Madame Serpent

CATERINA THE BRIDE

IN THE valley lay the noblest city in all Europe. Its dot and spires that glittered in the smokeless air seemed to challenge the quiet hills which stopped only at its gates. The river gleamed silvery grey in the distance as it twisted west-wards through the valley of the Arno, through Tuscany to Pisa and to the sea. The Country was fertile, rich with its vineyards and plantations of olives.

The town was richer; its bank and wool merchants had made it prosperous, but it possessed a greater richness than they could give, to share with the world.

Leonardo da Vinci and Botticelli, Dante and Donatello had beautified it; and Michelangelo, still a comparatively young man, was on this summer’s day, at work within its walls. Its palaces and churches were storehouses of treasures; but in the city there was one possession which was more highly valued than art and learning. This was freedom. And the townsfolk looked to their ruling family to remember Florentine pride and Florentine independence.

The sun burned hotly in the Via Larga, scorching the thick stone walls of the Medici Palace. The first of the renaissance palaces of Florence, it looked strong enough to withstand attack, for it was not only a palace, but a fortress; constructed to face the glare of an Italian sun, delightful in the contrast of light and shadow it presented, it was arresting, with its grim almost prison-like tower structure and the decorative designs of the upper storeys. It was one of the most impressive buildings in a city of beauty.

In one of the upper rooms of this palace, little Caterina sat at her lessons.

Her head ached, for her eyes were tired, but she must give no sign of this; she must never mention phys disability; she must never forget her dignity; she must, in fact, always remember that she was a member of the ruling house of Florence.

Cardinal Passerini, who, by orders of the Pope, ruled the city under his master and at the same time supervised her learning, and her Aunt Clarissa, who supervised her manners, together with the Holy Father himself, who she saw less frequently, all impressed this upon her. She was important, because on her their hopes were fixed.

‘Do not forget, Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici,’ Clarissa Strozzi would say― for Aunt Clarissa always used her full names to stress the need of preserving dignity― ‘do not forget that you are a daughter of the house of Medici. It is for you to show dignity, courage, and learning always― passion and folly never.’

When these lessons were done, there would be more lessons to follow― deportment, dancing, riding, and conversation with the Cardinal, Aunt Clarissa, and perhaps Filippo Strozzi, Aunt Clarissa’s banker husband. Besides the study of languages, she must learn the history of her own family and that of the ruling houses of other countries. Aunt Clarissa insisted that she know each glorious incident in the life of her great-grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent; he was Aunt Clarissa’s hero and she often compared him with Guilio de’ Medici, who now, as Pope Clement VII, was head of the family. Caterina had been shocked to hear the Holy Father spoken of with disrespect, but the greatest lesson she had had to learn was that of hiding her feelings; so Caterina listened and showed no sign of her surprise.

Now she pushed her long fair hair back from her thin little face, and as she was about to return to her books she heard a scratching at the door, and, forgetting her dignity for a moment, she leaped up and let in Guido, a spaniel with adoring brown eyes. She had two of them― Fedo and Guido― and only these two living beings knew her as a little girl who sometimes liked to romp and laugh more loudly than would have been seemly if any but they had heard it.

Guido was frightened. He cowered against her and licked her hand. He had the air of a dog who has escaped some terrible fate, but who knows his escape to be temporary. She guessed at once that the pursuer was Alessandro― the boy who called himself her brother and whom she called The Moor. He loved nothing better than to maltreat dogs and young serving boys and girls, any of whom he could torture without bringing trouble on himself. One day he would, she guessed, try to have similar fun with grown-up people.

She put a hand down to the dog and fondled his silky coat. She would have liked to have knelt on the floor and flung her arms about him. But the idea of Caterina of the house of Medici stooping to caress a dog in a room where she might be discovered must be immediately dismissed.

She had been right. It was Alessandro who had been chasing the dog, for he now pushed open the door and came into the room. He shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Caterina while the dog tried to hide behind his mistress’

feet; and Caterina, giving no sign of the violent beating of her heart, lifted her eyes to look at Alessandro.

They called him a Medici! Why, why, Caterina asked herself passionately, had her noble father gone about the world, planting his seed in such ignoble ground! How could he have loved the low Barbary slave who must have been Alessandro’s mother? But evidently he had, if only for a short while, since Alessandro was here in the palace with her― her half-brother. The Pope insisted that he should live here, although Aunt Clarissa would have gladly turned him into the streets. A bastard, by good fortune; for what if he had been her legitimate brother? But no! Noble blood could never produce that low brow with the dark hair growing down almost to the eyebrows, that short, broad nose, that vicious mouth, those lecherous protruding eyes. Caterina would have been terrified Alessandro if she had not known herself safe from his vicious ways. He dared not hurt her; but he hated her all the same.

She was the legitimate daughter; he was the illegitimate son; but the Holy Father, loving the boy though he did, would not allow harm to come, through Alessandro, to the little girl who was hope of his house. Alessandro came slowly into the room. He was fourteen at this time― eight years older than Caterina, and already showing many signs of the man he would become.

The dog whimpered.

‘Be silent, Guido,’ said Caterina, and kept her eyes fixed on her half- brother’s face.

‘The brute escaped me!’ said Alessandro.

‘I rejoice to hear it,’ retorted Caterina.

‘He knows not what is good for him, that dog. I was going to feed him.’

Alessandro laughed and showed teeth like those of a rat. ‘I had prepared a delicacy for him― all for him.’

‘You shall not harm my dog,’ said Caterina.

‘Harm him? I tell you I would have fed the brute.’

‘You would only give him food that would harm him!’ Her eyes flashed, for alone with Alessandro she would not consider her dignity; she would not smile when she was being hurt; she would answer his taunts with taunts of her own.

‘You call killing things sport,’ she said. ‘And the more cruel the killing, the greater is the sport to you.’

He did not answer her. Instead, he bared his teeth at the dog and murmured:

‘Come, little Guido, dear little Guido. I would feed you, little Guido.’

Caterina dropped to her knees; her usually sallow cheeks were flushed; she was frightened that she was going to lose her spaniel, one of the best friends she had. ‘Guido,’ she whispered frantically, ‘you must not go near him. If he catches you, you must bite.’

‘If he were to bite me,’ said Alessandro, ‘I would cut him into little pieces.

Or perhaps I should put him into a cauldron and bring him slowly to the boil. I do not allow dogs to bite Alessandro de’ Medici, Duchessina.’

‘You shall leave my dogs alone,’ she said with dignity, rising and looking at him. ‘Go and have your sport with others if you must, but leave my dogs alone.’

‘When I see the Holy Father,’ said Alessandro, ‘I shall tell him that the Duchessina has become a hoyden who wastes her time frolicking with dogs.

Then they will be taken from you. Perhaps I shall ask that they may become mine.’

She was trembling. The Holy Father would believe Alessandro! How strange it was that the great man, who cared so much for power and hardly anything for his six-year-old cousin whom he courteously called his niece, should be affectionately disposed towards her ugly bastard half-brother.

‘Then,’ she retorted, ‘ I shall tell that I heard one of serving girls screaming in your apartments, and I shall see she holds nothing back when she is questioned.’

‘You forget I have a way of enforcing silence. That girl will not relish losing her tongue.’

‘I hate you!’ said Caterina vehemently. ‘I shall tell Aunt Clarissa.’

