On that day I suffered more glory than anyone ought. My poor skull was already laden with gemstones when one of the women set the golden ducal crown upon it, weighing so heavily I could scarcely hold my head up. Gold brocade robes, trimmed in purple velvet and white ermine and studded with rubies, hung from my shoulders. I dreaded the prospect of standing upright in them for hours.
At last King Francois arrived. His Majesty wore white satin embroidered with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis, and a cloak of gold. He was jubilant but, to my surprise, a bit nervous; when he saw my trembling, he kissed me and lied, saying that I was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Joking and laughing in an effort to jolly me, he led me down the stairs to the chapel erected near the Pope’s chambers, where the bulk of the nation’s wealth was displayed on the persons of three hundred guests. The sun’s rays streamed in through the great arched windows; at the altar, ten tall candelabra bloomed flame. Dazzled, I clung to the King’s thick forearm, matching my steps to his sedate pace.
Henri waited at the altar. At the sight of us, resentment rippled across his features. Whether it was directed at his father or at me, it didn’t matter: Henri hated the very idea of marrying me.
Before the King handed me off to his son, he kissed my cheek and whispered, “Remember, you are my daughter now, and I shall love you as such until the day I die.”
I stood on tiptoe to return his kiss and then went to stand beside my husband.
Henri was less grandly appointed than the King, but grand enough in a white satin doublet with black velvet leggings and black sleeves, slashed so that his white undershirt showed through. He, too, wore a ducal crown and cloak of gold.
At my approach, he hid his hostility. His carriage was graceful and proud, though he clasped his hands so tightly that the whites of his knuckles showed. When I came alongside him, he turned and knelt on the purple velvet cushion at the altar.
I did the same and stared up at Pope Clement. Captured in a pane of light, his face looked unhealthy and waxen, his lips grey; the white in his beard had overtaken the black. Yet his eyes were radiant. My match with Henri was his crowning achievement. I hated him for condemning me to live the rest of my life in a foreign land with a stranger who resented me for the very reason I resented him: We were pawns forced upon each other.
The ceremony was interminable, with much standing and kneeling and far too many prayers. My betrothed and I recited our vows in turn, and exchanged rings; Henri’s touch was cold. Pope Clement recited much Latin, scribed many signs of the cross over our heads, and then it was done. At his urging we turned, bright with relief, to face the crowd.
Henri scanned the first row of observers, anxious to catch someone’s gaze. Between Queen Eleonore and her stepdaughters stood a pale-haired noble-woman. She was not natively beautiful; it was her serene, elegant bearing and delicate bones that made her seem so. I had seen her before, mostly at my husband’s side, explaining the finer points of protocol to him. She was well past the age to be Henri’s mother, and I thought little of the eager look he gave her as we moved toward the aisle, little of the approving glance she offered in return.
But as we passed by, her expression seemed to shift, perhaps only a trick of the sun and candlelight reflected in hueless eyes. For an instant they seemed gloating, calculating, but as I looked sharply at her, her eyes softened and she glanced away, humble, servile.
Only then did I take note of her gown. She wore a widow’s colors, white and black: white satin for the bodice and undergown, black for the overskirt and the sleeves-slashed so that the white of her chemise showed through. White satin and black velvet, the very fabrics Henri had chosen for his wedding day.
A banquet followed the ceremony. The King’s family and I dined on a platform, the better to be seen by the hundreds of souls crammed into the great hall. Relieved of my heavy crown and cloak, I sat between Henri and the Dauphin. My new husband had few words for me but many for his brother; in Francois’s presence, Henri transformed into a laughing, affectionate youth.
The feasting began at midday and ended at dusk. I changed into a gown of green, my official color. Corsages of red velvet roses were fastened in my hair and on the black brocade mask that hid the upper half of my face. Weakly disguised, I returned to the banquet chamber, where a masquerade ball had already begun. I danced with the King and Dauphin-parrying verbally as if we did not easily recognize each other-and with my taciturn husband, who came alive only in the presence of his brothers or the blond widow.
