, as it permitted glimpses of my calves. He recommended a ridiculous contraption—a little chair, so unsteady that the rider would be thrown if she urged her mount to more than a slow walk. I would have none of it.
There were countless public appearances. If my presence had lent legitimacy to Alessandro’s rule before, it lent the aura of royalty to it now. I hung on his arm, a shiny political bauble, and stood by his side to welcome his betrothed, Margaret of Austria, to Florence; I sweetly kissed her cheek.
Those frantic days left me too exhausted to think. Summer came all too quickly, though I earned a respite when the wedding location was changed from Nice to Marseille, and the date from June to October.
Inevitably, however, the first of September arrived, and I departed Florence in a sumptuous coach, accompanied by a gay caravan of nobles, servants, and grooms, and a dozen wagons loaded down with my belongings and gifts for my new family. In my excitement, I had never considered that I might not return to the land of my birth; it was not until we reached the city’s eastern gate that my throat constricted and I turned, panicked, to stare behind me at the slowly retreating orange dome of the great cathedral and the winding, grey-green Arno.
Aunt Clarice was gone, Ippolito fickle, and Sandro cunning; I would miss none of them. But as Florence shrank from view, I wept as I thought of Piero—and of the wise-eyed boy Lorenzo, high upon the chapel wall of the Palazzo Medici.
I traveled by land to the coast, and from there, by sea to Villefranche to await His Holiness, who intended to perform the religious ceremony himself.
Clement had decided that my marriage to Henri, Duke of Orléans, would be a gilded spectacle such as had never been seen. When the papal flotilla arrived, I boarded His Holiness’s ship to find it entirely upholstered in gold brocade. We sailed for two days to Marseille, and when we dropped anchor, three hundred cannon boomed over the joyous clamor of cathedral bells and blaring trumpets.
Marseille was sunny and scented with brine, with clear blue seas and sky. We made our way through streets lined with cheering Frenchmen, to the plaza known as the Place-Neuve. On one side of the avenue stood the King’s magnificent Palace of the Comtes de Provence, on the other, a temporary papal mansion of timber. The two were united by a vast wooden chamber that spanned the entire square. It was here that the banquets and receptions would take place.
I made my entrance into Marseille on a roan charger caparisoned in gold brocade. The awkward throne the Frenchwomen used was proffered me, but I refused it in favor of my own sidesaddle; if the cheering crowds were scandalized to see a woman riding a horse in that fashion, they hid it well.
My destination was the papal palace of wood on the Place-Neuve. When I dismounted, I was led quickly to the reception hall. Three hundred souls, the eminent men and glittering women of the French Court, had gathered there. They had come to weigh me as though I, too, were a gem to be set within His Majesty’s crown.
I swept past six hundred eyes, past the cat-eyed, haughty women with their insolent smiles. Their tight-fitting bodices ended in widows’ peaks at their breathlessly cinched waists; they were all thin, and strangely proud of it. Their tight sleeves were not separate from the gown but sewn onto it, with small puff s at the upper arm. Their collars were high, ruff ed at the neck like the men’s, but open at the throat and plunging in narrow vees to the décolleté. Stiff , curving bands of fabric smoothed back their hair to midcrown and covered the remainder in velvet or gossamer veils. They were beautiful, sleek, and blatantly confident, and I a clumsy, unfashionable foreigner in my large sleeves and loose-waisted gown.
I shook off their stares and fixed my gaze on His Holiness, who sat in a golden throne upon a high dais. Beside him, at a respectful remove, stood King François I and his three sons: Henri; eleven-year-old Charles; and the fifteen-year-old Dauphin, heir to the throne, named François after his father.
Clement’s face was luminous. In six years’ time he had gone from prisoner in a ravaged city to puppetmaster of a king.
As my name—Caterina Maria Romula de’ Medici, Duchessina of Urbino—was announced, I kept my face downcast, my gaze demure.
