Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (16 page)

Equipped with this information, I prepared for my first dinner at the Roman palazzo. Betta helped me dress in my new green gown and fastened my mother's ruby cross around my neck. “What shall we do about your hair, Duchessina?” she asked. It hadn't been quite three months since I'd cut it all off, and Betta hadn't recovered from her first sight of my bare head.

“Perhaps I should simply go as I am,” I teased her. “To make a memorable first impression.”

“Let's leave that for the
second
impression,” she said briskly. “Or maybe the last.” She began arranging the head covering my friends had given me, taking care to hide stray hair ends, and sent me off to dinner.

They were waiting for me. Lucrezia and a half dozen ladies in sumptuous gowns and masses of jewels all smiled pleasantly. Among them was a younger woman, remarkable in a plain black gown with a simple white head covering and no jewels of any kind—
Maria, the widow,
I thought. A beautiful girl wearing a lovely blue gown and a dark scowl stood apart from the others.
That must be Francesca, the disappointed bride.

“Welcome, Duchessina,” said my aunt. I curtsied, and the meal began.

Listening to the conversation at Lucrezia's dinner, I concluded that nearly every lady at the table was of Medici blood or had married some Medici cousin. That made me wonder about Ippolito. I hadn't seen him for three years. Possibly he was in Rome. Very likely someone at this table knew where. Someone might even mention his name. I listened carefully waiting for a chance to ask about him that would seem entirely natural, one cousin inquiring after another. But as the days passed, I learned nothing, not even from Betta.

My favorite in the household was Maria Salviati. My great-aunt Lucrezia was always pleasant, but she was interested almost exclusively in her lady friends, who were polite to me but distant. Gloomy Francesca seemed interested almost exclusively in herself. Only Maria, who wore sadness as habitually as she wore her widow's weeds, took much of an interest in me.

“I have a son just your age. Cosimo will soon be twelve,” she told me. “But I rarely see him.” When I asked where he was, she replied, “With his father's family, of course, as he has been since my husband's death.” She studied her long, thin fingers and finally managed a wan smile. “If you are in need of anything at all, Duchessina, come to me. I should be glad to help you.”

It was the custom in Rome to serve certain dishes on certain days of the week: macaroni dressed with a meat sauce on Thursdays, fish stew or ravioli stuffed with cheese on Fridays, and saltimbocca or some other veal dish on Saturdays. This custom seemed odd to me, but whatever was served was well prepared and plentiful, and it had been a long time since I'd had enough to eat. So, with no idea what else was expected of me, I ate my fill and waited to hear from Pope Clement.

A
BOUT A WEEK
after my arrival in Rome a papal messenger delivered a note. His Holiness would receive me at dinner in three days at the Belvedere, his private villa near the Vatican. I took the note to Maria.

“You'll have frequent dinners with His Holiness,” Maria said. “And I've been thinking about this: You have only one proper gown. It's pretty, but it's not enough—you've worn it every day since you arrived. I'll summon a tailor and a seamstress to begin work on a larger wardrobe. The bigger problem is your hair.” Maria rarely smiled, but the sight of it actually made her laugh. “What a disaster!” Maria declared. “It will be Easter until you can go about without a head covering.”

On the appointed day I anxiously dressed for dinner with the pope in my green gown. Betta fussed over me, adjusting the sleeves. Lucrezia loaned me some jewels. Maria arranged the headdress my friends had made.

“Are you nervous?” she asked when I dropped a ring for the third time.

“
Si,
” I admitted. “A little.”

“Don't be. There's nothing to be uneasy about,” she assured me. “My mother and sister and I will be with you.
There's sure to be a huge crowd. No one will pay the least attention to you.”

The sky was a perfect blue, and autumn sunshine bathed the buildings of Rome in a warm glow as we set out toward the Vatican, accompanied by a dozen servants.

“It's a nuisance,” Francesca grumbled, riding beside me on a handsome gray mule. “The dinners are terribly dull, but we have to go. My mother is the pope's official hostess.”

Our party skirted the Piazza Navona and made its way along a well-traveled street of half-ruined palaces. We crossed the Tiber by way of a graceful bridge, passed the Castel Sant' Angelo and the walls of the Vatican, and arrived at the Belvedere.

I hadn't seen Pope Clement, the man I remembered as Cardinal Giulio, since he'd ridden out of Florence in a gala procession on his way to Rome. I was just six years old then; now I was eleven and a half, and I believed I'd become quite a different person. My experiences at Santa Lucia and Le Murate had taught me much. Surely the Holy Father would notice the changes in me and be pleased.

I followed Lucrezia and her daughters along a crimson carpet. One set of doors after another parted, opened by white-gloved Swiss Guards in blue and yellow striped uniforms with red doublets, the Medici colors. We passed through room after room hung with rich tapestries and works of art, having no chance to admire any of it. Instead, I kept my mind on the lessons that Suor Paolina had drilled into us:

Eyes lowered modestly.
Hands still, clasped lightly.
Sedate walk, neither quick nor laggardly.
Thoughts quiet, reflective.

I failed that fourth lesson completely. I could discipline my body—hands, feet, even my eyes—but my mind raced unrestrained in every direction.

