The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (5 page)

I found that in the family palazzo, little had changed. Florence still bore wounds that would take years to repair, yet our home remained untouched, silent as an elaborate tomb. I settled in my beloved late aunt’s rooms, where the sheets still carried her scent and her alabaster-inlaid desk was set with her writing utensils, as though she might walk in at any moment.

And there I discovered my silver and ivory casket, in a drawer under unfinished letters. I took it out as if it might vanish, traced the chipped lid with my fingertips. My aunt had hidden it here, among her things. She had known I would want it and had anticipated I would return.

I opened it with a click; within a section of the velvet lining that peeled back, I located the secret compartment and Ruggieri’s vial, coiled like a snake. I clasped it about my neck, held the box in my hands, and let myself grieve.

My betrothal was signed in the spring. Papa Clement assembled an impressive trousseau to exhibit my wealth as a Medici bride, not hesitating to pilfer his treasury for jewels, including seven gray pearls reputed to have belonged to a Byzantine empress and now adorning my ducal crown. He also had my portrait sent to France.

In return, François I sent his son’s portrait to me. It came wrapped in an exquisite satin-lined box; and as Lucrezia removed the miniature from it I beheld my future husband for the first time—a taciturn face,
with hooded eyes, a pursed mouth, and the long Valois nose. It didn’t awaken anything in me, and I wondered in that moment if he felt the same about me. What kind of marriage could two strangers with nothing in common possibly have?

“He’s handsome,” Lucrezia said, with relief. She glanced to where I sat like stone on my chair. “He doesn’t appear to have suffered any ill effects from his three years in Spain.”

Anna-Maria frowned. “Why was he in Spain?”

“Because he and his brother, the dauphin, were sent to the emperor Charles V as hostages when King François lost the war over Milan,” I replied. “The king also had to wed Charles’s sister, Eleanor.” To my dismay, I had the childish urge to stomp my feet and fling the picture across the room, to throw a tantrum that would put on display my utter helplessness. Biting back my tears, I flicked my hand. “Put the picture away and leave me.”

That night, I sat awake and gazed out into the sultry Florentine night. I let myself mourn everything I had lost before I decided my course. My life in Italy was over. It might not be what I wanted but it was my fate. Now I must look to the future and prepare.

After all, I was a Medici.

A
FTER TWO WEEKS AT SEA, MY SHIP DROPPED ANCHOR IN THE
Bay of Marseilles. It had been a terrifying storm-laden voyage that made me vow to never leave land again. If I’d had any inclination to ruminate on the vagaries of fate, which had led me to a foreign country and husband, my overwhelming relief to see something other than churning sea obliterated it.

Lucrezia and Anna-Maria removed one of my new gowns from the leather chests, smoothed its crumpled folds, and corseted me into it—a brocade concoction so encrusted with gems I thought I’d scarcely be able to totter up on deck, much less ride through Marseilles to the palace where the French court waited. I also donned my formal ducal coronet for the first time, inset with the seven pearls. Trussed in this finery, I waited until my new household treasurer, René Birago, came to inform me that Constable Montmorency’s barge had arrived to bring me ashore.

I nodded. “Then I must go greet him.”

Birago gave me a smile. He was Florentine, in his mid-twenties, and chosen by Papa Clement to supervise my finances. Despite a slight limp, which he blamed on periodic gout, he had an ageless grace that denoted
a lifetime spent at the papal court, his lean figure clad in a scarlet doublet cut in the close-fitting Italian style, his fine light brown hair combed back from an angular forehead that emphasized his hooked nose and shrewd dark eyes.

“
Madama,”
he said, in a voice made for whispering in ears, “I suggest you remain here. Montmorency may be the constable and His Majesty’s chief officer, but you are the Duchess of Urbino and soon-to-be duchesse d’Orléans. Let France pay its respects to Italy, for a change.”

It was a clever remark from a clever man, guaranteed to make me smile. At least I had a little bit of Italy to keep me safe, I thought, and I lifted a hand to my chest; beneath my bodice, I felt another piece of Italy—Ruggieri’s vial.

My women gathered about me as the French boarded the galleon. They were all magnificently appareled, jewels winking in the sunlight on caps and doublets. Without looking away, I whispered to Lucrezia, “Which one is the constable?”

“There,” she said, “by Birago: that must be him. He’s like a barbarian, so big and dressed in that funereal black.”

She was right. Montmorency did seem like a titan, his shoulders blocking the sun, his starched ruff a mere ruffle around his bullish neck. Birago had told me he was in his late thirties, a champion warrior who had fought ferociously during François’s war over Milan. I was prepared for someone with little tolerance for anything Italian, considering he’d wet his sword in the blood of countless of my countrymen. Yet when he bowed over my hand, I saw that despite his leathery skin and severe gray-blue eyes, his expression wasn’t unkind.

“It is my honor to welcome Your Highness in the name of His Majesty François I,” he declared in a monotone. I inclined my head and said in French: “My lord constable, to be greeted by you makes me feel as if His Majesty himself were here and this realm my home.”

The crevices at his eyes deepened. Though he didn’t speak again as he led me to the barge, his firm hand on my sleeve assured me I had made my first French friend.

My ride through Marseilles was a blur. Upon reaching the palace, I had only a moment to compose myself before I set my hand again on the
constable’s arm and was brought into the hall, where hundreds of nobles lined an aisle leading to a dais bunted in crimson.

