The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Rome

September 1530-October 1533

Twelve

I made good on my bargain with Ser Silvestro. His comrades met their deaths at chopping blocks and gallows; he was fated to join them until I dispatched a letter to the Pope. His sentence was commuted to exile.

When Le Murate’s door opened to me, I ran into Sister Niccoletta’s waiting arms; we held each other fast and I laughed at the pools of tears collected on her spectacles. Within two days, Roman legates arrived with gifts of cheese, cakes, lambs, pigs, pigeons, and the finest wine I have ever tasted. While the rest of the city mourned defeat, those at Le Murate celebrated my return with a feast.

Fortunately, our invaders were not the wild, angry troops that had decimated Rome. The occupation of Florence was orderly. The Imperial commander who brought greetings from the Pope and Emperor Charles kissed my hand and addressed me as Duchessa.

On the fourth morning after the Republican surrender, a carriage took me to the Strozzi family villa. There, two men waited in the reception hall, one of them the gray-haired, sunken-cheeked Filippo Strozzi. As I entered the room, he embraced me more enthusiastically than he ever had before. He had reason to be glad: Florence and Rome were in the throes of rebuilding, and Filippo, kinsman by marriage to the Pope and a banker with money to lend, was positioned to become dazzlingly rich.

The other man was young, short, barrel-chested, and wearing a blinding grin. I failed to recognize him until he cried, his voice breaking with emotion, “Cat! Cat, I thought never to see you again!”

I had no words. I hugged Piero tightly, reluctant to let go of him. When we sat, he pulled his chair next to mine and held my hand.

My joy at the Imperial victory was tinged with sorrow at the realization that I would have to leave Le Murate, but I comforted myself with the thought that I would soon return home to the Palazzo Medici with Uncle Filippo and Piero.

“Duchessina,” Filippo said, “His Holiness has sent you gifts.”

He fetched presents: a silk damask gown of vivid blue and a choker of pearls from which hung a pea-size diamond.

“I shall wear these,” I said, delighted, “when we dine together again at the Palazzo Medici.”

“Pope Clement bids you wear these when you go to meet him in Rome.” Filippo cleared his throat. “His Holiness wishes the heirs to remain in Rome until such time as they are ready to rule.”

I cried, of course. I had to be pried away from Piero after we said good-bye.

Back at Le Murate, I mourned bitterly. I wrote impassioned letters to Clement, begging to stay in Florence. It didn’t matter. By the end of the month, I was forced to say farewell to Sister Niccoletta and Mother Giustina and my beloved Piero.

I was orphaned again.

Rome sits upon seven hills. After hours of rolling green countryside, I glimpsed the first of them, the Qirinal, from the window of the carriage that carried Uncle Filippo, Ginevra, and me. Filippo pointed at an approaching expanse of worn, unremarkable brick, sections of which had dissolved with age and sprouted greenery.

“The Aurelian Wall,” he said reverently. “Nearly thirteen hundred years old.”

Moments after, we reached the wall and passed beneath a modern archway: the Porta del Popolo, the Gate of the People. Beyond, a sprawling city stretched to the horizon, dotted with campaniles and cathedral domes rising above the flat roofs of villas; white marble glittered beneath a hot September sun. Rome was far larger than Florence, far larger than I could have imagined. We rolled through common neighborhoods, past shops, humble homes, and open markets. The poor traveled on foot, the merchants on horses, the rich in carriages, a preponderance of which belonged to cardinals. Yet the streets, though busy, were uncrowded; a third of the buildings were still empty three years after the devastation wrought by the Emperor’s troops. Rome was still licking her wounds.

As the districts grew wealthier, I saw more evidence of the Sack. The gaudy villas of cardinals and of Rome’s most influential families exhibited damage: Stone finials and cornices had been smashed, wooden doorways scarred. Statues of gods were missing limbs, noses, breasts. Over the entrance to one cathedral, a headless Virgin held the Christ child in her arms.

Hammers rang on every street; wooden scaff olding embraced the façade of every other building. Artists’ shops were crowded with clients arguing over commissions, apprentices grinding gems, sculptors chiseling huge chunks of marble.

At last the carriage slowed, and Uncle Filippo said, “The Piazza Navona, built on the ruins of Emperor Domitian’s circus.”

It was the largest square I had ever seen, wide enough for a dozen carriages to travel side by side. Ostentatious villas, newly built, lined its perimeter.

Filippo pointed to a building at the far side of the square and proudly announced, “The Medici Palace of Rome, which rests upon Nero’s baths.”

The new palace, of pale stucco edged with marble, had been built in the popular classical style-square and flat-roofed, three stories high. The carriage rolled into the long, curving driveway, then stopped, and the driver jumped down to call at the front door. Instead of the expected servant, a noblewoman appeared.

She was my great-aunt Lucrezia de’ Medici, daughter of Lorenzo il Magnifico and sister of the late Pope Leo X. Her husband, Iacopo Salviati, had recently been appointed Florence’s ambassador to Rome. Elegant, thin, and slightly stooped, she wore a gown of black and silver striped silk that precisely matched her velvet headdress and hair.

