The Borgia Bride (5 page)

‘Sancha,’ she said. It was familiar in the most insulting way, addressing me without my title, speaking without being spoken to first, sitting without permission, without genuflecting. Yet I was flattered; she uttered my name as if it were a caress. She was not speaking to me, but rather releasing my name upon the ether, sensing the emanations it produced. She savoured it, tasted it, her face tilted upwards as if watching the sound dissolve in the air above.

Then she looked back down at me; under the veil, amber-brown eyes reflected the lamplight. ‘Your Highness,’ she addressed me at last. ‘You have come to know something of your future.’

‘Yes,’ I answered eagerly.

She gave a single, grave nod. From a compartment beneath the table, she produced a deck of cards. She set them on the black silk between us, pressed her palms against them, and prayed softly in a language I did not understand; in a practised gesture, she fanned them out.

‘Young Sancha. Choose your fate.’

I felt exhilaration mixed with fear. I peered down at the cards with trepidation, moved an uncertain hand over them—then touched one with my forefinger and recoiled as though scalded.

I did not want that card—yet I knew that fate had chosen it for me. I let my hand waver above the spread a few moments more, then yielded, slid the card from the deck and turned it over.

The sight of it filled me with dread: I wanted to shut my eyes, to blot out the image, yet I could not tear my gaze from it. It was a heart, impaled by two blades, which together made a great silver X.

The witch regarded the card calmly. ‘The heart pierced by two swords.’

I began to tremble.

She picked the card up, gathered the deck and returned it to its hiding place beneath the table. ‘Give me your palm,’ she said. ‘No, the left one; it is closer to your heart.’

She took my hand between both of hers. Her touch was quite warm, despite the chill, and I began to relax. She hummed to herself, a soft, tuneless melody, her gaze fixed on my palm for some time.

Abruptly, she straightened, still clasping my palm, and stared directly into my eyes. ‘The majority of men are mostly good, or mostly evil, but you have within you the power of both. You wish to speak to me of insignificant things, of marriage and children. I speak to you now of far greater things.

‘For in your hands lie the fates of men and nations. These weapons within you—the good, and the evil—must each be wielded, and at the proper time, for they will change the course of events.’

As she spoke, I was seized by terrifying images: my father, sitting alone in darkness. I saw old Ferrante, whispering into the shrunken ears of the Angevins in his museum, staring into their sightless eyes…and his face, his form, changed to become mine. I stood on tiptoe, my firm flesh pressed against mummified leather, whispering…

I thought of the instant I had longed for a sword, that I might cut my own father’s throat. I did not want power. I feared what I might do with it.

‘I will never resort to evil!’ I protested.

Her voice held an edge of hardness. ‘Then you condemn to death those whom you most love.’

I refused to acknowledge the terrifying statement. Instead I clung to my naive little dream. ‘But what of marriage? Will I be happy with my husband, Onorato?’

‘You will never marry your Onorato.’

When she saw my trembling lip, she added, ‘You will be wed to the son of the most powerful man in Italy.’

My mind raced. Who, then? Italy had no king; the land was divided into countless factions, and no one man held sway over all the city-states. Venice? Milan? Unrivalled Florence? Alliances between such states and Naples seemed unlikely…

‘But will I love him?’ I pressed. ‘Will we have many children?’

‘No to both,’ she replied, with a vehemence approaching ferocity. ‘Take great care, Sancha, or your heart will destroy all that you love.’

I rode back to the castle in silence, frozen, shocked into stillness like a victim caught unawares, buried in a heartbeat by the ash of Vesuvio.

A week after my visit with the strega, I was summoned from breakfast to an audience with the King. The urgent command came as such a surprise that Donna Esmeralda dressed me hastily—though I insisted on wearing Onorato’s ruby round my throat, a touch of grandeur despite my dishevelment—and we two appeared alone before my grandfather. The rising sun streamed through the arched windows on either side of the throne where Ferrante sat; the effect on the marble floor was so dazzling that I did not see my father until he took a step forward. Only he stood in attendance; the vast chamber was otherwise empty.

Ferrante’s health had been failing of late, and his normally ruddy complexion had taken on a dark crimson hue, leaving him in foul spirits. But this morning he was smiling as I curtsied.

‘Sancha, I have wonderful news.’ His words echoed off the vaulted ceiling. ‘You know that your father and I have been trying for some time to strengthen Naples’ ties to the Papacy…’

I knew. I had been told since childhood that the papacy was our best protection against the French, who had never forgiven my great-grandfather for defeating Charles of Anjou.

‘The problem has been that His Holiness, Pope Alexander, dedicated both his sons to the priesthood…eh, what are their names?’ Ferrante scowled and turned to my father. I knew them before the Duke had a chance to reply; I even knew the given name of the Pope, who before his election had been Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.

‘Cesare, sixteen, and Jofre, eleven.’

‘Yes, Cesare and Jofre.’ The King’s expression lightened. ‘Well, at long last, we have succeeded in convincing His Holiness that it would be wise to tie himself to Naples.’ He beamed proudly. ‘You are betrothed to the son of the Pope.’

