Custom required the entire congregation, including royals, to remain in place during the ceremony, while each member came forward to kiss the relic—but Ferrante was too impatient to be kept waiting for commoners.
We returned directly to the Castel Nuovo, the trapezoidal hulk of mud-coloured brick built two hundred years earlier by Charles of Anjou to serve as his palace. He had first removed the crumbling remnants of a Franciscan convent dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Charles had valued protection over elegance: each corner of the castle, which he called the Maschio Angiono, the Angevin Keep, was reinforced by vast cylindrical towers, their toothy merlons jutting against the sky.
The palace stood directly on the bay, so close to the shore that, as a child, I often stuck an arm through a window and imagined I caressed the sea. On that morning a breeze rose off the water, and as I rode in the open carriage between Alfonso and Isabella, I inhaled with pleasure the scent of brine. One could not live in Naples without being in constant sight of the water, without coming to love it. The ancient Greeks had named the city Parthenope for the ancient siren, half-woman, half-bird, who for unrequited love of Odysseus had cast herself into the sea. According to legend, she had washed up on Naples’s shore; even as girl, I knew it was not for love of a man that she had been lured into the waves.
I pulled off my veil to better enjoy the air. To get an improved view—of the concave lunar crescent of coastline, with dusky violet Vesuvio to the east, and the oval-shaped fortress, Castel dell’Ovo, just to our west—I rose in the carriage and turned round. Isabella reseated me at once with a harsh tug, though her expression remained composed and regal, for the benefit of the crowd.
Our carriage rumbled through the castle’s main gate, flanked by the Guard Tower and the Middle Tower. Connecting the two was the white marble Triumphal Arch of Alfonso the Magnanimous, erected by my great-grandfather to commemorate his victorious entry into Naples as its new ruler. It marked the first of many renovations he made to the crumbling palace, and once the arch was in place, he rechristened his new residence the Castel Nuovo.
I rode beneath the lower of the two arches, and stared up at the bas relief of Alfonso in his carriage, accompanied by welcoming nobles. Far above, his hand reaching beyond the towers, an exuberant, larger-than-life statue of Alfonso gestured toward the sky. I felt exuberant, too. I was in Naples, with the sun and the sea and my brother, and I was happy.
I could not imagine that such joy could ever be taken from me.
Once inside the inner courtyard with the main gate closed, we climbed from the carriages and entered the Great Hall. There, the longest table in the world held a feast: bowls of olives and fruit, all manner of breads, two roast boars, their jaws propped open with oranges, roast stuffed fowl, and seafood, including succulent little crayfish. There was much wine, too—the Lachrima Christi, the tears of Christ, made from Greco grapes cultivated on the fertile slopes of Vesuvio. Alfonso and I took ours diluted with water. The Hall was adorned with flowers of every variety; the vast marble columns were draped with swags of gold brocade, trimmed in blue velvet, to which were fastened wreaths of blood-coloured roses.
Our mother, Madonna Trusia, was there to greet us; we ran to her. Old Ferrante liked her, and cared not a whit that she had borne two children to my father without the benefit of wedlock. As always, she greeted each of us with a kiss on the lips, and a warm embrace; I thought she was the loveliest woman there. She glowed, an innocent golden-haired goddess amidst a flock of scheming ravens. Like her son, she was simply good, and spent her days worrying not about what political advantage she might gain, but what love she might give, what comfort. She sat between me and Alfonso, while Isabella sat to my right.
Ferrante presided over the feast at the head of the table. In the distance behind him stood a great archway which led to his throne room, then his private apartments. Over it hung a huge tapestry of Naples’ royal insignia, gold lilies against a deep blue background, a fleur-de-lis legacy from the days of Angevin rule.
That archway held special fascination for me that day; that archway was to be my passage to discovery.
When the feast ended, musicians were brought in and dancing began, which the old King watched from a throne. Without so much as a sidelong glance at us children, my father took my mother’s hand and led her away to dance. I took advantage of the merriment to slip from Isabella’s half-attentive gaze and make a confession to my brother.