A clap of hands plunged everyone into silence.
“Eh, bon!
The bride is here!”

From the dais, a man descended with feline grace, dressed head to toe in silver tissue, his auburn hair sweeping to his shoulders, a trim beard emphasizing his secretive lips and large aquiline nose. I went still. I had never seen a face like his before. It was as if the full spectrum of life had carved itself upon his flesh with unrepentant arrogance, every gully and rivulet the mark of a soul that held nothing back. He was far past his much-vaunted youth; but François I of France was still a sight to behold, a king for whom power had become an accoutrement, who had savored everything life could offer save self-denial.

We stared at each other. His hooded green eyes shone mischievously. Mortified, I realized I’d forgotten my obeisance. As I started to curtsy, he waved a jeweled hand.

“Mais non, ma fille,”
and he embraced me, rousing spontaneous applause.
“Bienvenue en France, petite Catherine,”
King François I breathed in my ear.

He brought me to his family. I kissed the hand of Queen Eleanor, the emperor’s sister, a rigid Spanish princess fenced in by women. I then greeted the king’s eldest son born of his first marriage to the late queen Claude. François, called the dauphin in honor of his being heir to the throne, was a tall youth with gentle brown eyes and the pallor of a chronic invalid. I almost bumped heads with his daughters, the princesses Marguerite and Madeleine, who were so nervous they curtsied at the same time as me. As we giggled in unison, I saw they were close to me in age, and I thought perhaps we might become friends.

I turned to the king. He gave me a small twist of a smile. I understood. “Is His Highness Prince Henri not here?” I asked.

François’s face darkened. “He’s a boor,” he muttered. “He doesn’t know the meaning of propriety. Nor, it seems, does he own a timepiece. But do not worry. The wedding takes place tomorrow, and by God he
will
be here.”

It sounded far more like a threat than a reassurance. I lifted my chin. “How could he not?” I said in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “It’s not every day France has occasion to wed Italy.”

François went still. He lowered his gaze and his hand slipped into mine. “Spoken like a true princess,” he murmured, and raising our clasped hands he cried, “Let the feast begin!”

He swept me into a banqueting chamber, where I sat on the dais beside him. The court swarmed the tables arrayed below us; as servitors entered bearing platters of honeyed heron and roast swans, the king craned his head to me and whispered, “My son may be reluctant to show pleasure with his bride, but I, petite Catherine, I am enchanted.”

Without hesitation I replied, “Then perhaps it is Your Majesty whom I should wed.”

He laughed. “And you’ve got courage to match those pretty black eyes.” He paused, searching my face. “I wonder if my son will appreciate you, Catherine de Medici.”

I forced out a smile, even as his words sent a chill through me. Had I come all this way to be the wife of a prince who wanted nothing to do with me?

As platter after platter was set before me, and François drank goblet after goblet of spiced wine, I began to feel invisible until he touched my hand and said, “Montmorency’s nephews wish to greet you, my dear. Smile. They are his pride and joy, born of his beloved late sister.”

I started to attention. Standing before me were the constable and three young men.

They made an immediate impression with their tawny good looks, highlighted by their unadorned white doublets, and their sense of quiet familial unity.

Montmorency said, “May I present my eldest nephew, Gaspard de Coligny, seigneur of Châtillon?”

I leaned forward. Gaspard de Coligny had thick, dark gold–colored hair and lucent pale blue eyes, his angular face imbued with melancholy. He might have been Milanese, attractive yet remote, as the nobles of that city are apt to be. I thought him in his early twenties. In fact, he had just turned sixteen.

“I am honored,” he said in a low voice. “I hope Your Highness will find happiness here.”

I gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

He paused, his eyes searching mine. I thought he would say something else, but he bowed once more and returned with his brothers to
their table, leaving me to stare after him, as if he’d revealed something precious I might never find again.

François sighed. “His father died recently. It is why he wears white, the color of mourning here. Madame de Coligny passed away years ago; with his father gone, Gaspard is now head of his family. The constable dotes on him.” He slid his eyes to me. “You could do worse when it comes to friends. Montmorency is one of my most loyal men and his family lineage is ancient. His nephew shares these traits, and at court,
ma petite
, lineage is everything.”

So, Gaspard de Coligny was an orphan, like me. Was this why I felt such kinship with him?

A host of other nobles followed, tripping over themselves in their haste to ensure the king saw that they too respected his new daughter-in-law. By the twentieth course, and after twice as many greetings, I despaired of remembering everyone’s names and titles. I was grateful when the king rose to declare that I must be tired. He led me from the dais to the one opposite ours, where Queen Eleanor had sat out the evening in ironclad silence.

I felt pity for her. Like me, Eleanor had been used on the royal market and apparently refused to adapt. I’d heard the Spanish were thus, zealous of their identity, and I knew her example was one I’d be wise not to emulate. Come what may, I must blend in, become one with this court, which for better or worse was my new home. As I passed the constable, I glanced at his nephew. Gaspard inclined his head; I looked in vain for a glimpse of his eyes.

Pages dressed in the Valois colors of blue and white opened the door. François left me to the attentions of my women; I didn’t speak with them as they relieved me of my costume, meeting Lucrezia’s knowing eyes as I lay down in the unfamiliar bed.

Alone, I lay awake and thought that my aunt Clarice had been wrong.