At the sight of Uncle Filippo helping me from the carriage, she called out, smiling, “I have been waiting all morning! How wonderful to finally set eyes upon you, Duchessa!”

Aunt Lucrezia led Ginevra and me to my new apartments. I had come to think of my room at Le Murate as lavish; now, I entered a sunny antechamber with six padded velvet chairs, a Persian rug, a dining table, and a large cherry desk. Paintings covered the marble walls: an annunciation scene, a portrait of Lorenzo as a young man, and one of my mother, an arresting young woman with dark eyes and hair. Lucrezia had brought the painting out of storage for me.

She explained that my great-uncle Iacopo was meeting with His Holiness that very hour, arranging a time for my audience. She left me in the company of a seamstress, who fitted me for several fine gowns.

Before supper, Lucrezia’s own lady-in-waiting arrived. With Ginevra’s help, she laced me into a woman’s gown of daff odil yellow brocade. An inset of sheer silk, fine as a spider’s web, stretched from the low bodice to my neck. My hair was smoothed back at the crown with a band of brown velvet edged with seed pearls.

Sheepish in my grand costume, I followed her down to the family’s private dining chamber. At its entrance, Aunt Lucrezia and Uncle Iacopo, an authoritative, balding old man, greeted me. They led me inside, to my place at the long, gleaming table, and I found myself staring across it at Ippolito and Sandro.

I had known they would be there, of course, but had not allowed myself to think about it because facing them was simply too awful: I could never forgive them-but they were now the only family I had.

Now nineteen, Sandro looked more than ever like his African mother, his clean-shaven face dominated by heavy black brows and great dark eyes ringed by shadows; he wore a drab, old-fashioned lucco, the loose tunic of a city elder.

“Cousin,” he said formally and bowed on the other side of the table, keeping his distance, at the same time that Ippolito came grinning round the table.

Beneath an attractively hawkish nose, Ippolito’s mustache and beard were blue-black and full, his large eyes brown and rimmed by thick lashes. Dressed in a tight-fitting green farsetto to show off the broadness of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist, he was, simply, beautiful.

“Caterina, sweet cousin!” he exclaimed. The diamond on his left ear flashed. “How I have missed you!”

He reached for me. In my mind’s eye, I saw Aunt Clarice staring down in horror at a tangle of hastily discarded leggings and tunics; I put my hand up to keep him from touching me, but he bent down and kissed it.

“The Duchessina is tired,” Aunt Lucrezia pronounced loudly. “She is glad to see you both, but she has been through too much; let us not tax her. Take your chair, Ser Ippolito.”

We sat down. The food was exquisite, but the sight of it nauseated me. I went through the motions of putting a small bite into my mouth and chewing it, but swallowing it made me want to cry.

Conversation was polite, dominated by Donna Lucrezia and Ser Iacopo. The latter asked what I thought of Rome; I stammered replies. Donna Lucrezia inquired politely about the cousins’ studies; Ippolito was the quicker to answer. A lull followed, during which I felt Ippolito’s steady gaze on me.

Softly, he said, “We were all horrified, of course, when we heard that the rebels had taken you prisoner.”

I pushed back my chair and ran from the table, out the French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the city; thousands of windows flickered yellow in the darkness. I crouched in the farthest corner and closed my eyes. I wanted to vomit up the food I had just eaten; I wanted to vomit up the last three years.

I heard footsteps and looked up at Ippolito’s silhouette, backlit by the glow from the dining room.

“Caterina…” He knelt beside me. “You hate me, don’t you?” “

Go away.” My tone was ugly, raw. “Go away and don’t ever speak to me again.”

He let go the saddest of sighs. “Poor cousin. It must have been dreadful for you.”

“They might have killed us,” I said bitterly.

“Do you think I feel no guilt?” he countered, with a trace of vehemence.

“Consider my point of view: I was about to make a very dangerous escape, one I might well not have survived. I didn’t tell you for fear you would be endangered. We dressed like common thugs; our accomplices were thieves and murderers. We didn’t feel safe with them ourselves. What would they have done to a young girl?”

“They tore her gown when we were climbing the wall to escape,” I hissed. “It broke her heart to lose Florence. It broke her heart, and she died.”

His features, faded by darkness, twisted with anguish. “It broke my heart to leave you both. I thought the rebels would rightfully blame us, pursue us, and let the both of you go free. I thought that, by confiding nothing, I had protected you. Then I heard you were imprisoned. And when Clarice died, I…” He turned his face away, overcome.

I startled myself by reaching toward him-but when he faced me again, I withdrew my hand, uncertainly.

“Sweet little cousin,” he said. “Perhaps in time you will be able to forgive me.”

In the end, Ippolito led me back into the dining room. Supper continued in subdued fashion. Afterward, I went up to my room, unnerved yet relieved by the ease with which Ippolito had coaxed me back. That night, as I struggled to fall asleep in my fine new bed, with Ginevra snoring enthusiastically out in the antechamber, I recalled the regret and sorrow in Ippolito’s voice when he spoke of Clarice and wondered what might have happened had I not drawn my hand away.