‘Even if she believed you, she would not consider me worthy of punishment.’

‘Then I shall tell the Cardinal.’

‘He will not believe ill of one whom his master loves as the Holy Father loves me.’

In spite of her training, an impulse to run to him, to kick him, scratch him and bite him came to Caterina. She might have done so, for her mounting fears for her dog were fast destroying her control, had not the door opened that moment and Ippolito entered the room.

What a contrast he made to evil-looking Alessandro! Ippolito was the handsomest young man in Florence; he had inherited all that was best in the Medici family, and none of its shifty weakness and cruelty. He was only sixteen, but he was loved by the Florentines, who looked upon him, in spite of illegitimacy, as their future ruler. They saw in him his illustrious ancestor, Lorenzo the Magnificent, as well as his noble father, the Duke of Nemours; already the boy had shown himself to be by nature bold and courageous, yet kindly, a lover of the arts. He possessed those qualities for which the Florentines looked in a leader, and it was hoped that the time would soon come when this young man would take the reins from the hands of Passerini, who ruled the city under Clement, that Pope whose vacillating European policy had brought unrest to Italy.

Caterina rejoiced to see Ippolito. She admired him; he had never been unkind to her, although it was true he had not time to bestow upon such a very little girl. She knew Alessandro was afraid of Ippolito and that Ippolito had nothing but contempt for The Moor.

Caterina said quickly: ‘Ippolito, Alessandro threatens to hurt my dog.’

‘Surely not!’ said Ippolito, advancing and glancing contemptuously at Alessandro. ‘Has he not dogs of his own on whom to play his vile tricks?’

‘I will thank you to remember to whom you speak!’ cried Alessandro.

‘I do not forget it,’ answered Ippolito.

Now that Caterina’s control had broken down, she could not restrain herself, and, emboldened by the presence of Ippolito who would always take the side of the weak against the strong, she cried out: ‘No, Alessandro. Ippolito does not forget that he speaks to the son of a Barbary slave!’

Alessandro’s face darkened and he stepped towards the little girl. He would have struck her if Ippolito had not quickly stood between them.

‘Stand aside!’ growled Alessandro, his dark brows coming down over his flashing eyes. His voice rose to a scream: ‘Stand aside, or I’ll kill you. I’ll put out your eyes. I’ll tear your tongue from your mouth. I’ll―’

‘You forget,’ said Ippolito, ‘that you are not speaking to those unfortunate slaves of yours.’

‘I shall tell His Holiness of this when I am next summoned to his presence.’

‘Yes, tell him you tried to strike a little girl. Tell him you teased her and frightened her about her dog.’

‘I will kill you!’ yelled Alessandro.

He turned away suddenly, because he was afraid of his rage and what he might be tempted to do either to Ippolito or Caterina; and there would be serious trouble if he harmed one of his family. He would do the wise thing. He would see blood flow for this; but it must not be Medici blood. He would have some of his servants whipped. He would think up new tortures for them to endure. He ran from the room.

Ippolito laughed aloud; Caterina laughed with him; then she lifted her eyes shyly to the boy’s face. Never had he seemed so attractive as he did now when he had, with his clever words, driven Alessandro from the room. He was very handsome in that rich mulberry velvet that suited his olive skin, his blue-black hair and those flashing dark Medici eyes which were not unlike her own. She felt that she could have worshipped Ippolito as though he were one of the saints.

He smiled at her very gently. ‘You must not let him frighten you, Caterina.’

‘I hate him!’ she cried. ‘The Moorish bastard! I wish he need not be here. I do not believe he is my half-brother.’ She touched the velvet of his sleeve.

‘Ippolito, do not go yet. Stay and talk a little while. I am afraid Alessandro will come back.’

‘Not he! He is watching one of his slaves being whipped by now. He can never leave a spectacle of bloodshed.’

‘Do you hate him, Ippolito?’

‘I despise him.’

She felt warmed by their common feeling for Alessandro. ‘I would give much,’ she said, ‘to hear that he were not my half-brother. Alas! I have many brothers and sisters in Florence, in Rome, in every town in Italy where my father sojourned. In France also, I have heard.’

Ippolito looked at her and smiled mischievously. She was quite a charming little girl when she was not prim and silent; he had not thought, until he had seen her exasperated by the Moor that she could be so angry and so delightfully friendly. He wanted to please her, to make those lovely eyes shine with joy.

‘There are some, Caterina,’ he said quietly and confidentially, ‘who say Alessandro is not your half-brother.’

‘But if he were not, why should he be living here?’

‘Caterina, can you keep a secret?’

Why, yes.’ She was overjoyed at the prospect of sharing something with this handsome young man.

‘The Pope cares more for Alessandro than for you or for me. It is for that reason that people say he is not your brother, Caterina,’

Her eyes were big with excitement. ‘But― why, Ippolito?’

‘The Pope calls you niece, but the relationship is not as close as that. People say that the relationship of the Pope and Alessandro is very close indeed.’

‘You cannot mean―?’

Ippolito laughed and placed his hands on her shoulders; their faces were close and he whispered: ‘The blackamoor is the son of the Holy Father!’

‘And his mother?’ whispered Caterina.

‘Some low serving-girl.’

‘But the Pope himself!’

‘Popes are human.’

‘But they are said to be holy.’

Ippolito laughed gaily. ‘But you and I know differently, eh?’

Caterina was so happy that she threw off completely the restraint of years.

This was wonderful news brought to her by the most wonderful person in the world. She danced round the room; then collapsed on to her stool. Guido jumped on to her lap and started licking her face.

Ippolito laughed aloud to see them. So this was the little cousin whom, until now, he had thought so plain and solemn. He was delighted that his bit of gossip had been able to bring about this transformation.

Caterina made her way down to that chamber of mysteries where Bartolo, the astrologer, spent most of his nights and days. She ran swiftly and silently down the great staircase; she was afraid that she would meet someone and be called upon to explain her presence in this part of the palace.

At this hour of the day, Bartolo took his exercise in the palace grounds; solitary he walked, in his flowing black robes, his white hair flying from beneath the round cap he wore. Embroidered on the cap were the signs of the zodiac; the magician’s person carried with it that odour of his magic room― the scent of herbs and blood of animals, musk, verdigris, civet, and the ingredients from which he made perfumes and lotions, potions and poisons. Few dared approach Bartolo. If any of the serving men and women saw him walking in the grounds, they would look away quickly, and try to forget that they had seen him.

But at this hour, Caterina felt she must be safe. Bartolo was not in the magic chamber, but others were. These were the young brothers, Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri, whom Bartolo was training to become seers and astrologers as he was himself. The boys would be there among the charts, the cauldrons, skeletons of various animals, the perfumes, the bottles and powders. They would be awaiting the coming of their little Duchess, and they would have ready for her that which she asked them to prepare for her.

The staircase narrowed and turned. Now she was in a stone corridor, and she could already smell the sickly sweet odour of the magician’s rooms. She reached a door which led to a passage the end of which was another door that would open into the room itself. She knocked.

‘Enter!’ said the high-pitched voice of Cosmo Ruggieri.

She went into the vaulted room on the walls of which hung parchments decorated with mysterious characters. She glanced at the big chart of the heavens, at the cauldrons standing among the rushes on the floor, and the skeleton of a cat on the bench.