“Caterina!” Clement exclaimed, drunk with achievement and joy. “My darling niece, how beautiful you are!”
I ascended three of the five steps leading up to the dais, then knelt. Prostrating my upper torso upon the stairs, I took Clement’s slippered foot into my hands and pressed the velvet-clad toe to my lips.
“Rise, Duchessina,” Clement said, “and greet your new family.”
A great hand upon my shoulder guided me to my feet. Before me stood a very tall man with a short dark beard along his jawline, so wiry it puff ed out like uncombed cotton. His thick neck made his head seem small by comparison; his nose was very long, his eyes and lips small. The grandeur of his costume—a tunic of bronze satin with insets of black velvet embroidered with scrolling leaves—made me draw in a breath of admiration. His posture and movements reflected self-aware dignity and supreme confidence as he smiled at me.
“Daughter,” King François said, his voice welling with affection, “how sweet your demeanor, how humble! Surely I could have found no better bride for my son in all of Christendom!”
He embraced me impetuously, then kissed my mouth and cheeks with wet lips.
“Your Majesty.” I executed a low curtsy. “How grateful I am to you for rescuing me from my dire prison; I am happy to be able to thank you in the flesh.”
The King turned to his son, his tone critical. “Here, Henri, is true humility; you could learn much from your bride. Embrace her gently, with affection.”
Henri lifted his miserable gaze from the floor. He wore his fourteen years awkwardly—his nose and ears were too large for his eyes and chin, though time would likely see them better matched. He was bony, gangly, with a boy’s narrow chest and back, a fact that the full sleeves and padded shoulders of his satin doublet sought to disguise. His brown hair was clipped short in the Roman style.
He was a poor substitute for my charming, handsome Ippolito, but I smiled at him. He tried to do the same, but his lips trembled. He hesitated for so long that a murmur passed through the crowd; I lowered my gaze, embarrassed.
The King’s eldest son, the Dauphin François, stepped between us.
“I must kiss her first,” François announced loudly, in a voice as polished as any courtier’s, yet good-natured. He had full cheeks, ruddied by fresh air and good health, and flax-colored hair.
“We want her to feel welcome,” François added, winking at me, “but I fear the bridegroom’s nerves are so unsteady, he shall put a fright into her instead.�
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The King looked annoyed at this breach of propriety, but François kissed me quickly, then handed me to his youngest brother, Charles, an imp with pale ringlets.
Grinning wickedly, Charles kissed me on both cheeks with such an exaggerated smacking sound that some in the crowd tittered.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll soon prove that he can laugh.”
He drew back and presented my hands to Henri. The King beamed; apparently, he approved of Charles’s every action.
Panicked, Henri looked to his older brother; the Dauphin gave him a nod of gentle encouragement. Henri’s expression hardened with determination as he turned back to me, but terror flickered in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss me; his breath smelled agreeably of fennel seed.
“Duchess,” he began, reciting a speech from memory. “With all my heart, and with the good wishes of all my people, I welcome you to my father’s kingdom, and to . . .” He faltered.
“To our family, the Valois!” the King snapped. “Have you no brains? You’ve only practiced it a hundred times!”
Henri glared up at his father with sullen hatred. The unpleasant moment was broken suddenly by a loud, stuttering fart. I thought that someone in the royal party had just embarrassed themselves until I saw young Charles’s smug grin. His tactic worked: Henri broke into a charming smile and giggled; King François relaxed and gave Charles a reproving but affectionate nudge. The Dauphin smiled, relieved for his father and brother.
Henri gathered himself and, in better humor, said, “Catherine, welcome to our family, the Valois.”
Catherine, he said, and like that, Caterina was no more.
His voice was too deep to be a boy’s, too wavering in pitch to be a man’s. Though I had never heard it before, I knew it. His voice and face were young now, but given time and maturity, they would change. Somewhere, between my bridegroom’s voice and his father’s, somewhere between his features and the King’s, were those of the man who had cried out to me in my dreams.
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