The next morning, wearing Clement’s gifts-the blue gown and diamond pendant-I climbed into a gilded carriage with Filippo, Lucrezia, and Iacopo. We rolled over the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge named for the giant statue of the Archangel Michael atop the nearby fortress of the Castel Sant’Angelo, his huge wings sheltering the wounded city.

The bridge spanned the river Tiber, which separated the Holy See from the rest of the city. The Tiber was so crowded with merchant ships-a thousand sails, so close together they might have all been one monstrous vessel-I could scarcely see the muddy water, which stank of garbage.

The Ponte Sant’Angelo took us into Saint Peter’s Square-in fact a circle, its circumference ringed by massive stone colonnades; at the far end stood the new Basilica of Saint Peter. Built in the shape of a Roman cross, it rose above the colonnades embracing it. The beggars and pilgrims, monks and cardinals upon its sprawling marble steps were gnats in comparison. Like the rest of Rome, Saint Peter’s was undergoing repairs-it had served as the stables for Lutheran invaders during the Sack-and its flanks were covered with the ubiquitous wooden scaff olding.

Our carriage stopped on the Basilica’s northern side. Ser Iacopo led the way as Filippo, Lucrezia, and I passed porticoes, courtyards, and fountains en route to the Papal Palace, surrounded by the famed Swiss Guard, clad in broad stripes of yellow and blue, with plumes of Medici red on their helmets. When the Emperor’s troops swarmed Saint Peter’s Square, forcing Clement to run for his life, the Swiss soldiers had died almost to a man defending him.

The guards knew Ser Iacopo well and parted smartly to permit us entry. We ascended a great marble staircase, Donna Lucrezia whispering in my ear, pointing out landmarks as we made our way past priests, bishops, and red-robed cardinals. On the second landing, a pair of closed doors were bound with a chain: the infamous Borgia Apartments, sealed off entirely since the death of the criminally inclined patriarch Rodrigo, better known to the world as Pope Alexander VI.

Soon we arrived at the suite directly above the Borgia Apartments: the Raphael Rooms, named for the artist who had adorned their walls. In the alcove just inside, a frail, white-haired cardinal frowned as he listened intently to an urgently whispering widow. Ser Iacopo gently cleared his throat; the ancient cardinal smiled up at Ser Iacopo and asked eagerly, “Ah, Cousin… Is this she?”

“It is,” Ser Iacopo replied.

“Duchessina.” The old man bowed stiffly. “I am Giovanni Rodolfo Salviati, at your service. Welcome to our city.”

I thanked him, and he staggered away bearing news of our arrival. A moment later, Cardinal Salviati returned and beckoned to us with a gnarled finger. We passed through an outer chamber so thoroughly covered with murals I could not absorb them all.

The door to the adjacent chamber lay ajar; the Cardinal paused on the threshold. “Your Holiness? The Duchess of Urbino, Caterina de’ Medici.”

I walked into a work of art. The floor was shining inlaid marble arranged in varying geometric designs, and the walls…

The walls. Three were covered in painted masterpieces limned by gilt and encased in marble lunettes; the fourth was lined from floor to ceiling with ornately carved shelves that held hundreds of books and countless stacks of scrolls yellowed by the centuries. The ceiling was a riot of marble molding and painted allegorical figures, gods, and haloed saints; in its center was a small cupola, where four plump cherubs supported the gold and crimson shield bearing the papal tiara and keys.

I had grown up in the Palazzo Medici, surrounded by the art of the masters-Masaccio, Gozzoli, Botticelli-but the mural on the chapel walls in Florence had been its one real glory, set above wainscoting of dark wood, the better to show it off. In Rome, there was no wainscoting, no thumbnail of space that was not astoundingly glorious. Over every door, every window, in every corner was a glorious masterwork.

I leaned my head back, giddy, until Lucrezia plucked my sleeve. At a magnificent mahogany desk sat my kinsman Pope Clement, the erstwhile Giulio de’ Medici, whose family name had purchased him a cardinalship and then the papacy, even though he had never been ordained a priest. A quill was in his right hand, and in his left a document, which he held at arm’s length, squinting with the effort to read it.

Since the Sack of Rome, Clement had, like mourning prophets of old, refused to cut his beard or hair. His wiry beard now touched his heart, and his wavy, silvering hair fell past his shoulders. His red silk robe was no finer than those worn by the cardinals; only his white satin skullcap hinted at his status. His eyes held an unspeakable weariness, the exhaustion caused by much grief.

Uncle Filippo cleared his throat, and Clement glanced up and caught my gaze; the mournful eyes brightened at once.

“My little Duchessina, is it you at last?” He dropped the quill and paper, and spread his arms. “Come kiss your old uncle! We have waited years for this moment!”

Having been carefully coached by Donna Lucrezia, I stepped forward and fumbled for his hand; when he realized my intent, he held it still so I might kiss the ruby ring of Peter. But when I knelt to kiss his feet, he reached down and pulled me firmly to mine.

“We chose to see you here rather than in public audience so that we could dispense with such formalities,” he said. “We have been through too many horrors, you and I. For now, I am not Pope, and you are not a duchess; I am your uncle and you my niece, re united after a long sorrow. Kiss me on the cheek, dear girl.”