I drank little wine that night. I was tempted, knowing what was to come, but reasoned that I would be better off if I were in full control of my emotions. I was apparently one of the few to come to that decision; by the time Queen Eleonore came to fetch me, the din in the great hall was so loud we did not speak, as our voices would have been lost in the roar. She led me out into the corridor, where an entourage of ladies waited. Some had accompanied me from Florence; others, including the elegant, fair-haired woman dressed in white and black mourning, belonged to Eleonore’s retinue. Her perfume, the essence of lily of the valley, preceded her person and lingered in the air behind her.
The ladies escorted me to Prince Henri’s chambers, which were chilly despite the snapping fire in the hearth. His great bed, supported by four posters of carved mahogany, had been covered with Isabelle d’Este’s fashionable ebony sheets. A thick fur coverlet was neatly folded at the foot. Rose petals, the last of the season, had been strewn by a careful hand upon the black silk.
The bed hangings-all venerable tapestries in shades of forest and scarlet, aglint here and there with thread of gold-displayed pastoral scenes in which women strummed lutes and danced and picked fruit from trees while wearing great tall caps pointed like narwhal tusks, reminders of the previous century’s fashion.
I stood next to the fire as the women coaxed me from my sleeves and bodice and skirts. Clad in my chemise, I remained still as the ladies picked gems, one by one, from my hair and brushed it out until it cascaded down my back. I was obliged to remain motionless a bit longer, as the black-and-white widow pulled my chemise up over my head.
I was naked as Eve in the sight of a half dozen strangers-I, to whom my own body was an unfamiliar sight, untouched since Ippolito’s embraces. I was still thin then, ivory kneecaps and hip bones straining against pale olive flesh. I pressed my right palm to my left breast, concealing my right breast beneath my forearm; with my left hand, I cupped the delta of thin golden brown hair at the juncture between my legs, and so I staggered awkwardly to the bed as the elegant widow pulled back the top sheet.
The black silk was so cold I shivered while the women arranged my hair upon the pillow and drew the sheet up so that it just covered my breasts.
The widow retreated. Queen Eleonore leaned down and pressed her lips tenderly to my forehead.
“It will all go quickly,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
She pulled the bed hangings together, leaving me in solitary darkness. The women retired to the antechamber; I heard their soft laughter as they scattered nuts onto the floor to mask the sounds soon to be made by the newlyweds.
All of Pope Clement’s yearnings for power, all of King Francois’s hopes for glory, all the glittering pomp of the past several months had been nothing but fantasy, a bright, hectic dream. Now stripped bare of my gems and silks, I woke to reality, wherein a homely, frightened girl waited in darkness for a sad, reluctant boy. I thought of Clement and Francois, full of wine and self-congratulation, and felt gnawing bitterness.
Footsteps came, followed by the creak of the antechamber door. His Majesty’s booming voice was so cheerful that it dispelled the solemnity the Queen had left behind.
“Greetings, ladies! We have come in search of my son’s wife!” His words were slurred.
Feminine voices replied, followed by a ripple of restrained laughter at the crackle of nuts beneath royal boots.
The bedchamber door opened as someone entered. On the other side of the bed hangings, fabric rustled, then sighed as it fell. The tapestries snapped open so suddenly I clutched the sheet at my bosom.
Henri stood nude at the bedside. Swift as a shot, he stretched out beside me and pulled up the covers, but not before the firelight revealed a long, slender torso punctuated at the groin by a thin tuft of ash brown hair. He did not look at me but stared straight up at the green velvet canopy above our heads.
Seconds later, King Francois entered. His head was uncovered, his hair tousled as he leaned heavily on the arm of the wizened, white-haired Cardinal de Bourbon. Both men were breathless from coarse laughter; the King paused at the sight of us naked children. Perhaps he also saw our mortification; his gaze softened as he withdrew his grip from the older man’s forearm. “Bless them, Eminence,” he urged the Cardinal softly. “Bless them, then be-gone. My
