Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (12 page)

But of course we
did
make a lot of noise, and the novice ran off to awaken the abbess, who appeared suddenly in our midst, pounding on a table and shouting, “Young ladies!
Young ladies!
”

I had never seen her so angry; in fact, I had never seen her angry at all. The room went instantly quiet. I considered crawling under one of the long tables but dismissed that idea; I would take my punishment with the rest.

For ten days we were confined to our rooms, put on a strict fast, and required to kneel in the chapel without cushions and recite strings of penitential prayers. “You see,” I muttered to Giulietta, “I'm
not
the pet. My Medici belly is just as empty as yours. And my knees really hurt.”

When we had completed our penance, we learned to our sorrow that Argentina had been sent away from Le Murate in disgrace. We hadn't been given a chance to say good-bye.

T
HE HOT, DRY SUMMER
that left the convent gardens parched was followed by the drenching rains of autumn.
Then the chill of winter settled in, and icy winds swept down from the north, sometimes bringing snow. I had been at Le Murate for more than a year. At last the warmth of spring sunshine drew us out of our cold rooms. In April of 1529 I was ten years old.

I generally remained ignorant of events in the world beyond the thick walls of Le Murate. No one spoke to me of what was happening in Florence or Rome or elsewhere, and I never thought to ask.

I had no visitors. Who would come? Perhaps Filippo Strozzi, Aunt Clarissa's husband, but he had never shown much interest in me, even before she died. On feast days the other girls spent brief moments at the grille with members of their family. At these times I deeply envied my friends—even Tomassa, whose visits were always fraught with difficulty as her father continued to insist that she must take monastic vows, become a nun, and spend the rest of her life in the convent.

“I have no vocation for it!” Tomassa sobbed after her parents had gone, and the girls had gathered in the parlor as we often did on Sundays and feast days. “I don't want to wear the nun's habit every day of my life and cut off all my hair and cover my head,” she said, her eyes glittering with tears. Tomassa's pride was her thick, auburn hair that she had her maidservant brush for her every night. “And I've always dreamed of having children,” she added with a sigh.

I tried to console her, but she wanted none of my sympathy. “You're a Medici, with all the money anyone could want!” she cried. “Not that it does you much good. Nobody in Florence wants to marry a Medici, even if you do have trunks filled with gold!”

Her bitter words stung me. They also made me angry, and my temper flared. “Yes, I am a Medici!” I said loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. I knew they were all staring at me, but I didn't care. “And you might be right—maybe nobody in Florence wants to marry a Medici. But not everyone in the world is so stupid, and someday I'll have a husband who is greater than anyone in this city. A prince—maybe even a king!”

I stormed out of the parlor, unwilling to let anyone know how hurt I felt. Aunt Clarissa had warned me that resentment of the Medici ran deep, and I had seen it for myself when we fled from Palazzo Medici. The mother superior of Santa Lucia had told me directly how much the Medici were hated, and I had experienced more than enough of the ill feeling against my family at that convent. But Tomassa's remark seemed more personal, designed to wound.

Later, when we were both calmer, Tomassa begged my forgiveness. I gave it, and in turn I begged hers. “Whatever my family is guilty of,” I reminded her, “it is not my fault!” Then we embraced and kissed, but as we did, I wondered if we were truly friends.

7

T
HE MONTHS PASSED
. Toward the end of the summer, as the blistering heat began to subside, the abbess gathered the entire community into the refectory after vespers. The long wooden tables had been taken apart and moved aside to make room for more than two hundred women and girls—the older ones packed together on benches, the younger ones standing along the walls. We waited silently for Suor Margherita to speak.

“We must prepare for difficult times,” she announced somberly. “Early this summer the Holy Father in Rome reached an accord with King Charles of Spain. The pope promised to crown Charles as Holy Roman Emperor. In return, the Holy Father has been allowed to return to Rome.”

Suor Margherita forced a thin smile and sighed. “Last year during the sack of Rome, Florence declared itself a self-governing republic, free of the domination of the Medici.” I bit my lip and kept my eyes fixed on the floor. “Pope Clement refuses to recognize the republic. He insists that Alessandro de' Medici will be made sovereign for life.”

Alessandro? My dreadful cousin, ruler of Florence?
A wave of dizziness swept over me. I put my hand out to steady myself against the wall,
if my uncle refuses to allow the people to govern themselves, why would he send Alessandro? Why not Ippolito?

The abbess continued. “Alessandro is to marry Charles's illegitimate daughter, Margaret of Austria. Florence will be their wedding gift.”

Feet shuffled, and there was a faint whispering. I felt eyes darting in my direction.

