Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (22 page)

W
ORK BEGAN IMMEDIATELY
on wedding preparations. According to the marriage contract, Pope Clement was to provide me with an enormous trousseau, requiring not just one large
cassone
but several. So many Florentine makers of
cassoni
had died in the siege that the carved and painted wooden chests had to be ordered from the finest craftsmen in the town of Lucca.

There was also a shortage of fine fabrics as well as a lack of expert seamstresses to sew and embroider my gowns. To solve these problems, the pope enlisted the help of his friend, Isabella d'Este, Duchess of Mantua, a woman greatly admired for her exquisite taste. She immediately began sending from Mantua quantities of gold and silver tissue and the finest silk brocade for my gowns.
Heavy black, crimson, and gold damask were ordered for bedcoverings and curtains. Sheer linen was sent for my sleeping shifts and underthings.

Bolts of cloth began to arrive at the palazzo, along with quantities of lace and bobbins of gold thread. Casks of tiny pearls, amethysts, opals, garnets, rubies, emeralds, topaz, and sapphires were delivered under guard. Seamstresses came to take my measurements and study the sketches sent by the duchess, returning days later with half-
finished
gowns and petticoats to be tried on, fitted, and taken back to workrooms for final stitching before being sent on to the embroiderers. Soon my trousseau occupied an entire room of my apartment.

I
WISHED TO AVOID
Alessandro, but that proved impossible. He expected me to act as his official hostess. Night after night the elite of Florentine society—and some of Alessandro's not so elite friends—swarmed the refurbished reception hall, newly plastered and hung with rich tapestries that I'd selected. Servants raced up and down from the kitchen to serve the guests with food and drink that I'd ordered. Musicians I'd hired provided music, and the talk grew louder and the laughter more raucous as the wine flowed freely. Dressed in one of my new gowns of rustling taffeta or sensuous velvet, cut low in front to show off my newly developed breasts and the jewels that hung just above them, I passed long hours smiling and chatting with the bankers and merchants still loyal to the house of Medici. I followed Aunt Lucrezia's advice, and it seemed to work.

Among the frequent guests was Filippo Strozzi. One night he drank more than usual and consequently talked more, too. He congratulated me on my coming marriage and then let it slip that he had loaned Pope Clement a considerable sum of money for my wedding: “More than one hundred thirty thousand ducats,” he confided.

“A very large sum, Uncle,” I murmured.

“You're taking with you to France a dowry fit for a queen! But it's a sound investment for the Strozzi bank. His Holiness guaranteed the loan with a gold and diamond brooch and other jewels from the Vatican treasury.”

A
dowry fit for a queen,
I mused as I moved on to greet a new arrival.
For me!
It still seemed hard to believe.

Most of the evenings ended with Alessandro and Lorenzino staggering drunkenly out the door with their equally drunken friends. After the last of the guests had gone, I climbed wearily to my apartment and often fell on my bed fully clothed, letting Akasma undress me and cover me with an embroidered sheet to sleep as long as I could.

I had been back in the Palazzo Medici of Florence barely two months when Alessandro assigned me another duty: hostess to Margaret of Austria, the emperor's daughter and Alessandro's future bride. Margaret was traveling to Naples from her home in the Netherlands and planned to spend several days resting in Florence.
Remembering the graciousness with which Lucrezia always welcomed guests to her palace in Rome, I made up my mind to do my best for this girl.

Accompanied by Akasma and my usual guards, I rode out to greet her on the road from the north. It was a shining April day just after my fourteenth birthday. We had arranged to meet in a pretty valley where spring flowers bloomed in profusion. In spite of my weariness from my many duties, I enjoyed getting out into the countryside. I felt pity for any unfortunate girl who would marry Alessandro, but when I saw what a sweet and intelligent little thing she was, my heart nearly broke for her.

Margaret had gathered a nosegay of lilies of the valley and presented them to me when we met. She was just ten years old, and I was sure this innocent child had no idea that when she came of age she was to marry a monster whose depravity was as well known in Florence as it was in Rome.

Margaret stayed at Palazzo Medici, and I did what I could to keep her away from Alessandro after the obligatory meeting and a dinner arranged in her honor. Alessandro showed not the slightest interest in his future bride, who sat beside me at the dinner. I saw her glancing at him with a puzzled look, but she asked no questions. Alessandro ended the dinner early and left with Lorenzino. That was the last we saw of him. He was much too busy debauching himself with the loose women of the city to bother with a ten-year-old girl.