‘I am going to find Ferrante’s dead men,’ I told him. I intended to enter the King’s private chambers without his permission, an unforgivable violation of protocol even for a family member. For a stranger, it would be a treasonous act.
Above his goblet, Alfonso’s eyes grew wide. ‘Sancha, don’t. If they catch you—there is no telling what Father will do.’
But I had been struggling with unbearable curiosity for days, and could no longer repress it. I had heard one of the servant girls tell Donna Esmeralda—my nursemaid and an avid collector of royal gossip, that it was true: the old man had a secret ‘chamber of the dead’, which he regularly visited. The servant had been ordered to dust the bodies and sweep the floor. Until then I had, along with the rest of the family, believed this to be a rumour fuelled by my grandfather’s enemies.
I was known for my daring. Unlike my younger brother, who wished only to please his elders, I had committed numerous childhood crimes. I had climbed trees to spy upon relatives engaged in the marriage act—once during the consummation of a noble marriage witnessed by the King and the Bishop, both of whom saw me staring through the window. I had smuggled toads inside my bodice and released them on the table during a royal banquet. And I had, in retaliation for previous punishment, stolen a jug of olive oil from the kitchen and emptied its contents across the threshold of my father’s bedchamber. It was not the olive oil that worried my parents so much as the fact that I had, at the age of ten, used my best jewellery to bribe the guard in attendance to leave.
Always I was scolded and confined to the nursery for lengths of time that varied with the misdeed’s audacity. I did not care. Alfonso was willing to remain a prisoner with me, to keep me comforted and entertained. This knowledge left me incorrigible. The portly Donna Esmeralda, though a servant, neither feared nor respected me. She was unimpressed by royalty. Though she was of common blood, both her father and mother had served in Alfonso the Magnanimous’ household, then in Ferrante’s. Before I was born, she had tended my father.
At the time, she was in the midst of her fourth decade, an imposing figure: large boned, stout, broad of hip and jaw. Her raven hair, heavily streaked with grey, was pulled back tautly beneath a dark veil; she wore the black dress of perpetual mourning, though her husband had died almost a quarter of a century before, a young soldier in Ferrante’s army. Afterwards, Donna Esmeralda had become devoutly religious; a gold crucifix rested upon her prominent bosom.
She had never had children. And while she had never taken to my father—indeed, she could scarcely hide her contempt for him—when Trusia gave birth to me, Esmeralda behaved as though I was her own daughter.
Although she loved me, and tried her best to protect me, my behaviour always prompted her reproach. She would narrow her eyes, lips tugged downward with disapproval, and shake her head. ‘Why can you not behave like your brother?’
That question never hurt; I loved my brother. In fact, I wished to be more like him and my mother, but I could not repress what I was. Then Esmeralda would make the statement that cut deeply.
‘As bad as your father was at that age…’
In the great dining hall, I looked back at my little brother and said, ‘Father will never know. Look at them…’ I gestured at the adults, laughing and dancing. ‘No one will notice I’m gone.’ I paused. ‘How can you stand it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?’
‘No,’ he answered soberly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it might be.’
I did not understand until later
what he meant. Instead, I gave him a look of frustration, then, with a whirl of my green silk skirts, turned and threaded my way through the throng.
Unseen, I slipped beneath the archway and its grand tapestry of gold and blue. I believed myself to be the only one to escape the party; I was wrong.
To my surprise, the huge panelled door to the King’s throne room stood barely ajar, as if someone had meant to close it but had not quite succeeded. I quietly pulled it open just enough to permit my entry, then shut it behind me.
The room was empty, since the guards were busy eyeing their charges out in the Great Hall. Though not quite as imposing as the Hall in size, the room inspired respect: against the central wall sat Ferrante’s throne: a structure of ornately carved dark wood cushioned in crimson velvet, set upon a short dais with two steps. Above it, a canopy bore Naples’ insignia of the lilies, and on either side, arched windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing a glorious view of the bay. Sunlight streamed through the unshuttered windows, reflecting off the white marble floors and the whitewashed walls, giving a dazzling, airy effect.
