The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (19 page)

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 your 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.”

“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.”

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.