Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (26 page)

“What can King François have been thinking?” asked one. “To marry his son to that Italian girl!”

“He was thinking of her wealth, no doubt,” replied a second drily “Certainly not of her beauty!”

The men laughed. I clenched my hands in my lap and felt my face flush.

“She's said to be among the richest women in Europe,” another put in.

“But scarcely a drop of royal blood runs in her veins! I would rather have both my knees broken than bend them to that Italian merchant's daughter,” the first rejoined haughtily.

Must I really sit here and listen to this?
I thought miserably. I wanted to leave, to sweep by them and speak to them in excellent French, letting them know that I had understood them perfectly and would not forget their cruel words. But at that moment the ladies arrived to escort me back to the royal bedchamber. Numbly, I followed them.

Henri did not return that night—or any of the nights after—to the bed I'd expected to share with him. I didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment. Mostly I was puzzled.
Maybe he feels the same as those courtiers,
I thought,
that he's married far beneath him to an Italian merchant's daughter with no royal blood in her veins.
Before that moment, it had never occurred to me that I was inferior to anyone.

After two weeks, King François and his court bid an elaborate farewell to Pope Clement and departed for one of the royal castles, taking Henri and his brothers with him. I wasn't unhappy to see my husband leave, but I did wonder if things might change the next time I saw him and he'd had time to get used to the idea that I was his wife. In the meantime I would stay behind in Marseilles with Queen Eleanor and Henri's sisters, Madeleine and Marguerite, until the pope sailed for Rome.

Rough seas delayed Clement's departure for two more weeks, until the end of November. Before he boarded
The Servant of God,
Pope Clement took me aside for a private farewell. As I had so many times before, I knelt and kissed the Ring of the Fisherman. I was still on my knees when the Holy Father leaned close and laid a hand on my head for a blessing. “A spirited girl will always conceive children,” he whispered.

Not if Henri doesn't come to my bed,
I thought, but said nothing.

G
IULIETTA
, N
ICCOLÀ,
and Tomassa prepared to return to Florence with the others. They had no regrets about leaving.

“The food here is terrible,” Giulietta remarked. “Maybe you can teach these people about our lasagne and ravioli. And manners, too,” she sniffed.

But Niccolà had other objections. “The French are haughty. They don't really like Italians, have you noticed? I'm afraid you're going to be miserable here. If I were you, Duchessina, I'd pack up and come home to Florence with us right now. From the look of it, I'm not sure your husband will even notice that you're gone.”

So they've seen how Henri ignores me. Probably everyone else has, too.

“You know I can't go back,” I reminded her. “The Holy Father would surely disown me. And what would I do in Florence? Throw myself on the mercy of Alessandro? Fate has been cruel to me in the past, but I've survived, and I will survive this, too. King François favors me. I'll be able to count on him.” My words were much braver than I felt. I would have given almost anything to leave with my friends, find Akasma, and stay at Le Murate. But that was impossible.

Tomassa pulled a face. “King François flirted with me,” she said, blushing. “We were dancing. He was wearing a mask, but anyone could recognize who he was. And he whispered something about going to bed with him.”

“You don't even understand French,” Niccolà pointed out. “So how do you know what he said?”

“I don't need to know French to understand
that!
” she insisted.

“Did you accept his invitation?” I asked slyly.

“Duchessina!” Tomassa was shocked. “Of course not! How can you take this so calmly?”

“Because I must.” All at once my brave words gave way to the tears I'd been holding back. “You'll write, won't you?” I pleaded.

Before the Duke of Albany's men arrived to escort my friends to their waiting ship, I gave a small silk purse filled with gold coins to each of my friends. “I have an enormous favor to ask of you: Find Akasma, my slave. She's expecting a child. Give one of the purses to Suor Margherita and ask her to help you find Akasma. Use one of these purses to buy her freedom from Alessandro, and give the other to her in secret. Tell her where I am, and beg her to come to me if she can. Will you do that for me, dear friends?”

They promised to do as I asked, although Tomassa couldn't resist saying that she thought it was a foolish idea. “You'll never see either the slave or your money,” she said.

“It's worth trying,” I said.

We kissed good-bye, shed more tears, and made more promises to write. Later, from an upper terrace of the palace, I watched their ship sail out of the harbor, growing smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared.

O
NLY THE LADIES
of the king's household stayed on in the south of France. All the visitors had gone home, including Ippolito, who had managed to avoid me entirely and sailed back to Rome with the pope. When my presence wasn't required, I spent as much time alone as I could, reading and writing letters to friends in Rome and Florence. But as Christmas approached, the ladies prepared to join the king at Château de Fontainebleau.

The days grew shorter as we traveled northward, away from the Mediterranean coast and its sun-warmed breezes, and the air was as sharp as a knife blade. An early winter tightened its grip on the Loire Valley. Trees were swept bare, an icy mist veiled the hills, and the ground was hard beneath the horses' hooves. We rode bundled in fur-lined cloaks. When darkness fell, we stopped at châteaux belonging to the king's friends, warmed our bones and filled our stomachs, and continued on at first light. The journey lasted twelve days.