The last set of doors swung open. A tall, gray-bearded figure in white robes trimmed in gold was seated on a dais upon a high gilded throne, his feet resting on white silk cushions with gold tassels. He was surrounded by cardinals in scarlet from hat to slippers, bishops in purple, and men and women in splendid clothes and marvelous jewels, all watching as we made our entrance, one by one.

A page announced first Lucrezia, then Maria, followed by Francesca. I watched carefully as each of the women stepped forward, mounted the red-carpeted steps to kneel before the pope, kissed his feet, and then kissed the ring on the hand he extended. The pope smiled and nodded, and one of his cardinals helped each lady to her feet. I knew exactly what to do.

Next it was my turn: “Caterina Maria Romula di Lorenzo de' Medici, Duchess of Urbino!” intoned the page. I moved forward—
eyes lowered, hands still—
until the moment that I would kneel and bend to kiss the pope's feet.

But Pope Clement rose abruptly from his gilded throne, thrusting aside the tasseled cushions, and threw his arms open wide. “Our dearest Duchessina!” the pope cried.

Surprised by this move, I glanced up. Tears glistened in the pope's eyes, and while I stared openmouthed, breaking every rule Suor Paolina had tried so hard to instill in me, the tears began to course down the Holy Father's whiskered cheeks.

“How happy we are to see our dear niece once again,” he proclaimed in a deep voice loud enough for everyone in the enormous chamber to hear. And then he clasped me tightly, my face muffled against his snow-white robes.

What do I do now?
I wondered, quite breathless.

The pope released me from his embrace. I dropped to my knees, pressed my lips on the white slipper, reached for the hand with the gold Ring of the Fisherman symbolizing Saint Peter, and kissed it. One of the cardinals prepared to raise me up, but the pope brushed him away and did me the honor himself.

Pope Clement did not allow me to step aside. He kept me next to him, and even when we were escorted into the grand dining hall with long tables laid for a hundred guests or more, he led me to a place near the papal chair.
You got through a vicious mob,
I told myself;
certainly you can get through this.

The table was set with square crystal goblets rimmed with gold; silver plates displaying the papal seal inlaid in gold; and silver knives, spoons, and forks bearing the Medici crest. This was a huge step from dining in the convent refectory with girls my own age or even eating with Lucrezia's ladies. I decided that it would be better to eat nothing, rather than risk making some dreadful mistake that Suor Paolina had not prepared me for. Surely she couldn't have known about all of this! And I had lost sight of Aunt Lucrezia and her daughters.

Over the next several hours the meal proceeded with course after course—I stopped counting when I'd passed twenty—each presented by a liveried footman, first to Pope Clement and then to his honored guests, which included me. Soon the Holy Father seemed to forget about me, hunger overcame me, and I began to sample the various dishes, wielding the fork with growing confidence.

While the pope was occupied with his friends or signaling for his goblet of wine to be refilled, I glanced around the vast hall, my curiosity overcoming all the cautions I'd been given about keeping my eyes lowered. How would I ever find out what was going on if I could only stare at my plate?

My eyes swept the great hall. Everyone was engaged with the food, the wine, their conversations. A small orchestra—a harpsichord, a harp, three large violas, two lutes—provided music, although people talked so loudly I can't imagine they could hear it. I was listening to the music when I noticed a young man with finely chiseled features, standing to one side. He was dressed magnificently in a jeweled doublet and silk hose, one leg yellow and one red; his dark hair curled nearly to his shoulders.

I recognized him at once.
Ippolito!

I gasped and stared, willing him to look at me, until at last our eyes met. He nodded and smiled slightly. I half rose, wanting to rush to his side but forcing myself to do no such foolish thing. Gazing after him, I sank back onto my seat and watched him disappear behind a pillar near the orchestra.

A woman seated beside me spoke up. “Signorina, I've asked you a question,” she said crossly. I begged her pardon.

“I asked if you're enjoying your stay here in the Eternal City” she repeated.

“Oh, indeed,
signora!
” I said, much too enthusiastically. “I know that I shall love it here!”

T
HE POPE'S
elaborate dinner lasted for several hours. Riding back to Palazzo Medici beside Maria, I considered how to bring up the subject that had me in such turmoil. Finally, I simply blurted it out: “I saw my cousin, Ippolito, at the dinner. Does he live nearby?”

“
Si,
quite nearby,” she replied. “Ippolito and Alessandro both live at the palazzo. But we hardly ever see them.”

“They live at Palazzo Medici?” I echoed stupidly. “Both of them?

“
Si.
Ippolito is also my cousin, the natural son of Giuliano, my mother's brother—Leo's brother, too, of course.
And Alessandro is here because he's Clement's favorite.” Not noticing my agitation, Maria added, “They're cousins, they've grown up together, but it seems they're not fond of each other. Their disagreements have become much worse since the Holy Father made it known that he's preparing Alessandro to rule Florence in the very near future.”

“But why Alessandro? Ippolito is older,” I argued. “He should be the one to rule, shouldn't he? He's much beloved by the people of Florence.”

“You may be right, Duchessina. Ippolito would no doubt agree with you, and I know it was Pope Leo's intention—he spoke of it often. But that's not what Pope Clement has decided.”

This is not the way it should be,
I thought stubbornly.
Someday Ippolito will rule Florence.
Then, for the first time, another thought came to me:
And I will be at his side.

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