The Borgia Bride

The count gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘May I ask how you would know this?’

‘I discovered the cardinal in a compromising situation,’ I replied. ‘The situation was such that I demanded he leave the palace as soon as possible. He was not pleased.’

Again, the old man gave a slight nod as he absorbed this information.

Jofre, meantime, was flushed with what seemed a combination of both anger and embarrassment. ‘My wife has done nothing wrong. She is a woman of the highest character. What charges have been brought against her?’

The count lowered his gaze in a show of reluctance and modesty. ‘That she has entertained not one, but several men at different times in her private chambers.’

I let go a small laugh of disbelief. ‘That is absurd!’

Marigliano shrugged. ‘Nonetheless, His Holiness is quite distraught over the matter, to the point of recalling both of you to Rome.’

As unhappy as I was in Squillace, I had no desire to go live among the Borgias. At least in Squillace, I was close to the sea. Jofre also looked grim at the thought of returning to his native city. He spoke only in the most passing terms about his family, never at length; from what little he had said, I gathered that he was intimidated by them.

‘How can we disprove these charges?’ I asked.

‘I have been sent on an official investigation,’ Marigliano said. Although I was far from comfortable with the notion of being scrutinized by a papal representative, I liked the old count’s candour. He was gracious but forthright, a man of integrity. ‘I shall require access to all the servants in the household, in order to interview them.’

‘Speak to anyone,’ Jofre said at once. ‘They will be happy to tell you the truth about my wife.’ I smiled at my husband, grateful for his support.

The count continued. ‘There is also the question of extravagance. His Holiness is not pleased with the amount of money that has been spent upon the Squillace palace.’

‘I believe that is a question you can answer with your own eyes,’ I told him. ‘Simply look about you, and judge whether our surroundings are too lavish.’

At that, even Marigliano had to smile.

The investigation was concluded within two days. By then, the count had spoken with every servant and lord- and lady-in-waiting; I made sure, as well, that he conferred privately with little Matteo. All of our entourage was wise enough not to implicate Jofre in any wrong-doing.

I escorted Marigliano himself to his waiting carriage. He hesitated a moment for his attendant to precede him, so that he and I could speak privately.

‘Madonna Sancha,’ he said. ‘Given what I know about Luis Borgia, I had no doubt when I began this investigation that you were innocent of the charges. Now I know you are not only innocent, but a woman who has inspired great affection and loyalty in all those who surround her.’ He glanced about us with a faint furtiveness. ‘You are deserving of the full truth. It is not just because of the cardinal’s charges that I was sent here.’

I could not imagine what he hinted at. ‘Why, then?’

‘Because these witnesses also spoke of your great beauty. Your husband described it in letters in the most lyrical terms, which piqued His Holiness’ interest. But now it has been said that you are even more beautiful than La Bella.’

La Bella, the Beautiful One: This was the nickname given to Giulia Orsini, the Pope’s current mistress, for it was claimed she was the most beautiful woman in Rome, and perhaps in all Italy.

‘And what will you report to His Holiness?’

‘I am an honest man, Madonna. I must tell him that it is true. But I will also tell him that you are the sort of woman who will remain loyal to her husband.’ He paused. ‘To be frank, Your Highness, I do not believe the latter fact will make any difference.’

This was one time I took no pleasure in flattery. I had not wanted a marriage to Jofre Borgia because I had been in love with another man, because I had wanted to stay in Naples with my brother, and because Jofre had been a mere child. Now I had yet another reason for regret: a father-in-law with lascivious designs-who just happened to be the leader of all Christendom.

‘May God bless and keep you, Your Highness,’ Marigliano said, then climbed into his carriage, bound for Rome.

I soon had an even greater worry than the thought of an amorous father-in-law, a pope with dreams of making me his new mistress.

Only a month after my wedding, news filtered southward into Calabria: Charles VIII, King of France, was planning to invade Naples.

Re Petito, the people called him, ‘The Little King’, for he had been born with a short, twisted spine and crooked limbs; he looked more gargoyle than man. He had also been born with a craving for conquest, and it took little for his advisors to convince him that the Angevins in Naples longed for a French king.

His queen, the lovely Anne of Brittany, did her best to dissuade him from his dreams of invasion. She and the rest of France were devoutly Catholic and deeply loyal to the Pope, who would be outraged by an intrusion into Italy.

Concerned, I wrote to my brother Alfonso to learn the truth of the matter. It took weeks to receive a reply which gave little comfort.

Have no fear, dearest sister,

True, King Charles is hungry for conquest-but at this very moment, our father is meeting with His Holiness Alexander in Vicovaro. They have forged a military alliance, and have carefully planned their strategy; once Charles hears of this, he will be filled with doubts, and will give up his foolish notion of invasion. Besides, with the Pope so strongly on our side, the French people will never support an attack on Naples.

Alfonso could not help trying to couch everything he told me in the most positive terms, but I understood his letter all too well. The French threat was real-so real that my father and the Pope were drawing up battle plans at a retreat outside Rome.

I read the text aloud to Donna Esmeralda. ‘It is just as the priest Savonarola predicted,’ she stated darkly. ‘It is the end of the world.’

I scoffed. I had no patience for the Florentine fool who fancied himself anointed by God, nor for the masses who flocked to hear his Apocalyptic message. Girolama Savonarola railed against Alexander from the safety of his pulpit in the north and lambasted the ruling family of his own city, the Medicis. The Dominican priest had actually presented himself to Charles of France and claimed that he, Savonarola, was God’s own messenger, chosen by Him to reform the church, to cast out the pleasure-loving pagans who had overrun her. ‘Savonarola is a raving madman,’ I said. ‘He thinks that King Charles is a judgment sent by God. He thinks Saint John predicted the invasion of Italy in the Apocalypse.’

She crossed herself at my lack of reverence. ‘How can you be sure he is wrong, Madonna?’ She lowered her voice, as if concerned that Jofre, on the other side of the palace, might hear. ‘It is the wickedness of Pope Alexander and the corruption of his cardinals that has brought this upon us. Unless they repent, we have no hope…’

‘Why would God punish Naples for Alexander’s sins?’ I demanded.

For that, she had no reply.

Even so, Donna Esmeralda took to praying to San Gennaro; I took to fretting. It was not just that the family throne was threatened; my little brother was no longer considered too young to fight. He was trained in the art of the sword. If the need arose, he would be called upon to wield one.

Life continued for the remainder of the summer in Squillace. I was kind to Jofre, though given his weak character, I could not bring myself to love him. In public we were affectionate with one another, even though he visited my bedchamber less often and spent more nights in the company of local whores. I did my best to show no sign of hurt or jealousy.

September arrived, and brought with it evil news.

Dearest sister, Alfonso wrote,

Perhaps you have already heard: King Charles has led his troops through the Alps. The feet of