I kissed him and he took my hand. When I drew away, tears filmed his eyes.

“God has taken pity on us at last,” he sighed. “I cannot tell you how many nights’ sleep was stolen from us by the knowledge you were in rebel hands. We never forgot you, not for even one day, nor ever ceased praying on your behalf. Now you must call us Uncle, and always think of us as such. We will see you rule in Florence.”

He looked to me, expectant, and I, overwhelmed, could say only “Thank you, Uncle.”

He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze before letting it go. “Look at you,” he said. “You are wearing our gifts. The color suits you, and the jewels.” He did not tell me I was beautiful; that would have been a lie. I was old enough to look into a mirror and see that I was plain.

“Donna Lucrezia,” he asked, “have you arranged for her tutors, as I requested?”

“We have, Your Holiness.”

“Good.” He winked at me. “My niece must become proficient in Latin and Greek, so as not to scandalize the cardinals.”

“I know Latin very well, Your Holiness,” I said, “having studied it for many years. And I have a smattering of Greek.”

“Indeed?” He lifted a skeptical brow. “Then translate this: Assiduus usus uni rei deditus et-”

I finished for him. “Et ingenium et artem saepe vincit. It is Cicero.” Patient study of a single subject trumps brains and talent.

He let go a short laugh. “Well done!”

“If it please Your Holiness,” I began timidly. “I should like to continue my studies of Greek. And of mathematics.”

“Mathematics?” He lifted his brows in surprise. “Do you not yet know your numbers, girl?”

“I do,” I answered. “And geometry, and trigonometry, and algebra. It would please me to study under a tutor with advanced knowledge of these subjects.”

“On her account, I ask forgiveness,” Donna Lucrezia interjected swiftly. “The nuns said she liked to do calculations to plot the courses of the planets. But it is not a fit preoccupation for a young lady.”

Clement did not glance in her direction; he was too busy appraising me with faintly narrowed eyes. “So,” he said finally. “You have the Medici head for numbers. What a fine banker you would make.”

My great-aunt and great-uncle laughed politely; Clement kept his gaze fixed on me.

“Donna Lucrezia,” he said, “give her whatever she asks in terms of her studies. She is very bright, but malleable enough, I think. And Ser Iacopo, do not limit your conversation with her. There is much she could learn from you about the art of diplomacy. She will need such skills to rule.”

He rose and, against the protests of his aides about the pressing nature of business, took my hand and led me through the Raphael Rooms. He paused to explain each work of art that provoked my curiosity, and in the Room of the Fire in the Borgo, pointed out the many images of my great-uncle Leo X on the walls there.

Clement spoke wistfully of the loneliness of his position, of his yearning for a wife and family. He would never bestow upon the world a child, he confided sadly, and wished that I might be as a daughter to him, and that he might be to me the father I had never known. His voice caught as he said our time together would be short. Too soon, my native city would be ready to receive my husband and me as its rightful rulers. He, Clement, could only hope that I would remember him fondly, and permit him to gaze on my children one day with grandfatherly pride.

His speech was so eloquent, so poignant, that I was moved and stood on tiptoe to kiss his bearded cheek. I, malleable girl, believed it all.

Thirteen

A small crowd had been invited to the palazzo that evening to more properly celebrate my arrival. Donna Lucrezia had taken care to ensure that at least one representative was present from each of the city’s most influential families-the Orsini, Farnese, delle Rovere, and Riario.

I smiled a great deal that night as I was introduced to dozens of Rome’s luminaries. Uncle Filippo, bound to leave the following morning, knew everyone well and was clearly at ease in Roman society. Sandro’s manner with the guests was far less stuff y than it had been the previous evening; he actually grinned and displayed some wit.

As we were seated at the table and wine was poured, Ippolito remained noticeably absent. I was disappointed; I wanted to tell him that I had decided to forgive him. And I suspected my blue dress was quite fetching.

Supper was served. His Holiness had sent over a dozen suckling pigs and a barrel of his best wine. I was rather nervous at first but soon became lost in conversation with the French ambassador, who complimented my feeble efforts at his native tongue, and with Lucrezia’s grown daughter Maria, a gracious woman. I was enjoying the people, the food, and the wine, and had forgotten about Ippolito until I caught sight of him in the doorway.

His doublet was bright blue velvet, the same shade as my gown, with the pearl button at the neck undone; his short black hair was tousled. The conversation ebbed as others noticed him.

“My apologies to the assembled company,” he said, with a sweeping bow. “And to our dear hostess, Donna Lucrezia. I was forgetful of the hour.”

He quickly took his place at table, directly across from Sandro and at some remove from me. Chatter resumed, and I returned my attention to my plate and the French ambassador.

Five minutes later, I heard a shout. Ippolito had jumped to his feet so quickly that he had knocked over his goblet; a garnet stain was spreading across the table, but he cared not at all.

“Son of a whore,” he said loudly, his wild-eyed gaze fastened on Sandro. “You know very well what I am speaking about. Why don’t you tell them?”

Across from him, his cousin sat deadly still. “Sit down, Lito.”

Ippolito gestured sweepingly at the other diners. “Tell them all, Sandro. Tell them how you are ambitious-so very, very ambitious-but too craven to be so openly.”

