Madame Serpent (9 page)

The happy days marched quickly past.

Such a matter could not be kept long from the Pontifical ears. The news was whispered among the Swiss Guards and Palatine Guards and the palace lackeys until it came to the ears of the bishops and cardinals, and through them, it reached Monsignor, who in his turn passed it on to the Master of the Household, his Excellency, whose duty it was to live close to the Holy Father himself.

His Holiness was furious. He hated Ippolito― hated him for his handsome

face, his charming manners and his popularity. He knew that, if he were not very careful, he was going to have trouble with Ippolito. The stubborn youth had tried to turn his back on an brilliant career in the Church, and all because Alessandro had been made ruler of Florence. Ippolito would be another such as his father and Lorenzo the Magnificent. Ippolito did not fit into the papal schemes.

Now, Caterina did. Great wealth and power were to come to Clement

through this girl. Her marriage was his first consideration now, and great plans were afoot.

The Pope looked at his long hands and seemed to see pictures of men as on playing cards that he would hold fan-shape and wonder which to play. There was the Duke of Albany― not a good choice, for he was Caterina’s uncle by marriage; there was the Duke of Milan, ailing and old enough to be her

grandfather, though his declining fortunes went against him rather than his age.

The Duke of Mantua? The life this man had led was similar to that led by

Caterina’s own father and that which Alessandro was now leading in Florence.

Such a marriage was not desirable. Caterina’s father had made a grand marriage with a lady related to the royal family of France, and what had happened? Death for the parents, after the birth of one child― a girl, Caterina― who had by a miracle escaped the result of her father’s sins. No! He wanted a husband who was rich and powerful, though power and birth came before riches, as it was with Medici wealth that he should be drawn into the net. There was the King of Scotland. But that was a remote and poor country.

It would cost me more than her dowry to bring me news of such a place!
he said to himself. There were others. The Count of Vaudemont, and even the Duke of Richmond, illegitimate son of Henry VIII of England. The Pope frowned on illegitimacy, although he himself was illegitimate and had risen to power in spite of it.

But now into the marriage market had stepped a dazzling bargain. A bride

was wanted for Henry of Orleans, second son of none other than the King of France.

When His Holiness had heard of this, he had kissed his fisherman’s ring and asked the Virgin’s blessing. The house of Medici allied to the mighty house of France!

First sons had a way of dying; some were hurried to their deaths. The wives of second sons could become queens. Queen of France! Breeding children that were half Medici, and ready to be very kind to their mother’s family! If this marriage could be arranged, it would be the brightest event that had ever taken place in the Medici family. The marriage of Caterina’s father to a connexion of the Bourbons would be nothing compared with Caterina’s marriage with the

house of Valois.

He must go carefully. He had spoken of the proposed French marriage to the Emperor Charles, who, laughing slyly up his sleeve, had suggested the Pope try to bring it about. He thinking that a sharp rebuff from France would do Clement good.

Does a royal house mate with such as the Medici? They were rulers of

Florence, it was true, but they had their roots in trade. No, thought Charles.

Francis would laugh down his long nose at the effrontery of the Pope, and make some witty remark at his expense. But there was something Charles had

forgotten which the Pope remembered. There were always ways of tempting the French King. He had ever cast covetous eyes on Italy and if Clement promised the Duchy of Milan as part of Caterina’s dowry, he might bring this about.

Tentative negotiations were already going forward, and the Pope was optimistic And now this news. This crass stupidity. These absurd people! It seemed

that the whole of Rome was talking about ‘the Medici lovers’. And Ippolito―

the eternal thorn in his side― was the cause of it.

The Pope sent for Caterina.

Through the long series of halls and rooms, past the papal lackeys and the guards, she came. She was in that dream of soft happiness which was always with her now; her thoughts dwelt constantly on Ippolito. She and Ippolito together, all through their lives; and if Alessandro did not die or was not displaced, well then, it would still be Caterina and Ippolito, happy, in love forever. Being together was all that mattered. Where they were was

unimportant.

Monsignor was waiting for her in one of the outer chambers. He looked so

sombre in his purple cassock that she felt sorry for him; indeed she felt sorry for all who were not Caterina and Ippolito.

‘His Holiness awaits you,’ said Monsignor; and he led her into the presence.

She knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, and felt relieved that it was not to be a private audience, for Excellency did not leave them.

‘My dearly beloved daughter,’ said His Holiness, ‘I am making

arrangements for you to leave Rome immediately.’

‘Leave Rome!’ she cried out before she could stop herself.
Leave Rome!

Leave Ippolito?

