Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (20 page)

“And what do I get in return, little Frog Duchess? Will you croak for me, if I tell you what I know?”

I checked a surge of anger at the mockery and made my voice soft and cajoling. “Alessandro,
per favore,
I beg you. We should not be enemies,” I said, although I knew that wasn't true: We would always be enemies.

He stroked his straggly little beard, keeping me in suspense. “All right,” he said at last. “I'll tell you what I know, just for the sheer pleasure of watching your face. Come, let's return to the city.”

We started our horses at a sedate walk. “The French cardinal, Gramont—you met him last spring at the pope's dinner—was sent here to begin private conversations with His Holiness on behalf of the king of France,”
Alessandro said. “In the spring King François and Pope Clement signed a secret agreement.”

Alessandro watched me. He enjoyed drawing out his story, observing my anxiety. “François is to receive title to several major cities under the pope's control: Pisa, Livorno, Parma, and others. And the pope promised to help François wrest Milan and Genoa away from Emperor Charles.”

“But what has any of this to do with
me?
” I cried, my impatience growing.

“Everything. Their secret agreement is a marriage contract, dear Frog Duchess. These cities make up a part of your dowry. When you marry, they become the property of your husband, the lucky devil!”

“My dowry?” I nearly shouted. “But whom am I to marry? Tell me, Alessandro! Tell me, damn you!”

I had lost control, and I immediately regretted it. Now Alessandro held the advantage, and I had handed it to him. He knew he could torment me, make me beg.

His lips twisted in a derisive smile. “You are to be the bride of Henri, Duke of Orléans, second son of King François. Our Duchessina is to marry the brother of the future king of France! Just think of it—a French prince!”

With those words Alessandro whipped his stallion into a mad gallop. I urged my little mare to follow. She was smaller but very brave, and we managed to catch up with him before he thundered across the bridge. He reined in his horse and waited, laughing cruelly. “What is it, Duchessina? Haven't you heard enough?”

I was breathless and trembling, clutching the pommel. “There must be more. I'm sure you know more, Alessandro—tell me!”

Alessandro pulled on his lip, as though deep in thought. “Perhaps this will amuse you, then. King François requests that you come to live at the French court until you're of an age to wed.” He looked me up and down in the insulting way I'd seen him eyeing the servant girls. “Anyone can see that you're not yet woman enough for marriage.”

Not yet woman enough for marriage!
I badly wanted to slap his ugly face. But it would not do to lose control again. I needed to hear the rest of his story.

His horse was dancing in nervous circles. Alessandro brought the stallion's head close to my mare's and thrust his own face close to mine. “The Holy Father refused that demand. His precious Duchessina is to remain under my loving care in Florence until the wedding.”

“
Your
care, Alessandro?” Surely not! It couldn't be!

“Indeed. I'll let you know when we're leaving Rome.”

I
HAD TO SPEAK
to Ippolito one more time. I had to tell him myself about the future that lay in store for me. But how was I to accomplish that? I wasn't permitted to go about in the streets of Rome without the company of at least one older woman, although I was certain I could convince Betta to go with me for a secret meeting. But where? When? And how to arrange it?

Then nothing short of a miracle happened: Monsieur Philippe brought me a letter. “I was walking near the river, as is my pleasure,” the Frenchman reported in his doleful voice, “and a young boy asked me to bring this to you. A servant to one of the cardinals, I think.”

I thought I recognized Ippolito's writing. I could scarcely wait for Monsieur Philippe to leave so that I could read it. The lesson in French subjunctives seemed endless.

At last I was alone. “Visit the chapel in the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere tomorrow at midafternoon,” I read. “Seek out a monk at prayer. Do not reply to this message.”

I read the letter over several times. I was sure the monk would turn out to be Ippolito himself. Why did he want to see me? Had something changed? Maybe he had told the pope that he did not want to be a cardinal, that he had no vocation in the church. Maybe—and here my imagination took flight—he'd even told the Holy Father that he loved me, his Duchessina, and he wanted to marry me. Maybe he was even making plans to go away with me. In my excitement I pushed the French prince and the marriage contract far from my mind.

“I must see him, and you must come with me,” I insisted to Betta. “You understand, don't you?”

“I understand that your uncle the pope would send me away if he found out,” she grumbled. But I knew her grumbling was only an act. Betta would give in and agree to do as I asked.

And she did. With each passing hour my conviction grew that my meeting with the “monk” would be a joyous one.

A cold rain had begun to fall. Wrapped in warm cloaks, Betta and I set off on foot. We crossed the Tiber and made our way through the narrow, crooked streets, unpaved and muddy. Soon our boots were caked with mud and our cloaks wet and splattered.

We entered the church, glad to be out of the rain. The sanctuary was dim and silent; a few old women, veiled in black, hovered near the altar, fingering their beads. We hurried past the chancel, where mosaics glowed in the light of dozens of flickering candles. The chapel was nearly empty, except for a monk in a rough woolen robe kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin.

