The day of the wedding, I rose with the sun, as did Chiara. I bathed, then put on a soft dressing gown and sat before my mirror for Chiara to put up my long hair. For my wedding day, the longer-than-waist-length tresses must be styled much more elaborately than for any simple dinner party, even one with the Medici family. Today all the eyes of Florence—all the eyes that mattered, anyway, or so I’d been told—would be on me, and I must look a goddess. Nothing less would do.
It took Chiara a few hours to braid dozens of strands of my wavy hair, and to pin each one perfectly into place about my head, like a crown. Woven through these braids were fine strands of pearls, each one carefully nestled amongst my tresses so as to shimmer and catch the light no matter which way I might turn. Between the pearls and the natural gold of my hair, I would have a halo of light around my head in the candlelight.
Once my hair was complete, Chiara helped me dress in my new silk shift—purchased especially for my wedding, and for my wedding night—and then in my gown, of pale yellow satin with elaborate cream silk brocade: embroidered flowers and vines wove their way all over the fabric, finely worked so as to draw the eye and enhance the cut of the gown, but not to distract from my face, my form. The seamstress had assured me so when she had delivered the stunning final product.
My mother was in the room as Chiara laced me into the gown, and her eyes, when they met mine in the mirror, were rimmed with red. “You have never looked more beautiful, Simonetta,” she said, voice wavering, once Chiara had finished and stepped back. She came to stand beside me, brushing two fingers against my cheek, as though to reassure herself that I was still her daughter, even in my new finery befitting a goddess. “You are a woman now. You will make your father and me very proud today.”
“I hope so,” I said. I knelt for her blessing, which she gave.
She smiled through her tears as I rose. “Now let us go downstairs to present you to your father. Then it will be time for us to go to the chapel.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are ready, si?”
At her question, doubt stabbed through my breast, just for an instant. I was but sixteen; what did I know of love or marriage? But my parents had wanted this match, had arranged it; and I had to trust that they knew what was best for me, even if I did not know myself. Besides, it would be Marco waiting for me in that chapel—my dear Marco, and he would not change into some different, hostile man to fear simply upon becoming my husband. Quite the reverse, surely.
But since confessing my doubt would change nothing in this moment—perhaps only cause my mother grief—I only smiled and said, “Si, Mama. I am ready.”
* * *
The close confines of the chapel only permitted a few witnesses to the ceremony itself—my parents, Marco’s parents, and Lorenzo, Clarice, Giuliano, and Lucrezia. They all rose from their seats as I entered, and I seemed to hear a collective gasp at the sight of me. Standing by the small altar with the priest, Marco took me in as I moved toward him, his eyes as round as coins.
He was dressed as richly as I was, in a silk doublet of vibrant red trimmed with pale yellow to match my gown. He looked awestruck as he beheld me, fear and desire and pride and disbelief all mingling on his face. As I approached him, he reached out to take my hand gingerly, carefully, as though he was afraid that in touching me he would find me not real after all, only some vision. I smiled reassuringly at him as he began to lead me the final few steps to the altar, wondering if he could hear my heart pounding beneath all the fine fabric I was wearing.
We knelt before the priest, and the nuptial Mass began. The Latin words blurred together as I tried to steady my breathing and slow my heart. Before I knew it, we were standing again, and I was facing Marco and promising to love and honor and obey him, and he was promising to love and honor me, and then there was a ring on my finger and Marco was kissing me and the witnesses were applauding.
And we were married. We were husband and wife, before both God and man.
And my future was set.
* * *
We traveled to the Medici villa at Careggi in a litter with Lorenzo and Clarice. From the way that Marco kept my fingers twined with his and cast me longing glances, I was sure that he wished we had a litter to ourselves, but I was glad of our friends’ company. Lorenzo paid extravagant compliments to my beauty, and soon he and Marco were talking of business, leaving Clarice and myself free to chatter on as we would.
“It was a most touching ceremony, truly,” she told me, “and I am sure you do not need me to tell you that you look a vision. You look as though you are not quite real.”
I smiled. “I am all too real, I’m afraid. And I must confess, I do not remember much of the ceremony. This day has already been … a bit overwhelming.”
“I know what you mean. My wedding day was much the same. Still, try to enjoy it. Do not let yourself become too preoccupied with…” She cast a glance at the men to make sure that they were safely absorbed in their own conversation and lowered her voice. “With what comes later. Tonight, that is.”
