I made myself push aside any thoughts of my first husband, wondering if Alfonso could sense it upon me, my tumultuous past like a dark shade at my side. He did not know—indeed, must never know—the travails I had undergone to reach this moment, but he must be aware, for his hand tightened on mine, and though he did not say a word, I felt his strength in his grip, the silent reassurance that emanated from him.
He was trying to tell me I was not alone anymore.
But could I do the same? Could I in turn keep him safe?
Then he said, his voice low but strong: “Are you certain, my lady?”
He offered me the choice. If I told him I was not, he would indeed depart. Nothing Papa said or did would deter him. I did not have to relinquish him, after all, because he would enter our union only if I, and I alone, allowed it. This was not about family alliances or political convenience: It was about us—him and me. And I felt a surge of relief, because I knew he would never permit himself to be lured into something he was not fully prepared for.
“If you are,” I whispered.
He smiled. “I’ve been certain from the very hour I first met you.”
—
THE CEREMONY WAS simple. As Botticelli’s melancholic angels watched from the walls, the Spanish capitan of the guard, Juan Cervillon, held the symbolic sword over our heads and we recited the vows that bound us in Matrimony.
We heard Mass, and then the assembly filed into the hall for the nuptial banquet. All the while, it felt like a dream from which I must soon awaken. I kept glancing at Alfonso’s profile, at his strong, slightly askew nose and sculpted jaw, his tawny hair loose upon shoulders that strained the fit of his doublet. I remembered how I thought he would look better unclothed and realized I would soon have opportunity to verify it. I actually felt heat flood my cheeks and must have squeezed his hand involuntarily, for he turned his head to me and winked.
Our companies crammed into the sala, where linen-draped trestle tables bunted with wreaths of sunflowers had been set up. The sounds of chatter and clacking heels on the floor deafened me; it was not until I was upon the dais that voices raised in dispute from across the room reached me.
I looked up. My stomach knotted as I saw Sancia, confronting Cesare at the hall entrance.
“Enough!” my brother snarled, loud enough for us to overhear. “I will not have a fracas at my own sister’s wedding.”
“What about us?” Sancia shot back, even as Gioffre cringed at her side. “You promised me. You said we would—”
Cesare caught her by the wrist, “I said, enough,” but by now everyone had stopped to stare. “This is not the place or time. We shall discuss it later.”
Beside me, Alfonso tensed. Sancia thrust out her chin, lifting her voice even more. “I think not. I think we shall never speak again.” She marched to her table, her women scuttling behind. Gioffre cast a miserable look at Cesare before he trudged after his wife.
With a mien of distaste, Cesare returned to the dais he shared with Papa.
Alfonso remarked, “I wonder what the trouble is?”
I glanced warily at him. He really did not know, after Sancia and Cesare had frolicked at his very court?
He smiled. “Whatever it is, no doubt Sancia is to blame. I am afraid my sister has always had a foul temper. She must have provoked my lord Cesare beyond reason, as she’s apt to do with every man who is not her brother or a saint.”
I found myself saying, “She might have a sharp tongue, but I do not fault her in this instance.” I tested his willingness to admit that he knew of Sancia and Cesare’s tangled history.
But he only said, “Perhaps,” and motioned to the page behind us to pour wine. “But whatever the cause, our grandfather indulged her too much. He often said that what she really needed was a whipping to show her her proper place, but I don’t recall him ever giving her one.”
“No woman, no matter how sharp her tongue, should ever be whipped,” I retorted, but my hand trembled as I reached for my goblet. For a blinding moment, I saw Giovanni thrusting a knife against my throat as he shoved me onto the bed.
Then I felt Alfonso touch my leg under the table. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “It is only that Sancia can test the patience of any man.”
“She is your sister, my lord. Regardless of her behavior, you owe her your respect.”
“Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “I do, indeed. I spoke out of turn.” A slight smile crinkled the sun-bronzed creases at his eyes. “God help anyone who ever dared raise a whip to my sister.”
I laughed uneasily. “She has my admiration for it.”
