III
A week after my visit with the strega, I was summoned from breakfast to an audience with the King. The urgent command came as such a surprise that Donna Esmeralda dressed me hastily—though I insisted on wearing Onorato’s ruby round my throat, a touch of grandeur despite my dishevelment—and we two appeared alone before my grandfather. The rising sun streamed through the arched windows on either side of the throne where Ferrante sat; the effect on the marble floor was so dazzling that I did not see my father until he took a step forward. Only he stood in attendance; the vast chamber was otherwise empty.
Ferrante’s health had been failing of late, and his normally ruddy complexion had taken on a dark crimson hue, leaving him in foul spirits. But this morning he was smiling as I curtsied.
‘Sancha, I have wonderful news.’ His words echoed off the vaulted ceiling. ‘You know that your father and I have been trying for some time to strengthen Naples’ ties to the Papacy…’
I knew. I had been told since childhood that the papacy was our best protection against the French, who had never forgiven my great-grandfather for defeating Charles of Anjou.
‘The problem has been that His Holiness, Pope Alexander, dedicated both his sons to the priesthood…eh, what are their names?’ Ferrante scowled and turned to my father. I knew them before the Duke had a chance to reply; I even knew the given name of the Pope, who before his election had been Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.
‘Cesare, sixteen, and Jofre, eleven.’
‘Yes, Cesare and Jofre.’ The King’s expression lightened. ‘Well, at long last, we have succeeded in convincing His Holiness that it would be wise to tie himself to Naples.’ He beamed proudly. ‘You are betrothed to the son of the Pope.’
I paled; my lips parted. As I fought to control myself, my father remarked with cruel delight, ‘She is upset. She thinks she has feelings for this Caetani fellow.’
‘Sancha, Sancha,’ my grandfather said, not unkindly. ‘We have already informed Caetani of the arrangements; in fact, we have already found him a suitable wife. But you must do what is best for the Crown. And this is an infinitely better match. The Borgias are wealthy beyond anything you have ever seen. Best of all, the marriage contract states you will both live in Naples.’ He gave me a small wink, to show that he had done this for my benefit; he had not forgotten my attachment to Alfonso.
I stared at my father, my heartbreak spilling forth as fury. ‘You have done this,’ I charged, ‘because you knew I loved Onorato. You could not stand to see me happy. I will not marry your Cesare Borgia; I spit on the name.’
Rendered graceful by rage, Ferrante rose to his feet with the speed of a falcon diving for prey. ‘Sancha of Aragon! You will not speak to the Duke of Calabria in that tone!’
Hot-cheeked, I bowed my head and glared down at the floor.
My father was laughing.
‘Spit on the name of Cesare Borgia all you like,’ he said. ‘You are to be married to the younger one, Jofre.’
Unable to contain my temper, I swept from the King’s throne room and headed back to my own suite. So rapid was my pace that Donna Esmeralda, who had awaited me outside, fell behind.
Such was my intent. For when I reached the balcony where Onorato had presented me with the ruby, I tore the great jewel from my neck. Briefly, I held it up to the sky; for an instant, my world was bathed red.
I clenched my fist over the gem and cast it down into the placid bay.
Behind me, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek of pure horror. ‘Madonna!’
I cared not. Imperious, tormented, I strode away. I could think only of Onorato, agreeing all too swiftly to take a different bride. I had allowed myself to love him, to trust another man besides my brother—yet my heart was of no consequence to him, to Ferrante, to my father. To them I was chattel, a pawn to be used for political gain.
Only when I arrived at my bedchamber and banished all the ladies did I fling myself upon my pillows. But I did not permit myself to weep.
Alfonso came as soon as he was free from his lessons. Donna Esmeralda silently let him enter, knowing he alone had the ability to soothe me. Morose and self-pitying, I lay facing the wall.
The instant I felt Alfonso’s gentle hand upon my shoulder, I turned.