It seemed too open, too bright a place to hold any secrets. I paused for a moment, examining my surroundings, my exhilaration and dread both growing. I was afraid—but, as always, my curiosity overpowered my fear.
I faced the door leading to my grandfather’s private apartments.
I had entered them only once before, a few years earlier when Ferrante was stricken by a dangerous fever. Convinced he was dying, his doctors summoned the family to make their farewells. I was not sure the King would even remember me—but he had laid his hand on my head and graced me with a smile.
I had been astonished. For my entire life, he had greeted me and my brother perfunctorily, then looked away, his gaze distant, troubled by more important matters. He was not given to socializing, but I caught him at odd moments watching his children and grandchildren with sharp eyes, judging, weighing, missing no detail. His manner was not unkind or rude, but distracted. When he spoke, even during the most social of family events, it was usually to my father, and then only of political affairs. His late marriage to Juana of Aragon, his third wife, had been a love match—he had no need to further his political advantage, to produce more heirs. But he’d long ago spent his lust; the King and Queen moved in separate circles and now spoke only when occasion demanded it.
When he had lain in his bed, supposedly dying, and put his hand upon my head and smiled, I had decided then that he was kind.
Back in the throne room, I drew a breath for courage, then moved swiftly toward Ferrante’s private chambers. I did not expect to find any dead men; my anxiety sprang from the consequences of my actions were I caught.
On the other side of the heavy throne room door, the sound of the revellers and music grew fainter; alone, I could hear the sweep of my silk skirts against marble.
Tentatively, I opened the door leading to the King’s outer chamber. I recognized the room, having passed this way when Ferrante had been sick. Here was an office, with four chairs, a large desk, tables, many sconces for late-night illumination, a map of Naples and the Papal States upon the wall. There was also a portrait of my great-grandfather Alfonso wearing the jewelled sword he had brought from Spain, which Ferrante had worn earlier in the Duomo.
Daringly, I pressed against walls, thinking of hidden compartments, of passageways; I scanned the marble floor for cracks that hinted at staircases leading down to dungeons, but found nothing.
I continued on through an archway into a second room furnished for the taking of private meals; here again, there was nothing of note.
All that remained was Ferrante’s bedchamber. This was sealed off by a heavy door. Squashing all thoughts of capture and punishment, I boldly opened it, and made my way into the most interior and private of the royal chambers.
Unlike the other bright, cheerful rooms, this one was oppressive and dark. The windows were covered with hangings of deep green velvet, blotting out the sun and the air. A large throw of the same green covered most of the bed, accompanied by numerous blankets of fur; apparently, Ferrante suffered from chills.
The chamber was fairly unadorned given the status of its resident. The only signs of grandeur were a golden bust of King Alfonso on the mantel, and gold candelabra flanking either side of the bed.
My gaze was drawn to an interior wall, where another door stood fully opened. Beyond it lay a small, windowless closet, outfitted with a wooden altar, candles, rosary, a statuette of San Gennaro, and a cushioned prayer bench.
Yet at the termination of that tiny chamber, past the humble altar, was another portal—this one closed. It led further inward, its edges limned with a faint, flickering light.
I experienced excitement mixed with dread. Had the maidservant told the truth, then? I had seen death before. The extended royal family had suffered loss, and I had been paraded past the pale, posed bodies of infants, children, and adults. But the thought of what might lie beyond that interior door taxed my imagination. Would I find skeletons stacked atop each other? Mounds of decomposing flesh? Rows of coffins?
Or had the servant’s confession to my nursemaid sprung from a desire to keep the rumour alive?
My anticipation rose to near-unbearable levels. I passed quickly through the narrow altar room, and placed unsteady fingers on the bronze latch leading to the unknown. Unlike all the other doors, which were ten times my girlish width and four times my height, this one was scarcely large enough to admit a man. I pulled it open.
Only the cold arrogance conferred by my father’s blood allowed me to repress a shriek of terror.
Shrouded in gloom, the chamber did not easily reveal its dimensions. To my childish eyes, it seemed vast, limitless, due in part to the darkness of unfinished stone. Only three tapers lit the windowless walls: one some distance from me, and two on large iron sconces flanking the entrance.
