and a profusion of flora that had earned it the nickname ‘The Green Island’. The landscape was dominated by Monte Epomeo, which erupted every few centuries, rendering the soil dark and fertile.
Jofre, Alfonso and I stayed with Ferrandino in the isolated grand Castello connected to the main island by a bridge built by my great-grandfather, Alfonso the Magnanimous. There was little to do as April bled into May, then May into June, save pray (with a sceptic’s faithlessness) for our army as they made forays onto the mainland. The campaigns went well: our losses were few, for we now had the barons’ support as well as that of the Holy League. The French were disheartened.
Neither Jofre nor Alfonso were needed to fight-to their disappointment, I suspect, and to my deep relief. We three again became inseparable; we dined together, visited the small towns-Ischia and Sant’Angelo-and the hot mineral springs, reputed to be good for the health.
But I began each morning alone, with a walk down to the beach of fine sand, and stared across the calm waters of the bay. On clear days, Naples’ curving coastline was visible; Vesuvio stood like a beacon, and I could just make out the Castel dell’Ovo, a small, dark dot. I stood so long I grew brown from the sun; Donna Esmeralda often came after me, scolding, and forced me to cover my head with a shawl.
On foggy days, I still went out, and like my father, vainly sought a glimpse of Vesuvio.
I had thought myself homesick in Squillace-but then, I had been certain of a home to which I could return. Now I knew not whether the palace in which I had spent my childhood stood. I yearned for Santa Chiara and the Duomo as if they were loved ones, and feared for their safety. I thought of the graceful ships in the harbour with their bright sails, of the courtyard gardens, which-had they not been destroyed-now would have been in full bloom, and my heart ached.
Ferrandino met constantly with his military advisors. We saw almost nothing of him until the month of July, when my husband, brother and I were summoned to his office.
He sat at his desk; beside him stood his Captain, Don Inaco, and I knew from the brilliant, satisfied smiles on the faces of both men what news the King was about to share with us.
Ferrandino could scarcely restrain himself; even before we had finished bowing, he spoke, his tone giddier than I had ever heard it. ‘Pack your trunks, Your Highnesses.’
‘Mine was never unpacked,’ said I.
Summer 1495-Late Spring 1496
IX
Our journey across the Bay of Naples was swift. Indeed, it took more time for servants to load our ship with provisions and belongings than it took to sail from Ischia into the harbour of Santa Lucia.
Our royal entourage, consisting of His Majesty Ferrandino, his betrothed, Giovanna, Jofre, Alfonso, and me, boarded the vessel in exceedingly high spirits. As the ship launched, Alfonso had bottles of wine and goblets brought, and we repeatedly toasted the King, the House of Aragon, and the city to which we were returning. Those were the most joyous moments of my life; I believe they were for Ferrandino as well, for his eyes had never been so bright, nor his smile so broad. At an impetuous instant, he seized Giovanna round her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her passionately-much to the delight of our cheering assembly.
Jofre made light of the preacher Savonarola and his dire predictions that Charles VIII would bring about the end of the world. ‘My father, His Holiness, has commanded Savonarola to come to Rome and defend his view of the Apocalypse-which seems to have been a bit premature. Savonarola, coward that he is, pleads illness and says he cannot make the journey.’
We roared as Jofre suggested a new toast: ‘To Savonarola’s continued ill health.’ I was glad that Esmeralda was below deck, so that she could not hear the insult to the priest she so revered.
As we drew closer to the Neapolitan coastline, silence overtook us. Vesuvio, which during our exile had come to represent for me a beacon of hope, still held vigil over the city: but its dusky purple was the lone spot of colour in a once-verdant landscape now reduced to cinders. The fields, the slopes, all of which should have been abloom with flowers, bright with ripening crops, were blackened, as though the great mount had erupted once again.
Only Ferrandino still smiled; he had seen this devastation before, in forays with his captains. ‘Have no despair,’ he told us. ‘The French may have ensured we would have no harvest this season-but the fires they set will enrich the soil, and bring us bountiful yield next year.’
Even so, the rest of us remained quiet and disturbed. As we pulled into the harbour alongside the charred skeletons of ships, the Castel dell’Ovo-its solid, ancient stone unmarred-was a reassuring sight. I stared anxiously into the city proper, past the jagged, war-torn walls, and clutched Alfonso’s arm excitedly.
‘Look!’ I cried. ‘The Church of Santa Chiara still stands! And the Duomo!’ It was true: despite the flames I had seen emerging from her, the exterior of Santa Chiara was nearly unscathed, save for streaks of soot. The Duomo appeared untouched.
But as our little family rode together in a carriage, headed for the Castel Nuovo, I struggled to hide my grief and hatred-nor was I alone. Even Ferrandino’s expression had grown grim; Giovanna was fighting tears, and Alfonso kept his face turned to the window.
It was a short ride from the harbour to our destination-but even that brief distance allowed us to view some of the destruction wrought by the French. Palace after palace, commoners’ dwellings, all of them had been scorched, reduced to rubble by cannon fire, or both. The armoury, once filled with artillery and soldiers, protected by a double thickness of walls, was nothing more than a blackened heap of stones and trapped, festering corpses.
Giovanna covered her nose. I could not help noticing that, along with the usual perfume of salt water that I so loved, the Bay now released a subtle but ghastly smell-that of rotting flesh. Apparently, it was easier to be rid of the dead by feeding them to the waves instead of the earth.
The walls surrounding the Castel Nuovo wore a madman’s uneven, gap-toothed grin. ‘No matter,’ Ferrandino said, and pointed overhead. ‘Look who greets us.’ I gazed upward, and for the first time since arriving in Naples, smiled; the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I still stood proud and unscarred, and our carriage rode beneath it, past the waiting guards who held the gate open for our entry.
Inside the courtyard, now a pile of trampled earth denuded of its gardens, a captain left his contingent of soldiers and ran up to the carriage, opened the door, and bowed. ‘Welcome, Your Majesty,’ he said, and assisted Ferrandino down. ‘We must apologize for the state of the royal palace. We had hoped to have it ready for your arrival today, but unfortunately, most of the servants who worked here were killed. We have been forced to recruit untrained commoners and impoverished nobles, and they have been slow to repair the damage.’
‘It matters not,’ Ferrandino replied graciously. ‘We are glad to be home.’
But any happiness I felt upon being ushered in through the great doors soon fled. The captain led us towards the throne room, where the seneschal was to meet with the King and discuss plans for restoring the palace and dealing with the local famine. We passed through corridors scarred from the bite of duelling blades, and darkened by spatters of blood. Portraits of our ancestors had been cut from their frames and slashed; the golden frames had been stolen, the shreds of painted canvas left upon the floors. Statues, carpets, tapestries, sconces-all the things I had known since childhood, and thought permanent, as eternal as my family’s right to the Crown, had been stolen. We walked on bare floors, past bare walls.
‘They have taken everything,’ Giovanna said bitterly. ‘Everything.’
Ferrandino’s tone was surprisingly hard. ‘It is the way of war. Nothing can be done; complaints serve no good.’
She fell silent, but the hatred in her eyes did not ease.
In the alcove where I had killed the traitorous guard, blood still stained the floor and walls; the signs of my
