11

Alessandro

A TALL, THIN MAN with a long, mournful face arrived at Palazzo Medici carrying a sheaf of documents emblazoned with gilt seals. Sent by the new French ambassador to be my tutor in French, he was presented to me by Cardinal Giovanni.

“But why has the French ambassador sent me a tutor?” I asked the cardinal.

“His Holiness seeks to improve relations with France.” The cardinal hesitated. “Perhaps you are to play a role in this improvement. A matter of diplomacy, you see.”

“But what have I to do with it?”

“Perhaps it would be wise to wait and see,” he advised.

The lessons began. His name was Monsieur Philippe, he told me with a bow that bent his narrow body nearly double. He spoke to me only in French. Slowly I began to understand and to respond, haltingly at first, and then with greater fluency.

Monsieur Philippe had a habit of appearing when and where I least expected him, unfashionably dressed in brown velvet with a flourish of lace at the ends of sleeves too short for his long arms. I might be out walking near the Piazza Navona with Maria and Francesca when Monsieur Philippe would pop out from behind a fountain or a tree and subject us all to a short discourse on botany, or architecture, or whatever else came to his mind—always in French, of course. This amused Maria but annoyed Francesca.

“He lacks manners,” Francesca complained. “Like all the French.”

Soon I could read and write in French as well. Monsieur Philippe was pleased.

“You learn quickly, mademoiselle,” he said. “You grasp the grammar and the vocabulary with ease. But”—he lifted his shoulders in an unhappy shrug—“I fear that you will never speak our beautiful language with the proper accent. You must make a much greater effort with the pronunciation. Form your mouth like this”—he pursed his lips—“or no French person will understand what you are saying.”

I did try, but the tutor’s despair deepened. “Whatever you say always comes out sounding like Italian,” he said sadly. “Endeavor to sound French, mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.”

I still had not been told why, as “a matter of diplomacy,” I was being required to learn the language, or for whose benefit I needed to sound French.

One day I asked Cornelius, my tutor in mathematics and astrology, to work out my horoscope. He had studied under the great philosopher-astrologer Marsilio Ficino of Florence, and I knew that the highest nobility of Rome consulted him for prognostications and guidance. “What does my future hold, maestro?” I asked. “I need to know.”

Cornelius consulted the charts spread out on the library table and made numerous calculations, but the answer he finally presented was no answer at all: You are destined to experience both great happiness and great sadness. There will be periods of power and of weakness, of success and of failure, of joy and grief. And you will have a long life.

The first part was true: I had already enjoyed great happiness and endured sadness that nearly overwhelmed me. As to the rest of it, he claimed that the heavens revealed no more of what was in store for me.

Meanwhile, the pope likewise revealed no more of the life he was planning for me. Several times I made a formal request through Cardinal Giovanni or one of the other cardinals for a private audience with the Holy Father, but I was stalled—“His Holiness is a very busy man”—and finally refused outright. “His Holiness will summon you when he wishes to see you, signorina.”

The summons did not come. I stopped asking.

THE WEEKS PASSED. Ippolito, who now wore the red hat of a cardinal, no longer had his quarters at Palazzo Medici. I saw him at dinners and other occasions to which Pope Clement invited me. These distant sightings seemed to taunt me. He was always surrounded by other churchmen. There was no chance to exchange even a formal greeting.

At the end of May the entire Salviati household moved to their handsome summer palace on a hill north of the city to escape the heat of the Roman summer. The villa was set among lovely gardens with cool breezes and sweeping views of the Tiber, the river that curled through the city like a silver ribbon. Musicians played at dinners served on the terrace after sunset. It was very pleasant, but my life felt like a huge empty drum. I yearned for Ippolito, sealed my unhappiness in a small chamber inside my heart, and waited for Destiny to show her hand.

When the Salviati household returned to the city at the end of summer, I realized that my efforts to avoid Alessandro might not be the best course of action. I was fairly certain that he knew what plans the pope had in store for me, as he’d seemed to know about candidates for my hand in marriage. Maybe rather than avoiding him, I should try to ingratiate myself instead.

