Madame Serpent (6 page)

―――――――

With their attendants, Caterina, Alessandro, and Ippolito made the long and tedious journey through Tuscany to Rome. Florence and Venice might be the most beautiful of Italian cities, but Rome was the proudest. The Eternal City!

How grand it seemed, how noble set upon the seven hills, surrounded by the purple slopes, the rocky Apennines on one side, and on the other the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.

The Holy Father wished to receive the younger members of his family in

audience; he had been having ill reports of their conduct from stern Clarissa Strozzi, who complained that the Cardinal Passerini was too indulgent. A word from the Holy Father was needed; and Clement could never resist an opportunity of seeing Alessandro. So there must be this visit to Rome, the Vatican itself; and Caterina was pleased, for she loved to travel, and a change from the monotonous daily routine of life in Florence was desirable.

Now she noticed, as they came into the city and people stood about to watch their ceremonial entry, that there were sullen looks instead of smiles, murmuring instead of cheering. But the overpowering beauty of the city made her forget the people.

There rose St Peter’s itself, though not yet completed, grand, eloquent

almost, with its lesson to offer. The great church was built on that spot, in one of the gardens surrounding Nero’s circus after his martyrdom, St Peter had been buried. He would have suffered, but a great church bore his name, and he would never be forgotten. The Emperor Nero, at whose command St Peter had been

tortured, had committed suicide. Whose was the triumph― the saint’s or the tyrant’s?

The day after their arrival the Pope would give them audience and they

would be led through the balls and rooms, by papal lackeys dressed in red damask, to the chamber, where the Holy Father would receive them. Caterina had never seen her kinsman except when he was surrounded by the pomp of his office. Now they would go in procession to the Vatican City; they would mount the hill― the centre of a group of three that overlooked the Tiber― and they would pass from palace to palace catching glimpses of the river d the Sistine Chapel, and the old fortress of the Castle St Angelo.

Clement was glad that the children were in Rome. He would like to keep

them there, but conditions were uneasy. Not that that worried him greatly. He had too high an opinion of his power to doubt for a moment his ability to quell a grumbling populace. The people distrusted him, he knew; and they considered the state of unrest in Italy due to the policy he had pursued with those monarchs who stood astride Europe― the three most powerful men of a turbulent age―

Francis of France, Charles of Spain, and Henry of England. But there was one, Clement believed― for his vanity was not the least of his faults― who was greater than any of them, and that man was the Holy Father himself, Guilio de’

Medici, called Pope Clement VII.

He decided now to see the children alone and separately, so that he might embrace Alessandro unseen and none might wonder at his affection for the boy.

He said to his Master of the Household, whose duty it was to be with him

wherever he was: ‘Excellency, I would be alone with the young people. Have them brought in separately.’

The dignified figure in the black-and-purple cassock bowed low and went

into Monsignor’s apartment to tell him the wishes of His Holiness the Pope.

Caterina came first. Etiquette demanded it. She walked reverently to the

portal chair on which Clement sat with his white robes spread about him.

Caterina knelt and the Pope held out his hand that she might kiss the fisherman’s ring.

She lightly touched it with her lips, but she could feel little reverence for the ring. The teaching they were giving her was robbing her of all real emotion. She looked at the seal through half-closed eyes while she received the sacred blessing; she saw her kinsman’s name on the seal and the image of St Peter sitting in a boat as he cast his nets.

He kept her on her knees.

‘My daughter, I have heard sad reports of you. You have been guilty of

many sins, and this grieves me―’

He went on and on, yet he was not thinking of her sins, but of her marriage.

His mind was flitting from one noble house to another. He wanted the son of a king for Caterina.

Yes,
thought the Holy Father, rounding off his homily,
I shall try for a
king’s son for Caterina.

‘You may leave me now, daughter. Work harder. Give yourself to your

studies. Remember a brilliant future awaits you. It is for you to preserve and glorify the honour of the house of Medici. Be worthy of that trust.’

‘I will, Father.’

She kissed the ring and departed.

Ippolito next. Alessandro should be saved until he had done with this bastard sprig of their family tree. He disliked the boy. How dared he wear that arrogant air, that look which was going to remind others as well as the Holy Father of their famous ancestor, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Still, he was a boy, and boys were precious; lacking legitimate offspring, one must welcome the illegitimate, particularly if they were male. The Holy Father could picture this boy, swaying the populace. It was often so with a charm of manner, a handsome face and a plausible tongue. Ippolito would have to learn modesty.

He told him so as the handsome head was bent and the boy knelt before him He was dismissed with alacrity, and now, thought the Holy Father,

Alessandro!

The Moor came in, his long arms swinging, depravity already written on his face, for all to see except one blinded by love, as was the Holy Father. He rose and held out his hands; he embraced the boy.

‘My son, it is a pleasure to see you looking so well.’

Then Alessandro knelt as the others had knelt, and the Pope caressed the

wiry black hair, and the fisherman’s ring was lost in the thickness of it.

Clement thought of the boy’s mother and that sudden passion she had

aroused in him. A slave girl, picked up on Barbary coast, working in the

kitchens― a girl with Alessandro’s hair and Alessandro’s eyes, warm-natured, loving― the great man’s mistress for several months of a year she had made memorable.

My son! thought the Pope. My son! And was angered that he could not say

to all the world:
This is my son!
That could not be and he must pass the boy off as a bastard of Caterina’s father, who had so many bastards that one more credited to him made little difference.

