The Borgia Bride

I thought, for a terrifying instant, that he was dying.

Uncle Francesco rose at once and went to his brother’s side. He knelt and put a hand upon the suffering man’s arm. ‘Federico! Federico, what is it?’

‘He has taken it,’ Federico gasped. ‘The Crown treasures. He has taken it all…’ The Crown treasures constituted the majority of Naples’ wealth.

It took a moment before I realized the word he referred to my father.

I had always imagined that my return home to visit my brother would be one of the happier moments in my life, but the next few days in the Castel Nuovo found us all caught in a special sort of misery. My husband and I spent time in Alfonso’s company, but it was scarcely happy; the harm our father had inflicted upon the kingdom left us stunned and sombre. We could do nothing but wait and hope for Ferrandino and his troops to reach Naples ahead of the French.

Even more painful was the discovery that my mother had disappeared as well. This was a hard fact to accept: you have your mother’s loyal heart, Uncle Federico had said, but I could not accept that Trusia’s loyalty to her lover outweighed that to Naples and her own children. The notion was so ghastly that my brother and I could not bear to discuss it; and so my mother’s betrayal went unmentioned.

The morning after our arrival at the castle, Donna Esmeralda admitted Alfonso into my chambers. I smiled, faintly, in greeting-but my brother did not. He held a wooden box slightly longer than my hand and half as wide; he proffered it to me as a gift.

‘For your protection,’ he said, his tone infinitely serious. ‘We cannot predict what might happen, and I will not rest until I know that you are capable of defending yourself.’

I laughed, partly from a desire to dismiss such a topic.

‘Do not scoff,’ Alfonso urged. ‘It is no joke: The French are on their way to Naples. Open it.’

Reluctantly, I did as instructed. Inside the box, nestled against black velvet, was a small, long dagger with a narrow silver hilt.

‘A stiletto,’ my brother explained, as I drew it from its little scabbard. The hilt was quite short; most of the weapon consisted of the triangular blade, of fine, polished steel terminating in a wickedly sharp point. I dared not even touch the tip with my finger to test its keenness; I knew it would draw blood at once.

‘I chose this for you because it can be easily concealed in your gown,’ Alfonso said. ‘We have seamstresses who can set to work immediately. I came this morning because we have no time to waste. I shall instruct you in its use now.’

I let go a clicking sound of scepticism. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, brother, but this can hardly do battle against a sword.’

‘No,’ Alfonso agreed, ‘and therein lies its beauty. Any soldier will presume you are unarmed, and will therefore approach you without fear. When your enemy draws close, that is when you surprise him. Here.’ He took the weapon from me, and showed me how to hold it properly. ‘With a dagger like this, the best method of doing damage is underhanded, thrusting upward.’ He demonstrated, slitting an imaginary opponent from belly to throat, then handed the little blade to me. ‘Take it. You try.’

I copied his movements precisely.

‘Good, good,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘You are a natural fighter.’

‘I am a daughter of the House of Aragon.’

He at last smiled faintly, which had been my intent.

I scrutinized the steel in my hand. ‘This might be suitable against an Angevin,’ I remarked, ‘but hardly deadly against an armoured Frenchman.’

‘Ah, Sancha, therein lies its power. It is slender enough to pierce chain mail, to slip between spaces in armour-and keen and strong enough, if wielded with sufficient enthusiasm, to penetrate light metal. I know; it was mine.’ He paused. ‘I only pray you never have to use it.’

For his sake, I pretended not to share his fear. ‘It is pretty,’ I said, holding it to the sunlight. ‘Like jewellery. I shall wear it always, as a keepsake.’

But in the days that followed, after small pockets had been added to my bodice, just above the folds of my skirts, I practised alone: withdrawing the stiletto swiftly, surreptitiously, wielding it underhanded, over and over, slaying invisible foes.

Two more days passed, during which time the royal brothers met constantly to formalize their strategy. An edict was announced in the streets, that King Alfonso II had abdicated in favour of his son, Ferrandino. We hoped this would mollify the barons, and keep them from fighting with the French against the Crown. In the meantime, Jofre wrote an impassioned letter to his father, Alexander, giving the official explanation of the abdication and begging for papal support; Prince Federico edited it heavily, then sent it to Rome via secret courier.

One sun-filled February morning, shortly before noonday, I was dining with Jofre and Alfonso when our quiet, listless conversation was interrupted by a faraway thunder. Three simultaneous thoughts competed for my attention:

It is nothing, a passing storm.

Has Vesuvio come alive?

Dear God, it is the French.

Wide-eyed, I stared in turn at my brother, then husband as the sound came again-this time unmistakably from the northwest-and echoed against nearby Pizzofalcone. No doubt we all shared the last thought, for we rose as one, and together raced upstairs to the floor above, where a balcony offered a view of the city’s western horizon. Soon Donna Esmeralda joined us, and pointed due north of Vesuvio, towards Naples’ furthermost boundary. I followed the gesture with my gaze, and saw small puffs of dark smoke in the distance. Thunder rolled again.

‘Cannon fire,’ Esmeralda said with conviction. ‘I will never forget the sound. I have heard it in my dreams ever since the baronial uprisings against Ferrante, when I was a young woman.’

We watched, captivated by the horizon, not daring to speak further as we awaited the answer to a single question: Was this Ferrandino being welcomed, or the French announcing themselves?

I stroked my hand lightly over the stiletto hidden in my bodice, reassuring myself it was still there.

‘Look!’ Jofre shouted, with such abruptness that I started. ‘Over there! Soldiers!’

Marching in loose formation, small, dark forms moved on foot over the gently rolling landscape towards the city. It was impossible to distinguish the colour of their uniforms, to ascertain whether they were Neapolitan or French.

Alfonso came to himself. ‘Federico must know at once!’ he exclaimed, and hastened to leave; Esmeralda called to him.

‘Don Alfonso, I think he already does!’ She gestured at the walls outside our own palace, where armed guards hurried into defensive positions. Even so, my brother departed to make certain.

For a long, dreadful moment those of us remaining squinted into the distance, not knowing whether we should welcome or fight those who made their way steadily towards the city and the royal palace.

Suddenly, hoisted above the approaching troops, I saw the banner: golden lilies against deep blue.

‘Ferrandino!’ I cried, then seized my husband and kissed him madly upon the lips and cheeks. ‘See, it is our flag!’

Ferrandino’s entry into Naples was far from joyous. The cannons I had mistakenly thought were fired by our own soldiers, announcing their arrival, had in fact been fired by angry barons lying in wait to attack the young prince. Although our rebellious nobles lacked the numbers and the weaponry to launch a serious campaign on their own, they managed to kill a few of our men. One of the cannon blasts startled Ferrandino’s horse, so that he was almost thrown.

We family awaited him in the Great Hall. There were no flowers on this day, no tapestries or adornments of any kind; everything of value had been packed away in case of the need for swift flight.

Ferrandino was far different from the arrogant young man I had known as a girl. He was still handsome but exhausted and gaunt, humbled and aged by responsibility, war and disappointment. All he wants are pretty girls to admire him and a soft bed, old Ferrante had said years ago, but it was clear the prince had had neither for a very long time.