My answer arrived soon enough. One afternoon Lucrezia came to tell me I'd been summoned by Papa Clement. She did not know why, only that he wished to see me in private, and together we made our way to his apartments, through corridors hung with tarps and bustling with artisans laboring to restore frescoes damaged by the occupation.

As we approached my uncle's gilded doors, I was overcome by a stirring of my gift. It wasn't that helpless plunge into a netherworld I'd experienced in Florence but rather a quiet, almost imperceptible sense of warning that made me turn nervously to Lucrezia. She smiled in encouragement. "Remember, whatever he says, you're more important to him than he is to you."

I entered the spacious gilded room and knelt; my uncle sat at his massive desk, peeling oranges, their sweet tang filling the room and soaking up the scent of old perfume and smoky beeswax. He motioned. I went to kiss his hand, adorned with the seal of St. Peter. He was dressed in his white robes; around his neck hung a crucifix studded with emeralds and rubies.

"I'm told you are a woman now." He sighed. "How time passes." His leather blotter was littered with rinds; he sucked a slice, gesturing to a nearby stool. "Sit. It's been too long since we spent time together."

"I was here only last month for the French envoy's visit," I said, and I paused. "I would rather stand, if Your Holiness doesn't mind. The gown is new and uncomfortable."

"Ah, but you must get used to such things. Proper attire is of the utmost importance. In the court of France such matters are considered de rigueur."

He retrieved a jeweled knife and sectioned the fruit. The aroma it released was like sunlight, making my mouth water. "You should know these things. After all, your mother was French."

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that I'd never known my mother. Instead, I murmured, "She was, Your Holiness, to my great honor."

"Indeed. And what might you say if I told you that France has asked for you?"

His voice was mild, reminding me of the days when I'd been a little girl and he my devoted uncle. But I wasn't deceived; he had called me here for a purpose.

"Well?" he said sharply. "Have you nothing to say?"

"I would say," I replied, "that again I am honored."

He guffawed. "Spoken like a Medici." It was as if he had bared fangs. My knees weakened under my gown. Clement's gaze slid to me. "You've learned the value of a neutral answer. It is an asset that will make your marriage all the less discomfiting."

My blood turned cold in my veins. I thought I must have heard wrong.

"It is time you took your place in the world," he went on, chewing his orange and spilling pale juice on his sleeve. "In fact, the arrangements are almost complete. As part of your dowry, I'll offer the duchy of Milan, once the wedding takes place." He glanced up. "Who knows? One day you might be queen of France."

A roar filled my ears. Here was his revenge, at long last. Here was his dagger thrust at Charles V: an alliance with the emperor's rival, Francois I, with me as his pawn. Wedding me to France would thwart Charles V's quest to dominate Italy and would give Francois his claim on the long-contested duchy of Milan, which was currently under Imperial rule.

"But King Francois is already married," I managed to say, "to the emperor's own sister."

"Indeed. But his second son, Henri d'Orleans, is not and could one day inherit the throne. After all, I have it on good authority that Francois's eldest son, the dauphin, is quite sickly."

He began peeling another orange, his spidery fingers digging into it. "I trust your silence doesn't signify displeasure," he added. "I've gone to considerable expense and effort to see you to this state. The last thing I need is an unwilling bride on my hands."

What could I say? He had the right to send me wherever he liked. Nothing I did short of killing myself could possibly free me and the cold finality of this fact hardened my voice.

"If it is your wish," I said, "then I am most pleased. May I ask a favor in return? I'd like to return to Florence. It is my home and I-" My voice caught. "I want to say good-bye."

His eyes turned cold. "Very well," he said. "If you no longer find Rome agreeable, I'll appoint an escort." He extended his ringed hand. As I kissed it, I heard him mutter: "Love is a treacherous emotion. You'll fare better without it. We Medici always have."

I backed toward the door as he peeled another orange, his lips curled in a complacent smile.

