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
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
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