The Borgia Bride (6 page)

And then something occurred which everyone but I had expected.

Winter and summer in Naples are both temperate, but one rare night in late January 1494, it turned so bitterly cold that I invited Donna Esmeralda and another lady-in-waiting into my bed. We piled fur blankets high, and still shivered.

I slept fitfully, given the cold; or perhaps I sensed evil coming, for I was not as surprised as I should have been when a loud knock came at the door to my outer chamber. A male voice called, ‘Your Highness! Your Highness, it is urgent!’

Donna Esmeralda rose. Limned by the fireplace, the soft, downward-sloping curves of her body, covered in a white wool nightgown, took on a coral glow. Shaking with cold, she clasped a fur throw about her; a single thick braid fell forward onto her shoulder, over her breast, past her thick waist. Her expression was one of alarm. An interruption at such an hour could not bring happy news.

I rose from the bed and lit a candle while, in the outer chamber, low voices murmured. Esmeralda returned almost at once; her expression was so stricken that I knew even before she spoke what she would say.

‘His Majesty is gravely ill. He has asked for you.’

There was no time to dress properly. Donna Esmeralda fetched a black wool tabard, and held it behind me while I slipped my arms backwards into the opening, then pulled the flowing garment forward and secured it at my breast with a brooch. That, over my silk shift, would have to do. I waited as she then coiled my braid at the nape of my neck and fastened it with a pin.

I went out and followed the grim-faced young guard, who held a lantern to light our way. In silence, he led me to the King’s bedchamber.

The door stood wide open. Though it was night and the heavy curtains were drawn, the room was brighter than I had ever seen it. Every taper on the great candelabra was lit, and three oil lamps burned on the night table. Beneath the great gilded mantel, a large fire blazed, casting off enormous heat and glinting off the golden bust of King Alfonso.

Off in one corner, two young physicians conferred sombrely, quietly. I recognized them as Doctors Galeano and Clemente, reputed to be the best in Naples.

The bed-curtains had been pulled back, and in the centre of the bed lay my grandfather. His face was a dark mottled purple, the colour of Lachrima Christi. His eyes were squinted tightly shut, his lips parted; his breath came in short, sharp bursts.

Juana sat on the bed beside him, barefoot and unashamed to be wearing only her nightgown; her hair was loose, and a dark, waving tendril had fallen across her face. She gazed down at her husband with a look of extreme tenderness and compassion that I have witnessed elsewhere only in artists’ depictions of saints. The King’s left hand was enveloped between both of hers. I wondered at the love inspired by this man, capable of so many atrocities.

In a chair some distance away sat my father. He leaned forward, staring at Ferrante, fingers of both hands spread, pressing into his brow and temples: he wore an entirely unselfconscious look of dismay. His eyes glittered with unshed tears, reflecting countless tiny flames. He glanced up when I entered, then quickly turned away.

Next to him stood the royal brothers: Federico and Francesco, both of whom grieved openly; Federico sobbed without restraint.

The doctors acknowledged me at last. ‘Your Highness,’ Clemente said. ‘We believe His Majesty suffers from unchecked bleeding of the brain.’

‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ I asked.

Doctor Clemente shook his head reluctantly. ‘I am sorry, Your Highness.’ He paused. ‘Before he lost the power of speech, he called your name.’

I was too numbed to know how to respond to this, too numbed even to weep at the realization that the King was dying.

Juana lifted her serene face. ‘Come,’ she said to me. ‘He wanted to see you. Come sit next to him.’

I moved to the bed, and with the assistance of one of the doctors, climbed onto it so that I sat on my grandfather’s right, while Juana sat on his left.

Gently, I lifted Ferrante’s limp hand and squeezed it.

And gasped as his bony fingers gripped mine like talons.

‘You see,’ Juana whispered. ‘He knows you. He knows you have come.’