I returned to Florence in the fragrant heat of summer, accompanied by an entourage of guards and my women, including Lucrezia and a new companion, my dwarf, Anna-Maria-a fourteen-year-old miniature girl whose foreshortened limbs did not detract from her glorious mane of ash-gold hair, piquant face, and lively smile. I liked her from the moment I met her; Papa Clement had scoured Italy in search of her, as he insisted I must have my own fool in France, but I decided I'd not demean her by dressing her in bells. Instead, she would carry out the special task of seeing to my linens and hold a coveted position in my private rooms.

I found that in the family palazzo, little had changed. Florence still bore wounds that would take years to repair, yet our home remained untouched, silent as an elaborate tomb. I settled in my beloved late aunt's rooms, where the sheets still carried her scent and her alabaster-inlaid desk was set with her writing utensils, as though she might walk in at any moment.

And there I discovered my silver and ivory casket, in a drawer under unfinished letters. I took it out as if it might vanish, traced the chipped lid with my fingertips. My aunt had hidden it here, among her things. She had known I would want it and had anticipated I would return.

I opened it with a click; within a section of the velvet lining that peeled back, I located the secret compartment and Ruggieri's vial, coiled like a snake. I clasped it about my neck, held the box in my hands, and let myself grieve.

My betrothal was signed in the spring. Papa Clement assembled an impressive trousseau to exhibit my wealth as a Medici bride, not hesitating to pilfer his treasury for jewels, including seven gray pearls reputed to have belonged to a Byzantine empress and now adorning my ducal crown. He also had my portrait sent to France.

In return, Francois I sent his son's portrait to me. It came wrapped in an exquisite satin-lined box; and as Lucrezia removed the miniature from it I beheld my future husband for the first time-a taciturn face, with hooded eyes, a pursed mouth, and the long Valois nose. It didn't awaken anything in me, and I wondered in that moment if he felt the same about me. What kind of marriage could two strangers with nothing in common possibly have?

"He's handsome," Lucrezia said, with relief. She glanced to where I sat like stone on my chair. "He doesn't appear to have suffered any ill effects from his three years in Spain."

Anna-Maria frowned. "Why was he in Spain?"

"Because he and his brother, the dauphin, were sent to the emperor Charles V as hostages when King Francois lost the war over Milan," I replied. "The king also had to wed Charles's sister, Eleanor." To my dismay, I had the childish urge to stomp my feet and fling the picture across the room, to throw a tantrum that would put on display my utter helplessness. Biting back my tears, I flicked my hand. "Put the picture away and leave me."

That night, I sat awake and gazed out into the sultry Florentine night. I let myself mourn everything I had lost before I decided my course. My life in Italy was over. It might not be what I wanted but it was my fate. Now I must look to the future and prepare.

After all, I was a Medici.

FIVE.

AFTER TWO WEEKS AT SEA, MY SHIP DROPPED ANCHOR IN THE Bay of Marseilles. It had been a terrifying storm-laden voyage that made me vow to never leave land again. If I'd had any inclination to ruminate on the vagaries of fate, which had led me to a foreign country and husband, my overwhelming relief to see something other than churning sea obliterated it.

Lucrezia and Anna-Maria removed one of my new gowns from the leather chests, smoothed its crumpled folds, and corseted me into it-a brocade concoction so encrusted with gems I thought I'd scarcely be able to totter up on deck, much less ride through Marseilles to the palace where the French court waited. I also donned my formal ducal coronet for the first time, inset with the seven pearls. Trussed in this finery, I waited until my new household treasurer, Rene Birago, came to inform me that Constable Montmorency's barge had arrived to bring me ashore.

I nodded. "Then I must go greet him."

