The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (11 page)

I did not abuse their trust. I attended Mass each morning and afterward accompanied Niccoletta to the sewing room. Many of the nuns did fine embroidery, one of the skills by which they supported themselves. Without a single guiding mark upon the fabric, Sister Niccoletta could stitch a perfect lamb holding the banner of the cross, or the Holy Spirit descending as a dove from Heaven.

On that first morning I was introduced to the other seamstresses: Sister Antonia, the abbess’s second, tall, poised, and elderly; Sister Maria Elena, a Spanish woman with an angelic voice who led the choir; and a boarder, Maddalena, five years older than I, with chestnut hair that fell well past her shoulders. Maddalena was a Tornabuoni—the family that had produced the mother of Lorenzo
il Magnifico.
There was Sister Rafaela, an artist whose talent with brush and paint allowed her to decorate the finished manuscripts in the scriptorum with dazzling images. And there was Sister Pippa, a handsome young woman with red-gold eyebrows and light green eyes, colorful surprises against the frame of her white wimple and black veil. A blush bloomed upon her cheeks and neck when we were introduced; shyness, I thought, until I caught the look on the face of her constant shadow, the dark-skinned Sister Lisabetta, whose gaze revealed frank hatred.

That first morning, I sat on a cushion and stared out the large windows at the withered gardens, listening to the cheering crackle of the fire while Niccoletta brought me silk floss, a needle, and scissors. She gave me a handkerchief to practice on and directions on threading the needle and taking the first few stitches. Afterward, the sisters began to whisper to each other from
time to time. The sounds comforted me, until I heard Sister Pippa’s pointed question:

“Ought she to be moving about freely? She is, after all, a prisoner.”

Lisabetta immediately chimed in. “No one stood guard over her chamber last night. She could easily have slipped away.”

Sister Niccoletta let the swath of brocade she was embroidering drop to her lap and said, in a hard tone, “She’s a child, one who has been through a horrible time. She certainly doesn’t need you to remind her of it.”

Pippa’s neck and cheeks went scarlet, and nothing more was said on the matter. I soon learned that her and Lisabetta’s families belonged to the People’s Party, the most radical faction within the new government.

In the meantime, twice a week, Mother Giustina had me brought to her comfortable cell, where she privately instructed me in matters of noble protocol. She had not forgotten my rank as duchess, nor the fact that I had been destined to rule Florence, and her lessons reminded me that many in the city had not given up hope that the Medici would return to power. She taught me manners at table and the art of conversation, as well as how to address kings and queens and my uncle Pope Clement.

I attended other classes with Maddalena. Sister Rosalina taught me French, given that the French ambassador paid me regular visits in order to keep King François apprised of my well-being. I was uneasy during my first lesson and did not understand why until Sister Rosalina addressed me as Catherine—Catherine, the name Ruggieri had once unthinkingly called me, the name the bloodied man had called me in my nightmare.

It was at Le Murate that I began to suffer again from evil dreams. I was perplexed until I remembered that Ser Cosimo had said the talisman would make me recall them.

Mars dwells in your Twelfth House—the House of Hidden Enemies and Dreams.

I vowed never to be separated from the talisman again; I credited it, and Ser Cosimo, with the turn in my fortunes.

Your horoscope holds many terrible challenges, and now is the first. I intend to see you survive it.

Fate had returned Ficino and the talisman to me. I could not overlook such gifts; I spent my evenings studying
De Vita Coelitus Comparanda
by lamplight. Further exploration of the bookshelf in my room revealed another
present: right next to the aforementioned tone sat an ancient-looking volume titled
The Book of Instruction in the Elements of the Art of Astrology,
by an Arab named al-Biruni.

The reading was dry and daunting for one so young, but I felt my survival depended on it. At the age of eight, I memorized the twelve signs of the Zodiac, and the twelve houses, and the seven planets.

In my nightmares, a man stood calling out my name, then later lay at my feet, his face a bubbling crimson spring.