The Ruggieri boys bowed low. They were faithful servants of their little Duchess. Often they had given her charms to protect from the wrath of her aunt and the sorrow of the Cardinal― and all unknown to old Bartolo. Caterina, whose respect for the occult was one of the greatest emotions in her life, admired these two boys who were learning to be magicians.

‘You have it?’ she asked.

Cosmo said: ‘We have. Get it, Lorenzo.’

‘Yes, give it to me quickly,’ said Caterina. ‘It would not do for me to be caught here.’

Lorenzo took a waxen figure from the pocket of his flowing gown. There was no mistaking whom it was meant to represent. The brothers had cunningly reproduced the ugly face and squat figure of Alessandro.

And he will die within three days?’ asked Caterina.

‘Yes, Duchessina, if you pierce the heart at midnight and say: Die, Alessandro! Die! ‘

The lovely dark eyes were opened wide in horror. ‘Cosmo― Lorenzo― it is a bad thing to do. I am afraid.’

‘There are many in this palace, Lady Duchess,’ said Cosmo, ‘who would say it is a good thing to do.’

‘He is going to kill my dog. I know he will― if I do not kill him first.’

‘He will surely die if you pierce the heart of this waxen image,’ said Lorenzo.

‘It is not wrong for me to do this?’ She looked from one to the other.

‘It would not be wrong,’ they chanted simultaneously.

‘Then I will do it.’ She took the figure and, wrapping it in a kerchief, put it into her pocket.

‘ Duchessina,’ said Lorenzo, ‘if any should discover the figure, I beg of you, do not tell whence it came.’

Poor Lorenzo! He could not hide his thoughts. He was terrified of the ugly Moor. He was picturing what would happen to him and his brother if Alessandro discovered that they had supplied the figure.

But Cosmo was bolder. ‘It will not be discovered,’ he said.

‘I swear I would tell none where I found it,’ Caterina assured them. I must go,’ she went on. ‘I shall never forget what I owe you both.’

Hurriedly she made her way to the upper regions of the palace.

In her own apartments she took the image from her pocket and studied it.

But for its size it might have been Alessandro himself that she held in the palm of her hand.

She must do this thing. If she did not, poor Guido would surely die― die agonizingly of poison. Ippolito was her dear friend, but he could not always be at her side to protect her from the cruel Moor, any more than she could always be with Guido. It seemed to her that the only way to save the dog― and at the same time to make life happier for those poor slaves of Alessandro’s― was to remove him from this world altogether.

There was no harm in this, only good.

Caterina was frightened. At midnight, when she had gone to that drawer where she had carefully hidden the figure, it was no longer there. Alessandro had his spies everywhere. They obeyed him because not to obey him meant they would suffer those hideous tortures which he was always inventing.

She was waiting now for Alessandro’s revenge. She knew that it would be terrible, for the Moor would know why she had acquired that figure; he would know exactly what her intentions.

She was startled when a serving-girl came to her room to tell her that her cousin Ippolito wished to see her. Caterina was surprised, for she had thought Ippolito was out hunting. He must have returned sooner than usual. She was glad. Now she could tell her cousin what she had done ; she could ask for his advice and his protection.

When she knocked on his door, there was no answer, so she went in. There were some books on the table, but no sign of Ippolito. He would come soon, she was sure; and she felt at peace. She need not be afraid of Alessandro while Ippolito was in the palace.

And then suddenly she heard the swish of a curtain; she turned with a joyful smile of welcome on her lips, and there, peeping between the curtains which he grasped with his ugly hands, grinning at her, was the hideous face of Alessandro.

She jumped up and gave a little cry of horror; but Alessandro did not look angry; he was smiling; he put a finger to his lips. ‘It is a surprise I have for you, Duchessina.’

She stammered, ‘I― I had not thought to see you here.’

‘No? You thought to find handsome Ippolito. But there are some, Caterina, in this palace, who think me as handsome as Ippolito.’

She gripped the table. She wanted to run, but her legs seemed to have lost their power. Yet she could not control her tongue. She had not really learned those lessons which the Cardinal and her aunt had taken such pains to teach her.

She cried out: ‘Then they say so because they dare say nothing else. You force them to lie.’

He advanced slowly towards her. ‘You are not pleased to see me, Caterina,’

he said mockingly. ‘It was to be a surprise. A most happy surprise. I have something to show you.’ He took the figure from his pocket and held it up.

‘Where did you get this, Caterina?’

She kept her lips tightly shut.

‘Answer me,’ he said slowly. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘I shall never tell you,’ she said, and she smiled suddenly. He was afraid of the magicians, so he would not dare try his tricks on Bartolo or the boys.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You are so fond of me that you wanted an image of me, that you might look at it when I was absent. Never mind now. Come with me, and see what else I have to show you.’

She knew now that she was about to suffer Alessandro’s revenge; she had known it must come because Alessandro never failed to take revenge. He drew aside the curtain and as she approached, he pointed to the floor. There lay the body of Fedo. It was stiffening, but the legs were contorted and she knew that Alessandro had poisoned the dog in a way calculated to give the maximum of suffering to the poor animal.

Caterina sank on to her knees and touched Fedo’s body. Tears came to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She sobbed bitterly. Alessandro stood very still, smiling at her.

‘Most unseemly!’ he murmured. ‘What would Aunt Clarissa say if she could see Caterina now?’

Caterina lifted her reddened eyes to his jeering face; and then suddenly she lost control as she never had before. She forgot everything but that her beloved dog had been cruelly done to death by this wicked boy.

She flew at him; she did what she had often longed to do. She kicked him; she bit him; she pulled at that stiff, ugly black hair. She screamed: ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

That Alessandro stood calmly laughing at her she did not notice; she was blinded by her rage.

A woman came running in. Alessandro said: ‘Bring the Cardinal or my lady.

The Duchessina has gone mad.’

And still he stood there calmly, though it was not his nature to be calm; and he smiled at the blood which was flowing from the wound her teeth had made in his hand.

‘She has sharp teeth, this savage Duchessina!’ he murmured as though to himself.

And then, suddenly, Caterina was aware of the tall figure of the Cardinal and with him her aunt, Clarissa Strozzi. Caterina turned from Alessandro and looked at them in horror. The Cardinal’s tired eyes in his cadaverous face expressed disbelief of what those eyes had witnessed; but Clarissa Strozzi was never at a loss for words.

‘Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici!’ she said. ‘I would not have believed, after all our care, that you could behave thus.’

Caterina saw that on Alessandro’s face was the same shocked expression as was on those of her aunt and the Cardinal. She burst out angrily: ‘But― he poisoned my dog― my little Fedo. He poisoned Fedo― most cruelly. He is too much of a coward to hurt me, so he hurts my little dog―’ Her voice broke and she began to cry miserably.

‘Be silent!’ commanded Clarissa. ‘Let us hear no more of this. Go to your room at once. There you will stay until summoned.’

Caterina, only too glad to escape, ran from the room. Miserable and bewildered, she did not stop running until she reached her own apartment.

Guido greeted her and she fell upon him weeping bitterly. He licked her face; the loss of Fedo was his well as hers.

Caterina was summoned to the apartments of the Cardinal, and taken to that room which was like a cell in its austerity. Not the Cardinal made much personal use of this room; it was kept for occasions such as this; the rest of the Cardinal’s apartments were sumptuously furnished, as fit for a man of his rank.