The Pope expressed silent surprise at such bad manners. ‘To leave Rome

immediately,’ he went on.

She was silent. Tears were in her eyes. She was afraid His Holiness would see them. Why was he sending her away? She sensed in this some threat to her love. She could not help it; she must speak.

‘Holy Father, I― I do not want to leave Rome, now.’

Excellency was standing very still. Even the Holy Father was silent. They could not understand her. Could she have forgotten that it was not for any to argue with the Pope of Rome?

The Holy Father’s lips were tight. ‘There is a threat of plague in Rome. We cannot allowour dearly beloved daughter to take the risk of remaining here’

It was untrue. There was no plague in Rome. She knew, instinctively, that this was a plot to separate her from her beloved Ippolito.

She forgot decorum, forgot the dignity due the Holy Father. ‘Where―

where shall I go, Father?’

‘To Florence,’ he said.

‘Oh, Father, is― my cousin Ippolito to come with me?’

There was a horrified silence. Excellency’s face was a blank mask that hid surprise. The Holy Father looked down into the anguished eyes of his young relative and found himself answering her question instead of reprimanding her.

‘Your cousin Ippolito is to go on a mission to Turkey.’

She did not speak; her lips trembled. She knew that she had been living in a dream. There was to be no happiness with Ippolito. It was not the wish of this all-powerful man that they should marry. They had been together through

carelessness, indifference to the torture separation must mean to them both.

Perhaps the Holy Father had some pity in him. He looked down at the

misery in that pale young face.

‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘You should rejoice. A great future awaits you.’

She did not mean to speak but the words escaped her; ‘There is no future for me without Ippolito; without Ippolito, I do not wish to live.’

The Pope was not so angry as he should have been at this affront to

ceremonial dignity. He remembered his heated passion for a Barbary slave who had given him Alessandro.

‘My daughter,’ he said, and the gentleness of his voice startled Caterina out of her misery temporarily, ‘my well beloved daughter, you know not what you say. I hope to send for you in Florence. You will go to France, if all is as I plan; to France, my daughter, to marry the second son of the King.’ He laid his hands on her head to bless her. ‘To France, daughter. The second son of the King!

Who knows, one day, you may be Queen of France! Miracles can happen,

daughter. It may be that our family has been chosen to rule great countries. Sigh not. Weep no more. Your future is bright.’

Dazed with wretchedness, she allowed herself to be dismissed and led away.

This was the end of rapture. This was goodbye to love. Clement’s ambition, in the shape of the second son of the King of France, had come between her and her lover.

Riding on horseback from Florence down to the Tuscany coast, surrounded

by all the noblest people of Florence, was a broken-hearted little girl. She was still dazed, bewildered by this horror which had overtaken her; she was

supposed to rejoice at what they were pleased to call her great good fortune, and she could only weep.

Her uncle, Filippo Strozzi― a widower, for Aunt Clarissa had died before

she was able to see what she would have called ‘this great and happy event’―

was in charge of the concourse until it should be joined by the Pope; after each day’s journey he would summon his niece and talk to her, implore her to show some interest in her good fortune, to hide her melancholy, to suppress her folly, and with her family rejoice. But every member of her family did not rejoice, she pointed out.

Indeed, it was so. And Filippo Strozzi was inclined to think His Holiness had erred in making Ippolito of the party which was to conduct Caterina into France.

‘It will put an end to rumour,’ Clement had said. ‘There must be no more of this talk of the Medici lovers.’ Filippo shrugged his shoulders. All very well for His Holiness. Perhaps the life he had led did not give him great understanding of young and passionate lovers. Not that Clement had pursued unswervingly the life of a celibate. There was that depraved monster, Alessandro, to prove that.

But His Holiness would never allow passion to interfere with ambition, and, being a man of little imagination, no doubt believed his young relatives would behave in similar fashion. Filippo was a man of the world, and, looking from the sad, smouldering eyes of Ippolito to the rebellious ones of Caterina, he knew it had been a mistake to include the young man in the party.

Ippolito was handsome enough, romantic enough to turn any girl’s head; he had made a success of the mission in Turkey and had returned much earlier than had been expected― the lover, eager to see his love again. As for the girl, she was, even at fourteen, an adept at hiding her feelings, but the softness of those lovely eyes of hers when they rested on the young man betrayed her. Filippo would feel most uneasy until they boarded galleys which would take them

across to Nice.

While Filippo longed for a sight of the Tuscany coast, Caterina dreaded it.

She knew that once she left the soil of Italy, she was doomed. There would be no escape then; but while she sat on her horse and Ippolito was close to her, it was possible to dream, with the hope that out of the dream reality would come.