Catherine . . .

More blood was coming: The Frenchman was calling out to me for aid to stop the approaching slaughter. It was up to me to decipher the danger, and to prevent it. Fate was offering me a chance to redeem myself.

I passed a content winter. Spring brought more bulletins from Clarice about Pope Clement: he was safely in Viterbo now, and Emperor Charles was apologetic about the horrors his mutinous troops had committed on Rome. Spring also brought newsy letters from Piero:
I am so tall now, you would not know me!
The air was heavy with fragrance; I, light with optimism. I felt safe, soon to be in control of my world thanks to my astrological studies.

Then came the eleventh of May, 1528, a year to the day I first heard that Pope Clement had been routed from the Vatican. When Sister Niccoletta came to fetch me for Mass that morning, her smile was forced and tremulous. I smelled an unhappy secret; and when Mother Giustina announced that the French ambassador would meet me in the reception chamber, my foreboding increased.

I sat in the sunlit room. Ambassador de la Roche was not long in coming. He had shaved his goatee, leaving a clean chin and a razor-thin mustache beneath his formidable nose. He was dressed for spring in a farsetto of pale green brocade and yellow leggings, and when he entered, he bowed low, with a great sweep of an arm.

“Duchessa,”
he said, rising. He did not smile; his tone was somber. “I hope you are well.”

“Very well, Ambassador,” I said. “And you?”

“Quite so, quite so, thank you.” He dabbed his nose with the kerchief. “Your health has been good, then? And how go your studies?”

“My health has been fine. And I very much enjoy my studies. I have excellent teachers.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “All good then.” He paused.

“Please,” I said, suddenly hoarse with fear. “You have come to tell me something. Just say it.”

“Ah, dear
Duchessa.
I am so sorry.” His tone held pity as he produced a letter from the pocket at his belt. “Dreadful news has come. Clarice de’ Medici Strozzi has died.”

The words were too absurd to make sense of at first; I could not speak or cry. I could only stare at the Frenchman in his ridiculously cheerful colors.

“
Duchessa,
I am sorry. You are too young to have endured so many blows. Here.” He thrust the letter at me.

May 4, 1528

 

Dear Caterina,

I am sorry to inform you that my wife, Clarice Strozzi, died yesterday. She suffered the last week with fever, but insisted on leaving her bed to entertain a visitor from Rome.

The night before she died, she sat at her desk writing letters to those persons most able to help her cause; morning found her still at her desk, so ill that she could not rise. We helped her to her bed and summoned the physician, but by then she realized she was dying.

Even in her suffering she did not forget you. She instructed me to write this letter, and tell you that your fortunes shall soon improve.

Look to Ambassador de la Roche from this time forth. He shall see that you are cared for and protected, as King François remains your faithful ally.

I am bereft.

Your uncle,

Filippo Strozzi

Like Uncle Filippo, I was disconsolate. I buried my face in Sister Niccoletta’s lap while she wrapped her arms about me. I felt abandoned: Uncle Filippo was not bound by blood to me; my welfare now depended on the vague, distant interest of the King of France.

For two days I sat in my bed and refused to eat. Surrounded by my books, I read obsessively about Saturn, harbinger of death, and of his heavy, cold attributes, and wondered how he had been placed in Clarice’s chart in the hour of her demise. I read all through the night; morning found me still reading, my eyes burning from strain, when Sister Niccoletta burst in abruptly, with her reticent servant Barbara in tow.

“Duchessina,”
she said, “a man has come to see you to pay his condolences.”

I scowled. “Who is it?”

“I don’t recall,” Niccoletta replied, “but Mother Giustina knows him, and says it’s all right for you to speak to him at the grate. I must hurry back to the sewing room, but Barbara will attend you.” She turned to the servant. “Make sure that his behavior is appropriate and that no one overhears.”

Uncle Filippo?
I wondered. Perhaps he had risked coming to Florence. Or perhaps—this thought brought a small thrill—Piero had managed to come see me. Quickly I asked, “Was he young or old, this man?”

