Catherine
Venez a moi
Aidez-moi
That evening, in my gilded, timber-scented chamber on the Place-Neuve, I wrote another letter to the magician Ruggieri. There was little point to the exercise, save to vent my desperate foreboding: Ruggieri was at worst dead, at best mad and missing. He could not help me, trapped in a foreign land and a blood-soaked dream that threatened to become waking.
I paused in midstroke of the quill, set it down, and crumpled the page before feeding it to the hearth. I took a fresh sheet and addressed it to my cousin Maria. I asked that she send me De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, by Marsilio Ficino, and the letters from Ser Cosimo Ruggieri on the art of astrology.
When the time came to sign the letter, I paused, then scrawled in bold letters:
Catherine
Duchesse d’Orléans
PART V
Princess
October 1533–March 1547
Sixteen
Three days of celebration followed—banquets, jousts, and balls. My betrothed participated reluctantly in them all. I, too, participated with only half a heart. The thought that Henri was the man in my nightmare had terrified me, and I had no one to confide in, no one who might say, with a laugh, that I was tired and anxious and so had let my imagination run unfettered.
Queen Eléonore, my soon to be mother-in-law, served as my chaperone. Three years earlier, she had married François, as reluctant a bridegroom then as his son was now. Ravenous to plant the French flag in Italian soil, François had unwisely taken on the Emperor’s forces and suffered a catastrophic defeat at Pavia, where he was captured. He had purchased his freedom with hundreds of thousands of gold ecus and a promise to marry Emperor Charles’s widowed sister, Eléonore.
Like her brother, Eléonore was Flemish, fluent in French, and well-versed in Parisian culture and customs but altogether unlike the sparkling, sly-eyed women of her husband’s court. Her chestnut hair was worn in an unforgivably old-fashioned Spanish style: parted down the middle, plaited, and wound in two thick coils covering her ears. She was solid, thick-limbed, and graceless, her movements lumbering, her eyes bovine.
I liked her. Her silence, patience, and virtue were genuine. She had waited a short distance from her husband and his sons, and when King François brought me to her, she had gazed up at him adoringly. He did not so much as glance at her to acknowledge her presence and uttered with bored carelessness, “My wife, Queen Eléonore.” She had embraced me with unsullied sincerity and introduced me to King François’s daughter, ten-year-old Marguerite; another girl, thirteen-year-old Madeleine, was sick with consumption and home abed.
Early in the morning on the day of the secular ceremony—the third day of my stay in the palace on the Place-Neuve—Queen Eléonore came to my chambers as I was being dressed.
Her smile was kind and simple, her gaze steady. “You have no mother, Catherine. Did anyone speak frankly to you of the wedding night?”
“No,” I said, and at the instant I uttered it, realized I should have lied; I had no desire to listen to a lecture on the rudiments of sexual congress. I felt I had learned all I needed to know from my encounters with Ippolito.
“Ah.” She looked on me with gentle pity. “It is not such an unpleasant thing; some women, I hear, enjoy it. Certainly the men love it so.” She proceeded to tell me that I should insist that my husband not waste his seed but put all of it in the proper receptacle, and that I must lie flat afterward for a good quarter hour.
“It is important that you give birth as soon as possible,” she said, “for I think they do not love you until you give them a son.” I heard the wistfulness behind her words. François had adored his first wife, Queen Claude, the mother of his children, dead for almost a decade.
Eléonore placed her hand upon mine. “It will all go well. Before it happens, I will make sure that you take a little wine so that you are comfortable.” She patted my hand and rose. “You will have many sons, I know it.”
I smiled at the notion. My husband to be was not fond of me now, but I would have his children—a family truly my own, from which I would never be separated. And I would never, like poor Queen Eléonore, have to compete with a ghost.
The betrothal ceremony was a simple matter of signing the weighty marriage contract and standing silently beside Henri while the Cardinal de Bourbon intoned a blessing over us. We were taken then to the great hall where I had first been introduced to the King and his family. Henri and I were prompted to kiss, the signal for the trumpets; the noise made us both start.
