Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (18 page)

“Hanno must have been magnificent,” I said. “I've never seen an elephant.”

“Nor have I. I was in Florence then, but even there he was talked about.”

Discussing an animal that neither of us had ever seen: That was how our childhood friendship began to grow into something so much more.

T
HROUGHOUT THE WINTER
Ippolito and I met whenever we could at the library—it was not often—always careful to keep our meetings secret. The secrecy was Ippolito's idea. “I'm quite certain the Holy Father would not consider me a proper companion for
la duchessina,
” he said. We took turns pulling volumes down from the shelves and studying them, using that as an opportunity to sit so close that our heads nearly touched. I can scarcely remember what we talked about—perhaps our days in Florence, perhaps our still formless dreams of the future. It didn't matter. I was with Ippolito.

On the Tuesday before the beginning of Lent we spoke for the first time of our feelings.

“I'm not quite twelve years old,” I told Ippolito, “and yet I've lost nearly everyone close to me: my father, my mother, my aunt Clarissa, my grandmother, my great-uncle Pope Leo, Suor Battista at Le Murate—all people who truly cared what became of me. I wanted to stay at the convent, because I have friends there and the abbess is my godmother, but Pope Clement ordered me to come here. Aunt Lucrezia is kind to me, and I've become fond of Maria, and yet I'm lonely. Do you understand, Ippolito?”

“Of course I understand, Duchessina. Pope Leo became like a father to me, after my own father died. He used to take me hunting when I was just a little boy, before he became pope. Now I, too, have no one. Clement assigns me a hundred duties to perform, yet I'm as lonely as you are.”

“But you have Alessandro,” I suggested.

“Alessandro hates me!” Ippolito exclaimed. “And I feel the same about him. But we must hide our real feelings.”

“I hate him, too,” I said heatedly. “Alessandro calls me the Frog Duchess. He mocks me. I sometimes thought he would manage to kill me during those terrifying riding lessons.”

“But you have the pope's protection. The Holy Father gives every sign that you are cherished.”

“I want to believe that Pope Clement loves me, but in my heart I know the truth: He only
pretends
to love me. His affection for me is as feigned as yours for Alessandro.”

Ippolito shook his head sadly. “Clement doesn't even bother pretending for me. Not only does he have no affection for me, he'll do whatever he can to get me out of the way. Then Alessandro will have it all.”

“But why?” I asked. “Alessandro is cruel and bad mannered, so why—”

“Because Alessandro is Pope Clement's bastard son!” Ippolito interrupted. “And that's why he's the favorite, and why he will one day rule Florence. You didn't know that?”

“No,” I said, shocked. “I knew that Alessandro's father was a cardinal, but I believed that he was the son of Cardinal Passerini.”

“You had the wrong cardinal in mind, Duchessina.”

Ippolito's hand had come to rest on mine. My heart was pounding so hard that I believed surely he could hear it. But then he caught himself and drew away.

I changed the subject quickly. “The frescoes in the Chapel of the Magi,” I said. “Do you remember them, Ippolito?”

“Of course I do, my dear Duchessina,” he said softly.

My dear Duchessina!
I could have wept with joy.

“I used to go to the chapel often,” I rushed on, the words tumbling out. “I'd make believe that I was actually in the picture, riding a fine white horse in the procession.”

Ippolito laughed and reached again for my hand. “And which member of the crowd were you?” he asked. My fingers curled around his.

“I used to imagine myself as a little girl riding quietly off to one side. But now I believe I'd be a wise woman, taking my place with the three wise men. That would be interesting, don't you think?”

Ippolito gazed at me thoughtfully. “You, a wise woman? You are indeed a most unusual girl, Duchessina,” he murmured.

I met his gaze—just what we had been cautioned not to do by Suor Paolina—and wondered if he would take advantage of this opportunity to lift my hand to his lips and kiss it.
Oh, do, dear Ippolito!
I begged silently.

Ippolito bent closer. We were so intent on each other that neither of us heard the door of the library open. My fingertips were near Ippolito's lips—I could feel his warm breath—when raucous laughter erupted behind us, startling us rudely.

“Well, well, well!” roared the awful Alessandro. “What have we here? Have I happened on a tender moment with our little Frog Duchess?
Per favore,
don't let me interrupt!” Alessandro slouched carelessly on a bench, propped his feet on the table, and leered at us. “As you were saying, Ippolito? Do continue your speech, cousin.”

I was too stunned to utter a sound, but Ippolito quickly found his voice. “Duchessina and I have been investigating the stories of the Vatican menagerie collected by our uncle, Pope Leo. Duchessina is especially curious about Hanno.”

“So the frog is now in love with the elephant, is she?” He squinted, looking from Ippolito to me and back again with heavy-lidded eyes. “No doubt the Holy Father would be interested to hear this.”

“And I doubt he'd be in the least interested,” I said, speaking up suddenly.

Alessandro grinned. “You're wrong about that, Duchessina. The thing he cares about most is finding you the perfect husband. Have you heard the list? Any number of fine gentlemen are willing enough to marry a Frog Duchess if her dowry is large enough. Shall I tick them off? Start with the Duke of Sforza, missing all of his teeth and most of his manhood. Philibert, Prince of Orange, who led the enemy troops against Florence, topped the list of suitors until he took a bullet in the head during the siege. Shall I go on? No?” Alessandro rose lazily and made a mocking bow. “Then I wish a good day to you both.” He saluted insolently and sauntered out of the library.