Niccoletta looked blankly at me before turning to leave. “Mother Giustina did not say.”

Barbara led me outside to the convent wall. The door’s upper grate was curtained, but near the basket of alms—reeking of the vinegar used to prevent the spread of plague—the lower grate was uncovered. I saw a man’s boots.

Barbara knocked on the door and loudly announced, “The girl is here, sir. Mind your conversation remains discreet.” In a weak gesture of privacy, she took two steps back from me.

“Donna Caterina,” the man said, in a voice so resonant and deep I longed to hear it sing the words, “I come to bring heartfelt condolences on the death of your aunt. These have been cruel times for you.”

Had I been tall enough, I would have thrown back the veil and looked on his ugly visage—on the pitted, sickly looking skin, the crooked nose and overlarge ears—to see whether he had changed over the chaotic months that had separated us. I rose onto my toes, wanting to be closer.

“Ser Cosimo.” My tone held wonder. “How did you find me?”

“Did you think I had ever abandoned you? At Santa-Caterina, I brought you the stone. I thought surely you would know who sent it. You have it in your possession, do you not?”

“I do. I’m never without it.”

“Good.” He paused. “And the books rescued from the palazzo . . . ?”

“That was you . . .” It had been not Clarice but Cosimo Ruggieri all along. “But how did you save the books from the rebels? And I left the stone at Poggio a Caiano. How could you possibly have known . . . ?”

“You need not worry about the
how,
Madonna. You only need know that you have never been alone, and never will be.”

Tears threatened, but I censored them. “I thank you. But how can I contact you if I need you?”

“Through the French ambassador.”

“Why are you so kind to me?”

“I told you before, Caterina. You and I are bound by the stars. I am simply protecting my own interests.”

“The stars,” I said. “I want to learn everything I can about them.”

“You are only a girl of nine,” he countered quickly, then added, “but a most precocious one.” He sighed. “Read Ficino, then. And al-Biruni is a helpful guide.”

“I have to learn,” I said. “I need to know what will happen to me, whether the Pope and Emperor Charles will come to an agreement, whether I will ever be rescued.”

“The Pope and Emperor will come to an agreement,” Ser Cosimo said easily. “Even so, there is no point in worrying about the future now. Just know that I am at your disposal whenever you have need of me.” He took a step away; his voice grew distant. “I must leave now; for your sake, I cannot risk being seen. God be with you, Caterina.”

I listened to his footsteps as they slowly faded away.

“Ser Cosimo,” I said and pressed my palm to the door. I did not move until Barbara caught my elbow and pulled me away.

The summer passed without further incident, as did the next fall and winter. I grew and became more proficient in French. In my dreams at night, I told the bloody man,
Je ne veux pas ces reves, I do not want these dreams.

When summer came again, I and most of the sisters at Le Murate rejoiced to learn that the Pope would soon return to Rome; Clement had
agreed to crown Charles in return for Charles’s support of the Medici cause. Having lost too many battles to the Imperial forces, the French King, François, had likewise made peace with Charles and was withdrawing all support from Florence’s rebel Republic.

One warm, sticky morning in June, surrounded by the sisters, I stared beyond the open windows of the sewing room to find charcoal-colored clouds billowing on the horizon: Outside the city, crops and barns were burning, set ablaze by soldiers of the rebel government. Emperor Charles was coming—or at least his troops were, led by the Prince of Orange—and the rebels did not intend for them to find succor beyond the walls of Florence.

Outside the confines of Le Murate, a militia ten thousand men strong was forming. Walking outside in the garden or on the patio, I heard the terse shouts of commanders trying to organize untrained troops. Fearful of the coming battle, hundreds fled Florence. With Maddalena standing watch, I climbed the alder in the garden and tried to look beyond the city walls but saw only rooftops and the grey haze hanging over the city. Florence stank of smoke; it clung to our clothes and hair, and permeated every corner of the convent.