On chairs that were like thrones sat the Cardinal, Clarissa Strozzi and Caterina. Caterina’s feet did not touch the floor, her face was solemn and expressionless. She dared show no emotion, for Aunt Clarissa’s eyes would be upon her until this ordeal was over. On the floor Guido lay stretched out. He had just eaten what had been given to him, and he was there that his mistress might watch his death agonies. This was her punishment. She had loved her dogs; she had loved then much that she had been trapped into a low-bred display of violent emotion. So now, she must watch, unmoved, the terrible suffering of a beloved friend.

Caterina knew what was in Aunt Clarissa’s mind. This was the necessary lesson. All emotion must be suppressed, for emotion was childish. Caterina must be made to realize that there was only one thing that really mattered in her life― the advancement of a great and noble house. Alessandro was responsible for this trouble, but, in Aunt Clarissa’s mind, Alessandro, the bastard of very uncertain parentage, was of no importance whatever. He could be ignored, while Caterina must learn her lessons.

Poor Guido! He was beginning to suffer cruelly now. Caterina wanted to scream: ‘Stop! Stop! Kill him quickly. Do not let him suffer like this. Hurt me― but not Guido. What has Guido done?’

Be still! she admonished herself. She pressed her lips tightly together. Show nothing . Oh, foolish little Caterina, if you had not shown Alessandro that you cared for your dogs he would not have thought of hurting you through them; if you had hidden your feelings about Fedo’s murder, Guido would now be in your arms, not lying there in agony. Silly Caterina! At least learn your lesson now. They watch you now: Aunt Clarissa, who has no feeling but determination that a great house shall continue great; the Cardinal, who cares for nothing but that he keeps the goodwill of the Medici. If she showed emotion now it would be her favourite horse next. She must not cry. She must watch this horror; she might be wretched, heartbroken, but she must show nothing.

She sat clenching her hands; she was white and her lips trembled a little; but the eyes that were lifted to Aunt Clarissa’s face were dry and devoid of expression. Aunt Clarissa was satisfied.

With their attendants, Caterina, Alessandro, and Ippolito made the long and tedious journey through Tuscany to Rome. Florence and Venice might be the most beautiful of Italian cities, but Rome was the proudest. The Eternal City!

How grand it seemed, how noble set upon the seven hills, surrounded by the purple slopes, the rocky Apennines on one side, and on the other the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.

The Holy Father wished to receive the younger members of his family in audience; he had been having ill reports of their conduct from stern Clarissa Strozzi, who complained that the Cardinal Passerini was too indulgent. A word from the Holy Father was needed; and Clement could never resist an opportunity of seeing Alessandro. So there must be this visit to Rome, the Vatican itself; and Caterina was pleased, for she loved to travel, and a change from the monotonous daily routine of life in Florence was desirable.

Now she noticed, as they came into the city and people stood about to watch their ceremonial entry, that there were sullen looks instead of smiles, murmuring instead of cheering. But the overpowering beauty of the city made her forget the people.

There rose St Peter’s itself, though not yet completed, grand, eloquent almost, with its lesson to offer. The great church was built on that spot, in one of the gardens surrounding Nero’s circus after his martyrdom, St Peter had been buried. He would have suffered, but a great church bore his name, and he would never be forgotten. The Emperor Nero, at whose command St Peter had been tortured, had committed suicide. Whose was the triumph― the saint’s or the tyrant’s?

The day after their arrival the Pope would give them audience and they would be led through the balls and rooms, by papal lackeys dressed in red damask, to the chamber, where the Holy Father would receive them. Caterina had never seen her kinsman except when he was surrounded by the pomp of his office. Now they would go in procession to the Vatican City; they would mount the hill― the centre of a group of three that overlooked the Tiber― and they would pass from palace to palace catching glimpses of the river d the Sistine Chapel, and the old fortress of the Castle St Angelo.

Clement was glad that the children were in Rome. He would like to keep them there, but conditions were uneasy. Not that that worried him greatly. He had too high an opinion of his power to doubt for a moment his ability to quell a grumbling populace. The people distrusted him, he knew; and they considered the state of unrest in Italy due to the policy he had pursued with those monarchs who stood astride Europe― the three most powerful men of a turbulent age― Francis of France, Charles of Spain, and Henry of England. But there was one, Clement believed― for his vanity was not the least of his faults― who was greater than any of them, and that man was the Holy Father himself, Guilio de’

Medici, called Pope Clement VII.

He decided now to see the children alone and separately, so that he might embrace Alessandro unseen and none might wonder at his affection for the boy.

He said to his Master of the Household, whose duty it was to be with him wherever he was: ‘Excellency, I would be alone with the young people. Have them brought in separately.’

The dignified figure in the black-and-purple cassock bowed low and went into Monsignor’s apartment to tell him the wishes of His Holiness the Pope.

Caterina came first. Etiquette demanded it. She walked reverently to the portal chair on which Clement sat with his white robes spread about him.

Caterina knelt and the Pope held out his hand that she might kiss the fisherman’s ring.

She lightly touched it with her lips, but she could feel little reverence for the ring. The teaching they were giving her was robbing her of all real emotion. She looked at the seal through half-closed eyes while she received the sacred blessing; she saw her kinsman’s name on the seal and the image of St Peter sitting in a boat as he cast his nets.

He kept her on her knees.

‘My daughter, I have heard sad reports of you. You have been guilty of many sins, and this grieves me―’

He went on and on, yet he was not thinking of her sins, but of her marriage.

His mind was flitting from one noble house to another. He wanted the son of a king for Caterina.

Yes, thought the Holy Father, rounding off his homily, I shall try for a king’s son for Caterina. ‘You may leave me now, daughter. Work harder. Give yourself to your studies. Remember a brilliant future awaits you. It is for you to preserve and glorify the honour of the house of Medici. Be worthy of that trust.’

‘I will, Father.’

She kissed the ring and departed.

Ippolito next. Alessandro should be saved until he had done with this bastard sprig of their family tree. He disliked the boy. How dared he wear that arrogant air, that look which was going to remind others as well as the Holy Father of their famous ancestor, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Still, he was a boy, and boys were precious; lacking legitimate offspring, one must welcome the illegitimate, particularly if they were male. The Holy Father could picture this boy, swaying the populace. It was often so with a charm of manner, a handsome face and a plausible tongue. Ippolito would have to learn modesty.

He told him so as the handsome head was bent and the boy knelt before him He was dismissed with alacrity, and now, thought the Holy Father, Alessandro!

The Moor came in, his long arms swinging, depravity already written on his face, for all to see except one blinded by love, as was the Holy Father. He rose and held out his hands; he embraced the boy.

‘My son, it is a pleasure to see you looking so well.’

Then Alessandro knelt as the others had knelt, and the Pope caressed the wiry black hair, and the fisherman’s ring was lost in the thickness of it.

Clement thought of the boy’s mother and that sudden passion she had aroused in him. A slave girl, picked up on Barbary coast, working in the kitchens― a girl with Alessandro’s hair and Alessandro’s eyes, warm-natured, loving― the great man’s mistress for several months of a year she had made memorable.

My son! thought the Pope. My son! And was angered that he could not say to all the world: This is my son! That could not be and he must pass the boy off as a bastard of Caterina’s father, who had so many bastards that one more credited to him made little difference.

He was an earthly father now. ‘My son, how like you Rome? You would like to rest here awhile?’

