The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

and womanizing have sullied your reputation and given Clement pause.”

I didn’t want to be right; I wanted very much for Ippolito to laugh gently and explain my reasoning away with better logic of his own. But his long and guilty silence shattered the fantasy that I was brilliantly loved, that I would soon have a home and family of my own. I was, after all, a homely girl, and he the most handsome man in all the world.

I crawled as far away as I could, sat up, pressed my back against the headboard, curled my arms about my legs, and wished to die. But like Sandro, I was cool and hid my hurt.

“Shall I continue?” I asked him. “Shall I take this to its natural conclusion, that whoever marries me will be seen as the more legitimate ruler of Florence?”

He sat up and stared at me. He was drunk, impetuous, and cruel, but he was not a monster. The flesh between his legs had shrunk into a sad, dangling thing. At my question, he shook his head.

It was a gesture of defeat, but I misread it and countered hotly, “Alessandro is my brother, true, but only my half brother. An exception from Clement and we could be wed.”

Without smiling, he let go a soft, bitter laugh. “You’re wrong,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are wrong,” he repeated. “Sandro is not your brother. He’s Clement’s bastard, born while His Holiness was still a cardinal and foisted off on us. Perhaps now you better understand my concern.”

For a long time we sat breathing hard as we stared at each other. I think he considered forcing himself upon me again, but had lost the taste for it.

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said finally. “I do care for you, and there is real heat between us. Can’t I be with you tonight? Clement will come to his senses and wed us, install us in Florence, all the more so if you are pregnant…”

“No,” I said.

He hesitated, then made as if to reach for me.

“No,” I repeated. “I’ll scream for Selena.”

He rose and dressed without another word. I waited until he was out the door and well down the corridor before I began to cry.

Sandro had done me a kindness. Three months after my nocturnal encounter with my cousin, Pope Clement announced that Ippolito was to become a cardinal and would serve as Papal legate to Hungary. He was to be properly schooled, then sent off within a year.

Alessandro left for Florence soon after the announcement to acquaint himself with the politics of the city he would soon govern.

I did my best to lose myself in my studies. The sordid unraveling of my first love affair had wounded me, but I found comfort in the fact that I still had Florence. I aspired to become worthy of ruling a city, of being a fitting partner to Alessandro, who had shown himself to be wise and decent.

Clement sent me home to Florence that April to attend Alessandro as he was installed as the first Duke of Florence, a title bestowed on him by Emperor Charles as part of the treaty with Clement after the Sack of Rome. Bedecked in ermine and rubies, I stood proudly beside my cousin during his installation; in that moment, Ippolito faded into a youthful indiscretion.

An obscenely magnificent banquet followed the ceremony. Late that evening, I stood in my bechamber as Donna Marcella unlaced me from my complicated finery. I was still exhilarated, reluctant to retire, and chatted with Maria about the day’s events.

“When do you think His Holiness will announce our engagement?” I asked her.

“Engagement?” She seemed honestly puzzled by my question.

“Mine to Sandro, of course.”

Maria glanced away quickly as she sought the proper words. “His Holiness is considering several possible suitors for you.”

I had to repeat the words silently to myself three times before I fully understood them.

“I’m so sorry,” Maria said. “They said nothing to you, then?”

“No,” I answered slowly. “No, they did not.”

Pity sullied her features. “Alessandro has been secretly betrothed since last year to Margaret of Austria, the Emperor’s daughter. His Holiness will make the official announcement soon.”

I was humiliated, privately seething, but I continued to attend public functions at Sandro’s side, aware that I was there not as a partner but as a symbol. I was the ghost of my father-my father, whose birthright was Florence. As his sole legitimate heir, I alone should have ruled-but I was female, a politically unpardonable sin.

With each day, my concern over the future grew. At thirteen, I was of marriageable age, but if Sandro was not to be my groom, then who was? Maria confessed that Clement was entertaining a proposal from the Duke of Milan, an ailing, elderly man with fewer wits than the coins in his empty coffers. Although Clement was not infatuated with the idea, he had been forced to consider it because Emperor Charles wanted the match, as the Duke had always been a staunch Imperial supporter. The thought so disgusted me that Maria spent a fruitless hour trying to soothe me.

“God willing, he will not be the final choice,” she said. “Let us just say that he is the least of the options. There are other suitors-one so marvelous I have been sworn to secrecy. His Holiness is working hard to negotiate to your very best advantage.”

“Are any of the men from Florence?” I had lost everyone; my home was all I had.

She did not understand the significance of the question; she shook her head and smiled mischievously. “We mustn’t speak of it any more, my dear. No point in raising your hopes only to have them dashed.”

Too late, I wanted to tell her. I thought of the day I first met His Holiness: how he had asked that I look upon him as a father and confessed his sorrow that he would never have a child of his own. Even then, he had been negotiating with Emperor Charles to find his son Alessandro a proper bride, one who brought the greatest possible prestige to the new young Duke. I was simply another gem in Clement’s crown, one with which to bargain-just as I had been for the rebels. The circumstances of my captivity were much improved, but I was a prisoner of politics no less.

I survived an uneasy fall and Christmas. An outward observer might have envied me; dressed in ermine and thread of gold, I danced and dined with dukes, princes, and ambassadors. The new year brought a fresh spasm of celebration. Late in January 1533, Iacopo and Lucrezia arrived from Rome in their gilded carriage.

They brought news from His Holiness: I saw it in Lucrezia’s smug, secretive smile. The morning after their arrival, they summoned us to a reception chamber; only Iacopo, Lucrezia, Maria, and I were allowed entry-and Alessandro, of course, who had set aside his obligations to come.

I sat between Maria and Lucrezia while Ser Iacopo stood in front of the snapping hearth. A shaft of winter sunlight caught his hair, white as cotton. He cleared his throat, and I died, thinking of the Duke of Milan.

“I have an announcement,” he said, “a very happy one, but my words must be kept scrupulously secret. No one else must learn it, or it will all be in sore jeopardy.”

“We can trust everyone here, Uncle,” Alessandro prompted impatiently. “Please continue.”

“A betrothal has been arranged,” Ser Iacopo said and broke into a maniacal grin. “My dear Duchessina, you are to wed Henri, Duke of Orleans!”

The Duke of Orleans: The title sounded familiar, but I could not place the man.

Donna Lucrezia, who could bear the excitement no longer, looked at my blank expression and exclaimed, “The son of the French King, Caterina! The son of King Francois!”

I sat, silent and dazed, unable to grasp the implications of this news. Maria was clapping her hands for joy; even Sandro was smiling.

“When is this to happen?” I asked.

“This summer.”

Ser Iacopo retrieved two boxes from a nearby table-both inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of a fleur-de- lis-and presented them to me. “Your prospective father-in-law, His Majesty King Francois, offers you these gifts on his son’s behalf.”