The young man would not meet my gaze. ‘Nothing physical afflicts him, Your Highness. Nothing the doctors can help. He…he has been deeply shaken by the French threat. He is not himself.’
I sank slowly back into my chair, ignoring the poignant glance my husband directed at me. The image of the rider in front of me disappeared: I saw only my father’s face. For the first time, I focused not on the viciousness there, on the mocking expression directed at me. Instead I saw the dark, haunted look in his eyes, and realized I should not have been surprised to hear he was mentally unsound. He was, after all, the son of Ferrante, who had not only killed his enemies, but dressed their tanned hides in glorious costumes and spoke to them like the living.
I should not have been surprised by any of it: I should have realized from the beginning that my father was insane, my father-in-law a traitor. And the French were, despite all of Alfonso’s efforts to convince me otherwise, on their way to Naples.
I rose and this time stayed on my feet. ‘You may eat and rest as much as you need,’ I told the messenger. ‘Then, when you again face Prince Federico, tell him that Sancha of Aragon has heeded his call. I will see him in the flesh not long after your return.’
‘Sancha!’ Jofre protested. ‘Have you not paid attention? Charles is leading his army to Naples. It is too dangerous! It makes far more sense to remain here in Squillace; the French have little reason to attack us. Even if they do decide to seize our principality, it will be some months…’
Skirts swirling, I turned on him. ‘Dear husband,’ I countered, in a voice colder and more unyielding than iron, ‘have you not paid attention? Uncle Federico has asked for help, and I will not deny him. Have you so quickly forgotten that you, by virtue of your marriage to me, are yourself a Prince of Naples? You should not only provide troops, your own sword should be raised in her defence. And if you will not go, I shall take your sword and raise it myself.’
For that, Jofre had no reply; he stared at me, pale and somewhat embarrassed to be chided in front of a stranger for his cowardice.
As for myself, I swept from the room, headed back to my chambers to tell my ladies to commence packing at once.
I was going home.
Winter 1495
VI
The carriage that had borne me and my new husband to Squillace was outfitted for the journey back to Naples. This time we rode with a larger contingent of guards, armed for battle, traversing Italy in a north-easterly diagonal from coast to coast. Given the size of our entourage—three wagons bore our attendants and luggage—the trip required several days.
During that time I contemplated with dread the reunion between myself and my father. Deeply shaken, the messenger had said. Unwell. Not himself. He had let the running of the kingdom fall to Federico. Was he yielding to the same madness that had claimed Ferrante? Whatever the situation, I vowed I would put all personal hurt and antipathy aside. My father was the King, and during this time of looming war, required total fealty. If he was in any condition to understand me, I would pledge it to him.
On the final morning of our journey, when we saw Vesuvio towering over the landscape, I caught Donna Esmeralda’s hand with excitement. Such gladness it was, to at last draw near the city, and see the great cupola of the Duomo, the dark stone of the Castel Nuovo, the hulking fortress of the Castel dell’Ovo; such gladness, and at the same time, sorrow, knowing that my beloved city was endangered.
At last our carriage pulled beneath the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso the Magnanimous into the courtyard of the royal palace. Look-outs had reported our arrival, and my brother was waiting as Jofre and I were assisted from the carriage. I smiled broadly: Alfonso was fourteen; the Neapolitan sun glinted off the beginnings of a blond beard upon his cheeks.
‘Brother!’ I cried. ‘Look at you; you are a man!’
He smiled back, flashing white teeth; we embraced. ‘Sancha,’ he said, in a voice that had deepened even further, ‘how I have missed you!’
We reluctantly let go of one another. Jofre was waiting nearby; Alfonso took his hand. ‘Brother, I am grateful you have come.’
‘We could do no else,’ Jofre replied graciously—a statement which was true, if only because of my insistence.
While the servants dealt with the luggage and our other effects, Alfonso led us toward the palace. As the joy of reunion slowly faded, I noted the tension in my brother’s face, his manner, his step. Something evil had just occurred, something so terrible that Alfonso was waiting for the proper moment to tell us. ‘We have prepared chambers for both of you,’ he said. ‘You will want to refresh yourselves before you greet Prince Federico.’
‘But what of Father?’ I asked. ‘Should I not go first to him? Despite his troubles, he is still the King.’
Alfonso hesitated; a ripple of emotion crossed his features before he could suppress it. ‘Father is not here.’ He faced me and my husband, his tone as sombre as I had ever heard it. ‘He fled during the night. Apparently he had been planning this for some time; he took most of his clothing and possessions, and many jewels.’ He lowered his face and flushed, mortified. ‘We had not deemed him capable of this. He had taken to his bed. We discovered this only a few hours ago, Sancha. I think you can understand why all of the brothers, especially Federico, are preoccupied at the moment.’
‘Fled?’ I was aghast, bitterly ashamed. Up to that moment, I had considered the most treacherous man in Christendom to be the Pope, who had deserted Naples in her hour of greatest need—but my own father had proven capable of even greater betrayal.
‘One of his attendants is missing,’ my brother added sadly. ‘We assume he was part of the plan. We are not certain where Father has headed. They are conducting an investigation at this moment.’