I remembered lessons I’d learned when I was a child of six and Alessandro had called me “an ugly little thing.” Although I was older now and filling out in the feminine places, I recognized that I would never be a beautiful woman. But I was also aware that I had developed a certain kind of attractiveness—some call it charm—and I knew how to use that to my advantage. One didn’t have to like the person; one only had to be clever and pretend. Much as I loathed Alessandro, I would beguile him and bend him to my will.

I began my campaign with warm smiles and nods and progressed to merry greetings: “Buongiorno, Alessandro!” I sang out. “Good morning! I trust that all goes well with you!” I bobbed a cheerful curtsy.

Then, swallowing my distaste, I suggested that we go riding together. “I haven’t enjoyed a brisk gallop for some time,” I told him. “And I value your lessons in horsemanship most highly. Perhaps you’d consent to an hour’s ride with the Frog Duchess?” I flashed a winsome smile.

“Conpiacere, Duchessina,” he replied. “With pleasure.”

The unexpected invitation had the effect I wanted. He was so used to taunting me and enjoying my angry and sometimes tearful response that he seemed unsure what to make of the change.

On a cool day toward the end of autumn, Alessandro ordered the grooms to saddle our mounts. Soon we’d crossed the Tiber, leaving the chaperoning ladies and their servants far behind. Peasants in the fields looked up as we galloped by in the warm autumn sunshine. We reined our horses to a walk and turned back to look over the city spread out below.

“What a magnificent city,” I said with a heartfelt sigh, glancing sidelong at Alessandro. “Although, truly, don’t you think Florence is more beautiful? I do miss the hills of Tuscany. And the Duomo! Surely it’s the most glorious cathedral in all the world. I wonder,” I mused aloud, “when the Holy Father will allow me to return there. Florence is the city of my birth, and I can’t imagine spending my life anywhere else. Not even here in Rome.” My horse nickered and tossed her head, impatient to be moving again, but I kept a firm grip on the reins. “And what about you, Alessandro?” I asked, smiling. “Do you look forward to going back to Florence?”

Alessandro’s brow furrowed. He was even uglier when he frowned, but I kept the insincere smile firmly pasted on my face. “Certainly I do,” he growled. “As Duke of Florence I will be lord over everyone. I’m to have a rich wife, the daughter of Emperor Charles. And I’ll be living in Palazzo Medici—your former home, Duchessina—and have as many country villas and servants and horses as I want.” A spiteful grin crept across his surly features. “Everyone in the family sings the praises of Il Magnifico, as though old Lorenzo was more important than anyone, more important than the pope. But I mean to show them that I am far more magnificent than Il Magnifico ever was,” he boasted. “His image will fade in comparison to mine.”

Alessandro was enjoying himself I strived to keep my composure. “I’ve no doubt you’ll bring even greater glory to Florence than our illustrious ancestor did,” I lied.

He eyed me coolly. “And you, dear Duchessina?” he said scornfully, his lip curled in a sneer. “You, too, are destined for greatness, are you not?”

I heard echoes of his past cruel taunts and felt my will crumbling. I wanted to lash out at him, to throw in his face that Pope Leo had always intended not him but Ippolito to rule Florence, and that he, Alessandro, was replacing Ippolito only because he was the pope’s bastard son. If Pope Leo were still alive, I wanted to say, it would be a different story altogether.

I waited until I was sure of my next words. “I have no idea what lies ahead, cousin,” I said carefully. Then I turned to him with my most engaging smile. “But perhaps you can tell me?”

“And what do I get in return, little Frog Duchess? Will you croak for me, if I tell you what I know?”

I checked a surge of anger at the mockery and made my voice soft and cajoling. “Alessandro, per favore, I beg you. We should not be enemies,” I said, although I knew that wasn’t true: We would always be enemies.

He stroked his straggly little beard, keeping me in suspense. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you what I know, just for the sheer pleasure of watching your face. Come, let’s return to the city.”

We started our horses at a sedate walk. “The French cardinal, Gramont—you met him last spring at the pope’s dinner—was sent here to begin private conversations with His Holiness on behalf of the king of France,” Alessandro said. “In the spring King François and Pope Clement signed a secret agreement.”

