The Creation Of Eve (40 page)

"Hombre,"
the condesa addressed a guard. "Get the dog."

"No!" exclaimed the Queen. "Cher-Ami goes with me."

The condesa conceded reluctantly, and our party complete, we made for the reception hall.

Henri, Duke of Orleans, sprang forward to embrace the Queen the moment we entered. "Sister!"

The
caballeros'
earrings might have outweighed the French Prince 's own dangling gem, but the rest of his spare personage glittered with more jewels than the three of theirs combined. The diamonds sewn into glittering fleur-de-lys on his doublet winked as he kissed his sister. Although she was the taller of the two, being six years older, the monstrous plume on his hat bobbed over her jaunty little cap like a chicken pecking at seed.

"Dear, dear sister." His voice was precociously suave for a youth of almost fourteen years, especially one whose face bloomed with purple pimples. "Did you ever learn to master the guitar? When last I saw you, you were making one wail like a dying cat."

"I see you have not yet learned to master your tongue."

"Who says I want to?"

The Queen's voice was thick with affection. "Still Mother's son, I see."

"That is me." The olive-toned skin of his cheeks folded in vertical creases when he grinned, accentuating the narrowness of his face and the pustules Upon it. His eyes were as small and dark as raisins and his lips were leathery and thick, but still you would not call him Unattractive. Maybe his glamour was in his jolly confidence, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing one is Mother's favorite child, a fact the French Queen Mother takes no care to hide. I would see this for myself today, long before Francesca had brought it to my attention with her dark mutterings. It was to become abundantly clear that My Lady was beloved by her mother for what she could do for the French crown, while Henri, the golden child, was beloved solely for himself.

This morning, though, I saw only My Lady's joy at being reunited with her family. With Henri chatting self-assuredly at her side, we left the dark of the musty palace for the stultifying brightness of the out-of-doors, where more than a hundred Catholic French nobles and their retainers, and the Spanish grandees chosen by the King to accompany the Queen into France, awaited with our litter. Once homage was paid and rank was established, off we set on the cracked mud road in a cavalcade of lords and ladies and servants that stretched for a quarter-mile, not including the baggage train that had gone before Us into France.

We came to the wide waters of the Bidossa. We were clattering across the bridge, a temporary construction of boards nailed atop two rows of boats, when Henri said to Don Juan, "I do like your earring."

I looked Up from where I was leaning over the edge of my litter, batting gnats away from my eyes as I watched silvery schools of fish dart in the clear mountain water of the river. My thoughts had strayed, once again, to Tiberio, imprisoned in the Castel Sant'Angelo. How long had he been in the Pope 's prison? Had he had to endure the strappado Under interrogation? The torture often dislocated people 's shoulders when they were jerked high in the air with their hands behind their back. Too many applications of the strappado's rope, and Tiberio might not be able to sculpt ever again. Then there is the torture of applying fire to the accused's feet, a torture reserved for those suspected of more serious crimes against the Church, as sodomy is considered. I weep inside for him, and then remember that he was Michelangelo's lover when he took me that night in Rome. What kind of false thing was he?

Don Juan put his reins in one hand and took the earring from his ear. "For you."

Henri laughed. "Truly? I did not mean--"

The Queen spoke Up from next to me. "That was a gift from me."

"Then it's his to give." Henri took out his own earring, threw it into the water with a
plonk
, and hooked the larger pearl in its place. "It looks better on me, don't you think?" He turned his head for Us to admire, then noticed the Queen and Don Juan, locked in a cool gaze.

He raised his lips in a lopsided smile. "Do I miss something here?"

Our litter jostled as our mules left the bridge and gained the French bank of the river. Over the blare of trumpets announcing our arrival into France, the condesa shouted for the French nobles to take care of the Queen's skirts; My Lady was helped down from our litter and seated Upon the horse provided by her brother the King. As I mounted the mule made ready for me, I saw a soldier slump to his knees at the water's side, one of the victims of the heat.

