Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici

by Carolyn Meyer

  Now I turned to Akasma. Not yet sixteen, she seemed worldly and knowing about many things that I had no knowledge of. And, I knew, she had been initiated into the mysteries by Alessandro.

  Akasma laughed at my questions. “How is it possible that you don’t know even the simplest things? Have you never seen animals perform the act? It’s not so different for humans.”

  I remembered a stallion I had once seen with a mare when I was out riding, and the crude remarks Alessandro had made. I had looked away then, not really understanding. Now I understood, and my stomach turned. “And that’s how it will be for me?” I asked, my voice quivering.

  “If you’re fortunate, this French boy you’re marrying will have had lots of experience before you turn up in his bed, and he will be kind to you. But whether he’s kind or crude, there’s not much you can do about it.”

  She went on to describe to me in plain language what was going to happen on my wedding night. When I shuddered, she offered this advice: “Remove your mind from the scene and think of something pleasant. Remember what it was like when we were here today—sweet-smelling flowers, warm sunshine, laughter. It will help you.”

  I thanked her for her advice and promised to follow it.

  Akasma plucked a reed from the riverbank and chewed the stem thoughtfully. “Have you spoken to Alessandro? Will he allow me to go with you to France?”

  “I asked him. He said he would let me know. I’m afraid to press him, because then he’s sure to refuse.”

  Akasma sighed. “This is as good a time as any to tell you: Alessandro came after me again. When I tried to get away, he threatened to have me whipped if I didn’t submit. ‘I would rather be whipped,’ I told him. I struggled, but the harder I fought, the more he laughed. In the end he overpowered me.”

  “The beast!” I cried. “Surely he must be punished for this!”

  Akasma spat out the stem. “Punished by whom, Duchessina? He’s the Duke of Florence and I’m a slave—I’m the one who will be punished, not Alessandro. That’s the way of the world, and I must make the best of it.”

  I thought of Suor Immacolata, the nun at Santa Lucia who’d spoken of my father: Lorenzo ruined me, and left me to hear his child. Is that what had happened to Akasma? I studied her face. “Are you with child?” I asked, fearing the answer.

  Akasma looked away. “Two months gone.”

  “Does Alessandro know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then we must make sure he doesn’t find out. You’ll travel with me to France and bear your child there. All will be well.”

  All will be well. I’d believed that in the past, but it hadn’t turned out that way. If Alessandro found out about the child, he would insist that it belonged to him—especially if it were a boy. I dared not press him; that practically guaranteed his refusal.

  BY THE END OF AUGUST everything was ready. The time had come to leave Florence, perhaps forever. To my dismay, Alessandro announced his intention to travel with my entourage on the first stage of the journey to France. If he decided he wanted Akasma after all, it would be impossible to keep her safe from him. I had no idea how to protect her.

  13

  The Wedding

  THE DAY BEFORE I began my journey to a new life, I entertained the wives and daughters of the leading noblemen of Florence at a dinner. Remembering the months when we’d all gone hungry, I ordered the cooks at Palazzo Medici to prepare a feast: roast capons and pigeons and quail, a whole suckling pig, several kinds of vegetables, ravioli stuffed with spinach, tortes made with eggs and cheese, bowls of nuts and olives, all to be served with the finest wines from Alessandro’s cellar. The final presentation was an elaborate model of Venus and Cupid made of sugar, so amazingly lifelike that it drew gasps from the ladies. I knew they’d be talking about the dinner for weeks, and that pleased me.

  The next morning I paced anxiously in my apartment as Betta finished packing the cassoni, each wooden chest decorated with scenes from Greek mythology and now filled with part of my enormous trousseau. Akasma ran up and down the stairs, watching as the chests were strapped onto a specially built cart; panniers on the backs of pack animals carried the rest of our belongings. Once we reached La Spezia on the coast, we would board ships and sail to Marseilles; the baggage would go by an overland route, except for my little cassone. That I insisted on carrying with me.