Alessandro watched me. He enjoyed drawing out his story, observing my anxiety. “François is to receive title to several major cities under the pope’s control: Pisa, Livorno, Parma, and others. And the pope promised to help François wrest Milan and Genoa away from Emperor Charles.”

“But what has any of this to do with me?” I cried, my impatience growing.

“Everything. Their secret agreement is a marriage contract, dear Frog Duchess. These cities make up a part of your dowry. When you marry, they become the property of your husband, the lucky devil!”

“My dowry?” I nearly shouted. “But whom am I to marry? Tell me, Alessandro! Tell me, damn you!”

I had lost control, and I immediately regretted it. Now Alessandro held the advantage, and I had handed it to him. He knew he could torment me, make me beg.

His lips twisted in a derisive smile. “You are to be the bride of Henri, Duke of Orléans, second son of King François. Our Duchessina is to marry the brother of the future king of France! Just think of it—a French prince!”

With those words Alessandro whipped his stallion into a mad gallop. I urged my little mare to follow. She was smaller but very brave, and we managed to catch up with him before he thundered across the bridge. He reined in his horse and waited, laughing cruelly. “What is it, Duchessina? Haven’t you heard enough?”

I was breathless and trembling, clutching the pommel. “There must be more. I’m sure you know more, Alessandro—tell me!”

Alessandro pulled on his lip, as though deep in thought. “Perhaps this will amuse you, then. King François requests that you come to live at the French court until you’re of an age to wed.” He looked me up and down in the insulting way I’d seen him eyeing the servant girls. “Anyone can see that you’re not yet woman enough for marriage.”

Not yet woman enough for marriage! I badly wanted to slap his ugly face. But it would not do to lose control again. I needed to hear the rest of his story.

His horse was dancing in nervous circles. Alessandro brought the stallion’s head close to my mare’s and thrust his own face close to mine. “The Holy Father refused that demand. His precious Duchessina is to remain under my loving care in Florence until the wedding.”

“Your care, Alessandro?” Surely not! It couldn’t be!

“Indeed. I’ll let you know when we’re leaving Rome.”

I HAD TO SPEAK to Ippolito one more time. I had to tell him myself about the future that lay in store for me. But how was I to accomplish that? I wasn’t permitted to go about in the streets of Rome without the company of at least one older woman, although I was certain I could convince Betta to go with me for a secret meeting. But where? When? And how to arrange it?

Then nothing short of a miracle happened: Monsieur Philippe brought me a letter. “I was walking near the river, as is my pleasure,” the Frenchman reported in his doleful voice, “and a young boy asked me to bring this to you. A servant to one of the cardinals, I think.”

I thought I recognized Ippolito’s writing. I could scarcely wait for Monsieur Philippe to leave so that I could read it. The lesson in French subjunctives seemed endless.

At last I was alone. “Visit the chapel in the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere tomorrow at midafternoon,” I read. “Seek out a monk at prayer. Do not reply to this message.”

I read the letter over several times. I was sure the monk would turn out to be Ippolito himself. Why did he want to see me? Had something changed? Maybe he had told the pope that he did not want to be a cardinal, that he had no vocation in the church. Maybe—and here my imagination took flight—he’d even told the Holy Father that he loved me, his Duchessina, and he wanted to marry me. Maybe he was even making plans to go away with me. In my excitement I pushed the French prince and the marriage contract far from my mind.

“I must see him, and you must come with me,” I insisted to Betta. “You understand, don’t you?”

“I understand that your uncle the pope would send me away if he found out,” she grumbled. But I knew her grumbling was only an act. Betta would give in and agree to do as I asked.

And she did. With each passing hour my conviction grew that my meeting with the “monk” would be a joyous one.

A cold rain had begun to fall. Wrapped in warm cloaks, Betta and I set off on foot. We crossed the Tiber and made our way through the narrow, crooked streets, unpaved and muddy. Soon our boots were caked with mud and our cloaks wet and splattered.