Ser Iacopo rose from his chair and, in a voice of well-honed authority, said, “Ser Ippolito, sit down.”

Ippolito’s body was taut with the effort to contain a torrent of hatred. “I will sit down when Sandro speaks the truth publicly,” he announced. “Tell us, dear cousin. Tell us all what you are willing to do to see me brought down.”

He lunged across the table, rattling plates and cutlery and nearly overturning a flaming candelabrum, and caught the neck of Sandro’s tunic.

Uncle Filippo was instantly at his side. “Come away,” he commanded.

He seized Ippolito’s elbow and pulled him upright. Ippolito jerked free; his mouth curled in a snarl. I thought he would strike Filippo, but his anger turned abruptly sullen and he strode from the room.

Still seated, Sandro watched him go with a guarded expression. Dinner continued, the conversation at first subdued but soon regaining its earlier liveliness.

After the meal and hours of small talk, I made my way back up the stairs to my chambers. Ginevra had forgotten to pack some items for Uncle Filippo, who was leaving early, but she had promised to come undress me within the hour. A hallway sconce had been lit in consideration of my unfamiliarity with the terrain, and it cast a sharp shadow in the alcove near my door; a figure stepped from it into the light.

I recognized Ippolito at once. Had I not drunk a good deal of wine myself, I might have noticed that his eyes were red, his words slurred, his balance precarious. His hands were steepled contritely at his heart.

“Caterina,” he said. “I came to apologize for my behavior at supper.”

“You need not apologize to me,” I responded lightly, “but Donna Lucrezia is another matter.”

He smiled ruefully. “She will be satisfied only if I spend the rest of my life trying to make amends.”

“Why were you so angry at Sandro?”

He pulled me toward the door with the intent of leading me into the antechamber. I balked; Ginevra might be back at any time, and if she saw me alone with a man in my room, cousin or no, she would think it improper.

“Not in there,” I hissed, but he laid a finger to his lips and drew me just inside the door.

The bedroom beyond was dark, but the lamp on the antechamber desk had been lit. Ippolito stepped conspiratorially close and took my hands. I did not pull away, as propriety demanded; I was giddy from the wine and his presence.

“You were so angry,” I whispered. “Why?”

He tensed. “Sandro, the bastard, tells terrible lies about me to His Holiness. And His Holiness, who is partial to Sandro, believes them.”

“What lies?”

His lip tugged downward. “Sandro wants His Holiness to believe that I am nothing but a drunk, a womanizer, that I am failing at my studies…” He let go a low, bitter laugh. “And here am I, stupid enough to drink too much wine, because I am so angry!”

“Why would Sandro say such things?”

“Because he is jealous,” Ippolito said. “Because he wants to poison Clement against me. He wants to rule alone.” His expression grew even darker. “If he dares speak ill of you to Clement, I…” He tightened his grip on my hands. “Your years of imprisonment haven’t hardened you, Caterina; you have the same kind heart.”

He fell silent and stared intently into my eyes. In his, I saw the same light I had seen in Aunt Clarice’s, when she had kissed Leda for the last time.

“That is why I love you,” Ippolito said. “Because you are nothing like him. Because you are utterly brilliant yet completely guileless.” He lowered his face to mine. “Can you be loyal, Caterina? Can you love me?”

“Of course.” I didn’t know what else to say.

He leaned into me, his hips pressed to mine. He was tall, and the top of my head barely reached his collar. He put one hand on my shoulder, and let it slide down inside my bodice; the other cradled the nape of my neck.

It occurred to me that I ought to run away, but the feel of his hand on my bare flesh was intoxicating. I leaned back against his hand and let him kiss me. The act involved a good deal of heat; I instinctively wrapped my arms around him.

He kissed my ears and closed eyelids, then parted my lips with his tongue. He tasted of the Pope’s wine.

“Caterina,” he sighed.

I heard Ginevra’s step on the distant landing and pulled away from him; he slipped out of my antechamber just in time to escape her detection.

A heady year passed, one of banquets and balls. I was convinced that I would marry Ippolito and return to Florence. Each day, I grew more to look like a woman; each day, Ippolito won me by increasing degrees, with compliments and tender glances. On my birthday, he presented me with a pair of earrings, diamonds cut in the shape of tears. “To better show off your lovely neck,” he said. My face was not pretty, but he had found other features to honestly compliment: my long neck, my small feet and elegant hands.

Donna Lucrezia frowned; the gift was one a lover might give his paramour, or a man his betrothed, but our engagement was not yet official. She had reason to be concerned. The week before, upon dismounting after a vigorous ride, I realized my petticoats were wet. I went to my bedchamber and discovered, to my astonishment, that they were soaked with blood. Alerted by the chambermaid, Donna Lucrezia came to explain the distasteful facts of monthly bleeding. Afterward, she lectured me at length on the need for virtue-for political purposes as much as religious ones.

I scarcely listened. Whenever we found ourselves alone, Ippolito fell on me with kisses and I heatedly returned them. With each encounter, I permitted another liberty. At supper, the memory of such ardent moments left us grinning across the table at each other. Increasingly, I sent my lady-in-waiting, Donna Marcella, off on meaningless errands while I stole away to those areas of the villa frequented by Ippolito.