He was still a boy of twelve, but already showed the signs of approaching adulthood. Over the past three-and-a-half years, he had shot up a forearm in height; he now stood slightly taller than me. His voice had not changed completely, but it had lost all trace of childish falsetto. His face now revealed a blend of the best of his father’s and mother’s features: he would grow into a strikingly handsome man.
Despite his increased exposure to our father and his study of politics, his eyes were still gentle, untainted by selfishness or guile. I gazed up into them.
‘Duty is a hard thing,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry, Sancha.’
‘I love Onorato,’ I murmured.
‘I know. There is nothing that can be done. The King has made up his mind. He is right that it is to Naples’ advantage.’ Somehow, hearing the words from my brother’s lips was not as painful as hearing them from Ferrante’s. Alfonso would tell me only the truth, and that lovingly. He paused. ‘They did not do this to intentionally hurt you, Sancha.’
So; my heated outburst at my father was no secret. I scowled, too full of rancour to agree with the latter statement. ‘But Jofre Borgia is only eleven, Alfonso! He is a child!’
‘Only a year my junior,’ Alfonso said lightly. ‘He will grow older.’
‘Onorato was a man. He knew how to treat a woman.’
My little brother actually blushed; I suppose it was uncomfortable for him to imagine me in the nuptial embrace. But he collected himself and responded, ‘Jofre may be young—but he can be taught. And for all you know, he might be quite personable. You might like him. I will certainly do everything in my power to make friends with him.’
I scoffed. ‘How can I possibly like him? He is a Borgia!’ His father, Rodrigo Borgia, supposedly achieved the position of pontiff not through piety, but through guile and bribery. His efforts to buy the papacy were rumoured to be so blatant that, soon after his election, certain members within the College of Cardinals called for an investigation. Mysteriously, their objections soon ceased, and the man who christened himself Pope Alexander VI now enjoyed the full support of the College. It had even been said that Rodrigo had poisoned the likeliest contender for the papal tiara: his own brother.
Alfonso eyed me sombrely. ‘We have never met the Borgias, so we cannot judge them. And even if every word of gossip about His Holiness is true, you are not being fair to Jofre. Sons are not always like their fathers.’
His latter statement silenced my objections. Even so, I had to ask, in the most dolorous tone, ‘Why must there be marriage? It only takes us away from those we love.’
But for Alfonso’s sake, I vowed to myself, I would not be selfish. I would try to be like him—brave and good, and willing to do what was best for the realm.
Many months passed, and 1493 arrived. The more I contemplated marriage to a Borgia, the more concerned I became. King Ferrante could insist that Jofre and I maintain a household in Naples, and could commit it to writing. But a pope’s word held more authority than a king’s. What if Alexander changed his mind, and called his son back to Rome? What if he demanded a separate kingdom for Jofre elsewhere? I would be bound to accompany my husband. Only a Neapolitan husband would do, one who would never have reason to take me from my native city.
Since the day I had discovered Ferrante’s leering mummies, my religious faith had been tentative, half-hearted. Now I embraced it full force, in a desperate test. I called one morning for a private carriage and slipped away, accompanied by a single guard and a driver.
I headed for the Duomo, startling the stray worshipers inside, who were abruptly herded out by my guard.
At the altar where the miracle had occurred, I knelt. There, with all my sincerity, I prayed to San Gennaro
. I begged him to free me from my engagement to Jofre Borgia, to find me a good Neapolitan husband. Together, I promised, we would donate vast sums of money for the upkeep of the Duomo and for the care of Naples’ poor.
When I returned to the castle, I requested and received a painting of the saint. In my bedchamber, I erected a small shrine to Gennaro, where I repeated my promise morning and evening. Once a week, I arranged a private excursion to the Duomo. Esmeralda was pleased.
How nice, everyone said, that she is calming down and becoming devout. No doubt it is because she is to marry the Pope’s son next year.
