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.’
‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘you have made me feel that I already am. I shall always remember that the biggest welcome I had in France was from her King.’
He looked at her with a smile, and thought that it was a shame that she should be married to his tongue-tied son, since she would know how to make the remarks which would be expected of her.
‘My sweet Catherine,’ he said, ‘you are now a Frenchwoman. You are no longer Italian Caterina, but French Catherine. This is a christening ceremony as well as a wedding. How do you like the change?’
‘It sounds very pleasant― as you say it.’
‘I see you are well schooled in diplomacy. A necessary art, I do assure you, for ladies and gentlemen of the court.’
‘A necessary art for all, Sire.’
‘Ah, you are a wise little girl. Tell me― in confidence if you like. What you think of your husband?’
‘I like his looks.’
‘And what of his quiet ways?’
‘I have scarcely had time to know them.’
‘Well, well, little Catherine. Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.’
‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘but mine, Sire, was made in Rome.’
He laughed. ‘And in France, my dear. We studied your picture and I said:
What a charming child! And I thought then I would love my new daughter.’
‘And now that you have seen her in the flesh, Sire?’
‘And now, I no longer say, I think, but I know.’
‘You are quick to love, Sire.’
He looked at her sharply. She looked demure. He wondered what tales had reached her of the amorous King of France ‘Love,’ he said lyrically, ‘is the most beautiful of all the gifts the gods have given us. I have been falling in love since I was your age, my child. And the result is that I do it easily and naturally. It is second nature to me.’
It was making her almost happy to be on such merry terms with this enchanting man. She found herself laughing as she had never thought to laugh again.
‘Oh yes,’ went on the King, sincerely now, ‘we are going to be friends, my little Catherine. Now tell me. You have seen little of our country yet, but what do you like best about it?’
She answered him immediately with a candid glance. ‘Its King, Sire.’
He was delighted, for after all was it not delightful to be in the company of a charming little diplomat of― what was it?― fourteen? He was pleasantly surprised with his daughter-in-law. She was more French than Italian already, he was willing to swear.
The King would have his little Catherine sit next to him at the banquet. Oh yes, he knew her place was beside her new husband, but Foy de gentilhomme, the boy should have her beside him for a lifetime. Would he grudge his father her company at her first French banquet? When the King talked, all stopped to hang on his words. They noticed his tenderness towards the little girl; she was his dearest little daughter Catherine― Caterina no longer, he declared. She was his Catherine, his little French Catherine; he had had her gracious permission to make the change.
‘The little Catherine has made a conquest of the King!’ Same said it; some thought it. Well, of course, it was not difficult for a young woman to please the King, but there had been some speculation about this one, for the King seemed to despise the boy they had brought her to marry.
At the first of the three great tables, with the King, her new husband, the Princes her brothers-in-law and the Cardinals, sat Catherine― she was even thinking of herself as Catherine now. Caterina was the girl who had thought life would be drab and dreary forevermore because she had lost her lover; Catherine was not sure of that. She still loved her cousin; she still believed that she would love no other as long as she lived; but this charming King had made her realize that she could laugh again, that she could be happy, if only for a moment or two.
She was glad that the Pope was not at this table; he held the place of honour next to the Queen at the second. It was exhilarating, she found, to be among these people who, until now, had been names in the lessons she had to learn concerning them. That Queen was the lady the King had been forced to marry after his humiliating defeat and imprisonment. No wonder he hardly looked at her. She had a sweet and kindly face, but she looked prim compared with some of the ladies. Catherine studied them now. They were at the third table, and among them the dashing and fascinating Mademoiselle d’Heilly, the King’s mistress, who remained his favourite whilst others went. Catherine could understand why. She was lovely, with her bright, fair, curly hair and her intelligent face; she was speaking now, and all those about her were laughing gaily.
There was one other whom Catherine noticed at the ladies’ table. This was a tall and beautiful woman as dark
as Mademoiselle d’Heilly was fair, and almost as lovely. She was noticeable because, in that array of sparkling colours and flashing jewels, she wore the black and white of mourning. How striking she looked! She was conspicuous among them all; she caught the eye by her very austerity.
Catherine decided that she would take an early opportunity of learning the identity of the tall dark lady who wore black-and-white mourning.
But of all the people around her there was one whom she must regard with the most interest and apprehension. Her husband! Her heart fluttered as she appraised him. She was astonished at her feelings. She had expected to view him with distaste and horror; but how could she feel those emotions for a shy boy only a month or so older than herself? She could see in him a likeness to his father, and she felt that she already loved the King. The boy naturally seemed insignificant when compared with his father, but that likeness was more than reassuring; it was― and she did not understand this― strangely exciting.
I wish he would smile at me, she thought. I wish he would give some sign that he is a little interested. Once he looked up and caught her eye upon him. He was trying to take a peep at her when he thought himself unobserved. She smiled shyly, but he looked down on his plate and blushed..
She felt wounded and therefore angry with him. Why had she thought him like his father, that man whose manners were the most courtly, the most charming she had ever known!
But suddenly, she saw his expression change. He was very handsome now; and she was angry that he could smile for someone and not for her. Who was it?
Why, it was none other than the lady in black and white! ――――――― During the merry-making the King had taken the Pope into a small antechamber for a little private talk.
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