Together Margaret and I visited the Duomo, the largest cathedral in Europe, gazed at the Campanile and the bronze doors of the baptistery and Michelangelo's sculpture of David with its damaged arm, both of us sneaking curious glances at his nakedness and pretending not to. Our best moments were spent quietly in the Chapel of the Magi, surrounded by the frescoes I loved.

After three days I rode with her to the city walls and kissed her and wished her well.
Thank God there will be no wedding for at least four years,
I thought.
Anything could happen. For her sake, I pray that it will!

E
ARLY IN
M
AY
, Alessandro came unannounced to my apartment while Akasma was fixing my hair. It had grown long enough so that I'd been spending hours on the roof wearing a special sun hat to protect my complexion while allowing my hair to bleach to a lighter shade, which was the latest fashion. We were preparing for the arrival of Giorgio Vasari, Alessandro's artist friend who'd been commissioned to paint my portrait as a gift for the French king.

Alessandro carried a medal at the end of a chain. He'd had a series of medals cast with his profile from the remains of La Vacca, the bell that had once symbolized the city's freedom. He twirled it around his finger, this way and that, while he stared boldly at Akasma.

“You're awaiting Vasari? Don't worry, dear cousin,” he said in the sardonic tone that so angered me. “I've asked my friend to paint you as you'd want your future husband to see you—not as the little Frog Duchess,” he said. He smirked and continued to leer at Akasma.

Akasma ignored him. She always seemed tense when he was around. While she worked a garland of small jewels into my hair, Akasma started humming one of my favorite songs, about a twining rose and a rippling stream. She began softly enough, but soon she was singing in a scratchy, off-key voice, louder and louder. It was painful to hear. Alessandro stared at her for a moment before he fled from the room, hands over his ears to shut out the dreadful squawks.

Akasma and I glanced at each other in the mirror and started laughing. “So you see,” said the slave, “I know how to get rid of a troublesome fellow.”

“But you can't always be singing,” I pointed out, worrying what could happen to her, now that he'd taken notice of her. “And he can order you to be silent.”

Akasma shrugged. “I know—I'm a slave, and he'll do as he wants with me. But I'll do what I can, for as long as I can.”

W
ORK BEGAN ON
the portrait. Each time Giorgio Vasari came, Betta settled in as chaperone and Akasma stood by, ready to bring me a cup of watered wine when I asked for it.

I liked Vasari and wondered how this fine artist and good-tempered man could have become Alessandro's friend. All of his friends were bullies, I thought—arrogant, cruel, somewhat stupid. Vasari was none of these. He talked to me as he worked. He was so kind, so amusing, that I tried hard to please him, holding the pose for long periods without asking for a rest.

But it was Giorgio Vasari who needed the rests, sometimes simply going into the next room to sit with his eyes closed. Once he went out to dine with Alessandro, promising to return later. As soon as he'd gone, I stepped around to the front of the painting to see what he had made of my features. Alessandro was right—Giorgio hadn't portrayed me as a Frog Duchess, but neither had he shown me as the beauty that I wished to be. My eyes were still too large and prominent, my cheeks too round, my chin too small.

But changes could be made! I picked up one of the brushes, tipped it in a rosy hue, and gave the face in the portrait the bright coloring of the audacious women I'd seen around the old market. Akasma's mouth formed a shocked O when she saw what I'd done, and I'd barely had time to lay aside the brush when the artist returned, refreshed and ready to paint again.

“Shall we resume,
signorina?
” he asked with his usual pleasant smile. “The portrait is nearly finished. We'll have a fine likeness to send off to the king of France. I confess, Signorina Duchessina, I regret that we are finished. I have delighted in your company, and I trust that I may again have the honor of attempting to capture on canvas the charm and wit of such a gracious subject.”

I merely smiled and resumed my pose.

Giorgio stepped behind his easel. At first his face went quite white, and then quite red. “
La duchessina
is dissatisfied with my work?” he asked cautiously. “She would perhaps like some adjustments made to her portrait?”

I couldn't restrain my laughter. “I meant nothing by it, Signor Vasari,” I explained. “I was just having a little amusement.”

Vasari startled me by dropping to his knees at my feet. “My dear
signorina,
” he said, hands clasped over his heart. “Were it possible, were you not so far above me in your station in life, and were you not soon to marry into the French royal family, I swear that I would declare my love for you and pledge my eternal devotion.”

It was my turn to blush, and I thanked him for his kind sentiments. I truly regretted the moment when he announced that the portrait was finished, kissed my hand, and said good-bye.