conversations, Lucrezia said coyly, ‘So. You have spoken of your brother, Alfonso, and you claim that he is one of the most handsome men in all Italy.’
‘It is no claim,’ I replied, with easy good humour. ‘It is God’s own truth. He is a golden god, Madonna. I saw him last summer in Squillace, and he has only grown more handsome.’
‘And he is kind?’
‘No sweeter man was ever born.’ I stopped in mid-stride and stared over at her, seized by a sudden wonderful conviction. ‘You know all this; I have spoken of him many times. Lucrezia-tell me-is he coming to visit us at Rome?’
‘Yes!’ she said, and clapped her hands like a gleeful child; I grabbed those hands, smiling with joy. ‘But Sancha, it is even better than that!’
‘What can be better than a visit from Alfonso?’ I demanded. What a fool I was; how ignorant!
‘He and I are to be married.’ She waited, smiling, for my exuberant reaction.
I gasped. I felt pulled down into a horrible black vortex, a suffocating Charybdis from which I could not extricate myself.
Yet extricate myself I did, through some involuntary grace. I did not-could not-smile, but managed to save the situation by pulling her to me solemnly in a tight embrace.
‘Sancha,’ she said, her voice muffled by my shoulder, ‘Sancha, you are so sweet. I have never seen you so emotional.’
Once I had control of myself, I drew back with a forced smile. ‘Have you kept this secret from me long?’
Silently, I damned Alfonso. He had said nothing to me of the marriage proposal. If he had, I might have had the chance to warn him, to explain the peculiar circle of Hell he was about to enter. But writing to him was out of the question; my letters would surely be taken aside and examined by Alexander and Cesare, given the political importance of this union. I was bound to wait until he arrived in Rome-as a bridegroom.
But had he not heard of Giovanni Sforza’s charges? Had he been fool enough to disbelieve them? And all of Italy knew Lucrezia had just given birth. No doubt Alfonso accepted the lie that Perotto had been the father, and was willing to overlook Lucrezia’s youthful indiscretion.
This was all my fault, I told myself, for sparing Alfonso the miserable truth of life in Rome.
I had wanted to protect him. And, like a good Borgia, I had learned to keep my mouth shut.
‘Not so long,’ Lucrezia replied in answer to my question. ‘Father and Cesare did not tell me until this morning. I am so happy! At last, I will have a husband my own age-one who is handsome and kind. I am the luckiest woman in Rome! And your brother has agreed to take up residence here. We will all live together in Santa Maria.’ She clasped my hand. ‘I was so full of despair only a few months ago that I wanted to take my own life. But you saved me, and for that I shall always be grateful. Now I have hope again.’
Cesare could have chosen no more perfect way to make me hold my tongue, to mind my manners, to behave in whatever way he wished. He knew of my love for Alfonso-I spoke often of him at family dinners, and at our private trysts. Cesare knew that I would do anything to protect my little brother.
‘I am glad for you,’ I managed.
‘I know how terribly you have missed him. Perhaps Father and Cesare were thinking of that, too, when they chose him.’ The naivete in her statement astounded me.
‘I have no doubt they were,’ I said, knowing that Lucrezia would never hear the irony in it.
I arrived in my bedchamber that night to find Donna Esmeralda weeping as she knelt at her shrine to San Gennaro.
‘The end of the world is coming at last,’ she moaned, clasping the small gold crucifix about her neck. ‘They have killed him. They have killed him, and we will all pay.’
I pulled her to her feet and forced her to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Who, Esmeralda? Who do you mean?’
‘Savonarola,’ she said. ‘Alexander’s delegates. He would not stop preaching, so they hanged him, then burned his body.’ She shook her head, whispering, ‘God will strike Alexander down, Madonna. Mark my words: even a pope cannot continue in such wickedness.’
I put my hands upon her shoulders. ‘Do not fear for yourself, Esmeralda: if it is true that God sees all hearts, then he sees yours, and knows you are a good woman. He would never have cause to punish you.’
I could scarcely say the same for myself.
When Esmeralda at last fell asleep, I pondered my brother’s situation for hours. I remembered my grandfather Ferrante’s words:
I would do anything to save my brother’s life-and Cesare was all too aware of the fact. I assumed that his choice of Lucrezia’s groom was part of a plot intended to coerce me into marrying him.
The notion that once would have filled me with delight now made me shudder…for I knew that, to protect Alfonso, I would desert poor Jofre and marry a murderer.
Summer 1498
XXIV
Alfonso rode into Rome in the midst of summer; and I, in desperation to speak to him privately, played the overeager sister and rode out alone to meet his entourage before it even crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge that led to Vatican Hill.
He rode on horseback at the front of his company, accompanied by several grooms, while wagons piled with his belongings and bridal gifts followed; I easily spotted the golden hair in the bright sun. I spurred my horse on, and when he recognized me, he gave a shout, and galloped forth to meet me.
We dismounted and embraced; despite my worry over his impending marriage, I could not help smiling with joy at the sight of him. He was as glorious-looking as ever, clad in pale blue satin. ‘Alfonso, my darling.’
‘I am here, Sancha! Here at last! I never need leave you again.’
His grooms trotted up to join us. ‘May I have a moment with my brother?’ I asked sweetly.
They acquiesced and rode back to join the slow wagons.
I put my cheek against his. ‘Alfonso,’ I whispered in his ear, ‘as happy as I am to see you, you must not go through with this marriage.’
He released a disbelieving little laugh. ‘Sancha,’ he said aloud, ‘now is hardly the time and place.’
‘Now is the
My tone was so fierce, so urgent, he grew sombre. ‘I am already committed. To break the contract now would be unconscionable, cowardly…’
I drew a breath. I had little time to make my case, and my brother was a very trusting soul. How was I to relay quickly the degree of treachery I had witnessed? ‘Ethics are of no use here. You know the lines written by the Aragonese poets concerning Lucrezia,’ I said. I felt guilt, imagining what she would feel if she knew what I was telling her intended bridegroom.
‘Please.’ He blushed; he knew precisely to what I alluded.
I quoted Sannazaro. ‘