For the next few hours, Juana and I sat together in a silence broken only by an occasional sob from Federico. I understood why Ferrante, as he was dying, would cling to his wife; her sweet goodness no doubt brought him comfort. But I did not understand, at that moment, why he had called for me.

The King’s breathing gradually grew fainter and more irregular. He was gone for minutes before Juana finally realized he had not drawn a breath in some time, and called for the doctors to make a determination.

Even in death, he clung to us; I had to pry my hand loose from his grip.

I half-slid from the bed to my feet, and found myself facing my father. All signs of grief and anxiety had vanished from him; he stood before me, composed, commanding, regal.

He was now King.

My grandfather lay in state for a single day in the cathedral of Santa Chiara, which we royalty preferred for official functions due to its size and grandeur. It had always been used for funerals, as its chapels and naves housed the crypts of Neapolitan royalty. Behind the altar lay the Tomb of Robert the Wise, Naples’ first Angevin ruler: the grave site was topped by a towering monument, the top level of which showed the living King Robert, crowned and triumphant, upon his throne. Beneath lay a sculpture of the King in the repose of death, hands piously crossed upon a sceptre. To the right of the altar was the Tomb of Charles, Duke of Calabria, Robert’s only son.

In the early hours of pre-dawn, before the rest of the city woke to the news, our family filed past Ferrante’s washed, carefully posed corpse in its coffin.

His face was pinched and stern, his body shrunken and frail, with no trace of the leonine spirit that had once filled it. He was at last like the men in his museum: utterly powerless.

All that night, I had considered why my grandfather had liked me while he lived, why he had called for me in death.
Hard and cold
, he had called me proudly, as if these were qualities to be admired.

Perhaps he had needed the comfort of Juana’s kindness; perhaps he had also needed my strength.

I knew at once that my marriage to Jofre Borgia was now inevitable. My father had vehemently stated his opinion; the wedding was only a matter of time. There was no point in behaving like a child, in expressing anger over my fate. It was time to accept it, to be strong. I could rely on no one save myself: if God and the saints existed, they did not concern themselves with the petty requests of heartbroken young women.

After the family said its farewells to Ferrante, a feast was held in the Great Hall. There was no music that day, no dancing, but a great deal of talking and distractions.

I passed alone and unseen to Ferrante’s bedchamber. The bed-curtains were still pushed back, and the canopy swathed in black; the green velvet hangings were likewise draped in the colour of mourning.

One of the oil lamps on the night table still flickered with a faint, bluish flame. I lifted it, opened the door to the narrow altar room, and from there, passed into the kingdom of the dead.

Little had changed from the way I remembered it; the expired Angevin called Robert still welcomed me with a sweep of his bony arm. This time, I was not alarmed. There was nothing frightening here, I told myself, just a collection of tanned hide and bone propped against iron poles.

But two new corpses had been added to the collection since I last visited, more than four years ago. I walked up to the nearer of them, and held the lamp up to the mummy’s face. His marble eyes had dark brown irises painted on them; his beard and moustache were thick, his gleaming black hair luxuriant and curling. This was no fair-haired Angevin, but a Spaniard, or Italian. There was still a slight fullness to his features that spoke of recent demise. Alive, he had no doubt been a handsome man, who had laughed and wept, and perhaps been disappointed in love; he had known, too, what it was to be the victim of relentless cruelty.

Fearlessly, I pressed my fingers against the shining lacquered brown cheek.

It was cold and hard, like my grandfather and father.

Like me.

The reparation of the strained relationship between Naples and the papacy took time. I was not surprised when an entire month passed before I received the expected summons from my father.

I had prepared myself for the encounter, and reconciled myself to the thought of marriage to Jofre Borgia. The fact filled me with a strange pride; my father would expect his announcement to wound me, and be disappointed when it did not.

When the guard came to fetch me, he led me to the King’s chambers. The throne was draped in black; my father would not ascend it until his formal coronation some months hence.