Birago gave me a smile. He was Florentine, in his mid-twenties, and chosen by Papa Clement to supervise my finances. Despite a slight limp, which he blamed on periodic gout, he had an ageless grace that denoted a lifetime spent at the papal court, his lean figure clad in a scarlet doublet cut in the close-fitting Italian style, his fine light brown hair combed back from an angular forehead that emphasized his hooked nose and shrewd dark eyes.

"Madama," he said, in a voice made for whispering in ears, "I suggest you remain here. Montmorency may be the constable and His Majesty's chief officer, but you are the Duchess of Urbino and soon-to-be duchesse d'Orleans. Let France pay its respects to Italy, for a change."

It was a clever remark from a clever man, guaranteed to make me smile. At least I had a little bit of Italy to keep me safe, I thought, and I lifted a hand to my chest; beneath my bodice, I felt another piece of Italy-Ruggieri's vial.

My women gathered about me as the French boarded the galleon. They were all magnificently appareled, jewels winking in the sunlight on caps and doublets. Without looking away, I whispered to Lucrezia, "Which one is the constable?"

"There," she said, "by Birago: that must be him. He's like a barbarian, so big and dressed in that funereal black."

She was right. Montmorency did seem like a titan, his shoulders blocking the sun, his starched ruff a mere ruffle around his bullish neck. Birago had told me he was in his late thirties, a champion warrior who had fought ferociously during Francois's war over Milan. I was prepared for someone with little tolerance for anything Italian, considering he'd wet his sword in the blood of countless of my countrymen. Yet when he bowed over my hand, I saw that despite his leathery skin and severe gray-blue eyes, his expression wasn't unkind.

"It is my honor to welcome Your Highness in the name of His Majesty Francois I," he declared in a monotone. I inclined my head and said in French: "My lord constable, to be greeted by you makes me feel as if His Majesty himself were here and this realm my home."

The crevices at his eyes deepened. Though he didn't speak again as he led me to the barge, his firm hand on my sleeve assured me I had made my first French friend.

My ride through Marseilles was a blur. Upon reaching the palace, I had only a moment to compose myself before I set my hand again on the constable's arm and was brought into the hall, where hundreds of nobles lined an aisle leading to a dais bunted in crimson.

A clap of hands plunged everyone into silence. "Eh, bon! The bride is here!"

From the dais, a man descended with feline grace, dressed head to toe in silver tissue, his auburn hair sweeping to his shoulders, a trim beard emphasizing his secretive lips and large aquiline nose. I went still. I had never seen a face like his before. It was as if the full spectrum of life had carved itself upon his flesh with unrepentant arrogance, every gully and rivulet the mark of a soul that held nothing back. He was far past his much-vaunted youth; but Francois I of France was still a sight to behold, a king for whom power had become an accoutrement, who had savored everything life could offer save self-denial.

We stared at each other. His hooded green eyes shone mischievously. Mortified, I realized I'd forgotten my obeisance. As I started to curtsy, he waved a jeweled hand.

"Mais non, ma fille," and he embraced me, rousing spontaneous applause. "Bienvenue en France, petite Catherine," King Francois I breathed in my ear.

He brought me to his family. I kissed the hand of Queen Eleanor, the emperor's sister, a rigid Spanish princess fenced in by women. I then greeted the king's eldest son born of his first marriage to the late queen Claude. Francois, called the dauphin in honor of his being heir to the throne, was a tall youth with gentle brown eyes and the pallor of a chronic invalid. I almost bumped heads with his daughters, the princesses Marguerite and Madeleine, who were so nervous they curtsied at the same time as me. As we giggled in unison, I saw they were close to me in age, and I thought perhaps we might become friends.

I turned to the king. He gave me a small twist of a smile. I understood. "Is His Highness Prince Henri not here?" I asked.

Francois's face darkened. "He's a boor," he muttered. "He doesn't know the meaning of propriety. Nor, it seems, does he own a timepiece. But do not worry. The wedding takes place tomorrow, and by God he will be here."

