Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (25 page)

I was far too apprehensive to be tempted by these diversions. I still grieved over the disappearance of Akasma, who would have been able to soothe my fears and quiet the misgivings. Occasional glimpses of Ippolito allowed me to wonder if he might find a way to send me one last message, or even to speak to me one last time. If Akasma had been there, she would have carried secret messages; she would have had sensible advice.

And Akasma might have been able to find out something about Henri. I hadn't yet been presented to my future husband. I still wasn't even sure what he looked like! Akasma, like Betta, had been expert at collecting information, listening to the gossip of the cooks and the washerwomen and the stable grooms, picking up shards of information and deftly putting them all together. Even if she hadn't yet learned French, she was highly intelligent and would have picked it up quickly, and she would have found ways to gather what I needed to know. My ordinary maidservants could accomplish all the ordinary tasks—dressing me, arranging my hair, fastening my jewels—but they were not confidantes. Without Akasma I tried to calm myself by kneeling often in the private chapel of the palace. But my restless mind would not focus on my prayers, darting back and forth between Ippolito and Henri, Henri and Ippolito.

Finally the day came for me to make my official entry into Marseilles. Gowned in gold and silver tissue, the cloth chosen for me by the Duchess of Mantua because it reflected both the sun and the moon, I was mounted on a large bay gelding.

I held my head erect and smiled graciously and waved until I thought my arm would fall off. I understood well the importance of making a good impression on the crowds jamming the streets for a look at the Italian girl who had come to marry their prince. I'd have to work hard to win their affection. Although my mother was French, members of the court as well as the people in the street would not forget that I was a foreigner and not of royal blood. But I did have one undeniable fact in my favor: I was the niece of two popes. Probably for this reason the crowds cheered politely as I rode by.

I managed to do all the occasion required: Kiss the pope's ring; curtsy deeply to the king; accept his kiss; steal a glance at the nervous boy who, nudged by his father, stepped forward to kiss me as well. I looked for some sign that the young Duke of Orléans found me appealing, that I pleased him. But there was no such sign. It was as though his thoughts were elsewhere and he didn't see me at all.

We moved to the banquet hall. I could not have said what dishes were served, except that there was an endless parade of them, each presented with a flourish of trumpets. I dutifully tasted a bite here and there. I had no appetite.

Afterward, my ladies complained that the fare was quite different from what we were used to. “What barbarians the French are!” Giulietta complained. “No one uses forks. Do they even have them here?”

D
URING FOUR DAYS
of feasting and dancing and entertainments, I had an opportunity to observe my bridegroom. Henri was the same age I was, fourteen. He was tall and well built, his hair dark and straight, his features regular—maybe not handsome, most would say, but certainly not displeasing. He spoke hardly at all—not to his father, to his brothers, to anyone. I saw him glancing uneasily around the huge banquet hall, but his eyes never came to rest on me. I remembered stories Aunt Clarissa had told me of my parents, who had been introduced at the christening of Henri's older brother.
The very first time they met, Madeleine fell madly in love with Lorenzo, and he with her,
Clarissa often said. Watching Henri now, I knew without a doubt that this would not happen to us. Henri would never look at me the way Ippolito once did, never lift my hand to his lips, never call me “my dearest Duchessina.” A bleakness settled over me.

Four days of celebration, and we still weren't married. The wedding night still loomed ahead of me. I dreaded it.

On the day before the wedding was to take place, King François and Pope Clement signed the final marriage contract, and Henri and I met formally for the first time. We were led into a vast hall, where we were blessed by the French cardinal who'd once sat next to me at Clement's dinner. In front of a huge crowd, Henri stepped forward and kissed me first on one cheek, then the other. His cold lips barely grazed my skin. He smelled of horses and wine.

The kiss prompted another of those deafening trumpet fanfares. A group of musicians struck up a stately piece, and everyone began to dance. Everyone, that is, but Henri and me.
Perhaps,
I thought,
we won't dance until after we're married.
I wasn't sure. We sat down and watched, side by side, without exchanging a single word. Henri stared morosely into space. Occasionally his glance came to rest on a beautiful older woman strikingly gowned in black and white, widow's colors. She had long fingers, thick hair, a flawless complexion, a dainty mouth. She caught his eye and smiled alluringly. The color rose in his pale cheek as he returned her smile.

Who is she?
I wondered.
And why doesn't he look at me?

I had been taught by Suor Paolina in her lessons on the virtues that a well-bred lady did not initiate a conversation with a gentleman; it was up to him to make the first move. But Suor Paolina had obviously never met the likes of Henri, Duke of Orléans. I would have to break the rule.

“Henri,” I began rather desperately, “we are fortunate to have such lovely weather for our wedding tomorrow, are we not?”

“
Oui,
” said Henri, when he realized that I had spoken. “Quite fortunate.”

I endured another dense silence. “The French style of dancing is greatly to be admired,” I said. “Very graceful.”

Henri sighed. “
Oui,
” he said, drawn unwillingly back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “Quite graceful.”

The silence resumed. As the dancers passed by, I managed to smile and nod and to give the impression that I was enjoying myself, which I was not—especially when I observed Ippolito dancing with a succession of young ladies and clearly having a fine time of it.