Betta nodded and retired to the rear of the chapel, and I approached the monk, eager to be with Ippolito but suddenly uneasy about whatever had led him to summon me there.
What if I'm wrong?
My knees were trembling as I knelt beside him. The monk turned toward me, pulling back his cowl to reveal his face.

It was not Ippolito.

“Alessandro!” I cried, shattering the silence.

He hushed me. “Are you disappointed, little Frog Duchess? Sad that your beloved Cardinal Ippolito couldn't come to you? He sent me in his place, with his profound apologies.”

“I don't believe you,” I said angrily. “Everything you say to me is a lie!”

“Duchessina, Duchessina!” Alessandro drawled, shaking his head. “You're being very childish. Ippolito left this morning for Hungary, where he's to serve as papal legate. Our cousin asked me to tell you how happy he is to learn of your coming marriage and wishes you great joy. I promised him I'd take good care of you in Florence.”

Nearly ill with disappointment, I staggered clumsily to my feet. I could hardly speak. “Couldn't you have given me the same message at Palazzo Medici?” I stammered. “Why are you dressed like a monk? Why do you go to so much trouble to torment me?”

“Because it amuses me,” said Alessandro. “You should also know that Cardinal Ippolito was quite eager to leave for his new assignment. Pope Clement has made it well worth his while, assigning him so many rich benefices that he couldn't refuse.”

I glared at him in disgust. “Are you saying that the pope bribed him?”

“I'm saying that His Holiness offered Ippolito the income from a great deal of church property, and our cousin willingly accepted the pope's terms. Call that what you want.” Alessandro rose and raised the cowl of the monk's robe. “I've delivered the message I was asked to give you. Now, with your permission, Duchessina, I leave you to your prayers to the Blessed Virgin.”

He made his usual scornful bow and strode out of the chapel, and I sank to the stone floor. Betta knelt and wrapped her arms around me and rocked me like an infant as I wept.

I
PPOLITO WAS GONE
, without even a chance to say one last good-bye. Francesca, cheerful at last, had packed up her trousseau—and it was considerable—and left for Florence for her wedding to Ottavio de' Medici, accompanied by Lucrezia and Maria. Without Lucrezia, Pope Clement had no official hostess, and the number of dinners to which I was invited dwindled to nothing. This suited me very well.

I spent my days alone or with my tutors and buried myself in my studies. I made rapid strides in all my courses. Knowing now that I would one day live in France, I threw myself into the new language with as much energy as I could muster. I questioned Monsieur Philippe relentlessly about France and anything to do with the royal family.

“François, the Most Christian King, is the greatest ruler in all Europe,” the tutor declared proudly. “Queen Claude was loved by all before her death. She presented her husband the king with a child nearly every year, as was her duty. There are five children, three sons and two daughters. The new queen, Eleanor, is the most admirable of women.”

“The names of the children,
s'il vous plaît?
” I prepared to write them down.

“François, the eldest who will one day be king, then Henri, followed by Madeleine, Charles, and Marguerite.”

Henri, my future husband, interested me most, of course:
What is he like? How old is he? Is he handsome, intelligent, kind, like Ippolito? Or like Alessandro—ugly, badly spoiled, cruel?
But these weren't questions suitable to ask Monsieur Philippe, who presumably knew nothing of the secret agreement between the pope and the king.

“Are there many royal
palazzi?
” I asked, settling for a less difficult question.

“We call them
châteaux, mademoiselle,
and the answer is certainly,” he replied. “Fontainebleau is the king's favorite. Also Amboise, Blois, Chambord, and many others as well. But why these questions,
mademoiselle?
”

“I may have occasion to travel to France some day soon. To visit the king,” I added.

“Ahh,” he replied, nodding. “I understand. Then undoubtedly you will see the
châteaux
for yourself.”

Still I wasn't satisfied. “What sort of music does the king enjoy? What does the royal family eat? I've grown so accustomed to the ways of the papal court that I'm afraid I won't know what to do,” I explained.

“Do not worry,
mademoiselle,
” said Monsieur Philippe, stroking his long nose. “If you will just learn to speak the language beautifully, with the proper accent, I assure you that you will learn everything in good time.”

M
Y COMING MARRIAGE
was announced in January of 1533. But instead of Pope Clement himself telling me the news or sending me word through Cardinal Giovanni, I received a visit from the new French ambassador to Rome, John Stuart, Duke of Albany.

The ambassador turned out to be a relative by marriage—my uncle on my mother's side. Born in Scotland but raised in France, the duke had married my mother's sister. I had never known my aunt, Anne d'Auvergne; she'd died when I was a small child. Now her husband, the ambassador, called on me at Palazzo Medici to make a brief formal statement surrounded by a lot of flowery language:
Caterina de Medici is to wed Henri, Duke of Orleans.