The abbess calmly explained that the members of the Signoria opposed Alessandro's rule but that my uncle was about to put the entire city under siege, to force the Signoria and the people of Florence to submit to his will. “Emperor Charles has promised to help the Holy Father compel us to accept Alessandro as sovereign. The emperor's armies have been ordered to surround our city and lay siege until we surrender.”

No wonder the Medici are hated,
I thought. I wanted to flee from the refectory to sort out my thoughts, but I didn't dare. I would have to stay where I was and suffer through this. Niccolà's warm hand grasped my cold one and squeezed it gently.

I couldn't bear to look at her, or at anyone, as the abbess described plans being made to survive the siege. “Michelangelo Buonarroti, the great sculptor and painter and a native Florentine, has been summoned by the governors to design reinforcements of the city's defenses,” she said. “And we have been warned to lay in additional food supplies. We shall begin at once to conserve our stores.” Suor Margherita rose. “I entreat all of you to beg God's mercy during this difficult time.”

The abbess swiftly left the refectory, followed by the professed nuns, then the novices, the widows, and finally the young girls.

Niccolà tried to reassure me. “It's not
you
they hate,” she said. “But they've forgotten all the marvelous things that
Il Magnifico
did for Florence. After his death his son Piero ruined it all. My father says Piero was stupid and spoiled everything for everybody.”

Piero was my grandfather,
I thought;
my father's father.
All the hateful things Suor Immacolata had said to me about my father came rushing back, painful words echoing inside my head.

I freed my hand from Niccolà's grasp and rushed to my room. “Listen, Duchessina,” she called after me. “I'll always be your friend. Even if you're a Medici.”

O
VER THE NEXT
few weeks we watched food being delivered to the convent for storage: sacks of grain, barrels of dried fruit, slabs of salted meat, casks of oil and wine. The abbess, who regularly communicated with the world outside the convent walls, again called the community together to let us know what was happening. I dreaded this, fearing to hear even more condemnation of the Medici.

Her tone was unemotional. “Michelangelo Buonarroti has begun to rebuild the battlements around the city. It's hoped that these earthworks will be strong enough to resist the cannonballs the attackers will hurl at us. Workmen are digging deep trenches beyond the walls.” But now the abbess's voice cracked. “The great artist has also ordered that everything between the city and the foothills be destroyed.”

Everything destroyed?
I heard the gasps of disbelief, and I remembered the man who had once disturbed me in the Chapel of the Magi. He'd seemed half mad then and completely mad now.

“Everything,” the abbess repeated. “Every farmhouse must be razed, every field and vineyard burned, every olive grove and orchard cut down. All of the villas are to be leveled, and the chapels, too.”

Next to me Giulietta lowered her head and began to cry. Her family owned a beautiful villa just north of the city, on the winding road to Fiesole.

“You are no doubt wondering why such drastic measures are being taken. Michelangelo insists it's the only way to deprive the attackers of protective cover and food supplies.” Her voice became strong. “It is to be a fight to the death. We will not yield.”

N
O
MATTER HOW
bad the news in the world outside our convent, nothing interfered with Suor Paolina's lessons in the virtues. The walls could be tumbling down around us, but we were to practice our needlework and play our lutes and remember to glide as we walked and to keep our eyes lowered and our voices carefully modulated. Our rations shrank, but we still ate our meager meals with our forks and used our napkins properly.

In mid-October we heard the first distant boom of the cannons. We all dropped what we were doing and rushed to the chapel to pray.

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful, for I have taken refuge in you; in the shadow of your wings will I take refuge until this time of trouble has gone by.

We watched the autumn rains pour down in sheets in the cloister gardens. Water trickled through the workrooms on the main floor. On the top floor the roof leaked, damaging some of the precious books before we were able to carry them to a safer place.

In the refectory Suor Margherita told us, “The area between the ditch outside the city walls and the earthen battlements has turned into a bog, and the emperor's soldiers have given up the attack.”

“Thanks be to God, we are saved!” cried one of the younger nuns, and the rest of us took up the cry.

Suor Margherita signaled for silence.

“No, dear sisters, we are not victorious. Far from it.”
The abbess's voice was heavy with sadness. “When spring comes and the earth dries out, the soldiers will take up their positions and the bombardment will begin again. The farmers will not be able to sow their fields or replant their olive groves and vineyards. There will be no crops. Our stores will be exhausted. People will go hungry. The pope and the emperor are determined to starve us into surrender. Let us pray for strength and courage as well as God's mercy.”

Starve us? How could my uncle do such a thing, just so that Alessandro can rule Florence?

We fell to our knees on the damp floor and recited the words of the twenty-seventh Psalm:
Though an army should encamp against me, yet my heart shall not he afraid. And though war should rise up against me, yet will I put my trust in him.