He was an earthly father now. ‘My son, how like you Rome? You would

like to rest here awhile?’

Alessandro would like to stay in Rome. He told of the viciousness of

Caterina and showed the wound in his hand where she had bitten him.

‘My son, you shall not live under the same roof with such a savage.’

‘I am treated badly there, Father. I am made to feel of no importance.’

‘My son, my son!’

‘I would I had my own palace, Father.’

‘You shall, my son. A palace of your own, where you shall no longer be

ignored, where you shall not have to submit to such treatment from― your

sister.’

Alessandro was delighted. Master in his own house where all should tremble before him! Here on Vatican Hill had once stood Nero’s Circus.
There
was a man who had known how to amuse himself― and others. One day Alessandro

would be such a one― a wise Nero. He would make sport and know how to

enjoy it.

‘I thank you, Father.’

‘My son, come close to me. One day Florence shall be yours. I will make

you ruler of all Florence. That is what I plan for you. But for the moment this plan is a secret, my son, yours and mine. For the time being you shall have your own establishment― a palace of your own in Florence.’

And so, after that visit to the Holy Father, Caterina was spared the indignity of living under the same roof as Alessandro.

―――――――

It was three years after that visit to Rome; they had been three happy,

peaceful years, with the friendship between Caterina and Ippolito growing stronger as the months passed. Alessandro had been given a fine villa about half a day’s ride from the city. It was comforting to see very little of him and to see more and more of Ippolito. Caterina had begun to dream and her dreams

included her handsome cousin. She could think nothing more delightful than spending her life with him in this city which they both loved so dearly. Ippolito, it was believed, would one day rule the city; what could be happier than that Caterina, legitimate daughter of the house, should rule it with him? The more Caterina thought of this, the more likely seemed to her that this could come about.

Happy days they were, sharing confidences, riding, and always with

Ippolito. She did not know whether he was aware of what was in her mind.

Perhaps to him she was just the agreeable little cousin. She was only nine years old. Perhaps young men of nineteen did not think of marrying nine-year-old girls. But in a few years she would be marriageable, and then― her wedding would be arranged.

She would long for Ippolito to speak to her of this, but he never did. She was glad that cruel Alessandro was not here in the Medici palace that he might guess her secret and find some way of torturing her.

And so the happy, sunny days passed by― three whole years of them―

until that day when disaster came upon the house. The Eternal City sacked, its palaces and churches looted, its citizens torn limb from limb, its virgins raped along with its matrons! The Holy Father, thanks to the magnificent rear-guard action fought by his brave Swiss guards, had escaped to the Castle of St Angelo, but remained there a prisoner. Florence was in revolt against the Medici.

Alessandro and Ippolito were driven from the city; but the little Caterina― the only legitimate child of the house― was held by the new Government of

Florence as a hostage and sent for safe keeping to the convent of Santa Lucia.

Here in the convent her life must be devoted to fasting and prayers; her

room was a narrow cell with nothing bright in it but the silver crucifix which hung upon the wall; she must live the rough, hard life of the nuns. But it was not that which hurt her; it was not for the cold of stone walls and the hardness of her bed that she wept bitterly into her coarse sheets at night. It was for Ippolito―

her beloved, handsome Ippolito, who was― she knew not where. They might

have killed him, as they would have killed the Holy Father if they had caught him. He might be living as a beggar, roaming the countryside beyond the City.

All her prayers, all her tears were for Ippolito.

Six months passed in the gloom of Santa Lucia. She hated the sombre nuns

in their stale-odoured garments; she hated the interminable hours of prayer.

‘Ippolito!’ she would cry. ‘Where are you?’ She would whisper to the

figures of the saints: ‘Tell me, where is Ippolito? Only let him be safe and I will never sin again.’

Outside the walls of the convent the plague had come to Florence. In the

streets, men, women, and children were dying in their hundreds. Was Ippolito one of these?

Then, like a sinister fog, the plague crept into Santa Lucia.

Caterina de’ Medici was too valuable a hostage to be allowed to run the risk of being taken by the plague. There was one thing left for the Government of Florence to do with this valuable little girl. On the other side of the city stood the Convent of
Santa Annunziate delle Murate
― the only spot in the whole of Florence that had escaped the plague. So one night three men called at the Santa Lucia and Caterina was summoned from her cell to learn of her departure; and without ceremony, a concealing cloak wrapped about her, Caterina, in the

company of these men, set out to cross the plague-stricken city.

She saw terrible sights on that night. She saw bodies of men and women

stretched out on the cobbles, some dead, some dying; she saw doctors in masks and tarred coats bravely doing all they could for the stricken people; the black-clad Misericordia passed along the streets carrying a litter in which was a victim of the dreadful disease; she heard the jangling of the dead-cart, and the voices of the priest saying prayers for the departed as he walked ahead of the cart. She heard people carousing in the taverns; she saw women and men making love in a frenzy of impatience, as though they wished to snatch at every enjoyment they could find, since tomorrow they might have their place in the dead-cart.

It was fantastic, that journey; it seemed unreal to little Caterina; she felt numbed by the suddenness of change that touched her life and shattered it. She felt she could only wait for horror to overtake her. She tried to see the faces of those muffled in their cloaks. She was in the streets of Florence. What if she came face to face with Ippolito?

But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow

streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.

The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the
Santa Inunziate delle Murate
. Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.

But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend

Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.

One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.

‘Dear little
Duchessina
, welcome!’ said this nun.

Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’

Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright,

her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa