The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (6 page)

“It’s an outrage!” he shrieked. “
I
am the regent, I alone possess the authority to make such decisions. And I denounce this one!” He stood inches from Aunt Clarice, who, accompanied by two men at arms, barred entry to the dining hall. “You insult us!”

He seized Clarice’s right wrist, wrenching it so violently that she cried out in surprise and pain.

“Worthless bastard!” she shouted. “Let go of me!”

On either side of her, the guards unsheathed their swords. Passerini dropped hold of her at once. The younger of the guards was ready to strike, but Clarice signaled for peace and caught Ippolito’s gaze.

“Get them from my sight,” she hissed.

Cradling her injured wrist, she turned and swept imperiously back into the dining hall. The door closed behind her, and the guards positioned themselves in front of it. The Cardinal lurched slightly, as if considering whether to charge the door, but Ippolito caught his arm.

“They’ve made the decision to deal with her,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do here. Come.” Still gripping Passerini’s arm, he moved for the stairs; Sandro followed.

I held my ground on the landing as they ascended toward me and looked questioningly at Ippolito.

“Our aunt has chosen to humiliate us, Caterina,” Ippolito said tautly, “by barring us from the negotiations at the request of the rebels. I’m sure they’ll find her more accommodating.” His voice grew very low and soft. “She has humiliated us. And she
will
pay.”

I watched as they made their way to their apartments, then I returned to
my bed and stared at the window and the darkness beyond it, broken by the wavering glow from the rebels’ torches.

I slept fitfully, with dreams of men and swords and shouting. At dawn, sounds pulled me from sleep: the ring of bootheels on marble, the murmur of men’s voices. I called for Paola, who came and dressed me with a far rougher hand than Ginevra ever had. On her orders, I ran down toward the kitchen but stopped in the ground-floor corridor. The door to the dining hall was open; curiosity compelled me to peer past the threshold.

Clarice was inside. She sat alone at the long table littered with empty goblets; hers was full, untouched. She was dressed gorgeously in deep green brocade, and the train of her gown spilled over the side of the chair and pooled artfully at her feet. Her arm rested on the table, and her face, nestled in the crook, was turned from me. Her chestnut hair hung upon her shoulder, restrained by a gold net studded with tiny diamonds.

She heard me and languidly lifted her head. She was full awake, but her expression was lifeless; I was too young to interpret it then, but over the years I have come to recognize the dull look of undigested grief.

“Caterina,” she said, without inflection; her eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion. She leaned over and patted the seat of the chair beside her. “Come, sit with me. The men will be down soon, and you might as well hear.”

I sat. Her wrist, propped upon the table, was badly swollen, with dark marks left by Passerini’s fingers. Within a few minutes, Leda led Passerini and the cousins to the table. Ippolito’s manner was reserved; Passerini’s and Sandro’s, angry and challenging.

When they had taken their seats, Aunt Clarice waved Leda out of the room. Capponi had guaranteed us all safe passage, she said. We would go to Naples, where her mother’s people, the Orsini, would take us in. With their help, we would raise an army. The Duke of Milan would support us, and the d’Estes of Ferrara, and every other dynasty in Italy with sense enough to see that the formation of another Venice-style republic was an outright threat to them.

Passerini interrupted. “You gave Capponi
everything
he wanted, didn’t you? No wonder they preferred to deal with a woman!”

Clarice looked wearily at him. “Their men surround this house, Silvio. They have soldiers and weapons, and we have neither. With what did you intend me to bargain?”

“They came to us!” Passerini snarled. “They wanted something.”

“They wanted our
heads,
” Clarice said, with a faint trace of spirit. “Instead they will grant us safe passage. And in exchange, we must give them this.”

She spoke tonelessly and at length: The rebels would let us live, if, in four days, on the seventeenth of May at midday, Ippolito, Alessandro, and I went to the great public square, the Piazza della Signoria, and announced our abdication. We would then swear oaths of allegiance to the new Third Republic of Florence. We would also swear never to return. Afterward, rebel soldiers would lead us to the city gates and waiting carriages.

