The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Read online

  Apartments had been readied overlooking the trampled gardens, as well as a household of noblewomen waiting to attend me. Among them was Lucrezia Calvacanti, a fair-haired girl with luminous blue eyes and willowy elegance, who informed me that His Holiness my uncle had not yet returned from Orvieto but had left word I was to have every luxury.

  She smiled. “Not that we’ve much to offer. The papal apartments were ransacked, everything of value stolen. But we’ve enough food and should count ourselves fortunate. We’ll do our utmost for you, Duchessina, but I’m afraid silk sheets are out of the question at this time.”

  She was fifteen years old and addressed me like an adult who didn’t need protection from the realities of the world. I appreciated it. I did not want to be coddled or lied to anymore.

  In my bedchamber I sat on the bed and watched the sun sink below Rome’s pine-tipped hills. Then I took out my aunt’s letter. It was a few lines, written in a dying woman’s scrawl.

  My child, I fear I will not see you again in this life. But I will never stop loving you and I know that God in his Mercy will watch over you. Remember always that you are a Medici and are destined for greatness. You are my hope, Caterina. Never forget it.

  I pressed the letter to my chest, curled up on the bed, and slept for eleven hours. When I awoke I found Lucrezia seated on a stool at my side. “You’ve suffered much,” she said matter-of-factly. “But now you must be like the beast, which lives only for the day.”

  “How can I?” I asked quietly. “Unlike the beast, I know what tomorrow can bring.”

  “Then you must learn. Whether we like it or not, my lady, today is what we have.” She reached over, took the crumpled letter from me. “Let me store this,” she said, then she marshaled the other women in, surrounding me with industrious solicitude. Only steps away Rome was steeped in blood, but within those four walls, for the first time in a long time, I felt safe.

  And so I had recovered when Papa Clement arrived.

  The flames of a scarred candelabrum shed muted light as I approached the papal throne and sank to my knees. Papa Clement motioned me to my feet. As I stood and observed him, I tried to recall what he had looked like before, so I might mark some change in him. He had fled Rome, forced to watch from afar as the Imperial troops desecrated his city, but to me he looked as if he had just returned from a respite in the country, his angular cheeks high with color, his full lips cradled by a silver-threaded beard. He wore ivory-white robes without a stain on their luxuriant folds; when I glanced at his feet, I saw gold-embroidered velvet slippers. Only when I met his eyes did I see the effects of his exile: luminous blue-green in color, they were sharp, appraising, and narrowed. I realized I did not know him at all. He must have felt the same. He regarded me as though I was a stranger, his embrace weak, as if he didn’t mean it.

  “They will pay,” he muttered. “All of them—the nuns of Santa Lucia, the Florentine rebels, that traitor Charles V: they will pay for what they’ve done.”

  I knew he wasn’t speaking to me; and as I curtsied again and backed from his presence, I saw the cardinals of his Curia arrayed in the corners, watching me like hawks.

  I felt a chill. Whatever they planned, I was sure it wouldn’t be nice.

  Papa Clement didn’t summon or visit me for months; he left me in the care of my women. It took several weeks before I was able to sleep through the night without jolting awake from nightmares of the grim months locked away in Santa Lucia. I was gratified to learn the sisters of Savonarola had been levied with a crushing fine and an order to disband; I was less pleased to discover that Papa Clement had refused to restore Florence’s republican rights, setting one of his overlords over the city instead. Lucrezia did not mince her words around me: “He will keep Florence under his heel and see to it that the emperor Charles V is served an equally bitter dish.”

  I knew she was right. But I was still young and content to keep my distance, to walk the gardens, to read and be fitted for new gowns, and eat and sleep as much as I liked.

  Lucrezia kept me informed of the goings-on at the papal court, which surged back to life even before the soot and grime of the desecration had been cleansed from the walls. Shortly before my thirteenth birthday, she told me the French king François I had dispatched a new envoy to Rome and Papa Clement had requested that I entertain him.

  I stared at her. “What am I supposed to do? Serve his wine?”

