Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (6 page)

Once outside the walls of Florence, we settled down for the ride through rows of tall black cypress and into the rolling hills. The sun flooded the olive groves and vineyards with a golden glow. At the first farm we reached, Betta flagged down a young peasant boy, not much older than I was, and offered him a few coins to unload the disgusting dung and garbage that was steaming in the hot sun. While he shoveled, we settled in the shade of a large tree by the side of the road, and the boy's mother brought us wine and bread and some meat and cheese. We ate hungrily—never had a meal tasted better. Aunt Clarissa declared her nerves calm once more, and she kissed Betta at least a dozen times for her cleverness in disguising us and getting us away from the angry mob.

“Now we're safe,” she said.

While we ate and rested, traffic flowed along the road to Pistoia, a market town that lay some distance beyond Poggio a Caiano. Most people were on foot or rode donkeys or drove farm carts similar to ours. But as we were finishing the last of our meal, a company of soldiers rushed by, the brass buttons of their uniforms flashing and the flanks of their horses gleaming in the noonday sun. Betta and Clarissa idly speculated where the men might be headed.

We clambered back into the cart, the filthy load now replaced with fresh, sweet-smelling straw, and continued on our way. Soon our donkey cart rolled into the village of Poggio a Caiano. Past the piazza the road climbed steeply toward the walls of an ancient fortress. At the crest of the hill stood the villa that
ilMagnifico
had built behind the old stone walls. Betta drove the donkey cart toward the main gate, flanked by a pair of guard towers. As we approached, soldiers poured from the towers and blocked our way.

“Those are the soldiers who passed us on the road,” I said.

“But what are they doing here?” Clarissa wondered aloud. “ I didn't tell anyone but Minna that we were coming.”

Someone from the palazzo,
I thought;
maybe somebody bribed a servant, or threatened him—or her.
I was frightened again, and sweat began to trickle from under my cap.

“It's probably nothing,” Betta said, flicking the reins and urging the donkey to move on.

An officer stepped forward. “Identify yourselves,” he barked.

“Just some poor country folks, come to deliver grain to the master's house,” Betta called out in the cringing voice I'd often heard servants use when they had to grovel before their master.
Are they always putting on an act?
I wondered.

The captain ordered one of his men to inspect the sacks of grain. I wished now that we hadn't paid the farm boy to clean out the dung and filthy straw; that might have put off the inquisitive soldier. The captain was staring at me. I glanced nervously at the spot where the canvas bag with my
cassone
was buried in the straw. “You, boy,” he said, stepping closer and addressing me. “What's your name?”

We hadn't prepared for this moment. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. “He's dumb,” Betta answered for me. “Can't speak a word. Born that way, poor lad.” Holding her thumb to one nostril, Betta blew her nose. Snot landed at the captain's feet. He grimaced and stepped back.

“Get on, then,” he said. “But what can you be thinking to enter through the front gate? Go around to the back.”

And so we did. But our problems weren't over yet. Clarissa had to find the steward in charge of the villa, convince him of our identity, and persuade him to let us in—and quickly.

We were greeted by an elderly groundskeeper who had been awakened from his siesta by our arrival. His white hair was uncombed, his buttons done up wrong, and his mood grumpy. “And who might you be?” he asked gruffly He didn't recognize us in our disguises.

“This is
la duchessina
” Clarissa informed him, lifting off my cap and allowing my long, dark hair to tumble onto my shoulders. Then she opened the
cassone
and showed him the Medici ring. “She has escaped an angry mob in the city, and she needs a safe haven here. Who are those soldiers? What do they want?”

The groundskeeper jabbed his thumb in my direction. “Her,” he said.

Clarissa sank onto a bench and ran her fingers through her hair, a familiar gesture. “Come sit by me, Caterina,” she said tiredly, patting the place beside her. “I must decide what to do about our situation. We can't remain in disguise for long—we'll soon be found out. I'll go to speak to the captain and see what can be done.”

