The Poet Prince (36 page)

The bride was brought through the main portico in her elaborate lace and damask dress, moving very slowly through the property in an effort to balance the heavily jeweled headdress that had been a gift from her parents for this occasion. Clarice may have been denied a traditional vow-taking ceremony, but the Orsini were at least determined that she would make a fine appearance on the day of her reception. The
Florentines would be forced to accept that this Roman girl was every bit their equal and worthy of her place as the Medici bride and the First Lady of Florence.

Clarice stopped short with a gasp as she saw the statues that dominated the central courtyard: Donatello’s
David,
in all of his glorious nakedness, stood beside Donatello’s
Judith,
who was in the process of separating Holofernes from his head. They were the symbols of male and female power in an exalted form, put here by one of the world’s greatest artists as commissioned by the most legendary patron.

Lucrezia de’ Medici, who was escorting her new daughter-in-law into the reception, stopped, worried that the sheltered Roman girl was going to faint. “What is wrong, Clarice?”

Clarice gestured to the statues in horror. “Those . . . horrible images! Why are they here on my wedding day?”

“They are always here, Clarice. They are great art, and part of the Medici collection.”

Clarice shuddered and looked like she was going to cry. “They are vulgar!”

Lucrezia gathered her patience, took Clarice more firmly by the wrist, and propelled her forward into the reception. Integrating a conservative Roman girl into the glorious artistic culture of Florence just might prove to be more of a challenge than anyone had anticipated.

Clarice de’ Medici was seated with a group of young, married women, as was the custom for the bride at a Florentine reception, in which the men and the women sat separately. Clarice was grateful to be sitting beside a sweet, dimpled young noblewoman who had been introduced to her as Lucrezia Ardinghelli. The woman was very beautiful, Clarice couldn’t help but notice, and quite kind to her. She appeared to know a great deal about Lorenzo as they had been friends since they were children. Here was an ally to have, Clarice thought. And as this poor Lucrezia Ardinghelli was the wife of a seafaring man, she was often home
alone for many months at a time. Perhaps this would be her first true friend in Florence.

Clarice dared to be optimistic about finding new friendship until the defining moment of the evening when Lorenzo approached their table and greeted all the women there. While he was unerringly polite to each of the young matrons, he never took his eyes off Lucrezia Ardinghelli, nor she him. There was a bond between them that was palpable.

Clarice Orsini de’ Medici may have been young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but she was not blind.

She had identified the enemy.

In the nuptial chamber, Clarice was dressed in her nightgown by female attendants from the wedding feast, as was customary. Lucrezia Ardinghelli was notable in her absence. The women who were present teased her good-naturedly and chattered giddily about Lorenzo’s legendary masculinity, nudging Clarice and reminding her that she was the luckiest woman in Italy to be on the threshold of such an experience. While a Florentine girl would have joined in the frivolous fun, this kind of talk was nothing but scandalous to the sheltered Orsini princess. The women began to take notice that the bride was flushed to the point of fainting and reduced their commentary. They finished their ministrations quickly and left the Roman girl alone, shaking their heads as they left the Medici bridal chamber.

“What a waste of a magnificent man,” one of them whispered, and the others burst into laughter in agreement. There would be much gossip about the frigid Roman bride for years to come, resulting in plenty of offers from Florentine women who were more than willing to show Lorenzo the appreciation they knew he did not receive from his wife.

Clarice was left alone, perched on the edge of the bed, rigid with dread. Here she was, married to a man whom every noble woman in Europe envied her for, and she wanted nothing more than to run away,
as far and as fast as she could, back to the safety of Rome. For all that she was the daughter of one of the noblest and most storied families in Italy, she was still a sixteen-year-old girl who found herself under immense pressure while surrounded by strangers and a culture she did not comprehend. Florence was as exotic to her as Africa or the Far East. And now she would be confronted with the terrifying physical realities of this virile young man who was spoken of in such mythical terms.

By the time Lorenzo entered the chamber, Clarice was sobbing with the fear of him.

He approached her with genuine concern. The events of the evening would have been overwhelming for anyone, but he had great sympathy for her circumstances under the tremendous scrutiny of Florentine observation. It would take some getting used to for one so young and sheltered in her ways.

“Are you unwell, Clarice? Was this too much for you tonight?”

Steeling herself for what would come next, she raised her chin with some hint of her Roman pride intact as she responded. “No. I am an Orsini. I am not afraid of your Florentines. And I will do my duty to you as a Christian wife, Lorenzo. I have sworn before God to do so, to be obedient to you, and I will.”

He approached her with the same slow gentleness he would use with a fawn in the forest. He touched her hair delicately as he began to remove the pins that held it back so severely. “You have lovely hair, Clarice. I would see it down.”

