The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

I took them. One box held a necklace of gold with three round sapphire pendants, each big as a cat’s eye; the other framed a miniature portrait of a somber, hollow-cheeked youth.

“He is young,” I said.

Donna Lucrezia squeezed my forearm enthusiastically. “Henri de Valois was born the same year as you.”

“He was to have married Mary Tudor of England,” Maria added. “Until King Henry put aside her mother, Catherine of Aragon. That ended those negotiations.” She reached out and grasped my hand, and clicked her tongue at finding it limp. “Caterina, aren’t you excited?”

I didn’t answer. I looked levelly at Ser Iacopo and asked, “What are the terms of the arrangement?”

The question took him aback. “Your dowry, of course. It is a sizable sum.”

“It’s not enough,” I said, even though I knew that France’s wealth had been greatly reduced by years of war; King Francois could certainly use the gold. “I’m only a commoner-not much of a match for a prince. There are other girls with larger dowries. What else do I bring?”

Ser Iacopo looked at me, amazed-though he should not have been, as I was his earnest pupil in the art of political negotiation. “Property, Duchess. King Francois has always yearned for holdings in Italy. Pope Clement has promised to deliver Reggio, Modena, Parma, and Pisa; he will also provide military support to France in order to take Milan, Genoa, and Urbino. These terms are confidential; even the news of the betrothal itself cannot be revealed for some time. Emperor Charles will not relish hearing that the Duke of Milan’s offer has been spurned.”

“I understand,” I said. I smoothed my palm over the surface of the box, pausing at the raised mother-of-pearl and tilting it gently so that it flashed, muted velvet shades of icy blue and rose.

“But are you not happy, Caterina?” Donna Lucrezia prompted loudly. “Are you not pleased?”

I opened the box again to stare at the young man inside. His features-even and unremarkable enough to be termed good-looking, if not handsome-were compressed into a stiff expression intended to convey stern regality.

“I am pleased,” I announced, though I still did not smile. “King Francois was my mother’s kinsman; I should be happy to call him father-in-law. He saw me removed from cruel conditions to the kind haven of Le Murate, for which I am forever grateful.”

I set down the box, which prompted Maria and Donna Lucrezia to descend on me with tears and kisses. Lucrezia told me, quite ecstatically, that Pope Clement had recruited the most fashionable noblewoman in all Italy, Isabella d’Este, to choose the fabrics and designs for my wedding attire and trousseau. I was to have a new tutor, fresh from the French Court, who would accelerate my instruction in the language and customs of my new country.

Ser Iacopo had pressing matters to discuss with Alessandro on behalf of His Holiness; we women were dismissed as the men prepared to leave for Sandro’s offices. At the doorway I lingered, gesturing to Lucrezia and Maria to go ahead of me, and waited until Sandro neared. Iacopo lowered his gaze and said, “I shall wait for you, Ser Alessandro,” then continued down the corridor.

When all were out of earshot, I said to Sandro, “You knew. Even a year ago, as you warned me to stay away from Ippolito. You and Clement knew even then.”

“I was not certain,” Sandro answered. “Francois’s offer had just been made, but we had no way of knowing whether it would be successfully negotiated. I wanted to tell you, but I was sworn to secrecy. The agreement was finalized less than a week ago.”

“You always planned I should never have Florence,” I charged. “You and your father.”

He drew back slightly at the venom in my tone but answered calmly, “It was decided the instant Clement set eyes on you. I am shrewd enough to govern a city. But you… You’re brilliant; God help the world once you learn the art of cunning! I have no need of a wife with more brains than I. I can secure my father Florence. But you…”

“I can bring him a nation,” I finished, bitter.

“I’m sorry, Caterina,” Alessandro said, and for an instant, his cool reserve slipped, and I saw that he truly was.

It was a long day with Donna Lucrezia and Maria, and I went to bed after an early supper. Alone, I tried to take stock of my new fate, though it seemed hazy and unreal. How could I leave everything and everyone I had known and loved to go live among foreigners? The picture of the aloof, uneasy boy in the wooden box gave me no comfort at all. Eventually, exhaustion trumped anxiety and I dozed.

I dreamt that I stood in an open field, staring into the coral rays of the failing sun. In front of its great, sinking disk stood the black silhouette of a man broad-shouldered and strong. He faced me, his arms stretched out, imploring.

Catherine, ma Catherine…

The utterance of my name in that foreign tongue no longer seemed barbarous. I called a reply.

Je suis ici, je suis Catherine… Mais qui etes-vous?

Catherine! he cried, as though he had not heard my question.

My ears roared. The landscape altered magically until he lay writhing at my feet, his face still in shadow. As I tried vainly to make out his features, blood welled up from his face like water from a burbling spring.

I knelt beside the fallen man. Ah, monsieur! Comment est-ce que je peux aider? How can I help?

His face lolled out of the shadows. His beard was caked with thickening blood, his head limned by a dark red halo. His eyes, wild with agony, finally beheld mine.

Catherine, he whispered. Venez a moi. Aidez-moi.

Come to me, help me.

A great convulsion seized him; he arched like a bow. When it released him, the air in his lungs rushed out with an enormous hiss and he fell limp, mouth gaping, eyes wide and unseeing.

I glimpsed something troublingly familiar in his lifeless features-something I did not recognize, something I recognized all too well-and cried out.

I woke to find my lady-in-waiting, Donna Marcella, standing over me. “Who?” she demanded. “Who do you mean?”

Disoriented, speechless, I stared at her.

“The man,” she persisted. “You were calling out, ‘Bring him here at once!’ But whom should I bring, Duchessina? Are you ill? Do you require a doctor?”

I sat up and put my hand to my heart, where the Wing of Corvus lay.

“Cosimo Ruggieri, the astrologer’s son,” I said. “Come morning, have him found and brought to me.”

Fifteen

Ruggieri could not be found. An old woman came to his door and said that the day after the siege, Ser Cosimo had disappeared. Two and a half years had passed without word from him.

“Good riddance,” she said. “He went altogether mad-raving about wicked, horrid things, refusing to eat or sleep. I’d be surprised if he were still alive.”

The news devastated me, but I had no time to indulge in disappointment. I had ceased being Caterina, a thirteen-year-old girl, to become an entity: The Duchess of Urbino, future wife of the Duke of Orleans and daughter-in-law of a king. Like any precious object, I was on constant display.

For my fourteenth birthday in April, a reception was held at the Palazzo Medici and attended by His Holiness, who had made the long trip from Rome. Weighed down by jewels, I held Pope Clement’s hand as he presented me to each distinguished guest as “my darling Caterina, my greatest treasure.”

Surely there was no greater treasure than that which was heaped on me now; I suspected His Holiness had leveraged half of Rome and his papal tiara to cover the expense. Later I learned that Sandro-that is, Duke Alessandro-had forwarded the taxes paid by the citizens of Florence to help with the costs.

Swaths of brocade, damask, lace, and silk arrived, hand-picked by the stylish Isabella d’Este. Heaps of jewels-