Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

Such a matter could not be kept long from the Pontifical ears. The news was whispered among the Swiss Guards and Palatine Guards and the palace lackeys until it came to the ears of the bishops and cardinals, and through them, it reached Monsignor, who in his turn passed it on to the Master of the Household, his Excellency, whose duty it was to live close to the Holy Father himself.

His Holiness was furious. He hated Ippolito― hated him for his handsome face, his charming manners and his popularity. He knew that, if he were not very careful, he was going to have trouble with Ippolito. The stubborn youth had tried to turn his back on an brilliant career in the Church, and all because Alessandro had been made ruler of Florence. Ippolito would be another such as his father and Lorenzo the Magnificent. Ippolito did not fit into the papal schemes.

Now, Caterina did. Great wealth and power were to come to Clement through this girl. Her marriage was his first consideration now, and great plans were afoot.

The Pope looked at his long hands and seemed to see pictures of men as on playing cards that he would hold fan-shape and wonder which to play. There was the Duke of Albany― not a good choice, for he was Caterina’s uncle by marriage; there was the Duke of Milan, ailing and old enough to be her grandfather, though his declining fortunes went against him rather than his age.

The Duke of Mantua? The life this man had led was similar to that led by Caterina’s own father and that which Alessandro was now leading in Florence.

Such a marriage was not desirable. Caterina’s father had made a grand marriage with a lady related to the royal family of France, and what had happened? Death for the parents, after the birth of one child― a girl, Caterina― who had by a miracle escaped the result of her father’s sins. No! He wanted a husband who was rich and powerful, though power and birth came before riches, as it was with Medici wealth that he should be drawn into the net. There was the King of Scotland. But that was a remote and poor country.

It would cost me more than her dowry to bring me news of such a place! he said to himself. There were others. The Count of Vaudemont, and even the Duke of Richmond, illegitimate son of Henry VIII of England. The Pope frowned on illegitimacy, although he himself was illegitimate and had risen to power in spite of it.

But now into the marriage market had stepped a dazzling bargain. A bride was wanted for Henry of Orleans, second son of none other than the King of France.

When His Holiness had heard of this, he had kissed his fisherman’s ring and asked the Virgin’s blessing. The house of Medici allied to the mighty house of France!

First sons had a way of dying; some were hurried to their deaths. The wives of second sons could become queens. Queen of France! Breeding children that were half Medici, and ready to be very kind to their mother’s family! If this marriage could be arranged, it would be the brightest event that had ever taken place in the Medici family. The marriage of Caterina’s father to a connexion of the Bourbons would be nothing compared with Caterina’s marriage with the house of Valois.

He must go carefully. He had spoken of the proposed French marriage to the Emperor Charles, who, laughing slyly up his sleeve, had suggested the Pope try to bring it about. He thinking that a sharp rebuff from France would do Clement good.

Does a royal house mate with such as the Medici? They were rulers of Florence, it was true, but they had their roots in trade. No, thought Charles.

Francis would laugh down his long nose at the effrontery of the Pope, and make some witty remark at his expense. But there was something Charles had forgotten which the Pope remembered. There were always ways of tempting the French King. He had ever cast covetous eyes on Italy and if Clement promised the Duchy of Milan as part of Caterina’s dowry, he might bring this about.

Tentative negotiations were already going forward, and the Pope was optimistic And now this news. This crass stupidity. These absurd people! It seemed that the whole of Rome was talking about ‘the Medici lovers’. And Ippolito― the eternal thorn in his side― was the cause of it.

The Pope sent for Caterina.

Through the long series of halls and rooms, past the papal lackeys and the guards, she came. She was in that dream of soft happiness which was always with her now; her thoughts dwelt constantly on Ippolito. She and Ippolito together, all through their lives; and if Alessandro did not die or was not displaced, well then, it would still be Caterina and Ippolito, happy, in love forever. Being together was all that mattered. Where they were was unimportant.

Monsignor was waiting for her in one of the outer chambers. He looked so sombre in his purple cassock that she felt sorry for him; indeed she felt sorry for all who were not Caterina and Ippolito.