Ferrante’s former office already bore my father’s touch: a fine carpet, booty captured during the Battle of Otranto, covered the marble floor; Moorish tiles hung from the walls. I had heard my father had beheaded many Turks; I wondered how many he had killed to obtain these particular trophies. I gazed down at the red-and-gold patterned carpet searching for blood stains, eager to distract myself with odd thoughts in order to maintain my composure during the unpleasant exchange.

The new King was busy, surrounded by advisors; as I entered, he was squinting at several documents scattered on the dark wooden desk. At that instant, I realized that no longer could we Neapolitans simply refer to ‘King Alfonso’ to mean the Magnanimous. There were now King Alfonsos I and II.

I stared beyond the latter through the unshuttered west-facing windows that looked onto the Castel dell’Ovo and the water beyond. It was said that the great stone fortress, supposedly built by Virgil, rested upon a great magical egg hidden upon the ocean floor. If the egg were ever to crack, Naples herself would crumble and fall into the sea.

I waited in silence until my father glanced up and frowned distractedly; I was an afterthought in the midst of a busy afternoon. His son Ferrandino, now the
de facto
Duke of Calabria, leaned over his shoulder, one hand resting on the desk. Ferrandino looked up at the same time, and gave me a polite but formal nod whose subtext was clear:
I am next in line to the throne, a legitimate heir, and you are not
.

‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia in early May,’ my father said curtly.

I bowed graciously from the shoulders in reply, and directed a single thought at him:
You cannot hurt me
.

The King directed his attention back to Ferrandino and one of the advisors; after murmuring a few sentences to them, he looked back up as if surprised to see me still standing before him.

‘That is all,’ he said.

I curtsied, triumphant over my self-control, but also disappointed that my father seemed too preoccupied to notice. I turned to leave, but before the guard escorted me through the doorway, the King spoke again.

‘Oh. To appease His Holiness, I have agreed to make his son Jofre a prince—only fitting, given your rank. Therefore, you will both rule the principality of Squillace, where you will reside.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal, then returned to his work.

I left swiftly, blinded by hurt.

Squillace lay several days to Naples’ south, on the opposite coast. It was a far longer journey from Naples to Squillace than from Naples to Rome.

When I returned to my chambers, I tore the portrait of San Gennaro from its place of honour and hurled it against the opposite wall. As it clattered to the floor, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek and crossed herself, then spun about and followed me out to the balcony, where I stood seething, transforming my grief into rage.

‘How dare you! There can be no excuse for such sacrilege!’ she scolded, stalwart and glowering.

‘You don’t understand!’ I snapped. ‘Jofre Borgia and I are to live in Squillace!’

Her expression softened at once. For a moment, she stood silently, then asked, ‘Do you think this will be any easier for Alfonso than for you? Will you force him again to comfort you when his own heart is breaking? You may be more likely to show your temper, Donna Sancha—but do not be fooled. He is the more sensitive soul.’

I turned and stared into Esmeralda’s wise, lined face. I wrapped my arms about my ribs, let go a shuddering breath, and forced my internal tempest to ease.

‘I must get hold of my emotions,’ I said, ‘before Alfonso learns of this.’

That evening, I took supper alone with my brother. He spoke animatedly of his training in swordsmanship, and of the fine horse my father had recently purchased for him. I smiled and listened, adding little to the conversation. Afterwards we took a stroll in the palace courtyard, watched by a lone, distant guard. It was the beginning of March, and the night air was brisk but not unpleasant.

Alfonso spoke first. ‘You are quiet tonight, Sancha. What troubles you?’

I hesitated before answering. ‘I was wondering whether you had heard the news…’

My brother gathered himself, and said, with feigned casualness, ‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia, then.’ His tone at once turned soothing. ‘It won’t be bad, Sancha. As I said before, Jofre might be a decent young man. At least, you’ll live in Naples; we’ll be able to see each other…’

I stopped in mid-stride, turned toward him, and rested my fingertips gently on his lips. ‘Dear brother.’ I fought to keep my voice steady, my tone light. ‘Pope Alexander wants not just a princess for his son; he wants his son to be a prince. Jofre and I will go to Squillace to rule.’