Why should they not ride away together?

Sometimes, during that journey, it was possible to exchange a few words

with her cousin that would not be overheard by those surrounding them. Then in desperation she would throw aside reserve and plead for the fulfillment of their love.

‘Ippolito, let us break away. Let us ride fast― anywhere, what does it

matter? Let us be together.’

Ippolito looked at her sadly. She was only a child. She knew nothing of the world. Where would they go? How would they live? Escape was impossible.

They would be brought back to the Pope.

‘I would not care, Ippolito. We should have had some months, weeks, days

together.’

‘Caterina, do you think I have not brooded on this? I have made plans. But each one ends in wretchedness. I could not take you to that. Where would we live? Among beggars? Among robbers? There would be a price on our heads.

There would be no safety. Caterina, you have been carefully nurtured. Oh I know you have faced dangers, but you have never known starvation, my love.

Believe me, I have pondered this. I have looked for a way out for us as I have never looked for anything else, but I can find none, for there is none.’

‘There is always a way, Ippolito,’ she protested tearfully. ‘There is always a way.’

But he shook his head. ‘No, dearest cousin. We are as nothing― you and I.

Your feelings? My feelings? Of what import are they? We are not meant to love.

We are meant to marry and beget children― or to become celibates of the

Church. For you, my love, life is not so cruel as it is for me. You are but a child and, say what you will, a glorious future awaits you. But for me a life which I do not want.’

‘Do you think I want a life away from you?’

‘Oh, Caterina my love, you are so young. Perhaps you will love your

husband. He is your own age. Why should you not? There will be happiness for you, Caterina, when you have forgotten me.’

‘I shall never forget you!’ she cried stormily; and she was hurt and more bewildered than ever
. I would not have cared what happened to us as long as
we could remain together,
she thought
. He does not love me as I love him. I
think of him, and he thinks of comfort, safety, the future.

But the dream persisted. She believed that one day he would come to her

and whisper his plan for their escape. But he did not, and it was with great relief that Filippo saw them all embark and leave the coast of Tuscany behind them, while Caterina, with despair in her heart stood, straining her eyes for the last look at the land she had hoped never to leave.

As they sailed towards Nice Filippo was constantly in the company of

Caterina.

‘My child,’ he implored her, ‘what will these French think if you go to them, a sullen-eyed bride? What will your young bridegroom think? Calm yourself. Be reasonable.’

‘Reasonable!’ she stormed. ‘I am leaving all that I love, to live among

strangers. Is that cause for rejoicing?’

‘You are going among those who will cherish you. It is true that I, His

Holiness, and Ippolito― those of your blood― cannot stay with you; but you will have your own countrymen and women about you. Why, you have the boy

astrologers, the young Ruggieri, whom His Holiness allowed you to take with you; there is Madalenna, of whom you are fond; and there are others such as young Sebastiano di Montecuccoli. I could name dozens. You could not be

alone in a strange land with so many friends from Italy about you.’

She did not say to him, ‘I care not who is with me if Ippolito is absent.’ But he understood; and he was kind and gentle to her as he never had been before.

She watched the pomp which the arrival of the Pope must create, and she

knew now that, though Ippolito remained with her, he was already lost. It was a thrilling spectacle― sixty vessels hoisting their flags, saluting the Holy Father as he stepped aboard his own galley, which was sumptuously draped in gold brocade, tailing with the fleet towards Marseilles in a grand procession behind the leading vessel, which bore the Holy Sacrament. But there was no thrill for Caterina; there was only a sense of loss.

―――――――

During the second week of October in the year 1533, watchers at the

Château d’If and the great fortress of Notre Dame de la Guarde saw the first of the convoy, and signalled to the impatient of Marseilles that the long-awaited fleet, which was bringing with it a bride for the son of their King, was on the last stage of its journey.

Outside the town was encamped the little bridegroom with his father and the courtiers; they were awaiting the arrival of the bridal party, since etiquette asked that the King should not enter his town until after the Holy Pope had made his entry.

The bells were ringing out; and the thunder of hundreds of cannon echoed in the streets. The people were impatient for a glimpse of the little Italian bride.

In the boat which had brought her to the shores of France, Caterina waited for what would happen next. Apprehension had subdued her misery. She was

beginning to realize the significance of all this pomp and ceremony. Perhaps in the

excitement of coming events she could forget some of her unhappiness.

She was told that the Constable of France would shortly come aboard to

have a word with her. She waited expectant while the great man was rowed out to her boat. The sight of him, surrounded by attendants, alarmed her. He had a fierce mouth and cruel eyes.