A ball commenced. I danced with Henri, and the King, and then Henri’s brother, François.
It was clear that Henri and his older brother were close. The Dauphin’s presence usually provoked an honest smile from my bridegroom; from time to time they shared a secret joke told by a single glance. The golden-haired François—the Dauphin, I prefer to call him, to spare confusing him with his father—was more talkative than Henri and passionately loved books and learning. He also enjoyed history and explained to me the evolution of his title. Five centuries earlier, the first count to rule the region Vienne, in western France, bore the symbol of a dolphin upon his shield, hence becoming the Dauphin de Viennois. The name stuck, even two hundred years later, when the position fell to the eldest son of the French king.
As the Dauphin spoke engagingly to me, I sensed a faint discomfort that never left him except when he and his brother Henri were alone. His discomfort was greatest in the presence of his father, who never missed an opportunity to criticize his two older sons, or to praise his youngest—nor did Henri ever miss a chance to direct spiteful glances at his father. I wondered, as I glided beside the Dauphin in a sedate Spanish pavane, whether he was the king that the astrologer Ruggieri had seen in my moles. Perhaps I was marrying the wrong son.
That night, I returned to my temporary suite and Henri to his father’s palace. I was awakened three hours before dawn, when the women came to dress me. Seven long, tedious hours passed before I was ready and word was sent to the King.
On that day I suffered more glory than anyone ought. My poor skull was already laden with gemstones when one of the women set the golden ducal crown upon it, weighing so heavily I could scarcely hold my head up. Gold brocade robes, trimmed in purple velvet and white ermine and studded with rubies, hung from my shoulders. I dreaded the prospect of standing upright in them for hours.
At last King François arrived. His Majesty wore white satin embroidered with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis, and a cloak of gold. He was jubilant but, to my surprise, a bit nervous; when he saw my trembling, he kissed me and lied, saying that I was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Joking and laughing in an effort to jolly me, he led me down the stairs to the chapel erected near the Pope’s chambers, where the bulk of the nation’s wealth was displayed on the persons of three hundred guests. The sun’s rays streamed in through the great arched windows; at the altar, ten tall candelabra bloomed flame. Dazzled, I clung to the King’s thick forearm, matching my steps to his sedate pace.
Henri waited at the altar. At the sight of us, resentment rippled across his features. Whether it was directed at his father or at me, it didn’t matter: Henri hated the very idea of marrying me.
Before the King handed me off to his son, he kissed my cheek and whispered, “Remember, you are my daughter now, and I shall love you as such until the day I die.”
I stood on tiptoe to return his kiss and then went to stand beside my husband.
Henri was less grandly appointed than the King, but grand enough in a white satin doublet with black velvet leggings and black sleeves, slashed so that his white undershirt showed through. He, too, wore a ducal crown and cloak of gold.
At my approach, he hid his hostility. His carriage was graceful and proud, though he clasped his hands so tightly that the whites of his knuckles showed. When I came alongside him, he turned and knelt on the purple velvet cushion at the altar.
; I did the same and stared up at Pope Clement. Captured in a pane of light, his face looked unhealthy and waxen, his lips grey; the white in his beard had overtaken the black. Yet his eyes were radiant. My match with Henri was his crowning achievement. I hated him for condemning me to live the rest of my life in a foreign land with a stranger who resented me for the very reason I resented him: We were pawns forced upon each other.
The ceremony was interminable, with much standing and kneeling and far too many prayers. My betrothed and I recited our vows in turn, and exchanged rings; Henri’s touch was cold. Pope Clement recited much Latin, scribed many signs of the cross over our heads, and then it was done. At his urging we turned, bright with relief, to face the crowd.
Henri scanned the first row of observers, anxious to catch someone’s gaze. Between Queen Eléonore and her stepdaughters stood a pale-haired noble-woman. She was not natively beautiful; it was her serene, elegant bearing and delicate bones that made her seem so. I had seen her before, mostly at my husband’s side, explaining the finer points of protocol to him. She was well past the age to be Henri’s mother, and I thought little of the eager look he gave her as we moved toward the aisle, little of the approving glance she offered in return.
