her (in this case comparing her to the ancient Egyptian sinner-cum-saint, Thais, who had repented of her incestuous ways).
I did not need to say that the rumours were fact; Alfonso was quick enough to realize why I recited the verse.
‘Sancha,’ he said, his voice low and tense, his words swift. ‘Even if every charge against her is true, I am not free. I have vowed to do this for the sake of Naples. Other men, with ties to France, have proposed-and we cannot permit any French influence on His Holiness. Without full papal support, the House of Aragon is doomed. The new French King has already proclaimed himself ruler of our territory; we must have the Pope on our side in case of another invasion.’
I fought to keep the anguish from my expression; Alfonso’s entourage could not see me show anything but happiness. ‘You do not understand-you will have to watch your every move. They are murderers,’ I whispered, my expression as pleasant as if we were discussing the glorious weather.
‘As are most rulers, among them our own relatives,’ he countered. ‘Am I not charming, Sancha?’
‘The most charming man I have ever met-almost.’ He tried to make me smile again, but I was too full of despair.
‘I will charm even the Borgias. I will win their trust. I am not a fool; I will give them no cause to rid themselves of me. And the marriage has brought our family a great boon: the Duchy of Bisciglie.’ He paused; his tone turned playful as he tried to turn my dismay back to joy. ‘Is Lucrezia entirely cruel? Will she treat me badly? Is she a hideous hag?’
‘No, no, and no.’ I released a sigh of pure misery, realizing I had been defeated. Nothing would stop the marriage.
‘You said in your letters that you and she are friends. You seem to have survived thus far.’
‘After a fashion, yes.’ I paused. ‘Lucrezia has actually been quite kind to me.’
‘Then she is not a heartless monster. And I am not here to judge her. I will treat her well and be a good husband, Sancha. I can think of no better way to win over her father and Cesare.’
I put my hand on his bearded cheek. ‘You could not be any other kind of husband, little brother. I pray God you take care.’
I rode into the city with him. Cesare was waiting to receive him in front of the Vatican. The Cardinal of Valencia’s manner was at once cordial and cool; he was sizing up this man who might exert untoward influence over his sister, and I believe he was justifiably concerned. I did my best not to reveal my inner turmoil.
At last we dismounted, and I followed as my brother was led up the Vatican steps into the building itself and the throne room, where Alexander sat waiting, bedecked entirely in white satin, with his heavy gold-and-diamond cross upon his breast.
Lucrezia sat on the velvet cushion beside him. Like her groom-to-be, she had dressed in palest blue-in her case, a gown of silk, with silver trim and seed pearls covering the bodice, and a matching cap; her cheeks were flushed, and she looked almost pretty, with her golden ringlets spilling past her shoulders. At the sight of Alfonso, her face lit up like a beacon; she was unquestionably besotted with him from the first instant.
Alexander seemed besotted himself. He broke into a broad grin, and said, ‘The bridegroom, and new Duke of Bisciglie! Welcome, Alfonso! Welcome, dear son, to our family! So, Lucrezia, the rumours are true-your husband- to-be is an exceedingly handsome man!’
Alfonso dutifully knelt to kiss the Pope’s slipper; once that formality was dispensed with, Alexander rose and stepped down to put his arm around his future son-in-law’s shoulders. ‘Come. Come. We have prepared a fine dinner-though I think we should not eat too much, for tomorrow there is the wedding-feast!’
He laughed, and Alfonso smiled. In the interim, Lucrezia rose from her little cushion and descended the stairs. When Alfonso encountered her, he bowed and kissed her hand.
‘Madonna Lucrezia,’ he said-and only my brother could speak with the sincerity to make the following words convincing, ‘you shine like a star at night. Compared to your beauty, everything that surrounds you is darkness.’
She giggled like a child; Alexander beamed in approval of such pretty words. He replaced his arm around Alfonso’s shoulders, and the two of them headed for the papal apartments and the waiting banquet, while Lucrezia followed with a dreamy expression. Cesare went next, his features arranged pleasantly, but his gaze piercing; I brought up the rear, wearing a frozen smile.
