‘Oh, Ippolito, can you not hold out against his wishes?’

‘Our lives are in his hands, Caterina. And there are times when I forget that he is our Pope. There are times when I hate him. He cares nothing for us; little for the Church. Power is his god. He has made Alessandro, his secret bastard, ruler of Florence; and Florence under Alessandro, Caterina, resembles Rome under Nero. No one is safe from his lust and his cruelty. People are flying from the city when they can. Do you remember the two Ruggieri brothers?’

‘Cosmo and Lorenzo!’ she cried.

‘They have escaped from Florence. They bring sad tales with them. You knew Alessandro as a vicious boy; he has become a monster. I hear His Holiness has arranged a marriage for his bastard with none other than the daughter of Emperor Charles.’

‘Poor Emperor’s daughter!’ said Caterina.

Ippolito turned his eyes upon her. ‘Caterina, I thank the saints that His Holiness let the monster masquerade as your brother. If he had not, it might have been you who would have been married to Alessandro.’

Caterina could not speak. There were no words to express the horror such an idea brought to them both.

It was so great that it made Ippolito forget his troubles; Caterina, lifting her eyes to his, thought she saw a response to her own delight.

Ippolito took her hand and kissed it.

‘Life has consolations to offer, Caterina,’ he said. And they laughed and whipped up their horses.

Never had Caterina been so happy. She sent for the brothers Ruggieri. She gave them orders for perfumes and lotions. She begged them to look into her future. It was exciting to wrap herself in a cloak and slip quickly through the streets of Rome to the room these brothers shared. She begged them to let her look into the magic mirror. She would see the face of the man who was to be her husband. The brothers had fled from Florence; they had not, here in Rome, the necessary articles for their study. They would do their best for their little Duchess.

Soon they would find some means of showing her the face of her future husband.

But Caterina believed she saw it; it was noble and dark, a handsome face with eyes that flashed and sparkled― Medici eyes very like her own.

This was to be in love. To sing for happiness, to see the river sparkling as it had never sparkled before, the grand and imposing buildings softened, more lovely, the faces of those about her more gentle, the sun more warming; in this new emotion was the dread that she might not see Ippolito this day, then the overwhelming delight when she did.

Ippolito could not remain ignorant of this joy which had seized her. He must see it in the shine of her eyes, in the inflexion of her voice when she spoke to him.

They spoke of their love when they rode out together. This is the happiest day of my life, thought Caterina, looking back at that most gracious of cities glittering in sunshine that had never been so bright as it was on this day of Caterina’s happiness.

Ippolito said: ‘I pray the saints that you are as happy as I am, Caterina. I bless them because the Pope cannot marry you to Alessandro.’

‘Do not speak of him on such a day as this.’

‘No,’ agreed Ippolito. ‘Let us speak of ourselves instead.’ ‘Oh yes― of ourselves, Ippolito.’

‘I love you, Caterina. I loved you when you were a little girl and we were together in the palace in our beloved Florence.’

‘I loved you also, Ippolito. I have never ceased to think of you during the years of our separation. I knew that we should be together again.’

They had stopped. The attendants kept some distance behind; they had known, before the young people were aware of it, of this state of love between them.

Ippolito took her hand and kissed it.

‘The Holy Father means us for each other,’ he said. ‘Depend upon it. He would not allow us to be together if that were not so.’

‘You are right, Ippolito. Oh, how happy I am!’

‘I too. Caterina, since you love me, it does not seem to matter that I have lost Florence.’

‘I understand. I have been unhappy; I have suffered― loneliness and horror.

But I do not care now, Ippolito, because life brought me this.’

They longed to kiss, to embrace, but how could they, here in the open country with their attendants behind them? The talk of their future, though; they could promise love and passion with their eyes.

‘Caterina, I do not believe the people of Florence will long submit to Alessandro’s tyranny.’

‘No, Ippolito. I am sure they will not.’

‘And then, my love, I shall rule Florence― and you with me. We shall be together in the palace where we spent our childhood.’

She said: ‘Ippolito, can one die of happiness, for if one can, I fear you will lose me.’

He answered: ‘I cannot bear to look at you and not kiss you. Let us ride.’

Later there were embraces; there were kisses; it was not possible to keep such a charming love affair secret. And why should it be secret? Ippolito, Caterina, cousins and both Medici. Why should their union be denied the Papal blessing?

The happy days marched quickly past.

Such a matter could not be kept long from the Pontifical ears. The news was whispered among the Swiss Guards and Palatine Guards and the palace lackeys until it came to the ears of the bishops and cardinals, and through them, it reached Monsignor, who in his turn passed it on to the Master of the Household, his Excellency, whose duty it was to live close to the Holy Father himself.

His Holiness was furious. He hated Ippolito― hated him for his handsome face, his charming manners and his popularity. He knew that, if he were not very careful, he was going to have trouble with Ippolito. The stubborn youth had tried to turn his back on an brilliant career in the Church, and all because Alessandro had been made ruler of Florence. Ippolito would be another such as his father and Lorenzo the Magnificent. Ippolito did not fit into the papal schemes.

Now, Caterina did. Great wealth and power were to come to Clement through this girl. Her marriage was his first consideration now, and great plans were afoot.