The cardinal swore and sputtered. “Betrayal,” Sandro said. The magician’s face rose in my imagination and whispered:
One that threatens your life
. They both fell silent the instant Ippolito rose.

“I knew Florence was lost,” he told Clarice, his voice unsteady. “But there are other things we could have purchased our safety with—properties, hidden family treasure, promises of alliances. For you to agree to
humiliate
us publicly—”

Clarice raised a brow. “Would you prefer the bite of the executioner’s blade?”

“I will not bow to them, Aunt,” Ippolito said.

“I kept our dignity,” Clarice countered; the tiny diamonds in her hairnet sparkled as she lifted her chin. “They could have taken our heads. They could have stripped us and hung us in the Piazza della Signoria. Instead, they wait outside. They give us a bit of freedom. They give us time.”

Ippolito drew in a long breath, and when he let it go, he shuddered. “I will not bow to them,” he said, and the words held a threat.

Four miserable days passed; the men spent them closeted in Ippolito’s chambers. Aunt Clarice wandered empty halls, as all of the house servants—except the most loyal, which included Leda, Paola, the stablehands, and the cook—had left. Beyond the iron gate, the rebels kept watch; the soldiers who had guarded our palazzo abandoned us.

By the afternoon of the sixteenth—one day before we were all to humble ourselves in the Piazza della Signoria—my room was stripped. I begged Paola to pack the volume of Ficino, but she murmured that it was a very big book for such a little girl.

That evening, Aunt Clarice prevailed upon us to have supper in one of the smaller dining rooms. Ippolito had little to say to anyone; Sandro, however, seemed surprisingly lighthearted, as did Passerini—who, when Clarice voiced her regret over leaving the family home in hostile hands, patted her hand, pointedly ignoring her bandaged right wrist.

The dinner ended quietly—at least, for Clarice, Ippolito, and me. The three of us retired, leaving Sandro and Passerini to their wine and jokes. I could hear them laughing as I headed back toward the children’s apartments.

That night, I dreamt.

I stood in the center of a vast open field and spied in the distance a man, his body backlit by the rays of the dying sun. I could not see his face, but he knew me and called out to me in a foreign tongue.

Catherine . . .

Not Caterina, as I was christened at birth, but
Catherine
. I recognized it as my name, just as I had when the magician had once uttered it so.

Catherine,
he cried again, anguished.

The setting changed abruptly, as happens in dreams. He lay on the ground at my feet and I stood over him, wanting to help. Blood welled up from his shadowed face like water from a spring and soaked the earth beneath him. I knew that I was responsible for this blood, that he would die if I did not do something. Yet I could not fathom what I was to do.

Catherine,
he whispered, and died, and I woke to the sound of Leda screaming.

The sound came from across the landing, from Ippolito and Alessandro’s shared apartments. I ran toward the source.

Leda had fallen in front of the wide-open door onto all fours. Her screams were now moans, which merged with the song of bells from the nearby cathedral of San Lorenzo, announcing the dawn.

I ran up to her. “Is it the baby?”

Gritting her teeth, Leda shook her head. Her stricken gaze was on Clarice, who had also come running in her chemise, a shawl thrown around her shoulders. She knelt beside the fallen woman. “The child is coming, then?”

Again, Leda shook her head and gestured at the heirs’ room. “I went to wake them,” she gasped.

Clarice’s face went slack. Wordlessly, she rose and hurried on bare feet into the men’s antechamber. I followed.

The outer room looked as it always had—with chairs, table, writing desks, a cold hearth for summer. Without announcing herself, Clarice sailed through the open door into Ippolito’s bedroom.