  She gave a hearty laugh. “Of course not! You’ll amuse him with a French bass dance; His Holiness has hired an instructor for you. We mustn’t forget to prepare for tomorrow and your feminine skills have been sorely neglected. The time has come to make a court lady out of you.”

  “I thought you said I should be like the beast,” I grumbled. I didn’t like the sound of this at all, but I had no other choice and so for the next weeks I was drilled mercilessly by a dapper, overperfumed man who barked and prodded me with his white wand, declaring that a mare had more grace in her hindquarters than I did in my entire body. I hated dancing. The countless silly curtsies, fluttering hands, and coy glances annoyed me in the extreme.

  Still, I learned it well enough to perform for the French. While my uncle lolled in his throne, flushed with wine, the ambassador regarded me with an enigmatic smile, eyeing me up and down as though I were on auction.

  Days later, I bled for the first time. As I cramped and gasped, Lucrezia declared it a sure sign that I’d bear many healthy sons. Despite the discomfort, I observed in fascination the subtle changes taking place in my body, the new heft and silkiness in my breasts, the supple widening of my hips and bloom in my skin—all of which seemed to occur overnight.

  “Will I be pretty?” I asked Lucrezia as she brushed my hair, which had grown out even curlier and fuller than before and which she liked to adorn with pearl caps and braided ribbons.

  She leaned over my shoulder, gazing at me in the mirror. “You are pretty,” she said. “Those big black eyes of yours would captivate any man, and your lips are full enough to rouse a bishop’s lust—not that it’s that difficult with a bishop,” she added, with a wicked wink.

  I giggled. Though she was my chief attendant, appointed to oversee my household and guide me, in truth she was like a sister and I was grateful every day for her presence. With Lucrezia’s help, the scars of my trials had faded and I realized that I’d once again begun to look forward to whatever my future might hold.

  My answer arrived soon enough. One afternoon Lucrezia came to tell me I’d been summoned by Papa Clement. She did not know why, only that he wished to see me in private, and together we made our way to his apartments, through corridors hung with tarps and bustling with artisans laboring to restore frescoes damaged by the occupation.

  As we approached my uncle’s gilded doors, I was overcome by a stirring of my gift. It wasn’t that helpless plunge into a netherworld I’d experienced in Florence but rather a quiet, almost imperceptible sense of warning that made me turn nervously to Lucrezia. She smiled in encouragement. “Remember, whatever he says, you’re more important to him than he is to you.”

  I entered the spacious gilded room and knelt; my uncle sat at his massive desk, peeling oranges, their sweet tang filling the room and soaking up the scent of old perfume and smoky beeswax. He motioned. I went to kiss his hand, adorned with the seal of St. Peter. He was dressed in his white robes; around his neck hung a crucifix studded with emeralds and rubies.

  “I’m told you are a woman now.” He sighed. “How time passes.” His leather blotter was littered with rinds; he sucked a slice, gesturing to a nearby stool. “Sit. It’s been too long since we spent time together.”

  “I was here only last month for the French envoy’s visit,” I said, and I paused. “I would rather stand, if Your Holiness doesn’t mind. The gown is new and uncomfortable.”

  “Ah, but you must get used to such things. Proper attire is of the utmost importance. In the court of France such matters are considered de rigueur.”

  He re
trieved a jeweled knife and sectioned the fruit. The aroma it released was like sunlight, making my mouth water. “You should know these things. After all, your mother was French.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that I’d never known my mother. Instead, I murmured, “She was, Your Holiness, to my great honor.”

  “Indeed. And what might you say if I told you that France has asked for you?”

  His voice was mild, reminding me of the days when I’d been a little girl and he my devoted uncle. But I wasn’t deceived; he had called me here for a purpose.

  “Well?” he said sharply. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I would say,” I replied, “that again I am honored.”

  He guffawed. “Spoken like a Medici.” It was as if he had bared fangs. My knees weakened under my gown. Clement’s gaze slid to me. “You’ve learned the value of a neutral answer. It is an asset that will make your marriage all the less discomfiting.”

  My blood turned cold in my veins. I thought I must have heard wrong.