I nodded quickly.
“You do know what—”
“Yes,” I cut her off. “My mother informed me.”
“Good. Well, try to put it from your mind for now.” A slight flush rose in her cheeks. “Some women enjoy it.”
“So I am told,” I said. “I should like to speak to one such woman.”
Clarice’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Come see me tomorrow, Simonetta, and we will talk. It would not do for married ladies to share such secrets with virgins, now, would it?”
I smiled, but a part of me wished she would not be so coy. I had been prepared for pain and discomfort and endurance, yet so, too, was pleasure hinted at. No doubt there is pleasure to be had—a great deal of it—or this act would not contain such potential for sin, I thought. Surely there is more to men and women making fools of themselves over love than chaste words and staring into each other’s eyes—and beauty. Surely there is something else.
Yet I began to feel afraid again. My mother had told me I must think only of my husband’s pleasure. But how would I know how to see to such a thing? I glanced at Clarice again. “But … what must I do? What if I cannot … make him happy?”
Clarice laughed, then quickly looked contrite. “I am sorry, Simonetta. I do not mean to laugh. But trust me, you need not do much of anything at all to ensure his pleasure. Especially not you, beautiful as you are.”
“What are two such lovely ladies whispering about so intently?” Lorenzo interrupted, and we glanced up to see both of our husbands—yes, I had a husband now—looking at us curiously.
Clarice laughed in her throat, a low, alluring sound I had not heard from her before. “Just the idle talk of married women,” she said, winking at me. “Nothing you illustrious men need concern yourselves with.”
“Indeed,” Lorenzo said, and I saw the look he and his wife exchanged. I knew their marriage was a political one, and I had not wanted to ask Clarice whether love had grown between them as well. In public they were fastidious and proper, as befit their station. Yet here was the first time I had seen a glimmer of something more.
We arrived at the villa before too long, and with my mind whirring I scarcely took in the picturesque setting, the charming buildings set against the lush Tuscan hills. Servants came out to greet us and to show Marco and me to the chamber that had been prepared for our wedding night. Our own servants followed us in from the cart where they had been riding, along with the light baggage we had brought with us: a few personal items and changes of clothes for our trip back to the city the following day. They brought these things into the chamber and then left us alone.
Marco turned to me, taking my hands in his. “Alone at last, as husband and wife.”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“It would not do to not appear at our own wedding feast, especially one that has been so generously provided for us by our friends,” he said, his voice low. He stepped closer and stroked my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck. “But by God, Simonetta, I am tempted to consummate our marriage this very moment.”
My heart pounded faster, though from fear or excitement, I could not tell. “As you said, it would hardly be right,” I murmured, glancing up at him.
He groaned. “Do not look at me that way. My resolve is tested enough as it is.” Quickly, he leaned down and kissed me, gently but insistently, his tongue slipping into my mouth.
I gasped in surprise, but my mouth opened beneath his and I began, tentatively, to respond. Marco groaned against my mouth and pulled me tightly against him. As the kiss went on, he took my hand and placed it on the hardness beneath his hose.
Startled, I quickly drew back, only to regret it as I saw the shock and disappointment on Marco’s face. “I am sorry,” I said quickly. “I just—this is—should we not…”
Marco took a deep breath. “You are quite right. As I said, it would not do to be late to our wedding feast.…” he trailed off, regarding me in silence for a moment. “Do you fear me, Simonetta?”
“Fear you? No, of course not,” I assured him. “It is just that … I am not sure how … that is, I…” I trailed off, sounding a very fool even to my own ears. What did I even mean to say? I was not sure; I did not know how to explain to Marco, a man, all the ways in which a woman’s value was tied to what was between her legs, when I was only beginning to understand it myself. When I knew barely what was expected of me in the physical sense, and nothing beyond that.
Why was there no book that spoke of such things?
I felt my love for him grow a bit more when he smiled at me then. “I understand,” he said. “At least, I think I do.” He stepped closer to me again, this time kissing me chastely on the forehead. “As difficult as it is, I shall wait until tonight, so that our first bedding might be a proper one. And please, Simonetta,” he said, his expression growing serious, “do not be afraid of me, or of what will take place between us as husband and wife. I will be gentle, I promise. I want only to make you happy.”
