‘My daughter,’ he said, and the gentleness of his voice startled Caterina out of her misery temporarily, ‘my well beloved daughter, you know not what you say. I hope to send for you in Florence. You will go to France, if all is as I plan; to France, my daughter, to marry the second son of the King.’ He laid his hands on her head to bless her. ‘To France, daughter. The second son of the King!

Who knows, one day, you may be Queen of France! Miracles can happen, daughter. It may be that our family has been chosen to rule great countries. Sigh not. Weep no more. Your future is bright.’

Dazed with wretchedness, she allowed herself to be dismissed and led away.

This was the end of rapture. This was goodbye to love. Clement’s ambition, in the shape of the second son of the King of France, had come between her and her lover.

THE WEDDING

Riding on horseback from Florence down to the Tuscany coast, surrounded by all the noblest people of Florence, was a broken-hearted little girl. She was still dazed, bewildered by this horror which had overtaken her; she was supposed to rejoice at what they were pleased to call her great good fortune, and she could only weep.

Her uncle, Filippo Strozzi― a widower, for Aunt Clarissa had died before she was able to see what she would have called ‘this great and happy event’― was in charge of the concourse until it should be joined by the Pope; after each day’s journey he would summon his niece and talk to her, implore her to show some interest in her good fortune, to hide her melancholy, to suppress her folly, and with her family rejoice. But every member of her family did not rejoice, she pointed out.

Indeed, it was so. And Filippo Strozzi was inclined to think His Holiness had erred in making Ippolito of the party which was to conduct Caterina into France.

‘It will put an end to rumour,’ Clement had said. ‘There must be no more of this talk of the Medici lovers.’ Filippo shrugged his shoulders. All very well for His Holiness. Perhaps the life he had led did not give him great understanding of young and passionate lovers. Not that Clement had pursued unswervingly the life of a celibate. There was that depraved monster, Alessandro, to prove that.

But His Holiness would never allow passion to interfere with ambition, and, being a man of little imagination, no doubt believed his young relatives would behave in similar fashion. Filippo was a man of the world, and, looking from the sad, smouldering eyes of Ippolito to the rebellious ones of Caterina, he knew it had been a mistake to include the young man in the party.

Ippolito was handsome enough, romantic enough to turn any girl’s head; he had made a success of the mission in Turkey and had returned much earlier than had been expected― the lover, eager to see his love again. As for the girl, she was, even at fourteen, an adept at hiding her feelings, but the softness of those lovely eyes of hers when they rested on the young man betrayed her. Filippo would feel most uneasy until they boarded galleys which would take them across to Nice.

While Filippo longed for a sight of the Tuscany coast, Caterina dreaded it.

She knew that once she left the soil of Italy, she was doomed. There would be no escape then; but while she sat on her horse and Ippolito was close to her, it was possible to dream, with the hope that out of the dream reality would come.

Why should they not ride away together?

Sometimes, during that journey, it was possible to exchange a few words with her cousin that would not be overheard by those surrounding them. Then in desperation she would throw aside reserve and plead for the fulfillment of their love.

‘Ippolito, let us break away. Let us ride fast― anywhere, what does it matter? Let us be together.’

Ippolito looked at her sadly. She was only a child. She knew nothing of the world. Where would they go? How would they live? Escape was impossible.

They would be brought back to the Pope.

‘I would not care, Ippolito. We should have had some months, weeks, days together.’

‘Caterina, do you think I have not brooded on this? I have made plans. But each one ends in wretchedness. I could not take you to that. Where would we live? Among beggars? Among robbers? There would be a price on our heads.

There would be no safety. Caterina, you have been carefully nurtured. Oh I know you have faced dangers, but you have never known starvation, my love.

Believe me, I have pondered this. I have looked for a way out for us as I have never looked for anything else, but I can find none, for there is none.’

‘There is always a way, Ippolito,’ she protested tearfully. ‘There is always a way.’

But he shook his head. ‘No, dearest cousin. We are as nothing― you and I.

Your feelings? My feelings? Of what import are they? We are not meant to love.

We are meant to marry and beget children― or to become celibates of the Church. For you, my love, life is not so cruel as it is for me. You are but a child and, say what you will, a glorious future awaits you. But for me a life which I do not want.’

‘Do you think I want a life away from you?’

‘Oh, Caterina my love, you are so young. Perhaps you will love your husband. He is your own age. Why should you not? There will be happiness for you, Caterina, when you have forgotten me.’

‘I shall never forget you!’ she cried stormily; and she was hurt and more bewildered than ever . I would not have cared what happened to us as long as we could remain together, she thought . He does not love me as I love him. I think of him, and he thinks of comfort, safety, the future. But the dream persisted. She believed that one day he would come to her and whisper his plan for their escape. But he did not, and it was with great relief that Filippo saw them all embark and leave the coast of Tuscany behind them, while Caterina, with despair in her heart stood, straining her eyes for the last look at the land she had hoped never to leave.

As they sailed towards Nice Filippo was constantly in the company of Caterina.

