She did not say to him, ‘I care not who is with me if Ippolito is absent.’ But he understood; and he was kind and gentle to her as he never had been before.
She watched the pomp which the arrival of the Pope must create, and she knew now that, though Ippolito remained with her, he was already lost. It was a thrilling spectacle― sixty vessels hoisting their flags, saluting the Holy Father as he stepped aboard his own galley, which was sumptuously draped in gold brocade, tailing with the fleet towards Marseilles in a grand procession behind the leading vessel, which bore the Holy Sacrament. But there was no thrill for Caterina; there was only a sense of loss.
During the second week of October in the year 1533, watchers at the Château d’If and the great fortress of Notre Dame de la Guarde saw the first of the convoy, and signalled to the impatient of Marseilles that the long-awaited fleet, which was bringing with it a bride for the son of their King, was on the last stage of its journey.
Outside the town was encamped the little bridegroom with his father and the courtiers; they were awaiting the arrival of the bridal party, since etiquette asked that the King should not enter his town until after the Holy Pope had made his entry.
The bells were ringing out; and the thunder of hundreds of cannon echoed in the streets. The people were impatient for a glimpse of the little Italian bride.
In the boat which had brought her to the shores of France, Caterina waited for what would happen next. Apprehension had subdued her misery. She was beginning to realize the significance of all this pomp and ceremony. Perhaps in the excitement of coming events she could forget some of her unhappiness.
She was told that the Constable of France would shortly come aboard to have a word with her. She waited expectant while the great man was rowed out to her boat. The sight of him, surrounded by attendants, alarmed her. He had a fierce mouth and cruel eyes.
He bore the feminine name of Anne de Montmorency, and he told her that great efforts had been made for her comfort while she stayed in Marseilles. He personally had supervised arrangements. It made her feel very important such a man should take such trouble on her account. There would be, he told her, one of the finest houses in the town at the disposal of her and her retinue. A similar house had been found for His Holiness and all the bishops and cardinals and Church dignitaries who had accompanied the Holy Father. There was another house for the French party. Anne de Montmorency would have the little Duchess know that France was honoured to receive her and her distinguished relative. Caterina, in perfect French, made the reply which was expected of her and was rewarded by the grim man’s look of approval.
He took his leave and left her to await the time when she would land on French soil and make her way into Marseilles. But before this could take place there must be the entry of the Pope in his ceremonial procession, followed by the King in his; after that it would be her turn.
At length it came. Seated on a roan horse that was covered with brocade, Caterina rode into France. Behind her and before her rode the nobility of Italy. It mattered not that among them was Ippolito, for Ippolito was lost to her forever.
She dared no longer look his way; she dared not ride, a weeping bride, to meet her bridegroom.
And as she rode she became aware that all eyes in that vast crowd which lined the streets were fixed upon her; and those eyes were unsmiling. Did they dislike her, then? Had she disappointed them?
She was frightened, realizing afresh that it was not only her lover whom she had lost; she had also said goodbye to home.
She held her head high. These foreigners should not know that they had frightened her. She would have courage― the same sort of courage which had carried her through the Florentine mob. She would have need of it.
Ippolito, she thought, oh, Ippolito, is it then too late? Could we not run away even now? But Ippolito, riding ahead, so handsome that eyes followed him, was resigned to his loss. She must be resigned to hers also.
She began think about her young husband and wonder what he was like.
The Pope himself performed the ceremony. Side by side, Caterina and Henry stood before him, repeating the solemn words. All about them were the dazzling nobility of France and Italy.
Caterina scarcely heard the service; she was only vaguely aware of the crowded church; all her interest was for the boy beside her.
He was tall, she saw, and well-built; his muscles hardened she was able to discover, by fencing, tilting and, of course, the chase. He was dark; and because, in her thoughts he had been an ogre, a monster not unlike Alessandro, she thought him handsome in his gorgeous, bejewelled clothes. He seemed to brood, though, to be sullen, and she feared he was not pleased with her. She wondered that, in view of her love for Ippolito, she have cared; yet she did care. It hurt her pride that she should have disappointed him. He kept his eyes averted; she wanted to smile at him, to imply that it was frightening for her as well as for him; she wanted to tell him that she had dreaded marriage; that she had suffered the torments of misery; but now that she had seen him she felt a little happier.
She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy did not give her a glance.
When the ceremony was over, Caterina forgot her bridegroom, for the most dazzling, brilliant personage she had ever seen in the whole of her life came forward and took her hand. She lifted her eyes and looked into the twinkling ones that smiled down at her. They were kind eyes, though they looked tired and had dark bags beneath them; they were debauched eyes, but not depraved; they were amused, but not sardonic; they seemed to say, ‘This seems an ordeal, does it not? But it will pass, and you will find that it contained much to laugh at. That is life.’
‘I will lead the bride back to my own residence,’ he declared, ‘where a banquet is awaiting her.’
This kind and charming man was none other, she knew, than Francis himself, the King of France. She flushed as she murmured her thanks. She could not but be charmed; she could not help the flutter of excitement that his presence brought to her. Such grace, such kindness, such brilliance must inevitably dim even the image of Ippolito.
She had seen him before. He had kissed her when he had welcomed her to France; he had called her daughter, and had given her rich gifts. She had known that richer gifts had gone from Italy to France― and there was the promise of many more― but never had gifts seemed so precious as those given with the charm of the King. He had not forgotten, either, to whisper a compliment on her appearance, which had not been necessary to the ceremonial etiquette, but had been given out of kindness, to make her feel happy and at home. She realized now, as he took her hand, that if her wretchedness had lifted a little, if a life that must be lived without Ippolito had in the last few days seemed a little less grey, it was due to this man.
Now, for the wedding ceremony, he looked more dazzling than he had at their first meeting. He wore white satin, and his mantle, studded with pearls and precious stones, was of cloth of gold. She herself was magnificent with her corsage of ermine and her white satin gown, studded with pearls and diamonds, but she felt insignificant beside him.
How the people cheered him! How they loved him! Who would not? He was a King who looked like a King.
‘Well, little daughter,’ he murmured to her, ‘the ceremony is over. Now you shall be our daughter in very truth.’