I continued my regular devotions and fought not to become discouraged. The simple act of prayer brought with it a temporary peace, and I found myself adding to my original selfish request. I asked for the continued health of Alfonso, my mother, and Donna Esmeralda; I asked for health to be restored to old Ferrante, who was failing. I even prayed for a miracle so great I dared not believe in its possibility: that my father’s heart might be opened, that he might become happy and kind.
One late summer afternoon, a royal aide came to fetch me to Ferrante’s chambers. I was confused; I turned to Donna Esmeralda for support. I had done nothing of late to displease my elders; if anything, I had behaved circumspectly. In fact, in my hand was a Latin translation of the Proverbs; before the aide arrived, I had been reading the last one:
A perfect wife—who can find her?
She is far beyond the price of pearls.
Her husband’s heart has confidence in her,
from her he will derive no little profit.
Advantage and not hurt she brings him
all the days of her life.
San Gennaro, I had prayed, grant my petition and I will become thus.
I was dressed in the black, full-sleeved gown of the southern noblewoman; I had worn no colour since the announcement of my second engagement. Before leaving, I set down the little book, touched the small gold crucifix at my throat, then followed the King’s aide. Esmeralda stayed close by my side.
The door to the throne room was flung open; the chamber itself was empty. But as we crossed the marble floor, I heard sounds of agitation and anger coming from the King’s office.
The aide opened the door and ushered us inside.
Ferrante sat at his desk, his face starkly scarlet against his white beard. Queen Juana sat beside him, trying to calm him, only occasionally succeeding at capturing one of his wildly gesticulating hands and stroking it in an effort to soothe. Her murmurs were drowned out by my grandfather’s shouts. Beside them both stood my grim-faced father.
‘Roman son of a sow!’ Ferrante caught sight of me, and by way of explanation, waved at a letter on the desk. ‘The bastard has appointed his new College of Cardinals. Not a soul from Naples among them, despite the fact we had several qualified candidates. And he appointed two Frenchmen. He mocks me!’ My grandfather slammed his fist on the desk; Juana tried to clutch it, but he pulled it away. ‘The lying son of a whore mocks me!’
He drew a sudden wheezing breath, then put a hand to his brow as if dizzied.
‘You must calm yourself,’ Juana said with uncharacteristic firmness, ‘or I will send for the physician.’
Ferrante paused a moment and forced himself to slow his respiration. When he spoke again, it was more deliberately. ‘I will do better than that.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Sancha. I will not permit the wedding to go through until this situation is rectified. I will not allow a princess of the realm to be married to the son of a man who mocks us.’ He glared down at the letter on the desk. ‘Alexander must be taught that he cannot extend one hand to us, then betray us with the other.’
My grandfather had not forgotten the crime committed against him decades earlier by Alexander’s uncle Alonso, also known as the pontiff Callixtus III. Callixtus, disapproving of an illegitimate commoner like Ferrante taking Naples’ throne, had supported the Angevins.
As desperately as Ferrante needed the new Pope’s support, he had never entirely forgiven the Borgias.
My father’s tone was urgent. ‘Your Majesty, you are making a grave mistake. Some of the cardinals are old. They will die soon, and then we can lobby for their replacement with loyal Neapolitans. But the fact that the French now have a voice in the Vatican makes a liaison with the papacy all the more imperative.’
Ferrante turned on him, and with the candour born of ill health and old age, said, ‘You were always a coward, Alfonso. I have never liked you.’
An unpleasant silence ensued. At last, my grandfather looked back at me and snapped, ‘That’s all. Go on, then.’
I curtsied, then left before I betrayed my joy with a smile.
For four months, from the beginning of fall into the depths of winter, I was blissful. I added words of thanksgiving to my daily prayers. San Gennaro, I was convinced, had decided my pious behaviour earned me the right to remain with my brother.
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 q
uickly 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.
The Borgia Bride Page 5