Her hand flew up to stop him. “Don’t!”

He stopped, pulling his hands away from her quickly. “What is wrong?”

Her heart was beating like a trapped fox surrounded by hounds on all sides. She was trying to forestall the inevitable. “Loose hair is the sign of wanton behavior.”

“Clarice, I am your husband now. You can show yourself to me without fear.”

She recoiled when he reached out for her again, as if he had
struck her.

Lorenzo inhaled deeply, finding his patience. He explained slowly,
“You know, some women actually find this pleasurable. The time may come when you do as well, which is as it should be. If you can give me a chance to be a good husband to you, our years together as man and wife will be much improved. Even enjoyable.”

Clarice straightened again, spine as stiff as steel. “My confessor says that it is a woman’s lot to suffer, first in the marital bed and then in childbirth. It is the curse of Eve.”

Lorenzo made a mental note to send her confessor back to Rome at first light. On a fast horse.

“It does not have to be so, Clarice. Let me show you.”

Her response was haughty. “Do your duty, my husband. And I will do mine. But do not expect me to enjoy it.”

Lorenzo stunned her by standing up quickly and turning to take his leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I will not take you against your will, Clarice. Wedded or no, I am a decent man. I will never force a woman under any circumstances. When you can welcome me into our marriage bed as your husband, I will return to it and do my duty as you say. I assure you, this is no more pleasant for me than it is for you. And I will not allow my own wife to turn me into a rapist. It is not in me.”

Clarice was shocked by his coarse language and terrified now that she had done something unforgivable. “You cannot leave! You will shame me, and my family.” She was screeching now. “Tomorrow they will come for the sheets, and they will see no blood on them. Your people will think I did not perform my duty to you. Or . . . worse. You must stay and I . . . I must do this.”

Lorenzo looked at the door longingly, and then back at the terrified virgin who sat trembling on his bed. He allowed himself a brief thought of the teachings of the Order. The Book of Love emphasized that conceiving a child where there was neither trust nor consciousness in the bridal chamber could condemn it to a difficult life. He could not allow such a curse to afflict his children. Somehow, he would need to
reach this woman whom destiny had chosen for him to take to wife, for whatever reason of God’s indeterminate will.

He took a very deep breath before turning to her with patient finality. He knelt beside the bed and took her hand. “Clarice, you must trust me as a man and as your husband. I will never harm you, and I have pledged to protect you and provide for you with all my strength. I will do all of those things, and more. You are a Medici now, and you are my family. Every child we conceive will be loved and cared for with my heart and my soul. And you will be likewise, as their mother. This is
my vow to you.”

Her brown eyes were full of tears, but there was more softness in her expression than before.

“Look at me, Clarice. Tell me, if nothing else, that you will learn to trust me as your husband.” He brought his hand to her face and smiled at her, stroking her cheek with his thumb to wipe away the tears.

She attempted to smile back. “I . . . trust you, my husband.” And she reached out to take his other hand in her own and squeezed it with all her strength, willing the fear to leave her body.

He approached her with great tenderness and infinite patience, careful not to hurt her or frighten her, praying all the while that this would perhaps get better as their days as man and wife stretched into the future. He knew that she would tear as he entered her, causing the bleeding that would be much analyzed on the sheets in the morning. He was as gentle as he could be, but there was no way to spare her that particular pain. Clarice winced and turned her head from him, then lay very still and kept her eyes shut tight. Lorenzo, for his sake and hers, withdrew from her quickly. He was inside her just long enough to fulfill the obligation of consummation, as he was as horrified by the circumstance as was his new wife. Before taking his leave, Lorenzo asked her, quite kindly, if she was all right. She nodded mutely, trying very hard not to sob with the indecency of what had just occurred. She could not imagine how any woman would ever find such a thing to be tolerable. Her confessor had been right. It was a woman’s lot to suffer.

Lorenzo sighed heavily, replaced his breeches, and left their chamber without looking at her again or saying another word.

Left alone in her marriage bed, the young woman who was now Clarice Orsini de’ Medici, the wife of the most magnificent man in Italy, allowed herself only one more thought before crying herself to sleep: never, at any time, did her husband try to kiss her.

Lorenzo had insisted that Colombina spend the night in the Medici palace following the wedding banquet. She had demurred, not wanting to be in the same building where he would be forced to bed another woman who was now everything that she had ever wanted to be in his life. But he had begged her, and she relented, as she always did when Lorenzo was truly insistent. It was there, to the chamber where she was installed as a guest, that he headed immediately after the nightmare with Clarice.

He threw himself with a fierce desperation into the arms of the only woman he would ever love, nourished and reinvigorated by the answering passion he found within her.