On one such occasion, I found him in a corridor near his private chambers. We went straightaway into each other’s arms. When his hand burrowed beneath my skirts and petticoats, I did not stop him; when his fingers reached between my legs and stroked the mound of flesh there, I moaned. Suddenly, he slipped one finger inside me, and I was lost. I bore down with my full weight as it moved, slow and probing at first, then faster.

We were too far gone to hear footsteps until it was too late. There we were, Ippolito pressed hard against me, his hand beneath my skirts; and there was Sandro, close-mouthed and wide-eyed. Sandro stared at us and we stared at him, then Sandro turned and walked away.

I pushed free from Ippolito, my desire transformed into something sickening and ugly.

“Damn him,” Ippolito breathed, still trembling. “He will use this against me, I know it. But if he dares use it against you, there will be hell to pay.”

Hell was a long time coming. In the interim, I continued my occasional brief encounters with Ippolito, though I remained alert to avoid detection. Ippolito grew more passionate, more intense in his declarations of love, and I, certain we would be married within a year, allowed his fingers and lips full access to my person.

Ippolito, however, desired more-but Donna Lucrezia had impressed upon me the fact that I could now become pregnant. I kept my ardent cousin at bay, though I grew increasingly tempted to give him what he most wanted.

Winter came-mild and sunny, a cheerful contrast to cold, gloomy Florence. At Christmas we attended a large banquet at the Papal Palace, held in Raphael’s glorious Room of the Fire in the Borgo. Afterward, as the guests mingled in the magnificent surroundings, Clement took me aside. The roar of convivial conversation around us guaranteed that his words would be heard by us alone.

“I hear you are much taken with our Ippolito,” he said.

Sandro, I realized, had revealed everything. Mortified, furious, I glanced down at the marble floor, unable to formulate a coherent reply.

“You are too young to be mooning over a rake like him,” Clement admonished. “Besides, you have inherited the brains and tenacity for which the Medici are famed. Ippolito did not, and so it falls to you, as young as you are, to be the wiser one. He pursues you not for love but because youth makes his blood run hot. Shun him now so that, when his ardor cools, you will still have his respect. Otherwise-I tell you as a man who understands these things-you will find yourself badly used. Do you understand me, Caterina?”

I mumbled, “I do, Your Holiness.”

“Then promise me. Promise me that you will keep your virtue and spurn his embrace.”

“I promise, Holiness,” I said.

I was at the age of foolishness, when I believed my elders incapable of understanding the exceptional nature of the love Ippolito and I shared. And so I lied, bald-faced, to the Pope.

Late that evening, accompanied by my lady, Donna Marcella, I was ascending the stairs to my chambers when Sandro came up behind us.

“Good evening, Caterina,” he said, with unsmiling reserve.

I gave him a withering stare before turning my back to him.

“Donna Marcella,” Sandro said softly, “I should like to speak privately with my sister.”

Marcella-a cautious woman twenty years my senior-hesitated as she studied Sandro. He was slight, less solidly built than his cousin, with light umber skin and tight black curls, and the broad nose and full lips of his Moorish mother. The authority in his huge dark eyes made her yield. She had pledged to serve as my constant chaperone; however, from Sandro’s manner, and from my own, it was clear nothing impetuous could ever happen between us.

She turned to me. “I will wait for you in your chambers, Duchessina.”

When she had left, Sandro said, “I know that you hate me, but in the end, you’ll see that I acted in your best interests. Ippolito is using you without any thought for your feelings.”

“I won’t listen to your lies,” I said. “You hate Ippolito because you are jealous.”

He sighed. “I don’t hate him,” he said patiently. “Lito hates me. Any jealousy in the equation is his, not mine.” He hesitated again. “I am by nature cool. I look different from you both, and I have never forgotten it. But you and I are more alike. You’re lovesick now-but you have the intelligence and detachment needed to rule.”

My voice was ugly. “Then why did you carry tales about us to the Pope?”

“Because regardless of what you think and what Ippolito might say, I care about you. And if I read the signs aright, you’re allowing yourself to be put in a dangerous situation. Don’t let yourself be hurt.”

“How dare you.”

I turned and began again to climb the stairs. He advanced a step or two behind me.

“He loves wine and women too well,” Sandro said. “Or are you so smitten-like the rest of them-that you haven’t noticed?”

When I hurried my pace, he made a last, desperate effort to shock me. “When he comes to you again, ask him about Lucia da Pistoia. Ask him about Carmella Strozzi, and Charlotte Montblanc.”

“You lie!” I would not turn around.

“You’re being played, Caterina.”

I spoke over my shoulder, harshly, venomously, wanting to wound him as badly as he had me. “You are no brother of mine.”

“You’re right, of course,” he said softly. “I suppose everyone knows it by now.”

I did not understand at all but was too upset to pursue an explanation. I lifted my skirts and ran up to my room. Alessandro did not follow, but I felt his presence, lonely and disapproving, behind me on the stairs.