It sounded far more like a threat than a reassurance. I lifted my chin. "How could he not?" I said in a voice loud enough for all to hear. "It's not every day France has occasion to wed Italy."

Francois went still. He lowered his gaze and his hand slipped into mine. "Spoken like a true princess," he murmured, and raising our clasped hands he cried, "Let the feast begin!"

He swept me into a banqueting chamber, where I sat on the dais beside him. The court swarmed the tables arrayed below us; as servitors entered bearing platters of honeyed heron and roast swans, the king craned his head to me and whispered, "My son may be reluctant to show pleasure with his bride, but I, petite Catherine, I am enchanted."

Without hesitation I replied, "Then perhaps it is Your Majesty whom I should wed."

He laughed. "And you've got courage to match those pretty black eyes." He paused, searching my face. "I wonder if my son will appreciate you, Catherine de Medici."

I forced out a smile, even as his words sent a chill through me. Had I come all this way to be the wife of a prince who wanted nothing to do with me?

As platter after platter was set before me, and Francois drank goblet after goblet of spiced wine, I began to feel invisible until he touched my hand and said, "Montmorency's nephews wish to greet you, my dear. Smile. They are his pride and joy, born of his beloved late sister."

I started to attention. Standing before me were the constable and three young men.

They made an immediate impression with their tawny good looks, highlighted by their unadorned white doublets, and their sense of quiet familial unity.

Montmorency said, "May I present my eldest nephew, Gaspard de Coligny, seigneur of Chatillon?"

I leaned forward. Gaspard de Coligny had thick, dark goldcolored hair and lucent pale blue eyes, his angular face imbued with melancholy. He might have been Milanese, attractive yet remote, as the nobles of that city are apt to be. I thought him in his early twenties. In fact, he had just turned sixteen.

"I am honored," he said in a low voice. "I hope Your Highness will find happiness here."

I gave him a tremulous smile. "Thank you, my lord."

He paused, his eyes searching mine. I thought he would say something else, but he bowed once more and returned with his brothers to their table, leaving me to stare after him, as if he'd revealed something precious I might never find again.

Francois sighed. "His father died recently. It is why he wears white, the color of mourning here. Madame de Coligny passed away years ago; with his father gone, Gaspard is now head of his family. The constable dotes on him." He slid his eyes to me. "You could do worse when it comes to friends. Montmorency is one of my most loyal men and his family lineage is ancient. His nephew shares these traits, and at court, ma petite, lineage is everything."

So, Gaspard de Coligny was an orphan, like me. Was this why I felt such kinship with him?

A host of other nobles followed, tripping over themselves in their haste to ensure the king saw that they too respected his new daughter-in-law. By the twentieth course, and after twice as many greetings, I despaired of remembering everyone's names and titles. I was grateful when the king rose to declare that I must be tired. He led me from the dais to the one opposite ours, where Queen Eleanor had sat out the evening in ironclad silence.

I felt pity for her. Like me, Eleanor had been used on the royal market and apparently refused to adapt. I'd heard the Spanish were thus, zealous of their identity, and I knew her example was one I'd be wise not to emulate. Come what may, I must blend in, become one with this court, which for better or worse was my new home. As I passed the constable, I glanced at his nephew. Gaspard inclined his head; I looked in vain for a glimpse of his eyes.

Pages dressed in the Valois colors of blue and white opened the door. Francois left me to the attentions of my women; I didn't speak with them as they relieved me of my costume, meeting Lucrezia's knowing eyes as I lay down in the unfamiliar bed.

Alone, I lay awake and thought that my aunt Clarice had been wrong.

I might be not so important after all.

SIX.

I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO FIND MY LADIES CLUSTERED about me. Not having slept well in over a week, I buried my head under the pillows. Lucrezia dared to shake my shoulder. "My lady, His Majesty and the court await you. The ceremony, it is scheduled for today."