Alessandro would like to stay in Rome. He told of the viciousness of Caterina and showed the wound in his hand where she had bitten him.

‘My son, you shall not live under the same roof with such a savage.’

‘I am treated badly there, Father. I am made to feel of no importance.’

‘My son, my son!’

‘I would I had my own palace, Father.’

‘You shall, my son. A palace of your own, where you shall no longer be ignored, where you shall not have to submit to such treatment from― your sister.’

Alessandro was delighted. Master in his own house where all should tremble before him! Here on Vatican Hill had once stood Nero’s Circus. There was a man who had known how to amuse himself― and others. One day Alessandro would be such a one― a wise Nero. He would make sport and know how to enjoy it.

‘I thank you, Father.’

‘My son, come close to me. One day Florence shall be yours. I will make you ruler of all Florence. That is what I plan for you. But for the moment this plan is a secret, my son, yours and mine. For the time being you shall have your own establishment― a palace of your own in Florence.’

And so, after that visit to the Holy Father, Caterina was spared the indignity of living under the same roof as Alessandro.

It was three years after that visit to Rome; they had been three happy, peaceful years, with the friendship between Caterina and Ippolito growing stronger as the months passed. Alessandro had been given a fine villa about half a day’s ride from the city. It was comforting to see very little of him and to see more and more of Ippolito. Caterina had begun to dream and her dreams included her handsome cousin. She could think nothing more delightful than spending her life with him in this city which they both loved so dearly. Ippolito, it was believed, would one day rule the city; what could be happier than that Caterina, legitimate daughter of the house, should rule it with him? The more Caterina thought of this, the more likely seemed to her that this could come about.

Happy days they were, sharing confidences, riding, and always with Ippolito. She did not know whether he was aware of what was in her mind.

Perhaps to him she was just the agreeable little cousin. She was only nine years old. Perhaps young men of nineteen did not think of marrying nine-year-old girls. But in a few years she would be marriageable, and then― her wedding would be arranged.

She would long for Ippolito to speak to her of this, but he never did. She was glad that cruel Alessandro was not here in the Medici palace that he might guess her secret and find some way of torturing her.

And so the happy, sunny days passed by― three whole years of them― until that day when disaster came upon the house. The Eternal City sacked, its palaces and churches looted, its citizens torn limb from limb, its virgins raped along with its matrons! The Holy Father, thanks to the magnificent rear-guard action fought by his brave Swiss guards, had escaped to the Castle of St Angelo, but remained there a prisoner. Florence was in revolt against the Medici.

Alessandro and Ippolito were driven from the city; but the little Caterina― the only legitimate child of the house― was held by the new Government of Florence as a hostage and sent for safe keeping to the convent of Santa Lucia.

Here in the convent her life must be devoted to fasting and prayers; her room was a narrow cell with nothing bright in it but the silver crucifix which hung upon the wall; she must live the rough, hard life of the nuns. But it was not that which hurt her; it was not for the cold of stone walls and the hardness of her bed that she wept bitterly into her coarse sheets at night. It was for Ippolito― her beloved, handsome Ippolito, who was― she knew not where. They might have killed him, as they would have killed the Holy Father if they had caught him. He might be living as a beggar, roaming the countryside beyond the City.

All her prayers, all her tears were for Ippolito.

Six months passed in the gloom of Santa Lucia. She hated the sombre nuns in their stale-odoured garments; she hated the interminable hours of prayer.

‘Ippolito!’ she would cry. ‘Where are you?’ She would whisper to the figures of the saints: ‘Tell me, where is Ippolito? Only let him be safe and I will never sin again.’

Outside the walls of the convent the plague had come to Florence. In the streets, men, women, and children were dying in their hundreds. Was Ippolito one of these?

Then, like a sinister fog, the plague crept into Santa Lucia.

Caterina de’ Medici was too valuable a hostage to be allowed to run the risk of being taken by the plague. There was one thing left for the Government of Florence to do with this valuable little girl. On the other side of the city stood the Convent of Santa Annunziate delle Murate― the only spot in the whole of Florence that had escaped the plague. So one night three men called at the Santa Lucia and Caterina was summoned from her cell to learn of her departure; and without ceremony, a concealing cloak wrapped about her, Caterina, in the company of these men, set out to cross the plague-stricken city.

She saw terrible sights on that night. She saw bodies of men and women stretched out on the cobbles, some dead, some dying; she saw doctors in masks and tarred coats bravely doing all they could for the stricken people; the black-clad Misericordia passed along the streets carrying a litter in which was a victim of the dreadful disease; she heard the jangling of the dead-cart, and the voices of the priest saying prayers for the departed as he walked ahead of the cart. She heard people carousing in the taverns; she saw women and men making love in a frenzy of impatience, as though they wished to snatch at every enjoyment they could find, since tomorrow they might have their place in the dead-cart.

It was fantastic, that journey; it seemed unreal to little Caterina; she felt numbed by the suddenness of change that touched her life and shattered it. She felt she could only wait for horror to overtake her. She tried to see the faces of those muffled in their cloaks. She was in the streets of Florence. What if she came face to face with Ippolito?

But they had crossed the piazza and made their quick way rough narrow streets towards the Santa Croce, and there, rising before her, were the grey walls of her new prison.

The door was opened to them. She saw the black-clad figures, so like those she had lived within the Santa Lucia, and she was taken into the presence of the Reverend Mother of the Santa Inunziate delle Murate. Cool hands were placed on her head while she received the blessing; she was aware of quiet nuns who watched her.

But when the men had been shown out and she was alone with the Reverend Mother and the nuns, she sensed a change all out her.

One of the nuns so far forgot the presence of the Reverend other as to come forward and kiss Caterina, first on one cheek then on the other.

‘Dear little Duchessina, welcome!’ said this nun.

Another smiled at her. ‘We heard you were coming and could scarce wait to see you.’

Then the Reverend Mother herself came to Caterina. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy; and Caterina wondered how she could have thought her like the Reverend Mother of Santa ‘Our little Duchess will be tired and hungry. Let us give her food; then she may go to her cell and rest. In the morning, Duchessina, we will have a talk.’

It was confusing, and she was bewildered. So many strange things had happened to her that she could no longer be surprised. She was given a place of honour at the long refectory table; she noticed that the soup had meat in it, and she remembered that this day was a Friday; the fish was served with sauces; it was more like a meal in the Medici palace than in a convent. There was conversation, whereas at Santa Lucia there had been a rule of silence during meals. But she was too tired to think very much about these matters, and as soon as the meal was over and prayers had been said, the two nuns who had greeted her on her arrival took her to her cell. She felt that the bed was soft, and that reminded her that they had eaten meat. The nuns were very friendly, respectful even; she could ask them why they ate meat on Fridays. She did.

‘Here in the Murate, Duchessina, we may eat meat on Fridays. It was a special dispensation from the Holy Father many years ago.’

They were shocked by the coarseness of the shirt she wore, and brought her one of fine linen. ‘This will be better for your delicate skin, Duchessina.’

‘At Santa Lucia,’ she told them, ‘all wore coarse shirts next the skin.’

‘That is well enough for Santa Lucia, but here in the Murate we are not of lowly birth, as many are in Santa Lucia. Here we temper godliness with reason.

For the glory of God, we wear our sombre robes, but for sweet reason’s sake we wear fine linen next our skins. Now sleep, dear little Duchess. You are among friends here.’