The new year of 1532 came, followed by an early spring. Donna Marcella rarely left my side; Ippolito and I were reduced to stealing glances over supper. Eventually, he recruited one of the chambermaids to deliver his impassioned letters to me, and return my lovesick responses to him.

Finally he wrote that he had petitioned Clement to allow us to become betrothed and said His Holiness had indicated an affirmative reply was forthcoming. A betrothal was as binding as a marriage: Once it was accomplished, no one, not even Clement, would keep us from each other. I quickly penned a reply expressing my eagerness. Within a day, I received another missive:

Why must we wait for Clement, or any ceremony? I will find a way so that we can be alone and undisturbed in each other’s arms until dawn. I am only awaiting the right opportunity.

I stared down at the paper in my hands with queasy excitement. If we were discovered, Donna Lucrezia would be scandalized, and Pope Clement furious.

I had done my best to dismiss Sandro’s words, but now they echoed dismally in my memory.

Ask him about Lucia. And Carmella. And Charlotte…

Several weeks of fervid correspondence ensued. In early April, Donna Marcella took ill and went to the countryside, leaving me in the care of one of the chambermaids, Selena. That afternoon, Selena combed lemon juice through my hair. I settled into an inconspicuous corner of the courtyard on a coverlet spread on the grass and absorbed sunlight in the hope of coaxing some gold from my drab locks. I sat for an hour and was getting up to leave when the sound of Ippolito’s voice made me pause.

He and Sandro passed by, sweating and disheveled from the hunt, and so absorbed in lighthearted conversation that neither saw me.

Happily, Ippolito was the closer to me, his body blocking me from Sandro’s view. I ventured a small, timid wave; Ippolito paused at the entrance to the palazzo and made an excuse to Sandro, who continued on.

Before I could get to my feet, Ippolito was beside me on the coverlet, his face incandescent with hope.

“Tonight, Caterina. I will come to your bedchamber tonight. You don’t know how hard it’s been all day-knowing this and trying to hide my excitement from Sandro, from everyone.”

I pressed a palm to my sun-warmed cheek. “It’s too dangerous,” I said. “They’ll discover us.” My protest sounded distant and small.

“They won’t.”

“And if I become with child?”

He brightened. “Clement will see us wed all the sooner. Only grant me this one night, and when we are married, I’ll reward your generosity a thousandfold.” He pressed his lips to the insides of my wrists, one by one. “Say you’ll wait for me tonight.”

“I’ll wait,” I answered, with a thrill of longing and guilt.

Fourteen

That night, I lay in my bed with agonizing expectancy. What if we were discovered? Might Clement’s anger be so great he would deny us our right to Florence? My fear paled beside the memory of Ippolito’s deft tongue and fingers. When the soft knock came on my antechamber door, I sat up listening to the whisper of Selena’s sheets as she rose, to the tread of her bare feet on the marble floor, to the creak of the door.

Ippolito’s silhouette appeared in my bedchamber doorway. “Caterina,” he whispered. “At last.”

He strode to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid next to me to lie on his side, propped upon one elbow.

Ippolito, I tried to say, but he hushed me and ran the flat of his palm from my neck to my thigh, up and down, languidly, only the thin lawn of my nightgown separating us. His mouth was open, his breath quick and reeking of wine. I was entranced, but the spell was broken when he said, brusquely, “Sit up.”

I did. With surprising skill, he pulled my nightgown over my head and upraised arms; I was suddenly naked, sheepish. He, however, was inflamed, and while I sat, he pressed his face against my small breasts and began to suckle them.

I seized his head and buried my spread fingers in his hair, thinking to pull him away out of embarrassment. But as his tongue and teeth worked my nipple, I felt as though an invisible cord ran from that tender spot directly to my womb and tugged at the muscles below, causing them to twitch deliciously. When he was satisfied, he ordered, “Lie back.”

I complied. He rose to his feet and pulled his loose shirt over his head; balancing on one foot at a time, he pulled off his leggings. He was very unsteady and fell twice against the mattress, but at last he was free.

Male genitalia are, at first glance, odd-looking. Beneath a thick spray of black hair at Ippolito’s groin, a shaft of flesh emerged, tilted upward at an angle I estimated to be thirty degrees. It unnerved and fascinated me. As I lay back, Ippolito stepped up to the edge of the mattress; I reached out and squeezed it hard. It was firm as brick, yet velvety to the touch. He flexed it so that it pulsed once, twice in my hand, and we both giggled softly.

“Kiss it,” he said. The idea was unappealing, if not appalling, and I balked. He caught the braided hair at the base of my neck and pulled my head toward it. “Kiss it,” he repeated. His words were slurred, his eyes half-closed; for the first time, I saw how very drunk he was.

He pulled my hair again, hard enough to cause pain, and I indulged him. I kissed it, briefly, softly, wrinkling my nose at the tickle of wiry hair, careful not to turn away too quickly from the smell of musk. It was not all that he wanted, but he chose to let it pass and pressed my shoulders against the mattress.

Then he spat into his palm and slicked the shaft. I stared at that strange, seductive, glistening bit of flesh and-quite insanely-wished to feel it inside me. He wedged both hands between my thighs so that they were obliged to part until I lay with my legs spread wide, forbidden fruit ready to tumble from the tree.