Just beyond them, his face lit by the candles’ wavering golden glow, stood my welcoming host. Or rather, he did not stand, but was propped against a vertical beam extending just past the crown of his head. He wore a blue cape, attached to the shoulders of his gold tunic with fleur de lis medallions. At breast and hip, ropes bound him fast to his support. A wire connected to one arm raised it away from his body, and bent it out at the elbow, the palm turned slightly upward in a beckoning gesture.
Enter, Your Majesty.
His skin looked like lacquered sienna parchment, glossy in the light. It had been stretched taut across his cheekbones, baring his brown teeth in a gruesome grin. His hair, perhaps luxuriant in life, consisted of a few dull auburn hanks hung from a shrivelled scalp. And his eyes…
Ah, his eyes. His other features had been allowed to shrink gruesomely. His lips had altogether disappeared, his ears become thick, tiny flaps stuck to his skull. His nose, half as thin as my little finger, had lost its fleshy nostrils and now terminated in two gaping holes, enhancing his skeletal appearance. But the disappearance of the eyes had not been tolerated; in the sockets rested two well-fitting, highly-polished orbs of white marble, on which were carefully painted green irises, with black pupils. The marble gleamed in the light, making me feel I was being watched.
I swallowed; I trembled. Up to that moment, I had been a child on a silly quest, thinking she was playing a game, having an adventure. But there was no thrill in this discovery, no precocious joy, no naughty glee—only the knowledge that I had stumbled onto something very adult and terrible.
I stepped up to the creature before me, hoping that what I saw was somehow false, that it had never been human. I pressed a tentative finger against its satin-breeched thigh and felt tanned hide over bone. The legs terminated in thin, stockinged calves, and fine, tufted silk slippers that bore no weight.
I drew my hand away, convinced.
How can you stand it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?
No. Because it might be.
How wise my little brother was: I wished more than anything to
disremember what I had just learned. Everything I had believed about my grandfather shifted then. I had thought him a kindly old man, stern, but forced to be so by the burden of rulership. I had believed the barons who rebelled against him to be bad men, lovers of violence for no reason save the fact they were French. I had believed the servants who said the people despised Ferrante to be liars. I had heard Ferrante’s chambermaid whisper to Donna Esmeralda that the King was going mad, and I had scoffed.
Faced with an unthinkable monstrosity, I did not laugh now. I trembled, not at the ghastly sight before me, but at the realization that Ferrante’s blood flowed through my veins.
I stumbled forward in the twilight past the chamber’s sentry, and saw perhaps ten more bodies in the shadows, all propped and bound, marble-eyed and motionless. All save one.
Some six dead men’s distance, a figure bearing a lit taper turned to face me. I recognized my grandfather, his white-bearded visage rendered pale and spectral in the flickering glow.
‘Sancha, is it?’ He smiled faintly. ‘So. We both took advantage of the celebration to slip away from the crowd. Welcome to my museum of the dead.’
I expected him to be furious, but his demeanour was that of one greeting guests at an intimate party. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Not a peep, and you even touched old Robert.’ He inclined his head at the corpse nearest the entrance. ‘Very bold. Your father was much older than you when he first entered this place; he screamed, then burst into tears like a girl.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked. I was repelled—but curiosity demanded that I know the entire truth.
Ferrante spat on the floor. ‘Angevins,’ he answered. ‘Enemies. That one’—he pointed to Robert—‘he was a count, a distant cousin of Charles d’Anjou. He swore to me he’d have my throne.’ My grandfather let go a satisfied chuckle. ‘You can see who had what.’ Ferrante moved stiffly over to his former rival. ‘Eh, Robert? Who’s laughing now?’ He gestured at the macabre assembly, his tone growing suddenly heated. ‘Counts and marquis, and even dukes. All of them traitors. All of them yearning to see me dead.’ He paused to calm himself. ‘I come here when I need to remember my victories. To remember I am stronger than my foes.’
The Borgia Bride Page 2
