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