The Pope looked at his long hands and seemed to see pictures of men as on playing cards that he would hold fan-shape and wonder which to play. There was the Duke of Albany― not a good choice, for he was Caterina’s uncle by marriage; there was the Duke of Milan, ailing and old enough to be her grandfather, though his declining fortunes went against him rather than his age.

The Duke of Mantua? The life this man had led was similar to that led by Caterina’s own father and that which Alessandro was now leading in Florence.

Such a marriage was not desirable. Caterina’s father had made a grand marriage with a lady related to the royal family of France, and what had happened? Death for the parents, after the birth of one child― a girl, Caterina― who had by a miracle escaped the result of her father’s sins. No! He wanted a husband who was rich and powerful, though power and birth came before riches, as it was with Medici wealth that he should be drawn into the net. There was the King of Scotland. But that was a remote and poor country.

It would cost me more than her dowry to bring me news of such a place! he said to himself. There were others. The Count of Vaudemont, and even the Duke of Richmond, illegitimate son of Henry VIII of England. The Pope frowned on illegitimacy, although he himself was illegitimate and had risen to power in spite of it.

But now into the marriage market had stepped a dazzling bargain. A bride was wanted for Henry of Orleans, second son of none other than the King of France.

When His Holiness had heard of this, he had kissed his fisherman’s ring and asked the Virgin’s blessing. The house of Medici allied to the mighty house of France!

First sons had a way of dying; some were hurried to their deaths. The wives of second sons could become queens. Queen of France! Breeding children that were half Medici, and ready to be very kind to their mother’s family! If this marriage could be arranged, it would be the brightest event that had ever taken place in the Medici family. The marriage of Caterina’s father to a connexion of the Bourbons would be nothing compared with Caterina’s marriage with the house of Valois.

He must go carefully. He had spoken of the proposed French marriage to the Emperor Charles, who, laughing slyly up his sleeve, had suggested the Pope try to bring it about. He thinking that a sharp rebuff from France would do Clement good.

Does a royal house mate with such as the Medici? They were rulers of Florence, it was true, but they had their roots in trade. No, thought Charles.

Francis would laugh down his long nose at the effrontery of the Pope, and make some witty remark at his expense. But there was something Charles had forgotten which the Pope remembered. There were always ways of tempting the French King. He had ever cast covetous eyes on Italy and if Clement promised the Duchy of Milan as part of Caterina’s dowry, he might bring this about.

Tentative negotiations were already going forward, and the Pope was optimistic And now this news. This crass stupidity. These absurd people! It seemed that the whole of Rome was talking about ‘the Medici lovers’. And Ippolito― the eternal thorn in his side― was the cause of it.

The Pope sent for Caterina.

Through the long series of halls and rooms, past the papal lackeys and the guards, she came. She was in that dream of soft happiness which was always with her now; her thoughts dwelt constantly on Ippolito. She and Ippolito together, all through their lives; and if Alessandro did not die or was not displaced, well then, it would still be Caterina and Ippolito, happy, in love forever. Being together was all that mattered. Where they were was unimportant.

Monsignor was waiting for her in one of the outer chambers. He looked so sombre in his purple cassock that she felt sorry for him; indeed she felt sorry for all who were not Caterina and Ippolito.

‘His Holiness awaits you,’ said Monsignor; and he led her into the presence.

She knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, and felt relieved that it was not to be a private audience, for Excellency did not leave them.

‘My dearly beloved daughter,’ said His Holiness, ‘I am making arrangements for you to leave Rome immediately.’

‘Leave Rome!’ she cried out before she could stop herself. Leave Rome! Leave Ippolito? The Pope expressed silent surprise at such bad manners. ‘To leave Rome immediately,’ he went on.

She was silent. Tears were in her eyes. She was afraid His Holiness would see them. Why was he sending her away? She sensed in this some threat to her love. She could not help it; she must speak.

‘Holy Father, I― I do not want to leave Rome, now.’

Excellency was standing very still. Even the Holy Father was silent. They could not understand her. Could she have forgotten that it was not for any to argue with the Pope of Rome?

The Holy Father’s lips were tight. ‘There is a threat of plague in Rome. We cannot allowour dearly beloved daughter to take the risk of remaining here’

It was untrue. There was no plague in Rome. She knew, instinctively, that this was a plot to separate her from her beloved Ippolito.

She forgot decorum, forgot the dignity due the Holy Father. ‘Where― where shall I go, Father?’

‘To Florence,’ he said.

‘Oh, Father, is― my cousin Ippolito to come with me?’

There was a horrified silence. Excellency’s face was a blank mask that hid surprise. The Holy Father looked down into the anguished eyes of his young relative and found himself answering her question instead of reprimanding her.

‘Your cousin Ippolito is to go on a mission to Turkey.’

She did not speak; her lips trembled. She knew that she had been living in a dream. There was to be no happiness with Ippolito. It was not the wish of this all-powerful man that they should marry. They had been together through carelessness, indifference to the torture separation must mean to them both.

Perhaps the Holy Father had some pity in him. He looked down at the misery in that pale young face.

‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘You should rejoice. A great future awaits you.’

She did not mean to speak but the words escaped her; ‘There is no future for me without Ippolito; without Ippolito, I do not wish to live.’

The Pope was not so angry as he should have been at this affront to ceremonial dignity. He remembered his heated passion for a Barbary slave who had given him Alessandro.