Relieved, I smiled up at him and let him lead me from the room and down to the hall where the banquet was being laid out and our guests were assembling.
* * *
Downstairs, Marco and I greeted our guests, starting of course with our hosts, Lorenzo and Clarice, followed by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni.
Giuliano came behind his mother. “Ah!” he said as he approached, his hands over his heart. “Your beauty, Signora Vespucci, serves only to accentuate that this is the unhappiest day of my life. Perish the thought that a man must see his lady love wed to another!”
I laughed, uncertain how else to react to such a speech—especially since Marco seemed amused, nothing more. I remember Clarice’s words when she had brought me Giuliano’s love note, that this was all a game in which I was both player and prize. “You are a most devoted cavalier, Signor Giuliano.”
He closed his eyes as though in ecstasy. “Such kind words from my goddess will sustain me better than all the food of this magnificent feast.”
Marco clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Away with you,” he said. “Go drown your sorrows in wine.”
“So I shall,” Giuliano said dramatically, “that I may fall into a drunken slumber and dream of my dear Simonetta’s lips.”
“He is almost too ridiculous, is he not?” I asked Marco, who only chuckled in reply as the next person in line stepped forward.
The overwhelming majority of the guests were not known to me, so I did my best to smile pleasantly at each person presented to me, accepting their compliments on my gown and hair, on my beauty and grace, with what I hoped was an easy and gracious charm.
“I shall never remember all of these people,” I murmured to Marco during a pause. “I barely remember everyone Lorenzo introduced me to when we dined with him!”
Marco smiled. “Do not worry your pretty head about that, darling. They are all so awed by you, and thrilled simply to have a word or two from you. They should all die of delight were you to remember their names as well, and it would never do for you to slay our wedding guests.”
I laughed at this, but Marco was only partially correct, I noticed. The men appeared quite thrilled to make my acquaintance, true, but the women—their wives—seemed, for the most part, cool and suspicious.
To my surprise, at the end of the long line of guests was Signor Botticelli.
“Ah,” Marco said, when he spotted him. I felt his body grow slightly tense beside me. “Signor … Botticelli, was it not?”
He bowed to the two of us. “Indeed, Signor Vespucci. An honor that you should remember me.”
It was just what he was required to say, but I was surprised by the lack of feeling and sincerity behind it. It was obvious enough to Marco as well, for he only nodded tightly in acknowledgment.
“Ah, Sandro,” Lorenzo de’ Medici said, turning back to us from where he had been talking with some friends. “Signor and Signora Vespucci, you remember Sandro Botticelli, do you not? He is here at my invitation.”
“Indeed,” Marco said, a barely discernible edge to his voice.
“I remember you well, signore,” I said, smiling.
“Since meeting you, Signora Vespucci, Sandro has spoken of little else, not in my hearing, anyway,” Lorenzo said. “He wishes to paint you, as I believe he mentioned when you were introduced, and I confess I invited him in the hope that you might favor him with a commission. For what better inspiration could an artist have than this most beautiful of brides on her wedding day?”
“Indeed,” Marco said again. “Well, then we must follow your advice, Lorenzo, for if you recommend him, then he must be an artist of the utmost skill.” If anyone but me noted the lack of enthusiasm in Marco’s voice, no one remarked upon it. Still, I felt a thrill at his agreement that this talented man might paint me.
“I should be honored if such a distinguished gentleman as yourself found me so,” Botticelli said.
“So it is your art that brings you here, Signor Botticelli,” I said.
“Indeed. It is my art that brings me most places,” he said, and a hint of a smile appeared on his handsome face. “But I do want to take this opportunity to wish both of you much joy and happiness in your marriage.”
“We thank you, signore,” Marco said. “Now I pray you enjoy the feast, and we shall perhaps talk in more detail about your proposed portrait of Signora Vespucci at a later date.”
Thus dismissed, Botticelli bowed and left us to find his seat.
I turned to Marco, excited. “Will we truly have him paint me?” Botticelli’s painting of Judith lingered in my mind’s eye, and I felt that same surge of longing, of curiosity, to see how he might portray me. To see how he saw me, in ways that perhaps I had never seen myself.
Marco’s face relaxed into a smile. “When you look at me so, I think I will give you anything you ask for,” he said. “Yes, if you wish it, we can have this Signor Botticelli paint your portrait. It would no doubt please Lorenzo, as well.”