Alfonso blinked once, startled. ‘But the contract…’ he began, then stopped. ‘But Father…’ He fell silent. For the first time, I focused not on my feelings, but on his. As I saw a wave of pain pass over his fair young features, I thought my heart would melt.

I wrapped an arm about him, and began once more to walk. ‘I can always come visit Naples. And you can visit Squillace.’

He was used to being the comforter, not the comforted. ‘I will miss you.’

‘And I you.’ I forced a smile. ‘You told me once that duty is not always pleasant. That is true, but we shall make the best of it with visits and letters.’

Alfonso stopped walking, and pressed me to him. ‘Sancha,’ he said. ‘Ah, Sancha…’ He was taller, and had to bow his head to rest his cheek against mine.

I stroked his hair. ‘It will be all right, little brother,’ I said. I held him tightly and did not permit myself to weep. Ferrante, I thought, would have been proud.

The month of May came all too soon, and with it, Jofre Borgia. He arrived in Naples with a large entourage, and was escorted into the Great Hall of the Castel Nuovo by my uncle, Prince Federico, and my brother Alfonso. Once the men had arrived, I made a grand entrance, coming down the staircase in a sea green brocade gown with an emerald choker round my neck.

I could see at once from my bridegroom’s slightly slack-jawed reaction that I had made a favourable impression; the reverse was certainly not true.

I had been told Jofre Borgia was ‘almost thirteen’—and I expected to encounter a youth resembling my brother. Even in the short span of time since I had told Alfonso of my engagement, his voice had deepened further, his shoulders broadened and become more muscular. He now surpassed me in height by the breadth of a hand.

But Jofre was a child. I had passed my sixteenth birthday since meeting the strega, and I was now a woman with full breasts and hips. I had known sexual ecstasy, known the touch of an experienced man’s hands.

As for the youngest Borgia, he stood a full head shorter than me. His face still had a babe’s chubbiness, his voice was pitched higher than mine, and his frame was so slight I could well have lifted him off his feet. To make matters worse, he wore his copper blond hair like a girl, in long ringlets that spilled onto his shoulders.

I had heard, as had everyone with ears in Italy, of Alexander’s uncontrollable passion for beautiful women. As a young cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia had scandalized his aged uncle, Pope Callixtus, by conducting a baptism, then escorting all the women in the entourage into the walled church courtyard and locking the gate, leaving the enraged men outside to listen to the sounds of giggling and lovemaking for some hours. Even now, Pope Alexander had brought his latest mistress, sixteen-year-old Giulia Orsini, to live with him in the Vatican—and was given to flagrant public displays of affection for her. It was reputed no woman was safe from his advances.

It was impossible to believe that Jofre was the same man’s son.

I thought of Onorato’s strong hands moving over my body; I thought of how he had mounted me, how I had grasped his powerful back as he rode me, then brought me to pleasure.

Then I looked upon this skinny child and secretly cringed with disgust at the thought of the marriage bed. Onorato had known my body better than I had myself; how could I possibly teach this effeminate young creature all a man should know about the art of love?

My heart despaired. I went through the next several days in stunned misery, performing as best I could the role of the happy bride. Jofre spent his time in the company of his entourage, and made no effort at courtship; he was no Onorato, concerned with my feelings. He had come to Naples for one reason: to gain a princely crown.

The civil ceremony came first, in the Castel Nuovo, presided by the Bishop of Tropea and witnessed by my father and Prince Federico. In his anxiety, little Jofre shouted out his hasty reply to the Bishop’s question well before the old man had finished asking, which caused a ripple of amusement to pass through the crowd. I could not smile.