First one bent down to kiss her. ‘My brother is a member of the Medici party,’ she whispered. ‘He will rejoice to know you are safe with friends.’

The second nun bent over her. ‘My family await deliverance from the republicans.’

Caterina stared up at them and they laughed.

‘Tomorrow we will show you who are the supporters of your noble family.

There are many here in the Murate.’

‘And are there some for the republicans?’ asked Caterina.

‘Some. But that makes life exciting!’ said the nun who had first kissed her.

Caterina could not sleep when they had left her. She realized at once that life was going to be very different from what it had been in Santa Lucia.

‘Pray be seated,’ said the Reverend Mother.

How small the child looked in the big chair, her feet scarcely touching the ground. But what poise, what dignity! So rare in one so young. This child was going to be quick to learn and a joy to teach. For that very reason and because she was doubtless observant, it was imperative for the Reverend Mother to have a talk with her.

Yesterday Caterina had witnessed the entry of a young novice into the convent. There was a significant ceremony which always took place on such occasions, and from this ceremony the convent took its name. The novice arrived outside the convent walls accompanied by high dignitaries of the Church, who, with their own hands, broke down a section of the wall, and through the hole they made the novice pass. When she had done this, the wall was built up again. It was solemn and significant; the novice had passed behind the grey walls forever; she was built in and could not leave the Murate.

And little Caterina was puzzled. She had been for six months with the nuns of Santa Lucia, and Santa Lucia, with its fasting and strict observances, would seem what a convent should be. Here in the Murate there were amusement and laughter; the nuns were highly-born ladies, gay rather than earnest. It might seem to that logical little mind that, for all its ceremonies an outward show of piety, the Convent of the Murate was less holy than that of Santa Lucia; and it was very important what this little girl thought of the Murate, for one day she was to make a grand marriage and hold a very high position in the world. She must be made to understand that the Murate’s way of life was, in its comfort, as godly as that of the Santa Lucia its austerity.

‘You are a little puzzled by our ways here, Duchessina?’ asked the Reverend Mother.

‘I am very happy here, my Mother.’

She was a little diplomat already. It was certainly very important that she should be made to see the Murate point of view.

‘You never saw such ceremonies as you witnessed yesterday when you were at Santa Lucia. Yet, in that convent, the strictest rules of Holy Church were adhered to. Here, you think, we eat meat on Fridays; our services are beautiful; our church full of colour; we do not wear coarse linen; you think we are not so forgetful of the vanities of the world as our sisters of Santa Lucia.’

‘Oh no, Reverend Mother.’

But the Reverend Mother continued: ‘We wash our bodies, and that the nuns of Santa Lucia would tell you is a sin.’ Caterina was silent.

‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Mother, ‘it is the Santa Lucia that has been visited with the plague, and the Murate is the only unpolluted spot in Florence.

That is a miracle, my little one. Let us pray now. Let us give our thanks to the saints for showing us that our way of life is the one which has given them most pleasure.’

The Reverend Mother watched the grave little face while Caterina murmured her prayers. The child was learning the first of the lessons the Murate had to teach her.

Caterina loved to sit stitching at the tapestry with those who were her friends. There were hardly any in the convent who were not her friends; but those nuns whose families supported the Government felt it their duty to treat the little Medici with some reserve.

As they stitched at the altar cloth which they were making, they talked.

Caterina loved to speak of Ippolito, to tell the nuns of his charm and his gaiety and his chivalry; she even confided in one or two of them the hope that she would one day marry him. She knew that he was alive. She could not say how she knew, but she was certain of it. ‘It is something inside me that tells me this is so,’ she tried to explain.

She was happy in the Murate― as happy as she could be without Ippolito.

And with that peaceful feeling within which told her she would see Ippolito again one day she felt that she might enjoy these pleasant hours. There was one summer’s day as she sat at work with the others on this altar cloth that a conversation took place which she was to remember all her life.

Lucia, a garrulous young nun, was talking of miracles which had been performed in the convent.

‘Once,’ said Lucia, ‘the Murate was very poor indeed, and there was great trouble throughout Florence. The city was poor as the Murate, and the citizens thought to beg relief from the Impruneta Virgin. So they brought the statue into the city and every convent was expected to make some offering to the Virgin.

Now, here in the Murate, we had nothing at all, and we did not know what to do.’

‘Ah!’ said Sister Margaretta. ‘You are going to tell the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak. I have heard it many times.’

‘Doubtless you have, and doubtless our Duchessina has never heard it.’

‘I have not,’ said Caterina. ‘Nor has little Maria.’

Little Maria was the novice whose ceremonial entrance Caterina recently witnessed. ‘We should like to hear, should we not, Maria?’

Maria said she would like to hear the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak.

‘Well,’ went on Lucia, ‘the Reverend Mother summoned all the sisterhood to her and she said, “Do not despair. We will give the Impruneta Virgin a cloak.

It will be a cloak such as has never been seen before in Florence, a cloak of rich brocade, lined with ermine and embroidered with gold.” The nuns were aghast, for how could they in their poverty give such a mantle? But there was about the Reverend Mother a look of such holiness that there were some, as they declared afterwards, who knew a miracle was about to be performed.

‘Listen to me,” said the Reverend Mother. “This mantle shall be made through prayer. For six yards of brocade three Psalters in honour of the Holy Trinity shall be sung; fifty psalms for each yard with Gloria tibi Domine, and meditations on the great favours Mary received from the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. For the ermine skins seven thousand times the Ave Maria; for the embroidered crowns sixty-three times the Rosary; for a golden clasp seven hundred times the O Gloriosa Domina; for a golden button seven hundred times the Alma Redemptoris Mater; for embroidered roses seven hundred the Ave Santissima Maria. ” Well, there were many prayer to be said for each item that went into the making of the cloak; and so, in addition to other duties, the nuns of the Murate must say these thousands of prayers. It meant hours and hours of devotions.’

Caterina leaned forward. ‘But even then,’ she said, ‘they would have no mantle to lay at the feet of the Virgin, for you need brocade and ermine and silver and gold for such a mantle, and these were only prayers.’

‘But you have not heard all, Duchessina. On the day when the gifts were to be given, many people were gathered in the piazza before the municipal palace.

The great figure of the Virgin was placed there, waiting to receive the gifts; and gifts there were in plenty― beautiful gold and silver and precious stones. And there stood the Reverend Mother and sisters of the Murate empty-handed, but faces shining, for in their minds they saw the beautiful mantle that was made of prayers. And then― what do you think? Two men came forward, and at the feet of the Virgin, on behalf of the Murate, they said, they laid a mantle of brocade lined with ermine, embroidered with roses in exactly the detail the Reverend Mother had described to her nuns. The two men were angels, and that was the miracle of the Virgin’s Cloak. There, Duchessina. What do you think of that? I might say that from that time the Murate passed into prosperity, for the tale spread and many rich ladies came to share the life of the convent, and many donations were given. It was a great miracle.’

‘Oh, it was wonderful!’ cried Maria; but Caterina said nothing.

‘Well, Duchessina?’ asked Lucia.

‘I think,’ said Caterina, ‘that it was a very good miracle, and I think that the two angels were two men.’

‘Two men! You mean it was no miracle?’