In its center—as if the perpetrators had intended to draw attention to their dramatic display—a pile of clothes lay on the floor: the farsettos Alessandro
and Ippolito had worn the previous night, atop a tangle of black leggings and Passerini’s scarlet gown.

I stood behind my aunt as she bent down to check the abandoned fabric for warmth. As she straightened, she let go a whispered roar, filled with infinite rage.

“Traitors! Traitors! Sons of whores, all of you!”

She whirled about and saw me standing, terrified, in front of her. Her eyes were wild, her features contorted.

“I pledged on my honor,” she said, but not to me. “On my honor, on my family name, and Capponi trusted me.”

She fell silent until her anger transformed into ruthless determination. She took my hand firmly and led me ungently back into the corridor, where Leda was still moaning on the floor.

She seized the pregnant woman’s arm. “Get up. Quick, go to the stables and see if the carriages have gone.”

Leda arched her back and went rigid; liquid splashed softly against marble. Clarice took a step back from the clear puddle around Leda’s knees and shouted for Paola—who was, of course, horrified by the revelation of the men’s departure and needed severe chastising before she calmed.

Clarice ordered Paola to go to the stables to see if all the carriages were gone. “Calmly,” Clarice urged, “as if you had forgotten to pack something. Remember—the rebels are watching just beyond the gate.”

Once Paola had gone on her mission, Clarice glanced down at Leda and turned to me. “Help me get her to my room,” she said.

We lifted the laboring woman to her feet and helped her up the stairs to my aunt’s chambers. The spasm that had earlier seized her eased, and she sat, panting, in a chair near Clarice’s bed.

In due time, Paola returned, hysterical: Passerini and the heirs were nowhere to be found, yet the carriages that had been packed with their belongings still waited. The master of the horses and all the grooms were gone—and the bodies of three stablehands lay bloodied in the straw. Only a boy remained. He had been asleep, he said, and woke terrified to discover his fellows murdered and the master gone.

In Clarice’s eyes, I saw the flash of Lorenzo’s brilliant mind at work.

“My quill,” she said to Paola, “and paper.”

When Paola had delivered them both, Clarice sat at her desk and wrote two letters. The effort exasperated her, as her bandaged hand pained her; many times, she dropped the quill. She bade Paola fold one letter several times into a small square, the other, into thirds. With the smaller letter in hand, Aunt Clarice knelt at the foot of Leda’s chair and took the servant’s cheeks in her hands. A look passed between them that I, a child, did not understand. Then Clarice leaned forward and pressed her lips to Leda’s as a man might kiss a woman; Leda wound her arms about Clarice and held her fast. After a long moment, Clarice pulled away and touched her forehead to Leda’s in the tenderest of gestures.

Finally Clarice straightened. “You must be brave for me, Leda, or we are all dead. I will arrange with Capponi for you to go to my physician. You must give the doctor this”—she held up the little square of paper—“without anyone seeing or knowing.”

“But the rebels . . . ,” Leda breathed, owl-eyed.

“They’ll have pity on you,” Clarice said firmly. “Doctor Cattani will make sure that your child arrives safely in this world. We will meet again, and soon. Only trust me.”

When Leda, tight-lipped, finally nodded, Clarice gestured for Paola to take the other letter, folded in thirds.

“Tell the rebels at the gate to deliver this to Capponi immediately. Wait for his answer, then come to me.”

Paola hesitated—only an instant, as Aunt Clarice’s gaze was far more frightening than the prospect of facing the rebels—and disappeared with the letter.

After a long, anxious hour—during which I managed to dress myself, with Clarice’s help—Paola reappeared with news that Capponi would let Leda leave provided she was judged sincerely pregnant and about to give birth. This led to an urgent consultation between the women as to where the letter should be concealed, and how Leda should pass it to the doctor without detection.

Then, per Capponi’s instruction, Clarice and Paola helped the pregnant woman down the stairs to the large brass door that opened directly onto the Via Larga. I shadowed them at a distance.