But as we passed by, her expression seemed to shift, perhaps only a trick of the sun and candlelight reflected in hueless eyes. For an instant they seemed gloating, calculating, but as I looked sharply at her, her eyes softened and she glanced away, humble, servile.
Only then did I take note of her gown. She wore a widow’s colors, white and black: white satin for the bodice and undergown, black for the overskirt and the sleeves—slashed so that the white of her chemise showed through. White satin and black velvet, the very fabrics Henri had chosen for his wedding day.
A banquet followed the ceremony. The King’s family and I dined on a platform, the better to be seen by the hundreds of souls crammed into the great hall. Relieved of my heavy crown and cloak, I sat between Henri and the Dauphin. My new husband had few words for me but many for his brother; in François’s presence, Henri transformed into a laughing, affectionate youth.
The feasting began at midday and ended at dusk. I changed into a gown of green, my official color. Corsages of red velvet roses were fastened in my hair and on the black brocade mask that hid the upper half of my face. Weakly disguised, I returned to the banquet chamber, where a masquerade ball had already begun. I danced with the King and Dauphin—parrying verbally as if we did not easily recognize each other—and with my taciturn husband, who came alive only in the presence of his brothers or the blond widow.
I drank little wine that night. I was tempted, knowing what was to come, but reasoned that I would be better off if I were in full control of my emotions. I was apparently one of the few to come to that decision; by the time Queen Eléonore came to fetch me, the din in the great hall was so loud we did not speak, as our voices would have been lost in the roar. She led me out into the corridor, where an entourage of ladies waited. Some had accompanied me from Florence; others, including the elegant, fair-haired woman dressed in white and black mourning, belonged to Eléonore’s retinue. Her perfume, the essence of lily of the valley, preceded her person and lingered in the air behind her.
The ladies escorted me to Prince Henri’s chambers, which were chilly despite the snapping fire in the hearth. His great bed, supported by four posters of carved mahogany, had been covered with Isabelle d’Este’s fashionable ebony sheets. A thick fur coverlet was neatly folded at the foot. Rose petals, the last of the season, had been strewn by a careful hand upon the black silk.
The bed hangings—all venerable tapestries in shades of forest and scarlet, aglint here and there with thread of gold—displayed pastoral scenes in which women strummed lutes and danced and picked fruit from trees while wearing great tall caps pointed like narwhal tusks, reminders of the previous century’s fashion.
I stood next to the fire as the women coaxed me from my sleeves and bodice and skirts. Clad in my chemise, I remained still as the ladies picked gems, one by one, from my hair and brushed it out until it cascaded down my back. I was obliged to remain motionless a bit longer, as the black-and-white widow pulled my chemise up over my head.
I was naked as Eve in the sight of a half dozen strangers—I, to whom my own body was an unfamiliar sight, untouched since Ippolito’s embraces. I was still thin then, ivory kneecaps and hip bones straining against pale olive flesh. I pressed my right palm to my left breast, concealing my right breast beneath my forearm; with my left hand, I cupped the delta of thin golden brown hair at the juncture between my legs, and so I staggered awkwardly to the bed as the elegant widow pulled back the top sheet.
The black silk was so cold I shivered while the women arranged my hair upon the pillow and drew the sheet up so that it just covered my breasts.
The widow retreated. Queen Eléonore leaned down and pressed her lips tenderly to my forehead.
“It will all go quickly,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
She pulled the bed hangings together, leaving me in solitary darkness. The women retired to the antechamber; I heard their soft laughter as they scattered nuts onto the floor to mask the sounds soon to be made by the newlyweds.
All of Pope Clement’s yearnings for power, all of King François’s hopes for glory, all the glittering pomp of the past several months had been nothing but fantasy, a bright, hectic dream. Now stripped bare of my gems and silks, I woke to reality, wherein a homely, frightened girl waited in darkness for a sad, reluctant boy. I thought of Clement and François, full of wine and self-congratulation, and felt gnawing bitterness.