There came afterwards the presentation of gifts from my new husband: rubies, pearls, diamonds, brocades woven with thread of real gold, silks and velvets, all to be made into adornments and gowns for me.

But our union had not yet been blessed by the Church, and so could not be physically consummated; I had a respite of four days before the Mass.

The next day was the Ascension and the Feast of the apparition of the Archangel Michael; it was also proclaimed a day of celebration for the Kingdom of Naples.

The black morning sky released a stinging downpour of rain and gusting winds. Despite the ominous weather, our family followed my father and his barons to the great cathedral of Santa Chiara, where Ferrante had lain in state only months before. There, the altar had been carefully prepared by Alexander’s Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, with all the symbols of Neapolitan rulership laid out in the order they would be presented to the new King: the crown, studded with gems and pearls; the royal sword, in a jewelled scabbard; the silver sceptre, topped with the gold Angevin lily; and the imperial globe.

My father led us into the church. He had never seemed more handsome, more regal than he did at that moment. He was dressed grandly in a tightly-fitted tunic and breeches of black satin, over which he wore a robe of shining crimson brocade lined with white ermine. Our family and the courtiers stopped at the designated place, but my father continued alone down the vast aisle.

I stood beside my brother and clutched his hand. Neither of us looked the other in the eye; I knew if I met Alfonso’s gaze, I would betray my unhappiness at an hour when I should have felt quite the opposite.

I had learned, shortly after my betrothal to Jofre was renewed, of the deal the new King had struck with Pope Alexander. Alfonso II would grant to Jofre Borgia the principality of Squillace; in return, His Holiness would send a papal legate (in this case, a powerful cardinal from his own family) to crown the King. Thus, Alexander gave his direct, irrevocable blessing and recognition to Alfonso’s reign.

The exchange had been the King’s idea—not the Pope’s, as my father had told me.

He had intentionally purchased his joy at the cost of my sorrow.

The man who would soon be known as Alfonso II stopped at the choir of the canons, where he was greeted by the Archbishop of Naples and the Patriarch of Antiochia. They led him to his seat before the altar, where he listened along with the rest of us as the Papal Bull declaring him undisputed ruler of Naples was read.

My father knelt on a cushion before Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, the papal legate, and carefully repeated the oath after him.

I listened at the same time I contemplated my fate.

Why did my father hate me so? He was indifferent to his other children, save the Crown Prince, Ferrandino—but he showed his eldest son attention only insofar as it was necessary to train him for his position in life. Was it because I had caused more trouble than the others?

Perhaps. But perhaps the answer also lay in old Ferrante’s words:
Of all his children, you are most like your father
.

But my father had shrieked when he saw the Angevin mummies; I had not.

You always were a coward, Alfonso
.

Was it possible that my father’s cruelty sprang from fear? And did he despise me because I possessed the one attribute he did not—courage?

Near the altar, my father had finished swearing his oath. The cardinal handed him a piece of parchment, thus investing him as King, and said, ‘By virtue of Apostolic authority.’

Now a prince of the realm by virtue of marriage, Jofre Borgia stepped forward, small and solemn, with the crown. The cardinal took it from him, then placed it upon my father’s head. It was heavy and slid a bit; the prelate steadied it with one hand while he and the archbishop buttoned the strap beneath my father’s chin, to hold it fast.

The items of rulership were handed to the new King: the sword, the sceptre, the orb. Ceremony dictated that all the Pope’s prelates should now form a circle behind my father, but his brothers, sons, and loyal barons surged forward in an abrupt, impetuous show of support.

Laughing, my father sat down on his throne while the assembly cheered.

‘Viva Re Alfonso! Viva Re Alfonso!’

Despite my fury and resentment at being his pawn, I looked upon him, crowned and glorious, and was amazed by the sudden welling of loyalty and pride within me. I called out with the others, my voice breaking.

‘Viva Re Alfonso!’