The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (17 page)

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.

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.”