The music began, an unobtrusive accompaniment to the procession of roasted meats, sauced fowl, and heaving platters of sugared fruits, though more than half of the fabulous creations paraded before us were so thick with gilt that when Alfonso started to request a serving, I had to stop him. His brow creased. “Why not?”
“Because those dyes are poisonous,” I told him. “The dishes are for display. A guest at an Orsini wedding once ate everything set before him and perished of it. His servants also nearly killed one another fighting over his corpse, as it was full of precious metals.” I saw his frown deepen. “Do you not serve ornamental dishes in Naples?”
He shook his head, as if amazed, then suddenly let out an uproarious laugh—so loud and unrestrained, it reminded me of Sancia’s.
“What do you find so amusing?” I asked, and he said, “Ornamental dishes that are also poisonous. It is rather fitting, don’t you think?”
I stiffened. “You find the possibility of death fitting?”
He leaned to me. “Surely you have heard what they say, that the Borgia invite foes to dine and then they sow death in their food? Now we can confirm the falsehood of such rumors. The poison, in fact, is quite visible.”
I stared at him, appalled.
His amusement crumbled. “It was but a joke,” he said hastily. “I would never believe—”
“I should hope not.” My spine flattened against my chair, my displeasure so overt that I saw Papa out of the corner of my eye frowning from his dais. “I never heed rumors, my lord,” I added frostily. “I would not countenance such defamation of my family.” Even, I thought, if they might sometimes deserve it.
He gulped his wine. “Yes, that too was most insensitive of me. It would seem I am determined to make a disaster of this day.”
His evident discomfort thawed me. I knew from Sancia that Neapolitans were more carefree in their demeanor, less given to the subtleties of Rome. As Alfonso struggled to say something that would not offend, I realized that while he’d been reared in a dangerous court and surely understood what others were capable of, surprisingly it had not censured him.
Unbelievable as it seemed, my new husband said precisely what he thought.
It occurred to me that an idle afternoon in the library could not predict a lifetime. As with Giovanni before him, I knew almost nothing about this man I had wed.
I attempted to hide my consternation. To my relief, I heard the music livening: A trilling of pipes preceded the appearance of dancers clad in white, wearing magnificent headdresses with masks fashioned in the shapes of mythical beasts. The dancers leapt into a saltarello, the favored dance of the courts of Spain, but I recognized Cesare at once among them.
His ivory satin hose enhanced his sculpted thighs and narrow waist, and his flowing shirt was open to his chest; he pirouetted and knifed his legs back and forth. He wore the mask of the unicorn, its water-stiffened velvet horn jutting from his forehead, his eyes flashing within diamond-sequined holes. His partner was a flame-haired woman with a bejeweled domino resembling a griffin, her cleavage exposed by her low-cut silver bodice. As she whirled about Cesare, skirts frothing over supple insteps, he snatched her by the waist and kissed her suggestively on her throat, all the while looking directly at me.
I went rigid. As the dance proceeded, I finally dared to glance at Alfonso. He reclined in his chair with an indulgent smile, tapping
out the melody on his goblet. If he took note of Cesare’s brazen display, my husband did not reveal it. But as I then surveyed the hall, where most of our guests lolled, gorged on meat and wine, I saw Sancia with Gioffre at the table by Papa’s dais.
She looked enraged. Flinging her napkin aside, she came to her feet. Gioffre darted a confused glance at our father, clearly uncertain as to whether he should follow his wife’s example; from his throne, Papa flicked his hand, ordering my little brother to stay put. He then turned his face deliberately away as Sancia yanked at her gown peremptorily and, with her women in a dejected file behind her, stormed from the hall.
“She doesn’t like being made a fool,” said Alfonso, bringing my gaze back to him. “The only thing worse than her temper is her pride.” His hand crept over mine in my lap, braiding my fingers. “But we do not need to concern ourselves with such upsets, do we?”
With those words, he betrayed that he knew perfectly well the reason for Sancia and Cesare’s altercation. He also was saying that, unlike them, he and I did not have any need for temper or pride.