Footsteps came, followed by the creak of the antechamber door. His Majesty’s booming voice was so cheerful that it dispelled the solemnity the Queen had left behind.
“Greetings, ladies! We have come in search of my son’s wife!” His words were slurred.
Feminine voices replied, followed by a ripple of restrained laughter at the crackle of nuts beneath royal boots.
The bedchamber door opened as someone entered. On the other side of the bed hangings, fabric rustled, then sighed as it fell. The tapestries snapped open so suddenly I clutched the sheet at my bosom.
Henri stood nude at the bedside. Swift as a shot, he stretched out beside me and pulled up the covers, but not before the firelight revealed a long, slender torso punctuated at the groin by a thin tuft of ash brown hair. He did not look at me but stared straight up at the green velvet canopy above our heads.
Seconds later, King François entered. His head was uncovered, his hair tousled as he leaned heavily on the arm of the wizened, white-haired Cardinal de Bourbon. Both men were breathless from coarse laughter; the King paused at the sight of us naked children. Perhaps he also saw our mortification; his gaze softened as he withdrew his grip from the older man’s forearm. “Bless them, Eminence,” he urged the Cardinal softly. “Bless them, then be-gone. My word will be sufficient.”
The Cardinal took his leave. When he had gone, the King turned to his son.
“I remember too well my wedding night with your mother, how young and frightened we both were,” François said. “The law requires me to witness the coupling, but the instant it’s done, I’ll leave you in peace. In the meantime . . .” His voice dropped. “Kiss her, boy, and forget I am here.”
Henri and I rolled onto our sides to face each other; he set his trembling hands upon the rounds of my shoulders and pressed his lips against mine—a perfunctory, passionless kiss. He was as trapped within his resentment as I was within mine, yet one of us was obliged to break free.
I closed my eyes and thought of Clarice’s mouth blooming upon Leda’s, of Ippolito’s skillful tongue and fingers. I cupped Henri’s face in my hands as Clarice had Leda’s and pushed my lips against his, then delicately parted them with my tongue. He tensed and would have recoiled had my touch faltered, but I persevered until he responded with kisses of his own. As his confidence and mine increased, I rolled him onto m
e, slipped a hand between his legs, and felt the flesh there stir.
I sensed nearby movement and opened my eyes to see King François looming; he drew the bedsheet down until his son’s buttocks were exposed.
When Henri and I both looked up at this intrusion, the King dropped the sheet and stepped back, mildly chagrined.
“Don’t stop! I’m only making sure it’s properly accomplished. I will disturb you no more.” He moved away toward the hearth.
Henri’s cheeks went mottled scarlet. Because I was obliged, I reached between his thighs and stroked him until he grew again; and he was obliged, when he was ready, to part my legs and settle himself between them, as Ippolito had done so long ago, but there was no sweetness, no heat, no yearning.
At the moment of penetration, my resolve wavered and my body tightened; I cried out at the pain. Henri must have feared losing his confidence, for he began to pump wildly. I held on, gritting my teeth. Within a minute, his passion crested and he reared his torso backward, his eyes rolling up against his fluttering lids. Simultaneously, something warm trickled between my legs.
Henri pulled away and lay on his back, gasping.
“Well done!” King François clapped his hands. “Both riders have shown valor in the joust!”
I pulled the sheets up and turned my face toward the distant wall. After an all-too-audible whisper to his son that virgins were prone to weep after such events, the King left.
In the silence that followed, I knew that I should falsely compliment Henri on his lovemaking, yet exhaustion so overwhelmed me I felt I could not move; it was accompanied by a painful constriction of the muscles in my throat, the certain precursor of the tears the King had mentioned.
I lay silent, hoping that Henri would leave me to my self-pity, but he said, very softly, his gaze directed at the ceiling, “I’m sorry.”
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