He slipped his middle finger deep inside me, plumbed a bit, then plunged a second finger in with it, causing me to draw in my breath sharply. A third finger soon followed. Despite my excitement, I groaned at the discomfort, but he pumped his hand steadily until I relaxed and grew still.

As he drew his fingers out, with a moist, sucking sound, he smiled evilly and said, in full voice, “The goose is not too young. She is fully cooked and succulent, and waiting to be pierced.”

He eased himself down on me and pushed his legs between mine; propping himself up on one hand, he spat again into the other and applied it as before.

“I will visit tomorrow, and the night after,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Again and again, so long as Donna Marcella is ill. Let me lie with you tonight many times, and take care, once I release my seed, to remain flat and still. The sooner you conceive, the sooner Clement will marry us.”

He put his free hand around the rod, which probed hard and smooth against my thigh, between my legs, searching.

It was Lorenzo’s blood, I think, that pulled me up short-his talent for political manipulation and for recognizing the same when he witnessed it. Perhaps too, Ser Iacopo’s careful tutelage in diplomacy had paid off, in teaching me that social niceties often masked the basest of political goals.

Clement’s warning, and Sandro’s, and Ippolito’s sudden urge to impregnate me all converged with the Medici nose for deception.

I tried to clamp my legs shut, but Ippolito’s bulk intervened. I slipped my hand between my womb and his turgid flesh.

“What of Lucia?” I asked.

He let go a gasp that was also a nervous laugh and rested on both hands again. “She’s a liar; the child isn’t mine.”

All at once the lovesick veil lifted, and I saw things as they were: Ippolito had felt the need for a great deal of wine before coming to me. Indeed, our most lascivious encounters had occurred when he was drunk. His own answer apparently startled him; he grinned stupidly at it, then at me.

“And who is Carmella?” I demanded. “And Charlotte?”

“Caterina,” he cajoled, smiling. Then, realizing that I was furious at his inadvertent admission, and that he would lose me, he feigned anger. “Who told you such lies? It was Sandro, wasn’t it, trying to ruin things for us both!”

“Get out,” I said. “You are drunk and despicable. Get out now.”

“You can’t deny me this,” he hissed threateningly. “You can’t. You are my birthright.”

“I am not,” I countered with equal ferocity.

He seized my wrist with such force that I yelped. With one hand, he pinioned both of mine above my head; with the other, he grasped the shaft of flesh with the clear aim of pushing it inside me.

Many thoughts are born in the time it takes to draw a breath, and during that time, I weighed my options. I could submit and pray I would not be impregnated and, in the morning, seek Donna Lucrezia’s protection; I could continue struggling, which would obviously fail; or I could scream in earnest, which would bring Selena running in from the antechamber. None of these appealed, as they all gave Ippolito enough time to deflower me. Given my earlier flirtatious behavior, no one would believe me innocent. That left only negotiation-but Ippolito was too frenzied for discussion.

I spat as much saliva as I could muster into his eyes. He obeyed the natural reflex to wipe them, which left him off balance, allowing me to drag my prized virginity up toward the pillows.

Before he could gather himself, I said, “I will struggle. And scream. And tell the truth, that I was raped. You are drunk, after all.”

“You little bitch.” His tone was soft and filled with wonder.

“Sandro will support me,” I said. “He will say that you are worried, with good reason, that your drunkenness and womanizing have sullied your reputation and given Clement pause.”

I didn’t want to be right; I wanted very much for Ippolito to laugh gently and explain my reasoning away with better logic of his own. But his long and guilty silence shattered the fantasy that I was brilliantly loved, that I would soon have a home and family of my own. I was, after all, a homely girl, and he the most handsome man in all the world.

I crawled as far away as I could, sat up, pressed my back against the headboard, curled my arms about my legs, and wished to die. But like Sandro, I was cool and hid my hurt.

“Shall I continue?” I asked him. “Shall I take this to its natural conclusion, that whoever marries me will be seen as the more legitimate ruler of Florence?”

He sat up and stared at me. He was drunk, impetuous, and cruel, but he was not a monster. The flesh between his legs had shrunk into a sad, dangling thing. At my question, he shook his head.

It was a gesture of defeat, but I misread it and countered hotly, “Alessandro is my brother, true, but only my half brother. An exception from Clement and we could be wed.”

Without smiling, he let go a soft, bitter laugh. “You’re wrong,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are wrong,” he repeated. “Sandro is not your brother. He’s Clement’s bastard, born while His Holiness was still a cardinal and foisted off on us. Perhaps now you better understand my concern.”

For a long time we sat breathing hard as we stared at each other. I think he considered forcing himself upon me again, but had lost the taste for it.

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said finally. “I do care for you, and there is real heat between us. Can’t I be with you tonight? Clement will come to his senses and wed us, install us in Florence, all the more so if you are pregnant…”

“No,” I said.

He hesitated, then made as if to reach for me.

“No,” I repeated. “I’ll scream for Selena.”

He rose and dressed without another word. I waited until he was out the door and well down the corridor before I began to cry.

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.”

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.”

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.

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