Caterina’s solemn dark eyes surveyed the nuns. She felt old and wise in spite of her youth. ‘It was a miracle,’ she said, and as she spoke she felt that this was how the present Reverend Mother would have explained it to her, ‘because the Holy Virgin would have put the idea of the cloak into that Reverend Mother’s head. “Make a mantle of prayers,” she would have been told, “but at the same time have one mode embroidered with jewels. Let two men appear as angels and lay it at my feet. For if you made such a mantle yourself, rich as it is, it would please the people so much as one made of prayers and presented by two whom they could think of as angels.’

‘You mean you believe it to have been a trick?’

‘It was a miracle,’ insisted Caterina. ‘It brought prosperity to the convent.

The object of miracles is to do good. Miracles from Heaven, but they are sometimes mode on Earth.’

Lucia put an arm about Caterina and kissed her. ‘You are too clever for us,’

she said.

Knots of people stood outside the convent walls. They murmured amongst themselves.

‘She is but a child.’

‘A child of serpents.’

‘We could not harm a child.’

‘She will be eleven or twelve― old enough for mischief, if she be a Medici.’

‘The nuns will keep her from doing harm.’

‘She will lure the nuns into mischief. You know not these crafty Medici.

They are born cunning. The city is in a state of siege. A Medici is sending those shots into Florence. A Medici is preventing our food reaching us, and here we stand starved, and wounded, and there are those among us who say: Spare the Medici child! ‘

‘Shall we spare the spawn of tyrants?’

From inside the convent walls, Caterina heard the shouts of the people. She knew there was no longer safety for her at the Murate. Trouble had risen in Florence and was creeping close to the sanctuary of the walled-in-ones. Even her friends who loved her, even the Reverend Mother, could not save her now.

The whole of Florence was rising in hatred against the Pope. Some time ago, dressed as a peddler, he had escaped from St. Angelo, and when the plague had driven its ravishers from Rome, he had returned to the Vatican. Now he was determined to subdue Florence, but Florence was not easily subdued.

Florentines had relentlessly cleared a space one mile wide all round the city, burning beautiful villas and destroying rich lands so as to give the enemy no cover. Every one of them had given himself up to the task of defence― even artists like Michelangelo had left their work to join in the fight. For months the struggle had gone on, and Caterina knew that the citizens of Florence had not forgotten that the Convent of the Murate sheltered her, a daughter of that house which was bringing death and disaster to Florence.

She knew that another happy period of her life was fast coming to an end.

She had grown to love the convent, her lessons, the sensuously stirring chants for which, at one time, the convent had been censured by Savonarola; she had loved the spice of intrigue, the sending out of baskets of pastry by certain nuns of the convent to members of their families, baskets which would be embroidered with the Medici sign of seven balls, and were meant to indicate that, shut away from the world though the nuns were, they retained their interest in politics.

Notes were sent into the convent in the baskets. It was thus that she had heard that Ippolito was safe in Rome. She had felt lightheaded with joy when she had heard that; but it was not such good news that Alessandro was also in Rome. In all the years that Caterina had been away from Ippolito, she had never forgotten him.

And now, outside the convent walls, an angry mob was shouting for her.

‘Give us the Medici girl! Give us the witch! We are going to hang her in a basket on the wall of the city so that Clement’s men may have her for their target.’

‘Hang her in a basket! That’s too good for her. Give her to the soldiers! Let them have their sport with her. Then we can decide how she shall die.’

Night came and the city was quieter. Another day of siege had been lived through.

There was a sudden knocking on the outer door of the convent, a knocking that echoed through those great corridors and seemed to be answered by the violent beating of Caterina’s heart.

The Reverend Mother took her lantern and, going to the door, found there three senators from the Government of the city. They had come for Caterina de’

Medici.

Caterina knew this could mean only one thing. It was sequel to that obscene shouting which had been going on all day outside the convent walls. Death for Caterina! Death? Such horror, indeed, that death seemed preferable. their cells the nuns were praying― praying to the Virgin for a miracle that would save their Duchessina. But Caterina had no time for prayers. She ran to her cell, and there, in a frenzy of terror, she cut off all her lovely fair hair. When she had done this, she ran from cell to cell until she found a dress of the Order, and this she put on. After that, she felt composed, and ready to face what might be awaiting her.

She went down to the men who had come for her. The Reverend Mother and the nuns, as well as the men, stared at her in astonishment.

‘I am Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici,’ she said haughtily. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘I am Salvestro Aldobrandini,’ said the leader of the men. ‘A senator of the Florentine Government. It has been decided that you shall leave the Convent of the Murate, where you suspected of carrying on intrigues against the Government. You are to be transferred to the Convent of Santa Lucia, and we order you to leave with us at once.’

‘I shall not go,’ she said.

‘Then we must take you by force.’

‘You would not dare walk through the streets with me in these clothes.’

‘You have no right to wear those clothes. Take them off.’

‘I refuse. Will you take a nun, a bride of Christ, through the streets of Florence?’

That was a clever stroke. They all knew it. Nuns were sacred, vowed to Christ; and it would not be easy to carry a struggling female, her head shorn and her dress proclaiming her to be a nun, through the streets of Florence.

‘We do not wish harm to befall you,’ said Aldobrandini. ‘We have men to defend you as we pass through the streets.

Caterina, alert of mind, was quick to sum up the character of this Aldobrandini; he did not like the task which had been allotted to him. He was wavering.

‘I refuse to take off these clothes,’ said Caterina.

The Reverend Mother said: ‘Good sir, leave her with me until morning. I will pray with her. She will then find in her heart the courage she needs.’

To the astonishment of all, Aldobrandini agreed to wait until morning; and all that night the nuns of the Murate prayed for Caterina.

The little procession rode silently through the city. Aldobrandini had chosen the quiet streets, but it did not take long for the news to spread. ‘They are taking the little Medici out of Florence. They seek to protect her.’

Rough jests passed from hp to hp; obscene threats were murmured, then shouted.

Aldobrandini wanted no violence. If anything happened to the girl now, he would be held responsible at a later date. Already Clement’s brief humiliation was over. He had made peace with the mighty Charles of Spain, who, for a consideration, was now his ally; and Florence was realizing her mistake in siding with France and England instead of with Spain.

‘Give us the Medici!’ shouted a voice. ‘Give to us the daughter of tyrants.

Let her learn to suffer― as we have.’

The hoarse cry was taken up. ‘Give us the Medici!’

Caterina had need of all her courage, but her long training helped her to hide her fear, and she was glad of it now. She looked neither to right nor left; she sat her horse with haughty grace and seeming indifference to the snarling cry of the mob.

Suddenly there was a rush, a flurry of blows and cries, and the ranks of her guards were broken. The little Medici was seen clearly for the first time.

‘It’s a nun!’ shouted a voice. ‘A holy nun!’

‘They’ve tricked us. They are not bringing the Medici this way. They have tricked us with a nun while she makes her escape.’

Even now Caterina looked straight before her and continued to ride on as though what was happening about her was no concern of hers.

There was a pause in the rush of the rabble, which gave her guards a chance to close around her again. The crowd fell back.

‘They’re tricking us!’ shouted a voice. ‘They’ve dressed her up as a nun!

Come! Shall we allow them to trick us?’

But the people were unsure; they were afraid to harm a bride of Christ.