  “It is time you took your place in the world,” he went on, chewing his orange and spilling pale juice on his sleeve. “In fact, the arrangements are almost complete. As part of your dowry, I’ll offer the duchy of Milan, once the wedding takes place.” He glanced up. “Who knows? One day you might be queen of France.”

  A roar filled my ears. Here was his revenge, at long last. Here was his dagger thrust at Charles V: an alliance with the emperor’s rival, François I, with me as his pawn. Wedding me to France would thwart Charles V’s quest to dominate Italy and would give François his claim on the long-contested duchy of Milan, which was currently under Imperial rule.

  “But King François is already married,” I managed to say, “to the emperor’s own sister.”

  “Indeed. But his second son, Henri d’Orléans, is not and could one day inherit the throne. After all, I have it on good authority that François’s eldest son, the dauphin, is quite sickly.”

  He began peeling another orange, his spidery fingers digging into it. “I trust your silence doesn’t signify displeasure,” he added. “I’ve gone to considerable expense and effort to see you to this state. The last thing I need is an unwilling bride on my hands.”

  What could I say? He had the right to send me wherever he liked. Nothing I did short of killing myself could possibly free me and the cold finality of this fact hardened my voice.

  “If it is your wish,” I said, “then I am most pleased. May I ask a favor in return? I’d like to return to Florence. It is my home and I—” My voice caught. “I want to say good-bye.”

  His eyes turned cold. “Very well,” he said. “If you no longer find Rome agreeable, I’ll appoint an escort.” He extended his ringed hand. As I kissed it, I heard him mutter: “Love is a treacherous emotion. You’ll fare better without it. We Medici always have.”

  I backed toward the door as he peeled another orange, his lips curled in a complacent smile.

  I returned to Florence in the fragrant heat of summer, accompanied by an entourage of guards and my women, including Lucrezia and a new companion, my dwarf, Anna-Maria—a fourteen-year-old miniature girl whose foreshortened limbs did not detract from her glorious mane of ash-gold hair, piquant face, and lively smile. I liked her from the moment I met her; Papa Clement had scoured Italy in search of her, as he insisted I must have my own fool in France, but I decided I’d not demean her by dressing her in bells. Instead, she would carry out the special task of seeing to my linens and hold a coveted position in my private rooms.

  I found that in the family palazzo, little had changed. Florence still bore wounds that would take years to repair, yet our home remained untouched, silent as an elaborate tomb. I settled in my beloved late aunt’s rooms, where the sheets still carried her scent and her alabaster-inlaid desk was set with her writing utensils, as though she might walk in at any moment.

  And there I discovered my silver and ivory casket, in a drawer under unfinished letters. I took it out as if it might vanish, traced the chipped lid with my fingertips. My aunt had hidden it here, among her things. She had known I would want it and had anticipated I would return.

  I opened it with a click; within a section of the velvet lining that peeled back, I located the secret compartment and Ruggieri’s vial, coiled like a snake. I clasped it about my neck, held the box in my hands, and let myself grieve.

  My betrothal was signed in the spring. Papa Clement assembled an impressive trousseau to exhibit my wealth as a Medici bride, not hesitating to pilfer his treasury for jewels, including seven gray pearls reputed to have belonged to a Byzantine empress and now adorning my ducal crown. He also had my portrait sent to France.

  In return, François I sent his son’s portrait to me. It came wrapped in an exquisite satin-lined box; and as Lucrezia removed the miniature from it I beheld my future husband for the first time—a taciturn face, with hooded eyes, a pursed mouth, and the long Valois nose. It didn’t awaken anything in me, and I wondered in that moment if he felt the same about me. What kind of marriage could two strangers with nothing in common possibly have?

  “He’s handsome,” Lucrezia said, with relief. She glanced to where I sat like stone on my chair. “He doesn’t appear to have suffered any ill effects from his three years in Spain.”

  Anna-Maria frowned. “Why was he in Spain?”

  “Because he and his brother, the dauphin, were sent to the emperor Charles V as hostages when King François lost the war over Milan,” I replied. “The king also had to wed Charles’s sister, Eleanor.” To my dismay, I had the childish urge to stomp my feet and fling the picture across the room, to throw a tantrum that would put on display my utter helplessness. Biting back my tears, I flicked my hand. “Put the picture away and leave me.”