The beautiful woman in black and white disappeared, and Henri's interest in the ball seemed to vanish with her. The one thing that pulled my bridegroom from his torpor were the antics of the court dwarf, who performed acrobatic feats mimicking the dancers. That made him laugh out loud. I tried to appear amused.

Will this never end?

At last it did. Henri's suite of gentlemen and my ladies gathered to escort us back to our separate lodgings. “Good night,
mademoiselle,
” Henri said with a bow.

Doesn't he remember my name?
I dropped him a graceful curtsy. “Good night, my lord,” I said, smiling, always smiling, although I was ready to weep.

Oh, Akasma,
I thought as I lay sleepless in the huge bed,
if only you were here to tell me what to do!

O
N MY WEDDING DAY
, the morning of October twenty-eighth, my ladies and maidservants helped me into a gown of the palest rose-colored silk with embroidered sleeves. They fastened over my shoulders a gold brocade robe trimmed with velvet and precious stones and edged with ermine. Giulietta clasped the diamond and sapphire pendant around my neck. The maidservant who'd taken Akasma's place arranged my hair and settled on my head a ducal crown of gold, another gift from the king. I was ready—as ready as I would ever be.

Is this how a girl should feel on her wedding day?
I wondered, gazing into the mirror that my maidservants held up for me.
Neither happy nor sad but nothing at all?

Then King François arrived to escort me to the chapel, looking exactly the way a king should, resplendent in white satin embroidered all over in gold. A cloak of cloth-of-gold covered with pearls and precious stones swirled around him.

A dozen musicians led us to the chapel, my hand resting on the arm of King François, my high-heeled chopines making me seem taller. Still, the king towered over me and had to lean down to whisper, “My dear little Catherine, you are a lovely bride.”

My bridegroom waited at the chapel. I scarcely remember what Henri looked like or how he was dressed, except that he was swathed in ermine. We repeated our vows, and Henri placed a gold ring on my right hand. Pope Clement celebrated the nuptial mass. I was no longer Caterina de' Medici,
la duchessina.
I was now Catherine, Duchess of Orléans, wife of Henri, Duke of Orléans. My new husband had not yet called me by any name at all.

We next had to endure an elaborate exchange of gifts. The presentations were interminable. The pope gave François a horn, said to be from a unicorn, mounted in gold, to protect the king from poisoning. François gave the pope a Flemish tapestry depicting the Last Supper. Clement gave the king a rock-crystal box incised with twenty-four scenes from the life of Christ. François gave me three unusually large, perfect teardrop pearls. But the gift that drew gasps from all who witnessed it was a live lion, straining at the leashes held by four muscular Ethiopian servants, presented to the pope by the king.

Another banquet followed, and another masked ball at which I believe the king kissed the hand of every lady present and danced every dance, most often with one particularly lovely woman—his mistress, Anne d'Heilly, radiant in yellow silk with a circlet of emeralds in her fair hair. Once more, it was the mysterious woman, again gowned in elegant black and white, who held Henri's attention.

Then came the moment I'd been dreading: The king declared the banquet at an end, the signal for me to prepare for what was to come.

With a faint smile Queen Eleanor took me by the hand, and several high-ranking ladies of the French court led the way to the bedchamber, which had been specially prepared with herbs and perfumes for this moment. The bed itself was enormous, lavishly carved and decorated and hung with embroidered damask curtains. The ladies undressed me and placed me naked between the silk sheets, where I lay shivering with cold and fear.

Henri arrived, accompanied by his father and brothers, Pope Clement, several musicians with pipes and tabors, and a number of boisterous gentlemen who'd clearly indulged in too much wine. When the gentlemen began noisily undressing the duke, I closed my eyes until I felt Henri lie down beside me. I expected him to be as frightened as I was, but he seemed detached, disinterested.

After prayers from the pope, the company withdrew—all but King François.
Surely my father-in-law isn't going to stay!

But apparently he was. “It is my duty to see that the marriage is consummated this night,” he announced from the foot of the bed. “Touch her, Henri.”

I don't remember what happened next. I did as Akasma had recommended: I willed my thoughts away from this nightmarish scene to a place of sweet-scented flowers, warm sunshine, laughter . . .

It was over quickly, and when it was, I slept.

14

T
HE MORNING AFTER
my wedding night the pope, the king, and members of their suites burst into the bedchamber. They appeared delighted to find us still in bed. The pope blessed us, and then the queen's ladies arrived and draped me in a silk robe and took me away to dress me. I assume the king's courtiers did the same for Henri, although I didn't look back to see. My husband and I had not yet exchanged a half-dozen words.

During the days that followed, the celebrations continued in an endless round of banqueting, drinking, and dancing, with the antics of the dwarf for relief. King François evidently enjoyed himself enormously. Queen Eleanor smiled steadily, and Henri's sisters and brothers seemed to be having a fine time. At some point each night, when I thought I couldn't endure another minute of revelry in which I seemed to have no part, I was escorted back to the matrimonial chamber.

It was my misfortune during one of those banquets to overhear a conversation among several members of the king's court. I suppose they thought I was deaf, or that the music and laughter concealed their voices, or that I didn't know enough French to understand them. Possibly they
wanted
me to hear. In any event, their words were painfully clear.