“Your father has stipulated we must reside in Rome for a full year after our marriage,” he went on. “I agreed, naturally, but once the year is over, we shall return to Naples to set up our own household.” He paused, lifting his other hand to my cheek. “That is, if you do not object?”
“No,” I said immediately, although after my experience in Pesaro, I had every reason to inform him that all the horses in his kingdom could not drag me to Naples, which was an even greater distance from Rome. But I did not. Because in that instant, as he took my hand under the table while his other hand cupped my chin, I would have agreed to go with him to the New World on a leaking galleon if he had asked it of me.
“I think the time has come for us to retire,” he said, and I nodded, voiceless, as he brought me to my feet and the cacophony of talk and clinking cups and swirling dancers came to a halt, like a pantomime frozen in mid-revelry.
I glanced at Cesare. Beads of perspiration slipped from under his mask, his curls plastered to his skull; I felt his gaze stalking us as we went to Papa and made our obeisance. Papa assented with a beatific smile, motioning for an escort of guards to accompany us to my palazzo.
“Is no one else coming with us?” I asked Alfonso, as we moved to the hall doors.
“His Holiness made stipulations,” he replied, “and thus so have I. There will be no public bedding or proof of consummation. This night, wife, belongs to us alone.”
—
NO ONE HAD thought to prepare a nuptial suite for us, but Nicola and Murilla, bless their hearts, had lit scented tapers in my bedchamber and waited outside, curtsying with barely suppressed giggles as Alfonso and I stepped past them. I cast a chiding look at them; Nicola’s eyes gleamed with mischief, while Murilla puffed out her little chest in imitation of Alfonso and lifted her eyebrows in saucy approval.
The door clicked shut. Alfonso stood behind me; I felt his stomach, hard and flat, pressed against the small of my back. “At last,” he breathed. His mouth was at my throat, his hands unraveling my hair, undoing ribbons, removing the latticed hairnet, tossing it all aside like so much tinsel as I stood, motionless. Though I tried to subdue them, fractured images of the night Juan had assaulted me returned, paralyzing me. It was the first time a man had touched me in this way, and my terror was such that I could scarcely draw breath.
He paused. Desolation grew inside me as he took a small, deliberate step back. I had feared his touch, but now that I did not feel it, I feared its loss even more.
“I have no wish to force myself on you,” he said, “if my caresses displease you.”
I turned around too fast; my apprehension must have shown on my face even as I said, “You—your caresses do please me.”
“Do they? Because if I had to hazard a guess, I would say you are terrified.”
“I am most certainly not.” I tried to sound defiant. “Lest you forget, I’ve been married before, my lord. I know well what is expected of me.”
He sighed. “And I know well that you are not what they claim.”
My throat tightened. “I told you, I do not heed rumors. I therefore have no idea who they are or what they say,” I replied, but I did know. While I’d been kept isolated from the rabble and their vicious gossip, I suspected all too much what had been said about me—the Borgia daughter, whose own husband had forsaken her, declared her the object of her own father’s lust, and in retaliation been obliged to admit his impotency. In the end, Giovanni’s shame had been less than mine, for he had wed anew and could prove he was not incapable with another wife, while I…I must live with the scandal of his insinuations for the rest of my days.
“No?” Alfonso looked down for a moment. When he lifted his eyes, his face was somber. “You should. Everyone, especially those like us, should know what is being said.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted; I crossed my arms at my chest, warding off a sudden chill. “I…I do not want to know. What good can it do me?”
I heard Papa in my voice, his warning about the evil perceived of our family, and dreaded what Alfonso might say next. I could not bear to hear how they spoke of me in Naples, the garish speculation, the lewd innuendos that might carry seeds of truth.
Instead, he moved closer. “I know your first marriage was not of your choosing. Nor can I imagine it was pleasing. I do not know the details, but I promise you, on my life, that I will never harm or oblige you. If you prefer to bed alone tonight, I will leave without dishonor. I am willing to wait as long as is necessary until you are ready.”
