The Borgia Bride

attendants were all aslumber, so I set down the candle and helped him as best I could myself. When he was satisfied, I left him in the darkness.

‘I went back to bed, strangely agitated. I could not sleep-and only a few moments later, I heard another noise- this one not as loud, but there was something about it…Something so that I knew…’ She put her hands to her face and bowed beneath the weight of the memory.

From thence, she was only able to speak haltingly, so I summarize here what she relayed:

My father had carried in a second chair, one much lighter than the one he had used as a delusional throne, and set it beneath the heavy wrought-iron sconce suspended from the ceiling, then stepped onto its seat. He had procured a length of rope; this he knotted to his royal sash, which bore upon it jewels and medals won for his victories at Otranto.

The rope he fastened securely to an arm of the sconce; the sash he wrapped snugly about his neck.

The sound my mother heard was that of the lighter chair being kicked over.

The heart ofttimes knows things before the mind deduces them; the impact of wood hitting marble evoked in Trusia such alarm that she rushed, without wrapper or candle, into my father’s chamber.

There, in the faint light of the stars and the beacon of Messina’s harbour, she saw the dark form of her lover’s body, rotating slowly in the noose.

Expressionless, toneless, my mother proclaimed, ‘I can never rest now, for I know he suffers in Hell. He is in the Forest of the Suicides, where the Harpies nest, for he hanged himself in his own house.’

Still kneeling before her, Alfonso gently caught her hands. ‘Dante is pure allegory, Mother. At worst, Father is in purgatory, for he did not know what he was doing. He did not even know he was in Messina when I spoke to him. No man would condemn another for an unknowing act-and God is more compassionate and wiser than any man.’

My mother looked up at him with an expression of pathetic hope, then turned to me. ‘Sancha, do you believe this is possible?’

‘Of course,’ I lied. But if one put any faith in Dante, King Alfonso II would right now be in the seventh circle of Hell, in the river of blood which boiled the souls of those ‘tyrants who dealt in blood and plunder’. If there were any justice, he would be trapped next to his sire, Ferrante, torturer, creator of the museum of the dead.

There was one other place he belonged-in the farthest depths of Hell, in Satan’s jaws, the place reserved for the greatest traitors. For he had betrayed not just his family, but his entire people. There was no brimstone there, no fire, no heat-only the worst cold of all, cruel and bitter.

As cold as my father’s heart, as cold as the look I had so often seen in his eyes.

My mother remained in Naples and recovered slowly from her sorrow. For myself, I prayed out of desperation to a God I doubted: Keep my heart from evil; let me not become as my father was. After all, I had already killed a man. Often I woke, gasping, feeling a spray of warm blood upon my brow, my cheeks, imagining that I wiped my eyes and gazed at the amazement in my victim’s dying eyes. A noble act, everyone said. I had saved the King. Perhaps I had saved Ferrandino, but there was still nothing noble in the taking of a life.

Despite the tragedy of my father’s death-the circumstances of which were hidden from the public and the servants and never discussed again within our family-life in Naples grew happy once more. Ferrandino and Giovanna were married in a glorious royal ceremony, the palace was refurbished and became once more a luxurious dwelling, and the gardens began to grow back. Under Alfonso’s influence, Jofre became a dutiful husband.

Five months passed. By May of the year 1496, I had just grown comfortable in my contentment, and no longer dreamed every night of cannon fire and warm blood, no longer closed my eyes and saw the silhouette of my father’s body dangling in the darkness. I had Ferrandino’s promise that my husband and I would remain in Naples; I had the company of my mother and brother, and wanted for nothing. For the first time, I entertained the idea of raising my sons and daughters in Naples, amongst family members who would show them only love.

Pope Alexander, however, had other plans.

I was sitting with my mother and brother at supper when Jofre appeared with a piece of parchment in his hand, and a look of dread on his face. I surmised at once that he was obliged to tell me the contents of the letter, and that he was terrified of my reaction.

He had good reason to be afraid. The letter was from his father. I guessed correctly that the scene between us was about to become unpleasant, so I excused myself from supper, and we two went to discuss the matter in private.

According to Alexander, ‘the war in Naples has reminded us of our own mortality, and the fragility of all life. We wish to live out the rest of our years surrounded by our children.’

All of them-including Jofre, and especially his wife.

I thought of the Count of Marigliano, who had visited me in Squillace at Alexander’s behest, when I had been accused of unfaithfulness to Jofre. He had warned me in a discreet manner that one day His Holiness would no longer be able to contain his curiosity: he would want to see with his own eyes the woman his youngest son had married, the woman everyone claimed was more beautiful than his mistress, La Bella.

I cursed, I waved my arms at poor cowed Jofre. I insisted that I would not go to Rome, even though I knew my refusal was doomed. I went to Ferrandino and begged him to convince His Holiness to let me remain in Naples-but we both knew that a king’s word held less sway than a pope’s. There was nothing that could be done. After waiting so long for Naples to be returned to me, she was taken from me again.

Late Spring 1496

***

X

Jofre and I rode into Rome on the twentieth of May, 1496, to the chiming of cathedral bells at ten o’clock in the morning on a brilliantly sunny day. For the entertainment of the assembled crowds of noblemen and commoners, we organized ourselves into a parade, which would be met by Lucrezia Borgia, the Pope’s second eldest child and only daughter, and led to the Vatican.

Alexander VI had done what no pope before him had dared to: he openly acknowledged his children as his own, instead of referring to them as ‘nieces’ or ‘nephews’, as other pontiffs had done in the past. It was said he loved them dearly, and this must have been the case, for he brought them all to live with him in the papal palace immediately after his election. Even outside my marriage to Jofre, I had heard talk of Lucrezia: it was rumoured that she was exceptionally beautiful.

‘What is your sister like?’ I had asked Jofre, on our journey northward.

‘Sweet,’ he had said casually, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Modest, and very charming. You will like her.’

‘Is she beautiful?’

He hesitated at that. ‘She is…pretty. Not so pretty as you, of course.’

‘And your brothers?’

‘Cesare?’ A shadow passed over my husband’s face at the mention of the brother I might have married. ‘He is very handsome.’

‘I meant his personality.’

‘Ah. He is ambitious. Very smart.’ Again, I detected dislike, but Jofre was swift to avoid the truth when it involved unpleasant matters. Even so, when I pressed about his brother, Juan, he scowled openly and said, ‘You need not worry yourself about him. He lives in Spain with his wife.’