Later, after the steward in charge of the villa had welcomed us properly and Clarissa had changed out of Betta's smock and looked once more like the imposing lady that she was, she kissed my forehead and strode boldly out to the guard tower. I watched from the loggia.
I couldn't hear what my aunt said to the captain, but I could see from her gestures that she was enraged. She came storming back to the villa, her face streaked with tears. Angrily she wiped them away.

“The new governors of Florence are furious that Alessandro and Ippolito have gotten away from them. They're determined to have you as their hostage, to make sure they get what they want, and Captain Rinuccini, the officer in charge, has been ordered to make sure that you don't slip through their fingers again.”

Hostage!
What was going to happen to me? I was almost too frightened to hear what she said next.

“Tomorrow they will take you back to Florence, to the Santa Lucia convent in the Via San Gallo. And there you will stay, no one can say for how long. I tried to convince the captain that you'd be better off at another convent—Santa Lucia is known to be unsympathetic to the Medici family—but he has his orders from the governors. I can't prevent it from happening. The nuns may not like you, but I believe you will be safe there. Captain Rinuccini has sworn that as an oath.”

You said I would be safe here,
I thought, my feelings a confused whirl. “What about you, dear aunt?” I sobbed.

“I'll take my chances with the rest of Florence,” she said, her dark eyes flashing—whether with anger or tears, I couldn't say.

“But when will I see you?” I asked fearfully.

“Dear child, only God knows that. But I will think of you every moment and pray for you night and day until we're together again.”

We collapsed into each other's arms and wept until we had no tears left. That night I scarcely slept, although Betta did her best to soothe me with the songs she often sang when I had trouble falling asleep.

The next morning Captain Rinuccini and the soldiers came for me. I clung to Aunt Clarissa, too scared to move. Betta hovered nearby, wringing her hands and muttering.

“Be brave, Caterina,” Clarissa whispered. “No matter what they say to you, remember who you are—a Medici!”

After more kisses and sad farewells, the captain lost patience and snatched me up. He set me on a great white horse, led by a soldier in a bright uniform with shining buttons. Clarissa thrust my
cassone
into the captain's hands. “See that no harm comes to her,” she half ordered, half begged.

Just eight years old, I rode back to Florence to meet my fate, whatever it was.

4

T
HE SEPARATION FROM
Aunt Clarissa, and from Betta, too, was so wrenching that even now I can scarcely bear to think about it. Surrounded by soldiers, I passed the farm where only the day before we had stopped to rest on our way to Poggio a Caiano. The boy who had cleaned out our cart and the old woman who had given us bread and cheese and wine stopped their work to stare as the company rushed by on the road to Florence. The boy and I exchanged glances, but he could not have known that the girl in the velvet cloak was the same person as the boy in the cap he had met the day before.

The sun blazed overhead when the soldiers escorted me into the walled city through a western gate within sight of the majestic red dome of the cathedral. We rode by peasants selling eggs, chickens, early fruits, and vegetables brought from their farms in the countryside. We passed the church of San Lorenzo and Palazzo Medici. I gazed up at the windows, searching for a familiar face, someone who might help me, but the palace looked deserted, the Medici coat of arms smashed. A small crowd gathered in Via San Gallo, gaping, and watched us pass. The soldiers closed ranks around me, but a few people must have recognized me. An old woman ran toward us, waving her bony arms and shouting, “Down with the Medici!” and the soldiers pushed her away so roughly that she fell, still making angry gestures. Others picked up her cry,
Down with the Medici!
The soldiers drove back the crowd, and we hurried on.

We halted before the ironclad wooden doors of the convent of Santa Lucia. I didn't want to be there, but I saw there was no way to escape. At least, I thought, I would not have to endure the shouted insults. Captain Rinuccini unceremoniously swung me off the horse, set me on my feet, and handed me my
cassone.
A small door within the great doors creaked open, and the captain exchanged a few words with a shadowy figure on the other side. A pale hand reached out and dragged me inside, and the small door slammed shut. “Wait!” I shouted after the captain, suddenly in a panic. “Don't leave me here!” But the captain was gone.