We entered the church, glad to be out of the rain. The sanctuary was dim and silent; a few old women, veiled in black, hovered near the altar, fingering their beads. We hurried past the chancel, where mosaics glowed in the light of dozens of flickering candles. The chapel was nearly empty, except for a monk in a rough woolen robe kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin.

Betta nodded and retired to the rear of the chapel, and I approached the monk, eager to be with Ippolito but suddenly uneasy about whatever had led him to summon me there. What if I’m wrong? My knees were trembling as I knelt beside him. The monk turned toward me, pulling back his cowl to reveal his face.

It was not Ippolito.

“Alessandro!” I cried, shattering the silence.

He hushed me. “Are you disappointed, little Frog Duchess? Sad that your beloved Cardinal Ippolito couldn’t come to you? He sent me in his place, with his profound apologies.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said angrily. “Everything you say to me is a lie!”

“Duchessina, Duchessina!” Alessandro drawled, shaking his head. “You’re being very childish. Ippolito left this morning for Hungary, where he’s to serve as papal legate. Our cousin asked me to tell you how happy he is to learn of your coming marriage and wishes you great joy. I promised him I’d take good care of you in Florence.”

Nearly ill with disappointment, I staggered clumsily to my feet. I could hardly speak. “Couldn’t you have given me the same message at Palazzo Medici?” I stammered. “Why are you dressed like a monk? Why do you go to so much trouble to torment me?”

“Because it amuses me,” said Alessandro. “You should also know that Cardinal Ippolito was quite eager to leave for his new assignment. Pope Clement has made it well worth his while, assigning him so many rich benefices that he couldn’t refuse.”

I glared at him in disgust. “Are you saying that the pope bribed him?”

“I’m saying that His Holiness offered Ippolito the income from a great deal of church property, and our cousin willingly accepted the pope’s terms. Call that what you want.” Alessandro rose and raised the cowl of the monk’s robe. “I’ve delivered the message I was asked to give you. Now, with your permission, Duchessina, I leave you to your prayers to the Blessed Virgin.”

He made his usual scornful bow and strode out of the chapel, and I sank to the stone floor. Betta knelt and wrapped her arms around me and rocked me like an infant as I wept.

IPPOLITO WAS GONE, without even a chance to say one last good-bye. Francesca, cheerful at last, had packed up her trousseau—and it was considerable—and left for Florence for her wedding to Ottavio de’ Medici, accompanied by Lucrezia and Maria. Without Lucrezia, Pope Clement had no official hostess, and the number of dinners to which I was invited dwindled to nothing. This suited me very well.

I spent my days alone or with my tutors and buried myself in my studies. I made rapid strides in all my courses. Knowing now that I would one day live in France, I threw myself into the new language with as much energy as I could muster. I questioned Monsieur Philippe relentlessly about France and anything to do with the royal family.

“François, the Most Christian King, is the greatest ruler in all Europe,” the tutor declared proudly. “Queen Claude was loved by all before her death. She presented her husband the king with a child nearly every year, as was her duty. There are five children, three sons and two daughters. The new queen, Eleanor, is the most admirable of women.”

“The names of the children, s’il vous plaît?” I prepared to write them down.

“François, the eldest who will one day be king, then Henri, followed by Madeleine, Charles, and Marguerite.”

Henri, my future husband, interested me most, of course: What is he like? How old is he? Is he handsome, intelligent, kind, like Ippolito? Or like Alessandro—ugly, badly spoiled, cruel? But these weren’t questions suitable to ask Monsieur Philippe, who presumably knew nothing of the secret agreement between the pope and the king.

“Are there many royal palazzi?” I asked, settling for a less difficult question.

“We call them châteaux, mademoiselle, and the answer is certainly,” he replied. “Fontainebleau is the king’s favorite. Also Amboise, Blois, Chambord, and many others as well. But why these questions, mademoiselle?”

“I may have occasion to travel to France some day soon. To visit the king,” I added.

“Ahh,” he replied, nodding. “I understand. Then undoubtedly you will see the châteaux for yourself.”

