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.
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 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.