Gratitude eased my fear. He did not ask for the truth, though he must have suspected I was not the innocent my father had proclaimed, that we’d in fact lied and perhaps not only about my virginity. He merely awaited a response, inviting but not insistent. I remembered when I’d kissed him on impulse in the library, and as I thought of how marvelous it would be to love freely, not out of obligation, I heard myself say, “I think I have always been ready for you.”
After that, there were no more words. The pain of the past melted into sensation, a slow-building rapture that made me feel faint as he peeled away my garments until I stood naked before him, my hair coiling to my waist. He gazed at me with that same wonderment I had first seen in the library. I made myself stand still, as if he were about to draw me, not raising my arms to cover my nipples, which were teased by his gaze and by the air on my skin, not using my hands to shield the golden triangle between my legs, which until this moment no man had fully seen.
“My God, you are beautiful,” he said, his voice thick. “Like that work by Botticelli, the one of Venus on her shell, all white and pink and gold, as if you have just risen from the sea.”
My mouth went dry; I felt the heat of my flush. He dropped to his haunches before me and reached behind to cup my buttocks, bringing me to him. When I felt his tongue like a current of lightning, I could not curb the moan that came from my lips.
I threw my head back. My knees began to buckle. My fingers tangled in his hair as he went deeper, deeper, and I heard myself gasp and cry at the same time, exploding from within. He drew me to the carpet, his fingers everywhere, his clothing seeming to dissolve on its own. As he reared over me, I beheld a Herculean chest so very different from my brother’s, wide and heavy with muscle, matted with dark-blond hair that felt like coarse silk. His arms, hewn of granite, braced on either side of me; he seemed enormous, a giant. Against my thighs, his hard member pulsed. With my eyes fixed on his, I reached down and grasped its length. He surged in my palm.
“I cannot…wait,” he groaned.
Rearing my hips to meet his, I welcomed him inside.
As he plunged, as his mouth met mine and fused our breath, I discovered I was indeed still a virgin—in every way but one.
We spent the next weeks in bliss.
He taught me all the lessons he knew, and I was eager to show him how much I could learn. I must have proved adept, judgin
g by his moans and the eager spill of his seed. He tasted just as he smelled, of spindrift, and my taste in his mouth, he told me, was like powdered aniseed. Even after we bathed and ventured out to take our meals (during which my women could not stop giggling, no doubt having been entertained through the keyhole by our frolics), he vowed he could still smell me on him like an indelible perfume.
That summer of 1498 was the happiest I could remember. My new husband did more than show me about the passion and candor that could exist between a man and his wife. His love of nature and books, his delight in afternoon strolls in the gardens after a day spent digging through the library or a ride to the pine-forested hills about Rome, where he liked to fly falcons or hunt quail, made me realize I had not loved until now, not truly, not like those who knew they were deeply cherished. I had thought my family was enough, that I was such a part of them that we could never be separate. Alfonso chipped away at my belief. He broke it piece by piece, like a brittle carapace that revealed pliant silk within, which he molded to his image. As we lay satiated, sheets tossed about us, I saw myself in his eyes like a goddess incarnate, and I could have wept in joyous relief that at last I had found the one I belonged with, the companion I had yearned for without knowing it.
“I am yours,” I whispered, my head on his shoulder, his arms enveloping me. “Yours forever, till death do us part.”
He always fell asleep quickly, like a child without worries. “Do not speak of death in bed,” he murmured, tightening his hold. “I am Neapolitan; for us, it is bad luck.”
I smiled. I could not wait to see Naples. I longed to leave Rome and the past behind, to embark on our new life. It was only as I started to drift off, buoyed on spent lust and his gentle snores, that I remembered my son. I wondered what he was doing in that moment, if he was asleep in his crib with his little fists bunched at his face, if he was warm and loved in my mother’s house. It seemed a crime that I could feel such happiness without him, that I could contemplate going to Naples and leaving him behind. Dread crept through me then, a ghost I could never fully exorcise. I could not keep this secret forever. I would have to confess. Alfonso must be told that, in addition to being his wife, I was a mother who desperately missed her child.
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