  In the crowd preparing to travel that day were Filippo and my Strozzi cousins, my three friends from Le Murate, Maria Salviati from Rome, and a large number of Medici relatives or people claiming to be relatives, many of whom I’d never met until that day—and all of them had their servants as well as governesses for the younger girls. The number was in the hundreds. King François had sent seventy gentlemen of the French court to provide an escort. At midafternoon the chief steward announced that everything was ready, and we must leave immediately in order to reach our first stop by nightfall.

  I braced for my painful separation from Betta, who had decided to stay in Florence.

  “I have no wish to see more of the world, Duchessina,” she’d told me, “and I’m frightened of the sea voyage. Just making the journey to Rome was hard enough on these old bones. I’m an old woman, and I want to die here, in my own country.”

  “You’re not an old woman!” I’d insisted when she first told me her decision in midsummer. Since then I had tried every argument I could think of, but I hadn’t changed her mind. Now the time had come, and we clung to each other and wept.

  “Akasma will see that you’re well cared for,” Betta said between sobs, although I don’t think Betta believed anyone could possibly care for me as well as she had.

  The steward came to separate us. “Signorina,” he said, bowing to me, “per favore.”

  “God go with you, dear Duchessina!” cried Betta, as I climbed onto my mule. I watched her wave and wave until I lost sight of her.

  The great procession wended its way across the Arno River on a bright, hot September afternoon like a huge beast, moving in fits and starts. I glanced back at the Duomo and wondered if I would ever see it again. I was both excited and anxious about what lay ahead for me. My head throbbed. My stomach churned.

  Akasma was eager to be on our way, although she was troubled, as I was, that Alessandro had decided to accompany our retinue as far as Villefranche on the coast of France. He had elected not to continue on to Marseilles for the wedding but to return to Florence, fearing, I supposed, that he couldn’t afford to be absent for more than a few weeks without trouble breaking out in the city he was determined to dominate.

  The sun was setting as we neared Poggio a Caiano, where we intended to pass the night, when out of a cloud of dust several horsemen appeared at full gallop. They identified themselves as emissaries from King François; they had taken a different road to Florence, discovered that we had already left, and ridden hard to catch up with us. The gentleman in charge leaped from his sweating horse and dropped to one knee beside my mule. “A welcoming gift from His Majesty, King François,” he explained, and presented me with a magnificent diamond and sapphire pendant.

  Akasma fastened the pendant around my neck. “A good sign,” she whispered. The king’s generous gesture made me feel a little calmer. All will he well, I told myself for perhaps the hundredth time.

  AFTER FIVE DAYS we reached La Spezia on the Italian coast. I was enjoying my first sight of the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean when Alessandro drew up next to me. Akasma, who’d been walking beside my mule, slipped quietly away.

  “Lovely view, isn’t it, Duchessina?” asked Alessandro, his glance flickering idly after Akasma. I agreed that it was.

  “It has occurred to me,” he said, “that I haven’t yet presented you with a wedding gift. And so I’ve brought with me something I believe you’ll find invaluable in your new life.” He handed me a book from his leather bag. “With my good wishes.”

  The book was well printed on rich parchment—Suor Battista would have scorned it
, since it wasn’t copied by hand—and elegantly bound. “The Prince, written by Niccolo Machiavelli,” I read aloud. I held it for a moment. “I’m grateful, but this is not the gift I asked for. I’ve asked you for Akasma. I’ll pay you whatever you ask, if only you’ll agree to it.”

  “You’ll have my answer in a few days, I promise you,” he said. “Meanwhile, you can read the book. Machiavelli dedicated it to your father when the duke was first citizen of Florence and destined to follow in the footsteps of Il Magnifico. Study it carefully—it will tell you all you’ll need to know to be an effective ruler. ‘The end justifies the means for the good of the state,’ for instance. You may want to keep that in mind.”

  “I’m grateful for the gift, dear cousin,” I said. “It will be a fine addition to any library. But I have no use for the advice you’ve described. I’m not destined to rule.”

