I watched as he relaxed slightly. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Jofre was with some of his men last night, quite late; they were crossing the bridge at Sant’Angelo when the sheriff stopped them and demanded to know their business.’
‘As well he should,’ Alexander said. ‘I have spoken to Jofre about his late-night escapades. He has been going about with his Spaniards, looking for fights. And it seems he finally managed to find one.’
His tone was dismissive; I stared at him and gasped aloud. ‘Your Holiness, the men responsible for wounding Jofre must be brought to justice!’
Alexander sat, clearly no longer concerned by the matter; he beheld me with his great brown eyes-eyes that appeared benevolent on the surface, yet hid such a conniving soul. ‘It sounds as though they were doing their duty. I cannot “punish” them, as you ask, for it. Jofre received what he deserved.’ He looked down at a paper on his desk, ignoring me.
‘He is your
He glanced up at me coldly. ‘Of that, you were misinformed, Madonna.’
My temper seized hold of my tongue before my intelligence could. ‘You have told the world otherwise,’ I countered sharply, ‘which makes you both a liar
He rose again at that-swiftly, with an anger to match mine, but before he could respond, I turned my back on him, deliberately not requesting permission to take my leave, and stormed from the room, slamming the door in my wake.
Afterwards, I became convinced I had greatly worsened Alfonso’s and my situation. By afternoon, I had grown so agitated over my misdeed that I went searching for my brother, and was forced to wait several hours until his return from a hunt.
We met in our typical clandestine fashion-in Alfonso’s inner sanctum, with the door to the outer chamber locked. As my brother listened, resting in a chair after a hard day of riding-too worn even to remove his cape before sitting-I paced before him and confessed my idiocy and sense of guilt.
He shook his head indulgently and sighed. ‘Sancha, you must realize: your displays of temper might greatly annoy Alexander, but in the end, he understands that you were defending your husband. No ill will come of your encounter.’ There was no point in trying to convince him otherwise; he was too accustomed to seeing the good in people. No matter how long he remained in Rome, he would never understand the Borgia talent for treachery.
I let go a sigh; but then Alfonso added, ‘You have not worsened our situation. Indeed, our situation can scarcely grow any worse.’
And he told me, at last, the fact he had kept hidden from me for some days: that the representatives of the Spanish King, Ferdinand, had grown increasingly outraged by Alexander’s actions. In fact, they were setting sail in the morning for Spain, in order to meet with Ferdinand himself. Their departure was intended as a deliberate affront to the Pope, and before they took their leave, they relayed to His Holiness their belief that the papal army had been receiving munitions from France, smuggled in wine barrels.
Alfonso conveyed this with a heaviness that was born of far more than physical exhaustion. With one temple resting on his fist, he said wearily, ‘And the Pope has managed to so thoroughly infuriate the Spanish with his constant flattery of King Louis that the ambassadors insulted Alexander outright. In fact, Garcillaso de Vega had the courage to tell His Holiness directly: “I hope you are forced to follow me to Spain-as a fugitive, on a barge, not on a fine ship such as mine.’”
I could not help emitting a gasp of delight at the thought of de Vega putting Alexander in his place; at the same time, I knew such frankness would only draw vengeance. ‘What did the Pope say?’
‘He sputtered,’ Alfonso said. ‘He said that Don de Vega dishonoured him, to accuse him of complicity with France. He said that his loyalty to Spain remains unchanged.’
I was silent; I studied my brother carefully. I feared that Lucrezia still influenced him so greatly that he might try to dismiss the Spanish ambassadors’ retreat as an overreaction; but he did not. His expression remained grave, troubled.
After a pause, Alfonso spoke again, his tone one of frank defeat. ‘I have been talking regularly with Ascanio Sforza,’ he said. ‘He points out that while Lucrezia may love me, her voice will go unheard in this matter as far as the Pope is concerned. She protested her divorce from Giovanni Sforza vigorously, but in the end, it made no difference.’
I held my tongue, gracious enough not to point out that I had said the same weeks ago and been dismissed. Instead, I said, ‘Only one person has Alexander’s ear, and that is Cesare. He is the greatest danger we face.’
Alfonso pondered this gravely, then continued. ‘Sforza is thinking of leaving Rome. He is unsure how long it will be safe for supporters of the House of Aragon to remain here.’
I froze. I knew that Cesare’s political manoeuvring with the French left my brother and me in a grave situation. But the actual physical danger-the fact that the Borgias might try to assassinate Alfonso-had never seemed entirely real until that moment, when I looked at my gentle brother and realized what Cesare had done: the House of Aragon was in dire peril. The French alliance had even given the Pope the audacity to deny Jofre’s paternity to my face.
Had Cesare’s claim that he wished to marry Carlotta of Aragon merely been a ruse? Had he always intended to wed a bride chosen by King Louis, and to ally himself with my country’s worst enemy? If he desired revenge against me, he could do no better than to threaten Alfonso; I cared more for my brother’s life than my own.
With the French army at the Pope’s disposal, Cesare could take even more than Alfonso from me: he could take Naples.
At once I was transported into the long-ago past. I sat in the strega’s dark cave near Monte Vesuvio, saw her handsome features soften behind a veil of black gauze, heard her melodious voice proclaim:
Jofre made a complete recovery, and gave up his foolish night-time raids. Alfonso and I stayed in Rome even in July, after Ascanio Sforza left for Milan to support his brother, Duke Ludovico Sforza. The French army had already crossed the Alps and were massing for an attack on that northern city.
My concern was for Alfonso alone: he was male, considered capable of political influence. I was only a woman, and therefore seen as an inconvenient spouse, but not a direct threat. We both tried to reassure ourselves that we were safe, especially since Lucrezia was four months pregnant, and Alexander was excitedly awaiting the birth of his first legitimate grandchild-heir to the Houses of Aragon and Borgia.
The Pope constantly repeated the claim that King Louis would never invade Naples; the French King was interested only in the region of Milan, he insisted, and nothing more. Once Louis had Milan firmly in his grasp, he and his army would leave.
We were desperate to believe Alexander’s tales.
But Alfonso was able to believe them only so long. He was hiding a secret from me, one I can still not forgive him for, even though I know he kept it only to protect me.
King Louis took control of Milan easily; the citizens, concerned for their necks, poured out into the streets to welcome him. As for Duke Ludovico and his cousin, Cardinal Sforza, they were unable to mass sufficient support to repel an invasion. Realizing this, they fled even before the city opened its gates to the French army.
Riding with the King was Cesare Borgia.
We were only two days into August, and the mornings were still pleasantly cool, when Lucrezia invited me to join her for a luncheon on the loggia of the palazzo. We were indulging in the happy talk of women when one of them is soon to deliver a child, when our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of papal attendants, then His Holiness.
He strode across the loggia with an uncharacteristic speed and intensity, his broad shoulders hunched forward. I was reminded of the Borgias’ family crest, for Alexander resembled nothing so much as an angry, charging bull.