Having thus exchanged a word with all our guests, we were shown to our place of honor at the head table with our hosts. Servants brought in the first course of what would be many: some greens and the rather bland Tuscan bread.
I was engaged in conversation by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, who was seated on my left, and who had heard that I enjoyed reading. I spent the first two courses happily chatting about books with her, and came away with a mental list of new titles that I was eager to read—all of which, she assured me, could be found in the library at the Medici palazzo. She told me that she would be presenting a volume of her own verse to me and Marco as a wedding gift, one I told her I was most honored and excited to receive.
As the main course—a tender and flavorful beef—was served, Marco claimed my attention again. “Are you enjoying our wedding feast, wife?” he asked.
Wife. The word startled me, in a way I had not been startled even when Lorenzo had addressed me by my new surname. I was Marco’s wife, and he was my husband. “I am, husband,” I said, testing out the word. “Everything has been as wonderful as I could have wanted.”
He grinned at me, waving over a servant to refill my glass of Sangiovese. “Good,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed me quickly on the lips, as if he could not restrain himself. I blushed as some of the guests noticed and let out bawdy whoops and whistles.
“I could not resist,” he said, voice low, his head inclined toward mine. “And, as you are now my wife, I need not resist ever again.” He kissed me once more, then leaned back.
My entire body seemed warm, flushed; and I felt as though I were short of breath. To be so unequivocally, unabashedly adored—why, it felt like more than I deserved. As if sensing my thoughts, Marco took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it, then began gently caressing my fingers with his.
As the pastries and dessert wine were served, Lorenzo rose from his seat. “I would like to sincerely welcome all of you to our villa, and to say thank you for attending the marriage feast of two dear friends of mine and of the Medici family.” He indicated Marco and I, seated beside him, and the crowd applauded us. “It is an honor to host the nuptials of such a beautiful and happy young couple, who will no doubt do much to enhance this Florence of ours with their joy and intelligence. I wish them nothing but the most sublime wedded bliss.” The guests cheered again. “There shall be music commencing shortly,” he finished, “and if you have not yet personally extended your congratulations to the bride and groom, I pray you do so at once, as no doubt they will be retiring soon—and I am sure no one can blame the groom for wishing to take such a beautiful bride to bed without delay.”
Everyone laughed and cheered at his words, and I felt myself blushing again. We rose from our seats, and the guests followed us into the next room, where musicians were assembled and began playing. I danced first with Marco, of course, then with Lorenzo, then with Giuliano, who whispered in my ear that I must let him take me away before my husband could claim me as his own. I laughed through my discomfort at his words, teasing him that though his offer was most tempting, I must decline. Botticelli, too, caught my eye more than once, and I glowed, knowing he would paint me soon.
Marco and I were pulled into conversation with a few more guests, whose names I still could not recall even upon being told a second time. I began to feel weary: weary of everyone’s eyes upon me, of dancing, of standing, of being charming, of fearing what would happen once Marco and I were alone.
As the couple to whom we had been speaking wandered away, Marco turned to look down at me. “What do you say, my darling?” he asked. “Shall we retire?”
My heartbeat tripled. “As you wish, husband.”
He took my hand again and tucked it into his arm. He led me across the room to the doorway and, as our guests noticed our direction, they began applauding, whistling, and calling out bits of rather explicit advice. I tried to smile, tried to laugh, take joy in their merriment, and judging by Marco’s approving glance, I succeeded.
I caught Clarice’s eye as we left the room, and only just remembered that she and I had scarcely been able to speak since arriving at the villa. She gave me a big smile and nodded encouragingly.
We left the noisy, crowded room behind us and climbed the stairs to our suite of rooms on the third floor. Marco left me at the door to my dressing room before moving on to his. “I shall see you in a few minutes,” he said softly.
I nodded, suddenly almost too embarrassed to look at him, and stepped into my dressing room. Chiara immediately rose from her mending upon seeing me. “Madonna,” she said, curtseying briefly. She stepped toward me and began unpinning my hair. I sighed with relief as the heavy pins and strands of pearls were removed. With my hair loose, Chiara unlaced my gown and helped me step out of it and my underdress, carefully folding them to be put away. Now wearing only my shift, I shivered.
Chiara noticed. “Are you well, Madonna?” she asked softly. “Are you ready?”