I bobbed through the town gates on my foul-tempered mule, my vitality sapped by the temperature and my renewed thoughts of Tiberio. Just ahead were the condesa and madame, and in front of them, the Queen, looking fresh and young and glorious in spite of the sweat trickling from her hairline. Townsfolk cheered from every window and door of the half-timbered houses that lined the hard dirt street Upon which Her Majesty's sleek white palfrey pranced. Each time the horse shook its harness, it tossed 400,000 ducats' worth of jewels, but the people had not eyes for gems and finery--their love was for their Elisabeth.

At last we arrived at the squat stone chateau of the French Queen Mother. My Lady bit her nails through her gloves as she was lifted from her mount.

"How do I look?" she asked her brother when she was set beside him.

"Sweaty, but gorgeous--almost as gorgeous as me." He offered her his arm. "We have kept Mother waiting two hours in this heat. She will have our hides."

Behind the Queen's chief ladies--the condesa stoically erect as she held My Lady's train, though her own neat bodice was thoroughly sweat-soaked, and madame de Clermont, sagging beneath her veils--I advanced through the stifling halls, the tapping of my feet Upon the marble floor muffled by the dampness of the air. We passed ranks of beautiful curtseying ladies whose brilliantly hued silks made me, in my embroidered Spanish black, feel like a beetle crawling amongst the company of butterflies. Gentlemen bowed, their earrings a-swing, musicians strummed lutes, singers sang odes to the French Queen Mother and her daughter. There was even a shaggy bear, groaning, to Cher-Ami's petrification, as it lolled on a golden chain, its misery poignant even in this miserably overheated crowd.

My amazed sights wandered to the end of the hall, where My Lady had come to a stop before a dais. There, beneath a filmy web of black gauze wafting in a breeze created by two fanning dwarves, sat a glittering black lump. Trembling, My Lady waited as this brilliant heap rose, laid back the sheer black veil covering its head, and opened its arms. My Lady rushed forward.

Catherine de ' Medici, daughter of a duke, niece of popes, wife and mother of kings, drew her daughter to her breast.

As they rocked each other and exclaimed, I could not help comparing the mother with her child. Every feature I so admired in My Lady was swollen and coarsened in her mother. Whereas My Lady's eyes were endearingly large, the French Queen Mother's orbs bulged like a garden toad's. Whereas the slight puffiness and impish curl to My Lady's lips afforded them a playful pout, her dam's lips, when set together, were as thick and florid as a plum. While My Lady's pretty chin receded only when she tucked it back in jest, her mother's chin appeared to be fastened Upon her neck. Truly, Queen Catherine, mother of my dear Lady, was but a puffed frog in a French hood.

Now she pulled away from her daughter and examined My Lady's face. "Where is your makeup? You look so Spanish."

"I am French in my heart," said My Lady.

"Are you?"

The Queen turned to smile Upon Henri as he sauntered forward. My Lady, seeing she had been put aside, stepped over to a second figure lounging on a divan on the dais, a hollow-chested youth perspiring in ermine: the King of France. As My Lady's eminent brother received his sister's embrace, the French Queen Mother's highest-ranking noble introduced his Queen to Don Carlos. Queen Catherine let him kiss her hand, then allowed Don Juan to take his turn.

She pursed together her Damask-plum lips. "So, you are the brother."

Don Juan raised himself. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"It seems you sprang into this role full grown."

He smiled. "Like Athena from her father Zeus's brow, Your Majesty."

"Oh, you think it humorous?"

Don Juan became still, as does a buck when sensing danger. My Lady pulled from her brother's arms.

"Her Majesty is correct," said Don Juan. "To claim kinship to the King is deadly serious. I do not mean to make light of it."

The French Queen Mother scooped Up the ivory-handled fan attached by a black ribbon to her considerable waist and began to fan herself languidly. "And how do we know you are not a pretender?"

"Mother!" exclaimed My Lady. "Why do you say these things?"

"He can answer for himself." Catherine's lips deflated into a smile. "He is probably Used to such questions."

"I am, Madame. But my kinship was thrust Upon me. I did not ask to play this role."

"Indeed?" Fanning, the French Queen Mother scanned his well-cut doublet and hose. "You look quite comfortable for someone forced into such a dreadful position. But we do not truly doubt your claim. We had you thoroughly investigated before we offered our youngest daughter to you. You shall tell your brother to reconsider our offer, yes?"