‘His Holiness awaits you,’ said Monsignor; and he led her into the presence.

She knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, and felt relieved that it was not to be a private audience, for Excellency did not leave them.

‘My dearly beloved daughter,’ said His Holiness, ‘I am making arrangements for you to leave Rome immediately.’

‘Leave Rome!’ she cried out before she could stop herself. Leave Rome! Leave Ippolito? The Pope expressed silent surprise at such bad manners. ‘To leave Rome immediately,’ he went on.

She was silent. Tears were in her eyes. She was afraid His Holiness would see them. Why was he sending her away? She sensed in this some threat to her love. She could not help it; she must speak.

‘Holy Father, I― I do not want to leave Rome, now.’

Excellency was standing very still. Even the Holy Father was silent. They could not understand her. Could she have forgotten that it was not for any to argue with the Pope of Rome?

The Holy Father’s lips were tight. ‘There is a threat of plague in Rome. We cannot allowour dearly beloved daughter to take the risk of remaining here’

It was untrue. There was no plague in Rome. She knew, instinctively, that this was a plot to separate her from her beloved Ippolito.

She forgot decorum, forgot the dignity due the Holy Father. ‘Where― where shall I go, Father?’

‘To Florence,’ he said.

‘Oh, Father, is― my cousin Ippolito to come with me?’

There was a horrified silence. Excellency’s face was a blank mask that hid surprise. The Holy Father looked down into the anguished eyes of his young relative and found himself answering her question instead of reprimanding her.

‘Your cousin Ippolito is to go on a mission to Turkey.’

She did not speak; her lips trembled. She knew that she had been living in a dream. There was to be no happiness with Ippolito. It was not the wish of this all-powerful man that they should marry. They had been together through carelessness, indifference to the torture separation must mean to them both.

Perhaps the Holy Father had some pity in him. He looked down at the misery in that pale young face.

‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘You should rejoice. A great future awaits you.’

She did not mean to speak but the words escaped her; ‘There is no future for me without Ippolito; without Ippolito, I do not wish to live.’

The Pope was not so angry as he should have been at this affront to ceremonial dignity. He remembered his heated passion for a Barbary slave who had given him Alessandro.

‘My daughter,’ he said, and the gentleness of his voice startled Caterina out of her misery temporarily, ‘my well beloved daughter, you know not what you say. I hope to send for you in Florence. You will go to France, if all is as I plan; to France, my daughter, to marry the second son of the King.’ He laid his hands on her head to bless her. ‘To France, daughter. The second son of the King!

Who knows, one day, you may be Queen of France! Miracles can happen, daughter. It may be that our family has been chosen to rule great countries. Sigh not. Weep no more. Your future is bright.’

Dazed with wretchedness, she allowed herself to be dismissed and led away.

This was the end of rapture. This was goodbye to love. Clement’s ambition, in the shape of the second son of the King of France, had come between her and her lover.

Riding on horseback from Florence down to the Tuscany coast, surrounded by all the noblest people of Florence, was a broken-hearted little girl. She was still dazed, bewildered by this horror which had overtaken her; she was supposed to rejoice at what they were pleased to call her great good fortune, and she could only weep.

Her uncle, Filippo Strozzi― a widower, for Aunt Clarissa had died before she was able to see what she would have called ‘this great and happy event’― was in charge of the concourse until it should be joined by the Pope; after each day’s journey he would summon his niece and talk to her, implore her to show some interest in her good fortune, to hide her melancholy, to suppress her folly, and with her family rejoice. But every member of her family did not rejoice, she pointed out.

Indeed, it was so. And Filippo Strozzi was inclined to think His Holiness had erred in making Ippolito of the party which was to conduct Caterina into France.

‘It will put an end to rumour,’ Clement had said. ‘There must be no more of this talk of the Medici lovers.’ Filippo shrugged his shoulders. All very well for His Holiness. Perhaps the life he had led did not give him great understanding of young and passionate lovers. Not that Clement had pursued unswervingly the life of a celibate. There was that depraved monster, Alessandro, to prove that.