bestow upon the world a child, he confided sadly, and wished that I might be as a daughter to him, and that he might be to me the father I had never known. His voice caught as he said our time together would be short. Too soon, my native city would be ready to receive my husband and me as its rightful rulers. He, Clement, could only hope that I would remember him fondly, and permit him to gaze on my children one day with grandfatherly pride.
His speech was so eloquent, so poignant, that I was moved and stood on tiptoe to kiss his bearded cheek. I, malleable girl, believed it all.
Thirteen
A small crowd had been invited to the palazzo that evening to more properly celebrate my arrival. Donna Lucrezia had taken care to ensure that at least one representative was present from each of the city’s most influential families-the Orsini, Farnese, delle Rovere, and Riario.
I smiled a great deal that night as I was introduced to dozens of Rome’s luminaries. Uncle Filippo, bound to leave the following morning, knew everyone well and was clearly at ease in Roman society. Sandro’s manner with the guests was far less stuff y than it had been the previous evening; he actually grinned and displayed some wit.
As we were seated at the table and wine was poured, Ippolito remained noticeably absent. I was disappointed; I wanted to tell him that I had decided to forgive him. And I suspected my blue dress was quite fetching.
Supper was served. His Holiness had sent over a dozen suckling pigs and a barrel of his best wine. I was rather nervous at first but soon became lost in conversation with the French ambassador, who complimented my feeble efforts at his native tongue, and with Lucrezia’s grown daughter Maria, a gracious woman. I was enjoying the people, the food, and the wine, and had forgotten about Ippolito until I caught sight of him in the doorway.
His doublet was bright blue velvet, the same shade as my gown, with the pearl button at the neck undone; his short black hair was tousled. The conversation ebbed as others noticed him.
“My apologies to the assembled company,” he said, with a sweeping bow. “And to our dear hostess, Donna Lucrezia. I was forgetful of the hour.”
He quickly took his place at table, directly across from Sandro and at some remove from me. Chatter resumed, and I returned my attention to my plate and the French ambassador.
Five minutes later, I heard a shout. Ippolito had jumped to his feet so quickly that he had knocked over his goblet; a garnet stain was spreading across the table, but he cared not at all.
“Son of a whore,” he said loudly, his wild-eyed gaze fastened on Sandro. “You know very well what I am speaking about. Why don’t you tell
Across from him, his cousin sat deadly still. “Sit down, Lito.”
Ippolito gestured sweepingly at the other diners. “Tell them all, Sandro. Tell them how you are ambitious-so very, very ambitious-but too craven to be so openly.”
Ser Iacopo rose from his chair and, in a voice of well-honed authority, said, “Ser Ippolito, sit
Ippolito’s body was taut with the effort to contain a torrent of hatred. “I will sit down when Sandro speaks the truth publicly,” he announced. “Tell us, dear cousin. Tell us all what you are willing to do to see me brought down.”
He lunged across the table, rattling plates and cutlery and nearly overturning a flaming candelabrum, and caught the neck of Sandro’s tunic.
Uncle Filippo was instantly at his side. “Come away,” he commanded.
He seized Ippolito’s elbow and pulled him upright. Ippolito jerked free; his mouth curled in a snarl. I thought he would strike Filippo, but his anger turned abruptly sullen and he strode from the room.
Still seated, Sandro watched him go with a guarded expression. Dinner continued, the conversation at first subdued but soon regaining its earlier liveliness.
After the meal and hours of small talk, I made my way back up the stairs to my chambers. Ginevra had forgotten to pack some items for Uncle Filippo, who was leaving early, but she had promised to come undress me within the hour. A hallway sconce had been lit in consideration of my unfamiliarity with the terrain, and it cast a sharp shadow in the alcove near my door; a figure stepped from it into the light.
I recognized Ippolito at once. Had I not drunk a good deal of wine myself, I might have noticed that his eyes were red, his words slurred, his balance precarious. His hands were steepled contritely at his heart.
“Caterina,” he said. “I came to apologize for my behavior at supper.”
“You need not apologize to me,” I responded lightly, “but Donna Lucrezia is another matter.”
He smiled ruefully. “She will be satisfied only if I spend the rest of my life trying to make amends.”
“Why were you so angry at Sandro?”
He pulled me toward the door with the intent of leading me into the antechamber. I balked; Ginevra might be back at any time, and if she saw me alone with a man in my room, cousin or no, she would think it improper.
“Not in there,” I hissed, but he laid a finger to his lips and drew me just inside the door.
The bedroom beyond was dark, but the lamp on the antechamber desk had been lit. Ippolito stepped conspiratorially close and took my hands. I did not pull away, as propriety demanded; I was giddy from the wine and his presence.
“You were so angry,” I whispered. “Why?”
He tensed. “Sandro, the bastard, tells terrible lies about me to His Holiness. And His Holiness, who is partial to Sandro, believes them.”
“What lies?”
His lip tugged downward. “Sandro wants His Holiness to believe that I am nothing but a drunk, a womanizer, that I am failing at my studies…” He let go a low, bitter laugh. “And here am I, stupid enough to drink too much wine, because I am so angry!”
“Why would Sandro say such things?”
“Because he is jealous,” Ippolito said. “Because he wants to poison Clement against me. He wants to rule alone.” His expression grew even darker. “If he dares speak ill of
He fell silent and stared intently into my eyes. In his, I saw the same light I had seen in Aunt Clarice’s, when she had kissed Leda for the last time.
“That is why I love you,” Ippolito said. “Because you are nothing like him. Because you are utterly brilliant yet completely guileless.” He lowered his face to mine. “Can you be loyal, Caterina? Can you love me?”
“Of course.” I didn’t know what else to say.
He leaned into me, his hips pressed to mine. He was tall, and the top of my head barely reached his collar. He put one hand on my shoulder, and let it slide down inside my bodice; the other cradled the nape of my neck.
It occurred to me that I ought to run away, but the feel of his hand on my bare flesh was intoxicating. I leaned back against his hand and let him kiss me. The act involved a good deal of heat; I instinctively wrapped my arms around him.
He kissed my ears and closed eyelids, then parted my lips with his tongue. He tasted of the Pope’s wine.
“Caterina,” he sighed.
I heard Ginevra’s step on the distant landing and pulled away from him; he slipped out of my antechamber just in time to escape her detection.
A heady year passed, one of banquets and balls. I was convinced that I would marry Ippolito and return to Florence. Each day, I grew more to look like a woman; each day, Ippolito won me by increasing degrees, with compliments and tender glances. On my birthday, he presented me with a pair of earrings, diamonds cut in the shape of tears. “To better show off your lovely neck,” he said. My face was not pretty, but he had found other features to honestly compliment: my long neck, my small feet and elegant hands.
Donna Lucrezia frowned; the gift was one a lover might give his paramour, or a man his betrothed, but our