He bore the feminine name of Anne de Montmorency, and he told her that

great efforts had been made for her comfort while she stayed in Marseilles. He personally had supervised arrangements. It made her feel very important such a man should take such trouble on her account. There would be, he told her, one of the finest houses in the town at the disposal of her and her retinue. A similar house had been found for His Holiness and all the bishops and cardinals and Church dignitaries who had accompanied the Holy Father. There was another house for the French party. Anne de Montmorency would have the little

Duchess know that France was honoured to receive her and her distinguished relative. Caterina, in perfect French, made the reply which was expected of her and was rewarded by the grim man’s look of approval.

He took his leave and left her to await the time when she would land on

French soil and make her way into Marseilles. But before this could take place there must be the entry of the Pope in his ceremonial procession, followed by the King in his; after that it would be her turn.

At length it came. Seated on a roan horse that was covered with brocade,

Caterina rode into France. Behind her and before her rode the nobility of Italy. It mattered not that among them was Ippolito, for Ippolito was lost to her forever.

She dared no longer look his way; she dared not ride, a weeping bride, to meet her bridegroom.

And as she rode she became aware that all eyes in that vast crowd which

lined the streets were fixed upon her; and those eyes were unsmiling. Did they dislike her, then? Had she disappointed them?

She was frightened, realizing afresh that it was not only her lover whom she had lost; she had also said goodbye to home.

She held her head high. These foreigners should not know that they had

frightened her. She would have courage― the same sort of courage which had carried her through the Florentine mob. She would have need of it.

Ippolito,
she thought,
oh, Ippolito, is it then too late? Could we not run
away even now?

But Ippolito, riding ahead, so handsome that eyes followed him, was

resigned to his loss. She must be resigned to hers also.

She began think about her young husband and wonder what he was like.

―――――――

The Pope himself performed the ceremony. Side by side, Caterina and

Henry stood before him, repeating the solemn words. All about them were the dazzling nobility of France and Italy.

Caterina scarcely heard the service; she was only vaguely aware of the

crowded church; all her interest was for the boy beside her.

He was tall, she saw, and well-built; his muscles hardened she was able to discover, by fencing, tilting and, of course, the chase. He was dark; and because, in her thoughts he had been an ogre, a monster not unlike Alessandro, she thought him handsome in his gorgeous, bejewelled clothes. He seemed to brood, though, to be sullen, and she feared he was not pleased with her. She wondered that, in view of her love for Ippolito, she have cared; yet she did care. It hurt her pride that she should have disappointed him. He kept his eyes averted; she wanted to smile at him, to imply that it was frightening for her as well as for him; she wanted to tell him that she had dreaded marriage; that she had suffered the torments of misery; but now that she had seen him she felt a little happier.

She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy did not give her a glance.

When the ceremony was over, Caterina forgot her bridegroom, for the most

dazzling, brilliant personage she had ever seen in the whole of her life came forward and took her hand. She lifted her eyes and looked into the twinkling ones that smiled down at her. They were kind eyes, though they looked tired and had dark bags beneath them; they were debauched eyes, but not depraved; they were amused, but not sardonic; they seemed to say, ‘This seems an ordeal, does it not? But it will pass, and you will find that it contained much to laugh at. That is life.’

‘I will lead the bride back to my own residence,’ he declared, ‘where a

banquet is awaiting her.’

This kind and charming man was none other, she knew, than Francis

himself, the King of France. She flushed as she murmured her thanks. She could not but be charmed; she could not help the flutter of excitement that his presence brought to her. Such grace, such kindness, such brilliance must inevitably dim even the image of Ippolito.

She had seen him before. He had kissed her when he had welcomed her to

France; he had called her
daughter
, and had given her rich gifts. She had known that richer gifts had gone from Italy to France― and there was the promise of many more― but never had gifts seemed so precious as those given with the charm of the King. He had not forgotten, either, to whisper a compliment on her appearance, which had not been necessary to the ceremonial etiquette, but had been given out of kindness, to make her feel happy and at home. She realized now, as he took her hand, that if her wretchedness had lifted a little, if a life that must be lived without Ippolito had in the last few days seemed a little less grey, it was due to this man.

Now, for the wedding ceremony, he looked more dazzling than he had at

their first meeting. He wore white satin, and his mantle, studded with pearls and precious stones, was of cloth of gold. She herself was magnificent with her corsage of ermine and her white satin gown, studded with pearls and diamonds, but she felt insignificant beside him.

How the people cheered him! How they loved him! Who would not? He was

a King who looked like a King.

‘Well, little daughter,’ he murmured to her, ‘the ceremony is over. Now you shall be our daughter in very truth.’