I paled; my lips parted. As I fought to control myself, my father remarked with cruel delight, ‘She is upset. She thinks she has feelings for this Caetani fellow.’

‘Sancha, Sancha,’ my grandfather said, not unkindly. ‘We have already informed Caetani of the arrangements; in fact, we have already found him a suitable wife. But you must do what is best for the Crown. And this is an infinitely better match. The Borgias are wealthy beyond anything you have ever seen. Best of all, the marriage contract states you will both live in Naples.’ He gave me a small wink, to show that he had done this for my benefit; he had not forgotten my attachment to Alfonso.

I stared at my father, my heartbreak spilling forth as fury. ‘
You
have done this,’ I charged, ‘because you knew I loved Onorato. You could not stand to see me happy. I will not marry your Cesare Borgia; I spit on the name.’

Rendered graceful by rage, Ferrante rose to his feet with the speed of a falcon diving for prey. ‘Sancha of Aragon! You will not speak to the Duke of Calabria in that tone!’

Hot-cheeked, I bowed my head and glared down at the floor.

My father was laughing.

‘Spit on the name of Cesare Borgia all you like,’ he said. ‘You are to be married to the younger one, Jofre.’

Unable to contain my temper, I swept from the King’s throne room and headed back to my own suite. So rapid was my pace that Donna Esmeralda, who had awaited me outside, fell behind.

Such was my intent. For when I reached the balcony where Onorato had presented me with the ruby, I tore the great jewel from my neck. Briefly, I held it up to the sky; for an instant, my world was bathed red.

I clenched my fist over the gem and cast it down into the placid bay.

Behind me, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek of pure horror. ‘
Madonna!’

I cared not. Imperious, tormented, I strode away. I could think only of Onorato, agreeing all too swiftly to take a different bride. I had allowed myself to love him, to trust another man besides my brother—yet my heart was of no consequence to him, to Ferrante, to my father. To them I was chattel, a pawn to be used for political gain.

Only when I arrived at my bedchamber and banished all the ladies did I fling myself upon my pillows. But I did not permit myself to weep.

Alfonso came as soon as he was free from his lessons. Donna Esmeralda silently let him enter, knowing he alone had the ability to soothe me. Morose and self-pitying, I lay facing the wall.

The instant I felt Alfonso’s gentle hand upon my shoulder, I turned.

He was still a boy of twelve, but already showed the signs of approaching adulthood. Over the past three-and-a-half years, he had shot up a forearm in height; he now stood slightly taller than me. His voice had not changed completely, but it had lost all trace of childish falsetto. His face now revealed a blend of the best of his father’s and mother’s features: he would grow into a strikingly handsome man.

Despite his increased exposure to our father and his study of politics, his eyes were still gentle, untainted by selfishness or guile. I gazed up into them.

‘Duty is a hard thing,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry, Sancha.’

‘I love Onorato,’ I murmured.

‘I know. There is nothing that can be done. The King has made up his mind. He is right that it is to Naples’ advantage.’ Somehow, hearing the words from my brother’s lips was not as painful as hearing them from Ferrante’s. Alfonso would tell me only the truth, and that lovingly. He paused. ‘They did not do this to intentionally hurt you, Sancha.’

So; my heated outburst at my father was no secret. I scowled, too full of rancour to agree with the latter statement. ‘But Jofre Borgia is only
eleven
, Alfonso! He is a
child!’

‘Only a year my junior,’ Alfonso said lightly. ‘He
will
grow older.’

‘Onorato was a
man
. He knew how to treat a woman.’

My little brother actually blushed; I suppose it was uncomfortable for him to imagine me in the nuptial embrace. But he collected himself and responded, ‘Jofre may be young—but he can be taught. And for all you know, he might be quite personable. You might like him. I will certainly do everything in my power to make friends with him.’

I scoffed. ‘How can I possibly like him? He is a Borgia!’ His father, Rodrigo Borgia, supposedly achieved the position of pontiff not through piety, but through guile and bribery. His efforts to buy the papacy were rumoured to be so blatant that, soon after his election, certain members within the College of Cardinals called for an investigation. Mysteriously, their objections soon ceased, and the man who christened himself Pope Alexander VI now enjoyed the full support of the College. It had even been said that Rodrigo had poisoned the likeliest contender for the papal tiara: his own brother.

Alfonso eyed me sombrely. ‘We have never met the Borgias, so we cannot judge them. And even if every word of gossip about His Holiness is true, you are not being fair to Jofre. Sons are not always like their fathers.’

His latter statement silenced my objections. Even so, I had to ask, in the most dolorous tone, ‘Why must there be marriage? It only takes us away from those we love.’

But for Alfonso’s sake, I vowed to myself, I would not be selfish. I would try to be like him—brave and good, and willing to do what was best for the realm.