  The procession had started forward again. “Don’t be foolish, Duchessina,” Alessandro said. “You’re bound to end up as queen of France one day—and don’t pretend to be shocked! My sources tell me that the king’s eldest son is sickly and unlikely to inherit the crown, or to wear it for long. That means your soon-to-be husband will be king and you will be his queen. After that, who knows what Fate has in store? Whether you’re a Frog Duchess or a humble slave, it’s best to be prepared—don’t you agree?”

  Something in his tone alerted me. “My slave,” I said. “I need your answer, Alessandro. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “You have nothing to fear, Duchessina,” he replied. “It will be taken care of.” He spurred his horse and trotted off.

  TTHE DUKE OF ALBANY greeted me at the port city of La Spezia. He stood by with twenty-seven sailing ships to transport us to Villefranche.

  What a thrilling time it was for me and for my ladies! I had never been on a ship. Before Giulietta even set foot on the deck, she declared that she was seasick. But our two days under sail on shimmering blue waters proved delightful, and we dropped anchor in a peaceful harbor ringed with green hills. There we would await the arrival of Pope Clement.

  We found ways to amuse ourselves while we waited. Monsieur Philippe and Monsieur Sagnier traveled with us and provided French lessons and dancing classes to anyone interested. I strolled with my ladies along the waterfront of the little fishing village, always keeping watch for the arrival of the pope’s ships. A month passed. Our initial excitement gave way to tedium and nerves. The Duke of Albany kept assuring us that the Holy Father was on his way.

  At last the pope’s fleet of some sixty vessels sailed into the harbor, led by a galley named La Duchessina in my honor, carrying the Holy Sacrament. A military escort followed, and last came the pope’s own ship, The Servant of God, built for this occasion. Dozens of fishing boats rowed out to greet it. Beneath the mainsail of purple silk embroidered with gold, three hundred rowers in red and yellow satin bent to their oars. Under a great purple awning sat Pope Clement VII on a throne draped in gold brocade. On shore crowds of peasants who’d flocked down from the hills for a glimpse of the Holy Father ate and drank and danced tirelessly until the sun rose the next day.

  During the welcoming ceremonies—kissing the pope’s ring, receiving his blessing—I watched Alessandro’s familiar swagger, glad that shortly I would be seeing the last of him. But I was nearly knocked breathless when I sighted Ippolito among the dozens of cardinals traveling with the pope. He had come back from Hungary, then; what plans had the pope made for him now? Would he have a chance to tell me? I spent so much time gazing after him that Niccolà inquired who he might be.

  “A cousin,” I replied, and let it go at that.

  After Mass had been celebrated and all the necessary ceremonies observed, the Duke of Albany signaled that our journey would continue. On the ninth of October we again boarded our ship. Akasma went to see that my things were properly accounted for, and my friends and I crowded the rail as the ships left the harbor. People on the shore grew smaller. I glanced around the deck, expecting Akasma to join me. I didn’t see her. Perhaps she had gone below. But she should be here, with me, I thought.

  I turned to Niccolà. “Have you seen Akasma?” I asked.

  “Your slave? The Turkish girl? I believe I saw her with Alessandro.”

  “Alessandro! But he went ashore, didn’t he?”

  “I think so. And he had someone with him. A girl. Maybe a slave—I can’t be sure,” she said, her attention somewhere else. “There’s so much happening, Duchessina! Isn’t it marvelous?”

  I ran from one person to another. “Have you seen Akasma, my Turkish slave?” I cried. “Very tall, almond eyed, beautiful?”

  No one had. I rushed to the captain and borrowed his spyglass to scan the quickly receding shoreline.

  “Perhaps she’s run away,” Niccolà suggested. But I guessed what had happened: Alessandro had abducted her. You have nothing to fear, he’d said. It will be taken care of. So this was how he had taken care of it! Hatred of Alessandro and fear for Akasma’s fate drained my strength, and I sat down clumsily on the deck and buried my face in my hands. My ladies clustered around me worriedly. “Duchessina, what’s wrong?” Giulietta asked. “Are you ill?”

  I shook my head. Heaven only knows what will happen to her, I thought. I’ll never see her again. “Just a slight weakness. It’s nothing,” I said, and allowed my friends to help me to my feet.

