The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (4 page)

There was a laden pause before he replied. “Madama Strozzi had to leave the city but even from exile she never stopped fighting for you. She caught a fever and”—he reached into his doublet, set a sealed envelope in my hands—“she left you this.”

I did not look at her letter. I closed my fingers over it and felt through the paper the invisible presence of the woman who’d been such an enormous part of my world it was impossible to imagine her gone. I did not cry. I could not. My grief ran too deep.

That same day I left Santa Lucia for Rome. I did not know what lay ahead for me.

All I knew was that I was eleven years old, my aunt was dead, and my life was not my own.

T
HE CITY I LEFT WAS IN SHAMBLES; THE CITY I RETURNED TO
was unrecognizable. I had been warned by my escort that Rome had suffered great calamity during the Imperial siege but as we rode over the hills into the Tiber Valley, I could not believe my eyes. I had fleeting memories of the brief time I’d spent among the damp marsh airs and magnificent palazzos of the Eternal City; it was enough to make me wish I didn’t remember anything at all.

A smoking pile rose against the desolate landscape; as we entered the city, I saw empty-eyed men and a few ravaged women sitting with their heads bowed amid burned-out husks that were once homes, surrounded by a wreckage of looted heirlooms and trampled relics. I caught sight of a group of children, their clothing in tatters; they stood silent, still, as if uncertain of where they belonged. My stomach sank as I realized they were now orphans, like me, only they had no place to go. Save for the mules used to haul away debris I saw no animal, not even the usually ubiquitous cats. I looked away from the bloated corpses piled like kindling in the streets, from pools of congealed blood swallowing the reflection of the bruised sky, and stared straight ahead as I was led to the Lateran Palace, where, I was told, I would be lodged.

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 retrieved 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.