The wedding was held in the Hall of the Saints, where the ill-fated marriage to Giovanni Sforza had taken place. The guests were few, mostly the Vatican household and some cardinals.
Lucrezia looked lovely in a gown of black satin, with a gold stomacher seeded with diamonds. She and Alfonso might have been mistaken for brother and sister, with their golden curls and pale eyes-just as, ironically, I might have been mistaken for the sister of the dark-haired Cesare, who was dressed in black velvet for the occasion. Out of deference for the bride, I dressed in sombre Neapolitan garb.
During the wedding, I stood next to Jofre-with Cesare uncomfortably close, just on my husband’s other side. As Cardinal Giovanni Borgia asked the bride and groom to utter their vows, the acting Captain-General of the papal forces, Juan de Cervillon, unsheathed a handsome jewelled sword and held it over the heads of the new Duke and Duchess of Bisciglie. It symbolized that these two should never be parted by any cause; as I stared at the shining blade, I thought of the strega’s card-the heart pierced by two swords. I had blotted much of the incident from my memory, but now more of it returned at the sight of de Cervillon’s weapon, with haunting force.
I watched the proceedings with no emotion other than fear.
But Alfonso and Lucrezia were all smiles. The two could not have seemed happier; I held onto the fact desperately, hoping it would spare my brother the pain I had encountered at the Borgias’ hands.
Alfonso gave his answer in a sure, strong voice; Lucrezia’s reply was soft and shy as she gazed upon him with honest devotion. One look at her eyes, and at Alfonso’s, and I knew: they had been struck by the same thunderbolt that wounded me the day I met the Cardinal of Valencia.
Soon the presiding legate pronounced the pair man and wife. Radiant, Alfonso and Lucrezia processed arm in arm from the Hall, followed by Captain de Cervillon and Cardinal Borgia.
Unfortunately, as the rest of us began to leave from the private chapel to the reception area, an argument began. ‘The Princess of Squillace is sister to the groom, and her party will proceed next,’ Donna Esmeralda insisted in a strident voice. Soon she was shoving one of Cesare’s grooms aside; his servants were demanding precedence over mine. It is impossible to completely hide one’s personal feelings from one’s servants, and Cesare’s people and mine were, in a matter of seconds, at each other’s throats. One of Jofre’s grooms stepped forward and demanded, ‘Let the Prince and Princess of Squillace pass!’
In reply, he received a swift blow to the jaw, and fell back into the arms of his fellows. Donna Esmeralda and my ladies began shrieking; it did not help that His Holiness’ entourage became caught up in the melee as well.
More punches were thrown, and swords drawn; the Pope’s attendants became so terrified, they ran up the steps behind the altar and fled the chapel, leaving Alexander unprotected in the middle of a brawl. ‘Enough!’ he shouted, flailing his arms, his golden mantle very nearly pierced by a blade, and in danger of slipping from his shoulders. ‘Enough! This is a happy occasion!’
His pleas were drowned out by shouts. Jofre’s groom recovered enough to wrestle his attacker to the floor; the pair blocked any progress in or out of the chapel.
‘Stop!’ Jofre called, his voice adding to the cacophony. ‘Stop this idiocy at once!’
The task fell to Cesare. Without a word, he drew a dagger and in a swift, single movement was leaning over the two fighting men, the tip of the blade in reach of either’s throat. The ferocity in his gaze convinced the two wrestling that he would not hesitate to spill blood, even here, even now, on his sister’s wedding-day.
The room fell silent. ‘Disengage,’ Cesare said, in a deadly low voice, yet all heard it.
The grooms rolled aside, and stood, wide-eyed and complacent.
‘Where is His Holiness’ entourage?’ Cesare asked, in the same calm, low-yet altogether terrifying-tone.
His groom pointed to the altar, and the steps that led back toward the private papal chambers. ‘Hiding, Your