I found myself in a barren courtyard without a plant or a tree or even a niche in the wall for a statue of the Blessed Virgin. A pudding-faced nun glared at me, meaty hands planted on her hips. “So you're Caterina de' Medici,” she said. “
La duchessina.
” Her voice was as gruff as a man's.

Clutching the
cassone
so hard that the corners dug into my flesh, I tried not to cry, but tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them away. All I could do was nod.

“Speak up, girl!”

“
Si,
” I managed to whisper.

“
‘Si, Suora Madre'!
” she said sharply.

“
Si, Suora Madre,
” I repeated. The tears spilled over.

The mother superior turned and walked swiftly toward a dark corridor. I hung back, not sure what I was supposed to do. When she realized I wasn't following her, the mother superior stopped and spun around. “Why are you standing there like an ox?” she demanded. “Come this way.”

I hurried after her, up two flights of steep stone stairs and through a succession of gloomy rooms until we reached a door that opened into a small, dark chamber. “You'll stay here,” she said.

The cell contained only a wooden stool and a low bed covered by a coarse blanket; a crudely carved crucifix hung above it. Dampness stained the cracked plaster walls, and a little light leaked through a small, dirty window near the ceiling. It smelled of must, of poverty and neglect. Somewhere a bell tolled.

“Get rid of that gown and cloak and put on that tunic—it's all you'll be permitted here,” said the mother superior, pointing to a shapeless garment hanging from a peg. “Then come to the chapel. The bell has rung for sext.” She hesitated. “Understand, Caterina de' Medici, that you are here by order of the governors,” she said. “The Medici are hated here. Nothing pleases us more than their fall from power.” The mother superior stalked off, slamming the cell door behind her.

No one, not even the awful Alessandro, had ever spoken to me so harshly I flung myself on the narrow bed, weeping. Aunt Clarissa's advice came back to me:
No matter what they say to you, remember who you are—a Medici!
But what good did it do to remember that now, in this place where we were hated?

“I hate you, too,” I sobbed.

When I'd run out of tears, I sat up. The thin mattress was stuffed with straw. I was used to sleeping on mattresses filled with soft wool and covered with fine linen sheets. I rubbed the rough cloth of the tunic between my fingers. I had worn only smooth silks and velvets all of my life, and I didn't like the feel of this. I took off my familiar clothes and pulled the tunic over my linen shift. It was ill fitting and as ugly as a grain sack. I wrapped the
cassone
in my gown and cloak and stuffed the bundle under the bed.

Where was the chapel? I stepped out of the cell and listened until I picked up the distant chant of women's voices. Following the thread of sound, I arrived at a cloister, a covered walkway surrounding a small open square. There were no growing things. No birds sang. A few heavy drops of rain began to fall, splattering onto the broken tiles. At first I thought the cloister was deserted. It was as though nothing could live in this place. But something
did
live here: A large rat ran over my feet and skittered across the open space. A chill crawled down my spine, and I leaped up, smothering a scream.

The chanting grew louder as I ran from the cloister. It led me to a bleak chapel where dozens of nuns knelt in rows on the dusty stone floor. A few glanced up furtively as I entered, but none met my eye or moved aside to make room for me. I found a place near the back and knelt. The nun beside me turned and looked directly at me with dark eyes set too close together above a large beak of a nose that reminded me of a hawk's. She stared at me for a moment and then edged sideways—whether to allow me more space or to get away from me, I couldn't say.

The chanting of a psalm began:
Those who act deceitfully shall not dwell in my house,
intoned the nuns on the far side of the chapel, and the nuns nearby responded,
and those who tell lies shall not continue in my sight.
The far side continued,
I will soon destroy all the wicked in the land,
and the others replied,
that I may root out all evildoers from the city of the Lord.

The hawk's eyes bored into me as she repeated those words:
that I may root out all evildoers.
Her look was so spiteful that I wanted to jump up and flee from the chapel, from the convent itself. Even if I managed to find my way out, where could I go? If I ventured onto the streets, I would likely be captured and harmed. But if I stayed here, surely I would not be killed, even if the nuns hated my family.