I gazed out at the men. Apparently the museum had been assembled over a period of time. Some bodies still had full, thick heads of hair, and stiff beards; others, like Robert, looked slightly tattered. But all were dressed in finery befitting their noble rank, in silks and brocades and velvets. Some had gold-hilted swords at their hips; others wore capes lined with ermine, and precious stones. One had a black velvet cap with a white ostrich plume, tilted at a jocular angle. Some simply stood. Others struck various poses: one propped a wrist on his hip, another reached for the hilt of his sword; a third held out a palm, gesturing at his fellows.
All of them stared ahead blankly.
‘The eyes,’ I said. It was a question.
Ferrante blinked down at me. ‘Pity you’re a female. You’d make a good king. Of all his children, you’re most like your father. You’re proud and hard—much more so than he. But unlike him, you’d have the nerves to do whatever’s necessary for the kingdom.’ He sighed. ‘Not like that fool Ferrandino. All he wants are pretty girls to admire him and a soft bed. No backbone, no brains.’
‘The eyes,’ I repeated. They troubled me; there was a perversity to them that I had to understand. I had heard what he had just told me—words I had not wanted to hear. I wanted to distract myself, to forget them. I wanted to be nothing like the King, like my father.
‘Persistent little thing,’ he said. ‘The eyes dissolve when a body is mummified—no way around it. The first ones had shut eyelids over empty sockets. They looked like they were sleeping. I wanted them to hear me when I spoke to them, I wanted to be able to see them listening.’ He laughed again. ‘Besides, it was more effective that way. My last “guest”—how it terrified him, to see his missing compatriots staring back at him!’
I tried to make sense of it all from my naive perspective. ‘God made you King. So if these men were traitors, they went against God. It was no sin to kill them.’
My remark disgusted him. ‘There is no such thing as sin!’ He paused; his manner turned instructive. ‘Sancha, the miracle of San Gennaro…it almost always occurs in May and September. But when the priest emerges with the reliquary in December, why do you think the miracle so often fails?’
The question took me by surprise; I had no inkling of the answer.
‘Think, girl!’
‘I don’t know, Your Majesty…’
‘Because the weather is warmer in May and September.’
I still did not understand. My confusion registered on my face.
‘It’s time you stopped subscribing to this foolishness about God and the saints. There’s only one power on earth—the power over life and death. For the time being, in Naples at least, I possess it.’ Once more, he prodded me. ‘Now, think. The substance in the vial is at first solid. Consider the fat on a pig, or a lamb. What happens to that fat if you roast the animal on a spit—that is, expose it to warmth?’
‘It drips down into the fire.’
‘Heat turns the solid into a liquid. So perhaps, if you took the reliquary of San Gennaro from its cool, dark closet out into the Duomo on a warm, sunny day and wait for a while…il miracolo e fatto. Solid to liquid.’
I was already shocked; my grandfather’s heresy only deepened that sensation. I recalled Ferrante’s cursory attitude towards all things religious, his eagerness either to absent himself from or to be done swiftly with Mass. I doubted he ever knelt at the little altar which led to the chamber housing his true convictions.
Yet I was simultaneously intrigued by his explanation of the miracle; my faith was now imperfect, threaded with doubt. Even so, habit was strong. I prayed silently, speedily to God to forgive the King, and for San Gennaro to protect him despite his sins. For the second time that day, I prayed for Gennaro to protect Naples—though not necessarily from crimes wrought by nature or disloyal barons.
Ferrante reached with his bony, blue-veined hand for my smaller one, and squeezed it in a grip that allowed no dissent. ‘Come, child. They will wonder where we are. Besides, you have seen enough.’
I thought of each man within the museum of the dead—how they must have been introduced by my gloating grandfather to the fate awaiting them, how the weaker ones must have wept and pleaded to be spared. I wondered how they had been killed; certainly by a method that left no trace.
Ferrante held the taper high and led me from his soulless gallery. While I waited inside the altar room as he closed the little door, I reflected on the clear pleasure he took from the company of his victims. He was capable of killing without compunction, capable of savouring the act. Perhaps I should have feared for my own life, being an unnecessary female, yet I could not. This was my grandfather. I studied his face in the golden light: it wore the same benign expression, possessed the same ruddy cheeks with their latticework of tiny broken veins that I had always known. I searched his eyes, so like mine, for signs of the cruelty and madness that had inspired the museum.