  That night, I sat awake and gazed out into the sultry Florentine night. I let myself mourn everything I had lost before I decided my course. My life in Italy was over. It might not be what I wanted but it was my fate. Now I must look to the future and prepare.

  After all, I was a Medici.

  FIVE

  AFTER TWO WEEKS AT SEA, MY SHIP DROPPED ANCHOR IN THE Bay of Marseilles. It had been a terrifying storm-laden voyage that made me vow to never leave land again. If I’d had any inclination to ruminate on the vagaries of fate, which had led me to a foreign country and husband, my overwhelming relief to see something other than churning sea obliterated it.

  Lucrezia and Anna-Maria removed one of my new gowns from the leather chests, smoothed its crumpled folds, and corseted me into it—a brocade concoction so encrusted with gems I thought I’d scarcely be able to totter up on deck, much less ride through Marseilles to the palace where the French court waited. I also donned my formal ducal coronet for the first time, inset with the seven pearls. Trussed in this finery, I waited until my new household treasurer, René Birago, came to inform me that Constable Montmorency’s barge had arrived to bring me ashore.

  I nodded. “Then I must go greet him.”

  Birago gave me a smile. He was Florentine, in his mid-twenties, and chosen by Papa Clement to supervise my finances. Despite a slight limp, which he blamed on periodic gout, he had an ageless grace that denoted a lifetime spent at the papal court, his lean figure clad in a scarlet doublet cut in the close-fitting Italian style, his fine light brown hair combed back from an angular forehead that emphasized his hooked nose and shrewd dark eyes.

  “Madama,” he said, in a voice made for whispering in ears, “I suggest you remain here. Montmorency may be the constable and His Majesty’s chief officer, but you are the Duchess of Urbino and soon-to-be duchesse d’Orléans. Let France pay its respects to Italy, for a change.”

  It was a clever remark from a clever man, guaranteed to make me smile. At least I had a little bit of Italy to keep me safe, I thought, and I lifted a hand to my chest; beneath my bodice, I felt another piece of Italy—Ruggieri’s vial.

  My women gathered about me as the French boarded the galleon. They were
all magnificently appareled, jewels winking in the sunlight on caps and doublets. Without looking away, I whispered to Lucrezia, “Which one is the constable?”

  “There,” she said, “by Birago: that must be him. He’s like a barbarian, so big and dressed in that funereal black.”

  She was right. Montmorency did seem like a titan, his shoulders blocking the sun, his starched ruff a mere ruffle around his bullish neck. Birago had told me he was in his late thirties, a champion warrior who had fought ferociously during François’s war over Milan. I was prepared for someone with little tolerance for anything Italian, considering he’d wet his sword in the blood of countless of my countrymen. Yet when he bowed over my hand, I saw that despite his leathery skin and severe gray-blue eyes, his expression wasn’t unkind.

  “It is my honor to welcome Your Highness in the name of His Majesty François I,” he declared in a monotone. I inclined my head and said in French: “My lord constable, to be greeted by you makes me feel as if His Majesty himself were here and this realm my home.”

  The crevices at his eyes deepened. Though he didn’t speak again as he led me to the barge, his firm hand on my sleeve assured me I had made my first French friend.

  My ride through Marseilles was a blur. Upon reaching the palace, I had only a moment to compose myself before I set my hand again on the constable’s arm and was brought into the hall, where hundreds of nobles lined an aisle leading to a dais bunted in crimson.

  A clap of hands plunged everyone into silence. “Eh, bon! The bride is here!”

  From the dais, a man descended with feline grace, dressed head to toe in silver tissue, his auburn hair sweeping to his shoulders, a trim beard emphasizing his secretive lips and large aquiline nose. I went still. I had never seen a face like his before. It was as if the full spectrum of life had carved itself upon his flesh with unrepentant arrogance, every gully and rivulet the mark of a soul that held nothing back. He was far past his much-vaunted youth; but François I of France was still a sight to behold, a king for whom power had become an accoutrement, who had savored everything life could offer save self-denial.