Queen Eleanor, a quiet, stolid woman, kept apart with her ladies, many of whom had moved with her from Spain some three years earlier when she married François. It must have been as hard for her as it was for me, leaving her native land to marry a man whose language she didn't speak and scarcely understood. And it surely wasn't easy for her to realize that her husband had so little regard for her and spent most of his time with Anne d'Heilly, shamelessly flaunting his mistress in front of his patient wife.

Most days I rode with Henri's two sisters and got to know them well. Madeleine de Valois was a year younger than Henri, delicately pretty and good natured. We quickly became friends. For all her apparent goodness, Madeleine was a shrewd observer and a clever gossip. I quickly began to see the French court through her eyes. Ten-year-old Marguerite, impish and hot-tempered, often protested loudly at being left out of the interesting conversations of us older girls.

As the days passed, my questions grew bolder. “Oh, you'll get to know Anne d'Heilly soon enough,” said Madeleine when I asked about the beautiful lady. “Father behaves as though he's madly in love with her, but he always behaves that way with a new mistress. Father married her off to one of his courtiers and made her husband Duke d'Étampes, to please her and to placate him. She'll expect you to call her Madame d'Étampes, now that she's a duchess. The poor old duke hardly ever sees his wife, because she's always with Father.”

I wanted to ask Madeleine about the woman in black and white who had so captivated Henri's attention during our wedding celebrations, but I could not quite bring myself to do it. I was determined to learn the truth about her, but for the moment I explored the subject of the king's mistress.

“Doesn't Queen Eleanor object to her presence?” I asked, although I knew well enough that men in Italy did as they pleased, just as Frenchmen did, and their wives had nothing to say about it.

Madeleine considered this. “Maybe, but it really doesn't matter, does it? Father doesn't like the queen much at all. He promised to marry her so Emperor Charles would let him out of the horrible Spanish prison. So here she is. She lives a quiet life with her ladies. Those Spanish women dress very badly,” Madeleine continued. “Have you noticed? Always out of date. Sometimes the queen's gowns are encrusted with so many jewels that you can't see the fabric underneath. It's just as well—the color is sure to be something dreadful.”

I wondered what Madeleine thought of my gowns and hoped I wouldn't earn her sharp-tongued criticism.

“I'd heard that Italian women also didn't have much taste in clothes,” Madeleine said. “But yours are nice, Catherine. The fabrics are of excellent quality, I've noticed, and the workmanship is very fine.”

“
Merci,
” I said. “Thank you.” Her comment seemed lukewarm at best, but I had to be satisfied with it.

Also during the journey to Fontainebleau I became acquainted with the king's older sister, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, who traveled with her five-year-old daughter, Jeanne. Queen Marguerite's intelligence and good humor made her an excellent companion. Little Jeanne was a happy child who chattered merrily. By the time we reached Fontainebleau, I'd begun to look more favorably on my new life and my new family.

As our large party swept through the south gate, Porte d'Orée, a thin winter sun broke through dark clouds, bathing the towers of the château in a pale golden light. The sight stunned me. Fontainebleau was far grander than anything I had imagined. It in no way resembled the rugged stone palazzos of Florence. Formal gardens, carp pools, and deep forests surrounded the château, and its grace and elegance were reflected in the calm waters of the Loire.

My two sisters-in-law rode up beside me. “Welcome to your new home, Catherine!” said Madeleine.

“We're to share the same household,” Marguerite added. “And we'll have good times together, won't we?”

My heart lifting, I assured her that we would. If only Henri shared their warm feelings!

The girls showed me to a large bedchamber with high ceilings and tall windows overlooking gardens laid out in complex geometric patterns. The maidservants had unpacked the panniers delivered from Florence, although my gowns and petticoats and robes were still in the unopened
cassoni.
The silk hangings ordered by the Duchess of Mantua were in place around the matrimonial bed. A small fire burned in the ceramic stove, taking the chill off the room.

The maidservants withdrew; everyone had gone. Beyond the tall windows a light snow was falling. I watched the sky darken until a servant came to close the heavy draperies and light the candles in the wall sconces and disappeared again. After weeks of being surrounded during nearly every waking hour by members of the royal household and their servants, suddenly I was alone.

I sat down to wait, believing that someone would soon summon me. No one did. Had they all forgotten me? Tiring of this, I set out to explore some part of the vast château, wandering through long galleries lined with glowing frescoes of allegorical subjects. Servants hurried about, but I saw no one I recognized. And although I tried to be careful to remember how I had come, I soon became lost in a labyrinth of galleries and connecting chambers.

Rounding another corner, I heard the murmur of voices and caught the faint odor of cooking. I followed the tantalizing smell until I reached an enormous kitchen. A pair of boys turned a large piece of meat on a spit. Wisps of steam rose from a huge iron kettle stirred by two cooks. A baker slid pies from a long-handled peel into an oven, and his helpers kneaded dough in a great wooden trough. A few of the workers glanced at me curiously and then went on with their chores. Most ignored me.

I wondered if I should introduce myself and was rehearsing a few French phrases in my head
—Je suis Catherine, Duchesse d'Orléans
—when a clamor outside caught our attention. The door swung open wide, letting in a blast of cold air and a swirl of snow. Men in heavy boots and leather coats carried in the carcass of a deer and dropped it on the stone floor. Someone else dumped a sack of pheasants and several hares.