Many months passed, and 1493 arrived. The more I contemplated marriage to a Borgia, the more concerned I became. King Ferrante could insist that Jofre and I maintain a household in Naples, and could commit it to writing. But a pope’s word held more authority than a king’s. What if Alexander changed his mind, and called his son back to Rome? What if he demanded a separate kingdom for Jofre elsewhere? I would be bound to accompany my husband. Only a Neapolitan husband would do, one who would never have reason to take me from my native city.

Since the day I had discovered Ferrante’s leering mummies, my religious faith had been tentative, half-hearted. Now I embraced it full force, in a desperate test. I called one morning for a private carriage and slipped away, accompanied by a single guard and a driver.

I headed for the Duomo, startling the stray worshipers inside, who were abruptly herded out by my guard.

At the altar where the miracle had occurred, I knelt. There, with all my sincerity, I prayed to San Gennaro. I begged him to free me from my engagement to Jofre Borgia, to find me a good Neapolitan husband. Together, I promised, we would donate vast sums of money for the upkeep of the Duomo and for the care of Naples’ poor.

When I returned to the castle, I requested and received a painting of the saint. In my bedchamber, I erected a small shrine to Gennaro, where I repeated my promise morning and evening. Once a week, I arranged a private excursion to the Duomo. Esmeralda was pleased.

How nice
, everyone said,
that she is calming down and becoming devout. No doubt it is because she is to marry the Pope’s son next year
.

I continued my regular devotions and fought not to become discouraged. The simple act of prayer brought with it a temporary peace, and I found myself adding to my original selfish request. I asked for the continued health of Alfonso, my mother, and Donna Esmeralda; I asked for health to be restored to old Ferrante, who was failing. I even prayed for a miracle so great I dared not believe in its possibility: that my father’s heart might be opened, that he might become happy and kind.

One late summer afternoon, a royal aide came to fetch me to Ferrante’s chambers. I was confused; I turned to Donna Esmeralda for support. I had done nothing of late to displease my elders; if anything, I had behaved circumspectly. In fact, in my hand was a Latin translation of the Proverbs; before the aide arrived, I had been reading the last one:

San Gennaro
, I had prayed,
grant my petition and I will become thus
.

I was dressed in the black, full-sleeved gown of the southern noblewoman; I had worn no colour since the announcement of my second engagement. Before leaving, I set down the little book, touched the small gold crucifix at my throat, then followed the King’s aide. Esmeralda stayed close by my side.

The door to the throne room was flung open; the chamber itself was empty. But as we crossed the marble floor, I heard sounds of agitation and anger coming from the King’s office.

The aide opened the door and ushered us inside.

Ferrante sat at his desk, his face starkly scarlet against his white beard. Queen Juana sat beside him, trying to calm him, only occasionally succeeding at capturing one of his wildly gesticulating hands and stroking it in an effort to soothe. Her murmurs were drowned out by my grandfather’s shouts. Beside them both stood my grim-faced father.

‘Roman son of a sow!’ Ferrante caught sight of me, and by way of explanation, waved at a letter on the desk. ‘The bastard has appointed his new College of Cardinals. Not a soul from Naples among them, despite the fact we had several qualified candidates.
And
he appointed two Frenchmen. He mocks me!’ My grandfather slammed his fist on the desk; Juana tried to clutch it, but he pulled it away. ‘The lying son of a whore mocks me!’

He drew a sudden wheezing breath, then put a hand to his brow as if dizzied.

‘You must calm yourself,’ Juana said with uncharacteristic firmness, ‘or I will send for the physician.’

Ferrante paused a moment and forced himself to slow his respiration. When he spoke again, it was more deliberately. ‘I will do better than that.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Sancha. I will not permit the wedding to go through until this situation is rectified. I will not allow a princess of the realm to be married to the son of a man who mocks us.’ He glared down at the letter on the desk. ‘Alexander must be taught that he cannot extend one hand to us, then betray us with the other.’

My grandfather had not forgotten the crime committed against him decades earlier by Alexander’s uncle Alonso, also known as the pontiff Callixtus III. Callixtus, disapproving of an illegitimate commoner like Ferrante taking Naples’ throne, had supported the Angevins.

As desperately as Ferrante needed the new Pope’s support, he had never entirely forgiven the Borgias.

My father’s tone was urgent. ‘Your Majesty, you are making a grave mistake. Some of the cardinals are old. They will die soon, and then we can lobby for their replacement with loyal Neapolitans. But the fact that the French now have a voice in the Vatican makes a liaison with the papacy all the more imperative.’

Ferrante turned on him, and with the candour born of ill health and old age, said, ‘You were always a coward, Alfonso. I have never liked you.’

An unpleasant silence ensued. At last, my grandfather looked back at me and snapped, ‘That’s all. Go on, then.’

I curtsied, then left before I betrayed my joy with a smile.

For four months, from the beginning of fall into the depths of winter, I was blissful. I added words of thanksgiving to my daily prayers. San Gennaro, I was convinced, had decided my pious behaviour earned me the right to remain with my brother.