Ippolito was white with anger. “He will certainly report to the pope what he believes he's seen here today. And the Holy Father will do whatever he can to prevent us from being together. We must not meet again until it's safe, Duchessina,” he said, adding sadly, “and it may never be.”

I nodded dumbly and ran off in tears, my hopes fading like smoke.

T
HERE WERE NO MORE
chance meetings and only glimpses of each other at the pope's entertainments. My studies did little to distract me from my unhappiness. Lent began, and Pope Clement suspended his dinners.

On Easter morning Pope Clement was carried on a gilded throne from the Palazzo Vaticano through the narrow streets of Rome to the cathedral church of San Giovanni in Laterano, where he would celebrate the Easter mass. Crowds of ordinary people jammed the streets, while highborn gentlemen and ladies—including Lucrezia and her daughters—watched from the balconies and windows of palazzos along the winding route. I was with them. Every churchman of any importance was a part of the procession, along with musicians and choirs and jugglers and tumblers, and all of the Swiss Guards, followed by select members of the nobility on horseback. Alessandro was among them, on his prancing gray stallion. Ippolito, riding much farther back in the procession, passed directly beneath the balcony where I was standing.
He didn't look up. Leaning out for a better view, I watched him until he was out of sight.

A few days after Easter I received an invitation to a festive dinner at Castel Sant' Angelo. For the first time I was appearing without a concealing head covering. Maria had arranged my hair, still quite short, with a garland of jewels. I had another new gown, this one of rose damask. The light of hundreds of candles shimmered on the gilded walls.

I ignored Alessandro, seated far away from me, but could not resist gazing often in Ippolito's direction. Once—only once—he glanced my way. He didn't smile, but something in his look lifted my heart. I had a feeling that soon we might meet again. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope after all.

My attention was claimed by the Frenchman on my left, Cardinal Gramont, who peppered me with questions in Latin until Pope Clement called for the attention of his guests. The busy hum of voices died away. “We are pleased to make to this distinguished audience an announcement concerning the appointment of a new cardinal to our Sacred College,” said the pontiff in his sonorous voice.

Murmurs of speculation rippled among the dinner guests. A pope had the privilege of naming as many cardinals as he wished. The important families in Rome and Florence courted the pope's favor, sometimes with large gifts to his treasury, hoping that one of their sons might wear a cardinal's red hat. Many of the guests that day were surely expecting one of their own to be chosen.

“It gives us great pleasure to inform you that the man to be so honored is one greatly beloved by us,” continued Pope Clement. “The scarlet hat of the cardinal will be presented to our dear nephew, Ippolito de' Medici, dedicated to the service of God.”

Ippolito, a cardinal? How could that be—he wasn't even a priest!

I gasped, “No!” I felt the blood drain from my face and thought I would faint.
Not this!
my heart cried.
Now he'll never he mine!

The French cardinal looked at me curiously and asked if I were unwell. “It's nothing,” I assured him, although in fact it was everything.

Ippolito rose and approached the dais where the pope was enthroned. Cardinal Gramont applauded enthusiastically; I forced myself to join in with the others. Ippolito had never looked more handsome, more intelligent, more winning. He knelt before Pope Clement and kissed first the pontiff's feet and then the Ring of the Fisherman.

My head swam, and, pressing a starched white napkin to my mouth, I struggled to breathe normally. I'm not sure how I managed to get through the next few hours.

I had no one in whom to confide my misery—not even Maria. Although I still felt quite unwell, I joined Lucrezia and her friends at dinner the next day. The conversation at the table startled me. The ladies were discussing Ippolito's elevation to the College of Cardinals.

“What can His Holiness be thinking?” demanded one woman, her fingers so laden with jeweled rings that she managed a fork with difficulty. “Imagine, deciding that such a handsome young man would enjoy devoting his life to the church! Why, I hear that he's only twenty-one, extraordinarily young to be made a cardinal, and not even ordained a priest!”

“And has no desire whatsoever to become a priest, from what I can tell,” a second lady offered. “What a pity! My youngest daughter would have made him a splendid wife, if he'd so chosen.”

I stared at my plate, afraid my eyes would betray me, hoping the ladies wouldn't notice my trembling hands.

“And so gifted!” caroled a third. “Plays the lute, expert on the organ, a talented poet, a fine athlete—”

“A priest can take pleasure in all of that, as can a cardinal, and even a pope,” Lucrezia interrupted. “My brother was pope for eight years before his untimely death and cardinal for many years before that, and I daresay he enjoyed every moment of his life.”

I glanced up. The tone of the conversation had taken on an unaccustomed edge.

“‘God has given us the papacy. Let us enjoy it!'” quoted the lady with the rings. “Isn't that what your brother Pope Leo said about it, Signora Salviati?” she asked Lucrezia with a false smile.

“As we are meant to enjoy all of God's gifts, Signora Farnese,” Lucrezia countered sharply, with the same sort of smile, and then deftly steered the conversation in another direction.