Those eyes scrutinized me back, piercing, frighteningly lucid. He blew out the taper and set it upon the little altar, then retook my hand.
‘I will not tell, Your Majesty.’ I uttered the words not out of fright or a wish to protect myself, but out of a desire to let Ferrante know my loyalty to my family was complete.
He let go a soft laugh. ‘My dear, I care not. All the better if you do. My enemies will fear me all the more.’
Back through the King’s bedchamber we went, through the sitting room, the outer office, then last of all the throne room. Before he pushed open the door, he turned to regard me. ‘It’s not easy for us, being the stronger ones, is it?’
I tilted my chin to look up at him.
‘I’m old, and there are those who will tell you I’m becoming feeble-minded. But I still notice most things. I know how you love your brother.’ His gaze focused inward. ‘I loved Juana because she was good-natured and loyal; I knew she would never betray me. I like your mother for the same reason—a sweet woman.’ He drew his attention outward to study me. ‘Your little brother takes after her; a generous soul. Worthless when it comes to politics. I’ve seen how devoted you are to him. If you love him, look out for him. We strong have to take care of the weak, you know. They haven’t the heart to do what’s necessary to survive.’
‘I’ll take care of him,’ I said stoutly. But I would never subscribe to my grandfather’s notion that killing and 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. You can do without food or the outdoors for a while, because while you like those things, they are not what you love most.’ He nodded, becoming ever more pleased with his plan. ‘That is what I must do, then. You will not change until you are denied the one thing that you love above all else.’
I felt the first pangs of real fear.
‘Two weeks,’ he said, then turned and addressed Donna Esmeralda. ‘She is to have no contact with her brother for the next two weeks. They are not permitted to eat, to play, to speak with each other—not even permitted to catch a glimpse of each other. Your future rests on this. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, Your Highness,’ Donna Esmeralda replied tautly, her eyes narrowed and her gaze averted. I began to wail.
‘You cannot take Alfonso from me!’
‘It is done.’ In my father’s hard, heartless expression, I detected traces of pleasure. Filius Patri similis est. The Son is like the Father.
I flailed about for reasons; the tears that had gathered on the rims of my eyes were now in true danger of cascading onto my cheeks. ‘But…but Alfonso loves me! It will hurt him if he can’t see me, and he’s been a good son, a perfect son. It’s not fair—you’ll be punishing Alfonso for something he didn’t do!’
‘How does it feel, Sancha?’ my father taunted softly. ‘How does it feel to know you are responsible for hurting the one you love the most?’
I looked on the one who had sired me—one who so cruelly relished hurting a child. Had I been a man, and not a young girl, had I borne a blade, anger would have overtaken me and I would have slit his throat
where he stood. In that instant, I knew what it was like to feel infinite, irrevocable hatred for one I helplessly loved. I wanted to hurt him as he had me, and take pleasure in it.
When he left, I at last wept; but even as I spilt angry tears, I swore I would never again permit any man, least of all the Duke of Calabria, to make me cry.
I spent the next two weeks in torment. I saw only the servants. Though I was allowed outside to play if I wished, I refused, just as I petulantly refused most of my meals. I slept poorly and dreamed of Ferrante’s spectral gallery.
My mood was so dark, my behaviour so difficult that Donna Esmeralda, who had never lifted a finger against me, slapped me twice in exasperation. I kept ruminating over my sudden impulse to kill my father; it had terrified me. I became convinced that without Alfonso’s gentle influence, I should become a cruel, half-crazed tyrant like the father and grandfather I so resembled.
When the two weeks finally passed, I seized my little brother and embraced him with a ferocity that left us both breathless.
When at last I could speak, I said, ‘Alfonso, we must take a solemn oath never to be apart again. Even when we are married, we must stay in Naples, near each other, for without you, I will go mad.’
‘I swear,’ Alfonso said. ‘But Sancha, your mind is perfectly sound. With or without me, you need never fear madness.’
My lower lip trembled as I answered him. ‘I am too much like Father—cold and cruel. Even Grandfather said it—I am hard, like him.’
For the first time, I saw real anger flare in my brother’s eyes. ‘You are anything but cruel; you are kind and good. And the King is wrong. You aren’t hard, just…stubborn.’
‘I want to be like you,’ I said. ‘You are the only person who makes me happy.’
From that time on, I never once gave our father cause to punish me.
The Borgia Bride Page 3