‘My child,’ he implored her, ‘what will these French think if you go to them, a sullen-eyed bride? What will your young bridegroom think? Calm yourself. Be reasonable.’

‘Reasonable!’ she stormed. ‘I am leaving all that I love, to live among strangers. Is that cause for rejoicing?’

‘You are going among those who will cherish you. It is true that I, His Holiness, and Ippolito― those of your blood― cannot stay with you; but you will have your own countrymen and women about you. Why, you have the boy astrologers, the young Ruggieri, whom His Holiness allowed you to take with you; there is Madalenna, of whom you are fond; and there are others such as young Sebastiano di Montecuccoli. I could name dozens. You could not be alone in a strange land with so many friends from Italy about you.’

She did not say to him, ‘I care not who is with me if Ippolito is absent.’ But he understood; and he was kind and gentle to her as he never had been before.

She watched the pomp which the arrival of the Pope must create, and she knew now that, though Ippolito remained with her, he was already lost. It was a thrilling spectacle― sixty vessels hoisting their flags, saluting the Holy Father as he stepped aboard his own galley, which was sumptuously draped in gold brocade, tailing with the fleet towards Marseilles in a grand procession behind the leading vessel, which bore the Holy Sacrament. But there was no thrill for Caterina; there was only a sense of loss.


* * *

During the second week of October in the year 1533, watchers at the Château d’If and the great fortress of Notre Dame de la Guarde saw the first of the convoy, and signalled to the impatient of Marseilles that the long-awaited fleet, which was bringing with it a bride for the son of their King, was on the last stage of its journey.

Outside the town was encamped the little bridegroom with his father and the courtiers; they were awaiting the arrival of the bridal party, since etiquette asked that the King should not enter his town until after the Holy Pope had made his entry.

The bells were ringing out; and the thunder of hundreds of cannon echoed in the streets. The people were impatient for a glimpse of the little Italian bride.

In the boat which had brought her to the shores of France, Caterina waited for what would happen next. Apprehension had subdued her misery. She was beginning to realize the significance of all this pomp and ceremony. Perhaps in the excitement of coming events she could forget some of her unhappiness.

She was told that the Constable of France would shortly come aboard to have a word with her. She waited expectant while the great man was rowed out to her boat. The sight of him, surrounded by attendants, alarmed her. He had a fierce mouth and cruel eyes.

He bore the feminine name of Anne de Montmorency, and he told her that great efforts had been made for her comfort while she stayed in Marseilles. He personally had supervised arrangements. It made her feel very important such a man should take such trouble on her account. There would be, he told her, one of the finest houses in the town at the disposal of her and her retinue. A similar house had been found for His Holiness and all the bishops and cardinals and Church dignitaries who had accompanied the Holy Father. There was another house for the French party. Anne de Montmorency would have the little Duchess know that France was honoured to receive her and her distinguished relative. Caterina, in perfect French, made the reply which was expected of her and was rewarded by the grim man’s look of approval.

He took his leave and left her to await the time when she would land on French soil and make her way into Marseilles. But before this could take place there must be the entry of the Pope in his ceremonial procession, followed by the King in his; after that it would be her turn.

At length it came. Seated on a roan horse that was covered with brocade, Caterina rode into France. Behind her and before her rode the nobility of Italy. It mattered not that among them was Ippolito, for Ippolito was lost to her forever.

She dared no longer look his way; she dared not ride, a weeping bride, to meet her bridegroom.

And as she rode she became aware that all eyes in that vast crowd which lined the streets were fixed upon her; and those eyes were unsmiling. Did they dislike her, then? Had she disappointed them?

She was frightened, realizing afresh that it was not only her lover whom she had lost; she had also said goodbye to home.

She held her head high. These foreigners should not know that they had frightened her. She would have courage― the same sort of courage which had carried her through the Florentine mob. She would have need of it.

Ippolito, she thought, oh, Ippolito, is it then too late? Could we not run away even now? But Ippolito, riding ahead, so handsome that eyes followed him, was resigned to his loss. She must be resigned to hers also.

She began think about her young husband and wonder what he was like.


* * *

The Pope himself performed the ceremony. Side by side, Caterina and Henry stood before him, repeating the solemn words. All about them were the dazzling nobility of France and Italy.

Caterina scarcely heard the service; she was only vaguely aware of the crowded church; all her interest was for the boy beside her.

He was tall, she saw, and well-built; his muscles hardened she was able to discover, by fencing, tilting and, of course, the chase. He was dark; and because, in her thoughts he had been an ogre, a monster not unlike Alessandro, she thought him handsome in his gorgeous, bejewelled clothes. He seemed to brood, though, to be sullen, and she feared he was not pleased with her. She wondered that, in view of her love for Ippolito, she have cared; yet she did care. It hurt her pride that she should have disappointed him. He kept his eyes averted; she wanted to smile at him, to imply that it was frightening for her as well as for him; she wanted to tell him that she had dreaded marriage; that she had suffered the torments of misery; but now that she had seen him she felt a little happier.

She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy did not give her a glance.