  THE GREAT FLEET sailed into the harbor of Marseilles two days later. Cannons boomed from the ramparts surrounding the city, answered by salvos from the guns on our ships. Smoke and flames blackened the sky and the noise was deafening. My ladies, at first elated by the commotion, now cowered near me. “It’s like the siege, when our city was bombarded for weeks at a time,” Giulietta said, choking back fearful sobs.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I assured them, more bravely than I felt. “The Duke of Albany tells me this is meant to be a welcome.”

  Once the smoke had cleared, a flotilla of small boats surrounded our ships and rowed us all ashore. The clamor continued: Church bells pealed, trumpets and clarions blasted fanfares. And this was just the beginning.

  Arrangements had been made for us to remain outside of Marseilles that night, giving me one last chance to have my servants search again for the missing Akasma. I had clung to the hope that she might have mistakenly boarded another ship. When they failed to find her, I wept into my pillow, vowing, I will never forgive Alessandro for this.

  The next morning, Sunday, Pope Clement made his official entry into Marseilles, the procession led by a high-stepping white horse carrying the Holy Sacrament. Next came the Holy Father on his gilded throne, borne on the shoulders of a dozen Swiss Guards. The cardinals followed, riding two by two. Ippolito was among them, but he didn’t look my way.

  A day later King François made his formal entry with Queen Eleanor and the king’s sons and daughters and members of the French court, accompanied by some five hundred soldiers, archers, and guards. Somewhere in that crowd was my future husband. I strained for a glimpse and tried to guess: Which one is he?

  My official entry was not scheduled for another nine days, to allow time for the king and the pope to work out the final details of the marriage contract. It seemed very complicated, for it involved not only my dowry of gold and jewels but also control of several Italian cities now ruled by Emperor Charles. I understood that my marriage was the linchpin holding it all together.

  Pope Clement and King François and their retinues were accommodated in two neighboring palaces with a bridge connecting them. While king and pope negotiated, the rest of us were free to amuse ourselves. The weather was still mild on the coast of France, much warmer than in Florence, where the autumn rains had no doubt begun to fall. Some of the gentlemen borrowed boats from local fishermen to take the ladies on picnics to the fine secluded beaches. My friends, enjoying their first whiffs of freedom, were determined to go on these outings, and if it hadn’t been for the governesses sent along by the girls’ parents, I would hav
e had a hard time of it protecting their reputations and their virtue.

  I was far too apprehensive to be tempted by these diversions. I still grieved over the disappearance of Akasma, who would have been able to soothe my fears and quiet the misgivings. Occasional glimpses of Ippolito allowed me to wonder if he might find a way to send me one last message, or even to speak to me one last time. If Akasma had been there, she would have carried secret messages; she would have had sensible advice.

  And Akasma might have been able to find out something about Henri. I hadn’t yet been presented to my future husband. I still wasn’t even sure what he looked like! Akasma, like Betta, had been expert at collecting information, listening to the gossip of the cooks and the washerwomen and the stable grooms, picking up shards of information and deftly putting them all together. Even if she hadn’t yet learned French, she was highly intelligent and would have picked it up quickly, and she would have found ways to gather what I needed to know. My ordinary maidservants could accomplish all the ordinary tasks—dressing me, arranging my hair, fastening my jewels—but they were not confidantes. Without Akasma I tried to calm myself by kneeling often in the private chapel of the palace. But my restless mind would not focus on my prayers, darting back and forth between Ippolito and Henri, Henri and Ippolito.

  Finally the day came for me to make my official entry into Marseilles. Gowned in gold and silver tissue, the cloth chosen for me by the Duchess of Mantua because it reflected both the sun and the moon, I was mounted on a large bay gelding.

  I held my head erect and smiled graciously and waved until I thought my arm would fall off. I understood well the importance of making a good impression on the crowds jamming the streets for a look at the Italian girl who had come to marry their prince. I’d have to work hard to win their affection. Although my mother was French, members of the court as well as the people in the street would not forget that I was a foreigner and not of royal blood. But I did have one undeniable fact in my favor: I was the niece of two popes. Probably for this reason the crowds cheered politely as I rode by.