The Borgia Bride

cruelty were a necessary part of protecting Alfonso.

Ferrante pushed open the door. We walked hand-in-hand back into the Great Hall, where the musicians played. I scanned the crowd for Alfonso, and saw him standing off in a far corner, staring owl-eyed at us both. My mother and Isabella were both dancing, and had for the moment altogether forgotten us children.

But my father, the Duke of Calabria, had apparently taken note of the King’s disappearance. I glanced up, startled, as he stepped in front of us and stopped our progress with a single question.

‘Your Majesty. Is the girl annoying you?’ During my brief lifetime, I had never heard the Duke address his father in any other fashion. He looked down at me, his expression hostile, suspicious. I tried to summon the mannerisms of pure innocence, but after what I had seen, I could not hide the fact I had been shaken to the core.

‘Not in the least,’ Ferrante replied, with good humour. ‘We’ve just been exploring, that’s all.’

Revelation, then fury, flashed in my father’s beautiful, heartless eyes. He understood exactly where my grandfather and I had been-and, given my reputation as a miscreant, realized I had not been invited.

‘I will deal with her,’ the Duke said, in a tone of great menace. He was famous for his vicious treatment of his enemies, the Turks; he had insisted on personally torturing and killing those captured in the Battle of Otranto, by methods so inhuman we children were not permitted to hear of them. I told myself I was not afraid. It was unseemly for him to have me, a royal, thrashed. He did not realize that he already imposed on me the worst punishment possible: he did not love me, and made no secret of the fact.

And I, proud as he, would never admit my desperate desire to gain his affection.

‘Don’t punish her, Alfonso,’ Ferrante said. ‘She has spirit, that’s all.’

‘Girls ought not to have spirit,’ my father countered. ‘This one least of all. My other children are tolerable, but she has done nothing but vex me since the day of her birth-a day I deeply regret.’ He glared down at me. ‘Go. His Majesty and I have matters to discuss. You and I will speak about this later.’

Ferrante let go my hand. I made a little curtsy and said, ‘Your Majesty.’ I would have run full tilt had the Hall not been filled with adults who all would have turned and demanded decorum; as it was, I walked as swiftly as possible over to my waiting brother.

He took a single glimpse at my face and threw his arms about me. ‘Oh, Sancha! So it is true…I am so sorry you had to see. Were you frightened?’

My heart, which had grown so chilled in the presence of my two elders, thawed in Alfonso’s presence. He did not want to know the details of what I had witnessed; he wanted only to know how I had fared. I was a bit surprised that my little brother was not more shocked to learn that the rumour was true. Perhaps he understood the King better than I did.

I drew back, but kept my arms entwined with his. ‘It was not so bad,’ I lied.

‘Father looked angry; I fear he will punish you.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t. Ferrante didn’t care a whit.’ I paused, then added with childish bravado, ‘Besides, what will Father do? Make me stay in my room? Make me go without supper?’

‘If he does,’ Alfonso whispered, ‘I will come to you, and we can play quietly. If you’re hungry, I can bring you food.’

I smiled and laid a palm on his cheek. ‘The point is, you mustn’t worry. There’s nothing Father can do that will really hurt me.’

How very wrong I was.

Donna Esmeralda was waiting outside the Great Hall to lead us back to the nursery. Alfonso and I were in a jolly mood, especially as we moved past the classroom where, had this not been a holiday, we would have been studying Latin under the uninspired tutelage of Fra Giuseppe Maria. Fra Giuseppe was a sad-faced Dominican monk from the nearby monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, famed as the site where a crucifix had spoken to Thomas Aquinas two centuries earlier. Fra Giuseppe was so exceedingly corpulent that both Alfonso and I had christened him in Latin Fra Cena, Father Supper. As we passed by the classroom, I solemnly began the declension of our current favourite verb. ‘Ceno,’ I said. I dine.

Alfonso finished, sotto voce. ‘Cenare,’ he said. ‘Cenavi. Cenatus.’

Donna Esmeralda rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

I giggled at the joke on Fra Giuseppe, but at the same time, I recalled a phrase he had used in our last lesson to teach us the dative case. Deo et homnibus peccavit.

He has sinned against God and men.

I thought of Robert’s marble eyes, staring at me. I wanted to know they were listening.

Once we were in the nursery, the chambermaid joined Esmeralda in carefully removing our dress clothes while we wriggled impatiently. We were then dressed in less restrictive clothing-a loose, drab gown for me, a plain tunic and breeches for Alfonso.

The door to the nursery opened, and we turned to see our mother, Madonna Trusia, accompanied by her lady- in-waiting, Donna Elena, a Spanish noblewoman. The latter had brought her son, our favourite playmate: Arturo, a bony, long-limbed hellion who excelled at chases and tree-climbing, both sports I enjoyed. My mother had changed from her formal black into a pale yellow gown; looking at her smiling face, I thought of the Neapolitan sun.

‘Little ones,’ she announced. ‘I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic.’

Alfonso and I whooped our approval. We each grasped one of Madonna Trusia’s soft hands. She led us from the nursery into the castle corridors, Donna Elena and Arturo in tow.

But before we reached freedom, we had an unfortunate encounter.

We passed my father. Beneath his blue-black moustache, his lips were grim with purpose, his brow furrowed. I surmised he was headed for the nursery to inflict my punishment. Given the current circumstances, I could also guess what it would be.

We came to an abrupt stop.

‘Your Highness,’ my mother said sweetly, and bowed. Donna Elena followed suit.

He acknowledged Trusia with a curt question. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I am taking the children on a picnic.’

The Duke’s gaze flickered over our little assembly, then settled on me. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, defiant, resolved to show no sign of disappointment at his next utterance.

‘Not her.’

‘But Your Highness, it is a holiday…’

‘Not her. She misbehaved abominably today. It must be dealt with at once.’ He paused and gave my mother a look that made her wilt like a blossom in scorching heat. ‘Now go.’

Madonna Trusia and Elena bowed again to the Duke; my mother and Alfonso both shot me sorrowful little glances before moving on.

‘Come,’ my father said.

We walked in silence to the nursery. Once we arrived, Donna Esmeralda was summoned to witness my father’s formal address.

‘I should not be required to waste an instant of my attention on a useless girl child with no hope of ascending to the throne-much less such a child who is a bastard.’

He had not finished, but his cursory dismissal so stung that I could not let an opportunity to retaliate pass. ‘What difference does it make? The King is a bastard,’ I interrupted swiftly, ‘which makes you the son of a bastard.’

He slapped my cheek so hard it brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them spill. Donna Esmeralda started slightly when he struck me, but managed to keep herself in check.

‘You are incorrigible,’ he said. ‘But I cannot permit you to further waste my time. You are not worth even a moment of my attention. Discipline should be the province of nursemaids, not princes. I have denied you food, I have closeted you in your room-yet none of this has done anything to calm you. And you are almost old enough to be married. How shall I turn you into a proper young woman?’

He fell silent and thought a long moment. After a time, I saw his eyes narrow, then gleam with understanding. A slight, cold smile played on his lips. ‘I have denied you the wrong things, haven’t I? You’re a hard-headed child.