She waved him off before he could answer. "Enough of this now. We are here to celebrate. Elisabeth, do introduce young Juan to your brother the King."

We sat to dinner soon after that, just an intimate family group of fifty-four kinsmen and their attendants. Before we were seated, a small squabble broke out between the French Queen Mother and My Lady over who should take place of honor at table. The Queen Mother insisted that My Lady, as Queen of Spain, outranked her, while she, with a modest sigh, claimed only to be Queen Mother. My Lady argued that her mother should take precedence, but Catherine would have none of it. The Queen Mother lost her place at head of table but emerged the clear victor, as she did, I guessed, in all her encounters.

Dinner, though, was pleasant, with My Lady and her mother catching Up on family news over courses of fowl and beef and fish. My own enjoyment of the food and wine was marred by Francesca's gaze boring Upon me from the servants' table, taking in each movement of my glass, and by thoughts of how Tiberio might be faring that very moment in the Pope's prison. How had I not guessed he was Michelangelo's lover? Hanging on the Maestro's every word, following him like a puppy, emulating him in all things--of course he was. There was poetry written to him that proved it. What a fool I'd been, Unaware of their relationship in the face of so much evidence. But that night in Rome, Michelangelo had not reacted with the fury one would expect from a lover who had caught his dear one with another. Why had he not shouted and slapped me and thrown me out like a whore? Instead he let me quietly leave, and in my absence sang my praises to Tiberio, making my achievements even greater than they were. Indeed, he'd had a medal made of me. It did not make sense.

I watched the short after-dinner play acted out by the Queen Mother's troupe of dwarves, then afterward withdrew with My Lady to her chambers, with her mother and the other chief attendants. I did not expect the outburst that came as soon as doors were closed and the condesa was removing My Lady's sleeves to prepare her for a rest
.

The Queen Mother plucked her ivory fan from its ribbon and threw it to the tile floor, shattering the handle. "Explain, daughter, why you are not pregnant."

My Lady drew in a startled breath.

The French Queen Mother's bulging eyes flashed at the rest of Us. "Leave Us!" she commanded, then slumped into a cross-legged chair.

The condesa patted at her throat, aghast that she had been shouted at like kitchen help. Madame, perhaps from prior experience at the French court, was already gliding out the door.

I stepped back as the condesa wheeled around stiffly and left the room. I knew I was to go, too, but could hardly bear to leave My Lady looking so distressed, with one sleeve off and the other hanging half Untied from her shoulder.

"Go." Queen Catherine waved at me from her chair. "Shoo."

I summoned all my courage. "Please, Your Majesty, may I finish helping My Lady with her gown?"

My Lady folded her hands in supplication. "Please, Mamma, she is--she's Italian like you."

Queen Catherine's protuberant eyes moved Up and down over my person in a leisurely fashion. I felt each flaw Francesca tries so hard to scold out of me.

"Big eyes," she said at last.

"Mamma!"

"And we trust no Italian farther than we can throw one. Calm yourself," she said when My Lady started to protest. "We know who she is. She studied with Michelangelo. The old lecher got himself into hot water, didn't he?" she said to me. "Lusting after a man a quarter of his age. Now his lover is in trouble."

The French Queen Mother saw my look of surprise. "Don't you know we know everything? We've seen the poems by Il Divino, mooing like a lovesick cow over his lover. Some loyal friend this boy turned out to be. Of course he denied knowing of the existence of the poems. But he finally admitted he knew of Michelangelo's leanings and denounced him and his work, which might almost have been believable had the boy not been hoarding a large Unfinished statue that contains the likeness of his lover. We suppose he's rowing on a galley as we speak. Lucky for him bodies are much needed at the oars to fight the Pope's wars at sea, or his would be swinging from a gibbet." She thinned her lips at me, clearly enjoying my efforts to hide my shock. "She can stay. She's harmless enough."

My Lady grimaced in apology, though not knowing how profoundly her mother had wounded me. Ill, I resumed Untying her sleeve.

"You have failed Us," the French Queen Mother snapped.

My Lady flinched.

"You have been wed five years. You are comely enough. Our reports say the Spanish King has no physical impediments. He sired one child Upon you, though you could not bring it to term, and he has sired other children."