The fear in Caterina’s heart was replaced by triumph. She had formed a miracle no less than that Reverend Mother had with her cloak. She had saved herself from she knew not what― perhaps death itself. How wise, she told herself, to rely, not upon prayers, but on her own Medici wits.

A few months after that terrifying ride through Florence, Caterina was in Rome. Florence had surrendered; Clement was command, so he sent for his young kinswoman to join him; she was getting very near a marriageable age.

How wonderful it was to meet Ippolito after all these years! How exciting to find him more handsome than ever, and that so was a change in his attitude towards her! She was no longer the little girl whose company he had enjoyed at the Medici Palace; she was nearly fourteen; she had lost that angularity of form and was budding into womanhood.

Life had become miraculously pleasant once more. She had grown fond of her friends at the Murate, but how she enjoyed gaiety of Rome! There was another reason for pleasure: Alessandro was not in Rome; he had been installed in the Medici Palace in Florence, for Clement had kept his promise to p boy and had, to the horror of all Italy and the terror of Florence, made the monster ruler of that great city. Ippolito had been stunned when he had heard that Alessandro was to have what had been promised to him; he was still bewildered; he could not believe that the Holy Father could treat him so shabbily; he was angry for himself and afraid for Florence. It was Caterina’s chief concern to try to lift him from the frustration and melancholy which enveloped him.

They were both lodged in one of the palaces of Vatican City, and life there, with the coming and going of ambassadors and the ceremony which surrounded the Papal Court, was varied and full of interest for the girl who had lived so long behind convent walls. But she must make Ippolito happy; she must prove to him that there was greater joy in life than ruling Florence. She saw that she delighted him with her quick retorts, her plump little body, her rich fair hair and those fine, flashing eyes of hers. He had been happier since her return.

They rode together. Caterina was an excellent horsewoman. With a few attendants, they would spend the whole day on horseback whenever they could manage it.

It was to Caterina that Ippolito unburdened himself of his unhappiness; he could speak of little else during their first weeks together, for not only had he been robbed of his inheritance, but he was being thwarted in his choice of a career.

‘Caterina, the Holy Father has sent for me. He dismissed Excellency and said he would speak with me privately. Then he told me of the future he has planned for me.’

She saw her dream of happiness threatened. ‘Ippolito! You are not going away from here?’

‘It is not that. He wishes me to go into the Church.’

‘You― into the Church! But you are not a churchman!’

‘So I told him. I said, “Holiness, I consider myself unfit for the honour you would bestow upon me. I am not a man of God. I have been brought up to believe that Florence would be mine.” Then he grew angry. “Enough!” he cried.

“Florence has been provided with a ruler.” He was angry; but I was angry too. I forgot I was in the presence of the Holy Father. “I marvel, Holiness,” I said, “that one of such uncertain parentage should be put above me.” He clenched his fist and all but shouted at me, “You are so certain of your parentage then?” I said proudly that my father was the honoured Duke of Nemours and my mother was a Florentine lady, whereas, though it was known who was Alessandro’s father, his mother was said to be a Barbary slave. Then was he truly angry. “It is no concern of yours,” he said. “I am determined you shall go into the Church.”‘

‘Oh, Ippolito, can you not hold out against his wishes?’

‘Our lives are in his hands, Caterina. And there are times when I forget that he is our Pope. There are times when I hate him. He cares nothing for us; little for the Church. Power is his god. He has made Alessandro, his secret bastard, ruler of Florence; and Florence under Alessandro, Caterina, resembles Rome under Nero. No one is safe from his lust and his cruelty. People are flying from the city when they can. Do you remember the two Ruggieri brothers?’

‘Cosmo and Lorenzo!’ she cried.

‘They have escaped from Florence. They bring sad tales with them. You knew Alessandro as a vicious boy; he has become a monster. I hear His Holiness has arranged a marriage for his bastard with none other than the daughter of Emperor Charles.’

‘Poor Emperor’s daughter!’ said Caterina.

Ippolito turned his eyes upon her. ‘Caterina, I thank the saints that His Holiness let the monster masquerade as your brother. If he had not, it might have been you who would have been married to Alessandro.’

Caterina could not speak. There were no words to express the horror such an idea brought to them both.

It was so great that it made Ippolito forget his troubles; Caterina, lifting her eyes to his, thought she saw a response to her own delight.

Ippolito took her hand and kissed it.

‘Life has consolations to offer, Caterina,’ he said. And they laughed and whipped up their horses.

Never had Caterina been so happy. She sent for the brothers Ruggieri. She gave them orders for perfumes and lotions. She begged them to look into her future. It was exciting to wrap herself in a cloak and slip quickly through the streets of Rome to the room these brothers shared. She begged them to let her look into the magic mirror. She would see the face of the man who was to be her husband. The brothers had fled from Florence; they had not, here in Rome, the necessary articles for their study. They would do their best for their little Duchess.

Soon they would find some means of showing her the face of her future husband.

But Caterina believed she saw it; it was noble and dark, a handsome face with eyes that flashed and sparkled― Medici eyes very like her own.

This was to be in love. To sing for happiness, to see the river sparkling as it had never sparkled before, the grand and imposing buildings softened, more lovely, the faces of those about her more gentle, the sun more warming; in this new emotion was the dread that she might not see Ippolito this day, then the overwhelming delight when she did.

Ippolito could not remain ignorant of this joy which had seized her. He must see it in the shine of her eyes, in the inflexion of her voice when she spoke to him.

They spoke of their love when they rode out together. This is the happiest day of my life, thought Caterina, looking back at that most gracious of cities glittering in sunshine that had never been so bright as it was on this day of Caterina’s happiness.

Ippolito said: ‘I pray the saints that you are as happy as I am, Caterina. I bless them because the Pope cannot marry you to Alessandro.’

‘Do not speak of him on such a day as this.’

‘No,’ agreed Ippolito. ‘Let us speak of ourselves instead.’ ‘Oh yes― of ourselves, Ippolito.’

‘I love you, Caterina. I loved you when you were a little girl and we were together in the palace in our beloved Florence.’

‘I loved you also, Ippolito. I have never ceased to think of you during the years of our separation. I knew that we should be together again.’

They had stopped. The attendants kept some distance behind; they had known, before the young people were aware of it, of this state of love between them.

Ippolito took her hand and kissed it.

‘The Holy Father means us for each other,’ he said. ‘Depend upon it. He would not allow us to be together if that were not so.’

‘You are right, Ippolito. Oh, how happy I am!’

‘I too. Caterina, since you love me, it does not seem to matter that I have lost Florence.’

‘I understand. I have been unhappy; I have suffered― loneliness and horror.

But I do not care now, Ippolito, because life brought me this.’

They longed to kiss, to embrace, but how could they, here in the open country with their attendants behind them? The talk of their future, though; they could promise love and passion with their eyes.

‘Caterina, I do not believe the people of Florence will long submit to Alessandro’s tyranny.’

‘No, Ippolito. I am sure they will not.’

‘And then, my love, I shall rule Florence― and you with me. We shall be together in the palace where we spent our childhood.’

She said: ‘Ippolito, can one die of happiness, for if one can, I fear you will lose me.’

He answered: ‘I cannot bear to look at you and not kiss you. Let us ride.’

Later there were embraces; there were kisses; it was not possible to keep such a charming love affair secret. And why should it be secret? Ippolito, Caterina, cousins and both Medici. Why should their union be denied the Papal blessing?

The happy days marched quickly past.

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.