engagement was not yet official. She had reason to be concerned. The week before, upon dismounting after a vigorous ride, I realized my petticoats were wet. I went to my bedchamber and discovered, to my astonishment, that they were soaked with blood. Alerted by the chambermaid, Donna Lucrezia came to explain the distasteful facts of monthly bleeding. Afterward, she lectured me at length on the need for virtue-for political purposes as much as religious ones.
I scarcely listened. Whenever we found ourselves alone, Ippolito fell on me with kisses and I heatedly returned them. With each encounter, I permitted another liberty. At supper, the memory of such ardent moments left us grinning across the table at each other. Increasingly, I sent my lady-in-waiting, Donna Marcella, off on meaningless errands while I stole away to those areas of the villa frequented by Ippolito.
On one such occasion, I found him in a corridor near his private chambers. We went straightaway into each other’s arms. When his hand burrowed beneath my skirts and petticoats, I did not stop him; when his fingers reached between my legs and stroked the mound of flesh there, I moaned. Suddenly, he slipped one finger inside me, and I was lost. I bore down with my full weight as it moved, slow and probing at first, then faster.
We were too far gone to hear footsteps until it was too late. There we were, Ippolito pressed hard against me, his hand beneath my skirts; and there was Sandro, close-mouthed and wide-eyed. Sandro stared at us and we stared at him, then Sandro turned and walked away.
I pushed free from Ippolito, my desire transformed into something sickening and ugly.
“Damn him,” Ippolito breathed, still trembling. “He will use this against me, I know it. But if he dares use it against you, there will be hell to pay.”
Hell was a long time coming. In the interim, I continued my occasional brief encounters with Ippolito, though I remained alert to avoid detection. Ippolito grew more passionate, more intense in his declarations of love, and I, certain we would be married within a year, allowed his fingers and lips full access to my person.
Ippolito, however, desired more-but Donna Lucrezia had impressed upon me the fact that I could now become pregnant. I kept my ardent cousin at bay, though I grew increasingly tempted to give him what he most wanted.
Winter came-mild and sunny, a cheerful contrast to cold, gloomy Florence. At Christmas we attended a large banquet at the Papal Palace, held in Raphael’s glorious Room of the Fire in the Borgo. Afterward, as the guests mingled in the magnificent surroundings, Clement took me aside. The roar of convivial conversation around us guaranteed that his words would be heard by us alone.
“I hear you are much taken with our Ippolito,” he said.
Sandro, I realized, had revealed everything. Mortified, furious, I glanced down at the marble floor, unable to formulate a coherent reply.
“You are too young to be mooning over a rake like him,” Clement admonished. “Besides, you have inherited the brains and tenacity for which the Medici are famed. Ippolito did not, and so it falls to you, as young as you are, to be the wiser one. He pursues you not for love but because youth makes his blood run hot. Shun him now so that, when his ardor cools, you will still have his respect. Otherwise-I tell you as a man who understands these things- you will find yourself badly used. Do you understand me, Caterina?”
I mumbled, “I do, Your Holiness.”
“Then promise me. Promise me that you will keep your virtue and spurn his embrace.”
“I promise, Holiness,” I said.
I was at the age of foolishness, when I believed my elders incapable of understanding the exceptional nature of the love Ippolito and I shared. And so I lied, bald-faced, to the Pope.
Late that evening, accompanied by my lady, Donna Marcella, I was ascending the stairs to my chambers when Sandro came up behind us.
“Good evening, Caterina,” he said, with unsmiling reserve.
I gave him a withering stare before turning my back to him.
“Donna Marcella,” Sandro said softly, “I should like to speak privately with my sister.”
Marcella-a cautious woman twenty years my senior-hesitated as she studied Sandro. He was slight, less solidly built than his cousin, with light umber skin and tight black curls, and the broad nose and full lips of his Moorish mother. The authority in his huge dark eyes made her yield. She had pledged to serve as my constant chaperone; however, from Sandro’s manner, and from my own, it was clear nothing impetuous could ever happen between us.
She turned to me. “I will wait for you in your chambers,
When she had left, Sandro said, “I know that you hate me, but in the end, you’ll see that I acted in your best interests. Ippolito is using you without any thought for your feelings.”
“I won’t listen to your lies,” I said. “You hate Ippolito because you are jealous.”
He sighed. “I don’t hate him,” he said patiently. “Lito hates
My voice was ugly. “Then why did you carry tales about us to the Pope?”
“Because regardless of what you think and what Ippolito might say, I care about you. And if I read the signs aright, you’re allowing yourself to be put in a dangerous situation. Don’t let yourself be hurt.”
“How
I turned and began again to climb the stairs. He advanced a step or two behind me.
“He loves wine and women too well,” Sandro said. “Or are you so smitten-like the rest of them-that you haven’t noticed?”
When I hurried my pace, he made a last, desperate effort to shock me. “When he comes to you again, ask him about Lucia da Pistoia. Ask him about Carmella Strozzi, and Charlotte Montblanc.”
“You lie!” I would not turn around.
“You’re being played, Caterina.”
I spoke over my shoulder, harshly, venomously, wanting to wound him as badly as he had me. “You are no brother of mine.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said softly. “I suppose everyone knows it by now.”
I did not understand at all but was too upset to pursue an explanation. I lifted my skirts and ran up to my room. Alessandro did not follow, but I felt his presence, lonely and disapproving, behind me on the stairs.
The new year of 1532 came, followed by an early spring. Donna Marcella rarely left my side; Ippolito and I were reduced to stealing glances over supper. Eventually, he recruited one of the chambermaids to deliver his impassioned letters to me, and return my lovesick responses to him.
Finally he wrote that he had petitioned Clement to allow us to become betrothed and said His Holiness had indicated an affirmative reply was forthcoming. A betrothal was as binding as a marriage: Once it was accomplished, no one, not even Clement, would keep us from each other. I quickly penned a reply expressing my eagerness. Within a day, I received another missive:
I stared down at the paper in my hands with queasy excitement. If we were discovered, Donna Lucrezia would be scandalized, and Pope Clement furious.
I had done my best to dismiss Sandro’s words, but now they echoed dismally in my memory.
Several weeks of fervid correspondence ensued. In early April, Donna Marcella took ill and went to the countryside, leaving me in the care of one of the chambermaids, Selena. That afternoon, Selena combed lemon juice through my hair. I settled into an inconspicuous corner of the courtyard on a coverlet spread on the grass and absorbed sunlight in the hope of coaxing some gold from my drab locks. I sat for an hour and was getting up to
