The Borgia Bride

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.

Winter-Spring 1494

***

IV

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.’