Again I nodded but could not speak.
A soft knock came at the door, and I started, but relaxed slightly when the door opened and my mother came in. “Ah, Simonetta,” she said. “Ready for the marriage bed, I see.” Her face glowed with pride.
I tried to smile back, but my face seemed frozen.
“Do not worry, my daughter,” she said. She crossed the room to me and patted my cheek. “All will be well. Remember, all you need do is please your husband, and you shall have a happy and blessed life together.”
“I shall try,” I said.
She embraced me briefly. “All will be well. I promise,” she whispered into my ear again. Then she withdrew, closing the door behind her.
There was no further way to delay. But did I want to, truly? Was it not better to have it over with?
Chiara followed me through the door into the adjoining bedchamber and drew back the covers for me. I obediently got into the bed and lay back, fanning my long hair about me.
“Is there anything else you need, Madonna?” Chiara asked me.
“No,” I managed, past my dry throat. “You are dismissed, Chiara.”
She curtsied again and left me without a word.
I lay alone in the semidarkness—Chiara had left a small branch of candles burning on the bedside table—and stared up at the canopy of the bed. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm my furiously beating heart.
Yet Marco’s soft knock on the door just moments later, from his own adjoining dressing room, made all such efforts moot. My breathing quickened again as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Simonetta,” he said, my name half spoken, half sighed.
“Si,” I said, finding my voice. “It is I, your wife.”
He slowly approached the bed, dressed only in a nightshirt. I could see the dark hair on his chest where the neckline dipped down into a V; could see the outline of his body beneath the thin linen.
“You are not afraid, are you, Simonetta?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say no, that I was well, but I did not want to begin our time together as husband and wife with a lie. “Not afraid,” I said, “but perhaps a bit nervous.”
He smiled. “I can understand that, I think. But, as I told you before, my dearest, darling Simonetta, I will be gentle, and I will try to bring you joy.”
He got into the bed, sliding beneath the covers beside me. I willed myself not to shrink away as he took me in his arms. He kissed me, his lips parting mine as they had before, and I did my best to lose myself in the kiss. My breathing came quicker now, but for different reasons.
Marco began to kiss his way down my neck, and I gasped aloud. The heat within me rose to my skin, and I could feel beads of sweat beginning to form.
He groaned as we drew apart. “I cannot wait any longer, Simonetta,” he murmured. “You are too beautiful.” He shifted himself so that he was atop me, pulling up my shift, one hand insistently reaching between my legs to gently push them apart.
I tightened the muscles of my legs instinctively, then forced myself to yield to him and relaxed them. He lowered his hips onto mine, and I felt something large and hard pushing between my legs now. I forced myself to relax as he found the entry to my body and thrust himself inside me.
There was a sharp pain, as though something had torn within me, and I cried out, though my mother had told me to expect this.
“I am sorry,” Marco murmured. Then he began to move within me, and I clenched my teeth against the pain that still radiated up from that space within me, the space that he now occupied. He pushed farther and farther into me, and I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out—from the pain, from the weight of him, from the feeling of certainty that there must be something more I should be doing.
His breathing began to come faster, and as the pain faded he gave one last sharp thrust and cried out, a sound halfway between agony and ecstasy, his eyes closed. I felt him shudder within me, then he lay his head against my shoulder, spent.
We remained like that for a moment, Marco still inside me, and it felt almost pleasant to have him there, so close. As if he were a part of me. Then he lifted himself up, withdrew, and rolled over onto his back. “Oh, Simonetta,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
Tentatively I reached between my legs, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. This, too, my mother had prepared me for. I glanced back at Marco to see him watching me. “You are bleeding, yes?” he asked.
“Si.”
He smiled. “Ah, Simonetta.” He reached over and drew me into his arms. “You are mine,” he whispered into my ear. “Mine and only mine.”
After a few moments, I asked, “And did I … did I please you, husband?”
He chuckled. “Dio mio,” he said. “You have pleased me, indeed.” He studied my face, suddenly concerned. “I did not hurt you too much, did I?”
I cast my eyes down so he would not see the tears forming in them—though why I should cry, I did not know. “There was pain,” I confessed, “but I was prepared for it.”
“Oh, my Simonetta,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I am sorry. But it is necessary. And soon it will not hurt.”
“I hope you are right,” I said. Almost immediately, he drifted off to sleep.