Still I wasn’t satisfied. “What sort of music does the king enjoy? What does the royal family eat? I’ve grown so accustomed to the ways of the papal court that I’m afraid I won’t know what to do,” I explained.

“Do not worry, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Philippe, stroking his long nose. “If you will just learn to speak the language beautifully, with the proper accent, I assure you that you will learn everything in good time.”

MY COMING MARRIAGE was announced in January of 1533. But instead of Pope Clement himself telling me the news or sending me word through Cardinal Giovanni, I received a visit from the new French ambassador to Rome, John Stuart, Duke of Albany.

The ambassador turned out to be a relative by marriage—my uncle on my mother’s side. Born in Scotland but raised in France, the duke had married my mother’s sister. I had never known my aunt, Anne d’Auvergne; she’d died when I was a small child. Now her husband, the ambassador, called on me at Palazzo Medici to make a brief formal statement surrounded by a lot of flowery language: Caterina de Medici is to wed Henri, Duke of Orleans.

I liked the ambassador at once. A stocky man with white streaks in his ruddy brown hair and beard, Albany lacked the elegance of the Frenchman who had once rescued me from the convent of Santa Lucia, but I felt that perhaps at last I had an ally. I plied him with questions.

“When am I to be married?” I asked.

“In October, Mademoiselle Catherine,” he said, calling me by my French name.

“Why was my betrothal kept secret?”

“Allow me to explain a few things, mademoiselle. Pope Clement wanted to keep his agreement with King François a secret from Emperor Charles. Those two rulers have been enemies for many years. The Holy Father feared that if Charles learned of the agreement too soon, he would put a stop to the marriage contract. Now it’s too late; there’s nothing Charles can do about it. You’re a most desirable bride—one of the richest women in Europe. The pope will not let you go cheaply.”

But I had other things on my mind. What about Henri?— that’s what mattered. Will I like him? Will he care for me?

But I couldn’t bring myself to ask this honest-seeming ambassador. I would have to discover that for myself.

A NEW FACE appeared among the familiar ones at Palazzo Medici. It belonged to a distant Medici cousin called Lorenzino. Eighteen years old, nearly as handsome as Ippolito, and nearly as cruel and arrogant as Alessandro, Lorenzino quickly became Alessandro’s constant companion in mischief. The pair soon brought down the wrath of Pope Clement for their malicious pranks, which included knocking the heads off antique statuary. Anyone could see that Lorenzino meant trouble, but the trouble was tolerated.

Pope Clement now announced that Alessandro would return to Florence to assume his new role as duke and lord over the city. Forenzino, his loutish companion, would stand ready to help him. And I would accompany them both to the seat of Medici family power, to serve as Alessandro’s official hostess and to prepare for my wedding.

When Lucrezia and Maria returned to Rome from Francesca’s wedding, they were as surprised as anyone to learn of the marriage plans Pope Clement had made for me. Once again I would be separated from people I’d come to care for, especially Maria. Now they helped me get ready to leave Rome.

Lucrezia offered practical advice. “You’re going to be expected to entertain a lot of people at a lot of dinners. Hire the best cooks you can find and pay them well, keep an eye on the budget, fire anyone you suspect of cheating you, and smile at your guests no matter how terrible you feel. Act as though you know exactly what you’re doing. I’m sure you’ll be a brilliant hostess.” I hoped she was right.

At the end of January, His Holiness arranged a farewell dinner for me. Maria laughed as she arranged my hair, recalling the stubble I’d arrived with, but our laughter turned to weeping before she’d finished. We left Palazzo Medici with Lucrezia to ride together to the pope’s residence for the last time.

Pope Clement’s tears flowed as freely as they had two years earlier when I’d first arrived in Rome. “I’ve made the greatest match in the world for you, dear niece,” he whispered as I knelt and kissed his ring.

“Mille grazie, Holy Father,” I replied softly. “I am most grateful.”

On a cold February day I embraced Lucrezia and Maria and rode out of the Eternal City with Alessandro’s huge retinue headed north, thinking of all that I was leaving behind and all that lay ahead.