I groaned. Then I went still. I peered from under the pillow. I could smell the heated lavender in the copper tub my ladies had hauled in and filled with hot water, see the frothing folds of my wedding costume arranged on the table. "Is he here?" I asked.

Anna-Maria gave a sad shake of her head. I felt a wave of humiliation. "Well," I snapped, "if he's not here, who exactly am I supposed to marry today?"

Lucrezia replied, "His Majesty says that if need be he'll see you wed by proxy."

At this, Anna-Maria burst into tears. In between her sobs, I gathered that she deemed me the unhappiest princess in Christendom.

"I don't know about that," I said, trying to make the best of an awful situation. "But there must be happier ones." I submitted to their ministrations, emerging two hours later weighted in my cerulean velvet, with diamond arabesque sleeve cuffs like shards at my wrists.

Despite the suffocating heat, a crowd milled in the courtyard. I paused. God help me, I didn't want this. I didn't want to marry some boy who didn't have the decency to show his face. Then Francois emerged from among his gentlemen. He bowed, raised my hand to his lips. His smile was sardonic. "You said perhaps you ought to wed me instead. Well, now is your chance."

I had to smile. An aging satyr, he was still unlike any man I'd ever met.

More of the same awaited me at the cathedral, only now the sea of courtiers, nobles, and petty officials had become an ocean. Once more, all eyes-glittering like birds of prey's above powdered cheeks-fixed on me as I descended from the carriage and resisted the urge to yank the sweat-sodden folds of my gown from between my buttocks. Francois guided me to the altar as if I were a galleon in my overblown costume. As I approached I saw no sign of my groom.

The king stood beside me. The bishop looked as if he wished the earth would swallow him. Francois barked: "Well? What are we waiting for? The bride is here and I will stand as proxy. On, man, on!"

I wondered if his wedding to Queen Eleanor had been like this. How could it be otherwise? Political marriage, by its very nature, wasn't designed to inspire sonnets. But even in the most politic of alliances, the actual couple was present to recite their vows.

The bishop fidgeted with his missal, seeking the appropriate passage, though he must have had ample time to prepare. I wanted to giggle. The entire occasion struck me as ridiculous, a farce of a marriage founded on a lie.

In that moment, the clanking of spurs on marble flagstone shattered the quiet. In a fluid movement, everyone swiveled about. I saw a tall youth striding toward us, yanking off leather gauntlets and shoving them into his belt. Behind him surged a coterie of disheveled men. Francois stiffened. No one needed to tell me the bridegroom had made his appearance.

As I beheld Henri d'Orleans for the first time, I felt some relief. At least he was not ugly. At fourteen, he held his broad frame with the discipline of a born equestrian-one who, given the choice, would rather live in the saddle and thought little of that which did not yield to bridle or crop. He had the Valois aquiline nose, narrow eyes, and raven-wing hair, but his expression was morose, as if all joy had curdled inside him. He hadn't changed his clothes, coming before us in his hunting gear with flecks of crusted blood on his jerkin, no doubt from some creature he'd slaughtered. Behind him, I glimpsed a tall rapier of a man of perhaps twenty years of age; he had a sharp thin face and he looked at me as if I were something unpleasant he'd stepped in. His lips pursed. He was Francis de Guise, I'd later discover, Henri's closest friend and eldest son of the realm's most ambitious and rabidly Catholic family, which had been ennobled with a dukedom by Francois and now owned vast tracts of land in northeastern France.

I lifted my chin. My husband-to-be did not utter a word.

Francois hissed, "Ingrate!" I went cold as Henri didn't bother to glance in his father's direction. My wedding was becoming a catastrophe; I had to intervene. I was a Medici, niece to the pope. More important, I was my aunt's child, in every way that mattered.

I turned to the bishop. "If you would ...?" And Francois stepped aside for Henri to take his place. He smelled worse than he looked, and I stared straight ahead as I repeated the words that made me Henri d'Orleans's wife.

After the wedding, we were subjected to another banquet.