An agonizing hour passed, during which time I paced the elegant guest bedchamber; Giovanna now resided in the one that had once been my own. I walked out onto the balcony; now my view faced east towards Vesuvio and the armoury. I paused to stare out at the water. I remembered how, a very long time ago, I had stood upon my old balcony and hurled Onorato’s ruby into the sea. I wished that I could reverse my childish action now; such a gem could purchase rations for countless soldiers, or dozens of cannons from Spain.
At last Alfonso came for me, with Jofre flanking him. Together, we went to the King’s office, where Uncle Federico sat dejectedly at the dark wooden desk. He had aged since I had last seen him; his black hair had begun to silver, and the shadows I had seen upon my father’s face were now beginning to gather beneath Federico’s brown eyes. His features were round and not as handsome, his demeanour stern as old Ferrante’s, yet somehow still kindly. Across from him sat his younger brother, Francesco, and his even younger half-sister, Giovanna.
At the sight of us, they rose. Federico had clearly taken charge; he stepped forward first, and embraced Jofre, then me. ‘You have your mother’s loyal heart, Sancha,’ he told me. ‘And Jofre, you are a true knight of the realm, to have come to Naples’ aid. As Protonotary and Prince, we welcome you.’
‘I have told them the news regarding His Majesty,’ my brother explained.
Federico nodded. ‘I won’t soften the truth. Naples is threatened as never before. The barons are in revolt—frankly, with good reason. Against all advice, the King taxed them beyond conscience, appropriated lands unfairly for his own use, then publicly tortured and executed those who dared protest. Now that they know the French are on their way, the barons are heartened. They will fight with Charles to defeat us.’
‘But Ferrandino is coming, with our army,’ I said.
Prince Federico eyed me wearily. ‘Yes, Ferrandino is coming…with the French on his heels. Charles has four times the men we have; without the papal army, we are doomed.’ This he said without apology, despite the fact that Jofre shifted uneasily at the words. ‘That is one reason I sent for you, Jofre. We need your assistance as never before; you must make good on your ties to our kingdom, and convince His Holiness to send military aid as qui
ckly as possible. I realize the safety of your brother Cesare is compromised, but perhaps a solution can be found.’ He paused. ‘We have sent for help from Spain—but there is no way such assistance, even if it is granted, can arrive in time.’ He let go a gusting sigh. ‘And now we are without a king.’
‘You have a king,’ my brother countered swiftly. ‘Alfonso II has clearly abdicated his throne in favour of his son, Ferrandino. That is what the barons and the people must be told.’
Federico gazed at him with admiration. ‘Shrewd. Very shrewd. They have no cause to hate Ferrandino. He is far more liked than your father ever was.’ He began to nod with the first stirrings of enthusiasm. ‘The hell with Alfonso. You’re right, we should consider this disappearance an abdication. Of course, it will be difficult. The barons don’t trust us…they might still fight if they believe this is political manoeuvring on our part. But with Ferrandino, we have a better chance of winning popular support.’
My Uncle Francesco spoke at last. ‘Ferrandino, and mercenaries. We simply have no choice but to hire help, and quickly, before the French arrive. It’s all very well for Prince Jofre to convince Alexander to send papal troops, but we don’t have time for such diplomacy. Besides, they’re too far north to get here in time.’
Federico scowled. ‘Our finances are strained as it is. We can scarcely support our own army, after all of Alfonso’s spending on rebuilding the palaces, and commissioning all of that unnecessary artwork…’
‘We have no choice,’ Francesco argued. ‘It’s that, or lose to the French. We can always borrow money from Spain after the war.’
Federico was still frowning; he opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again at the sound of urgent knocking. ‘Come,’ he commanded.
I recognized the white-haired, hawk-nosed man whose face appeared in the doorway; it was the seneschal, the man in charge of the royal household—which included the royal jewels and financial matters. His expression was stricken; Federico took one glimpse at it, then forgot all royal protocol and hurried over, bending his head down so that the old man could whisper in his ear.
As Federico listened, his eyes widened, then grew dazed. Finally, the seneschal retreated and the door closed once again. My uncle took a few unsteady steps, then sat heavily upon his chair, lowered his head, and put his hand to his heart. He let go a strangled sound.
I thought, for a terrifying instant, that he was dying.
Uncle Francesco rose at once and went to his brother’s side. He knelt and put a hand upon the suffering man’s arm. ‘Federico! Federico, what is it?’
‘He has taken it,’ Federico gasped. ‘The Crown treasures. He has taken it all…’ The Crown treasures constituted the majority of Naples’ wealth.
It took a moment before I realized the word he referred to my father.
I had always imagined that my return home to visit my brother would be one of the happier moments in my life, but the next few days in the Castel Nuovo found us all caught in a special sort of misery. My husband and I spent time in Alfonso’s company, but it was scarcely happy; the harm our father had inflicted upon the kingdom left us stunned and sombre. We could do nothing but wait and hope for Ferrandino and his troops to reach Naples ahead of the French.
Even more painful was the discovery that my mother had disappeared as well. This was a hard fact to accept: you have your mother’s loyal heart, Uncle Federico had said, but I could not accept that Trusia’s loyalty to her lover outweighed that to Naples and her own children. The notion was so ghastly that my brother and I could not bear to discuss it; and so my mother’s betrayal went unmentioned.
The morning after our arrival at the castle, Donna Esmeralda admitted Alfonso into my chambers. I smiled, faintly, in greeting—but my brother did not. He held a wooden box slightly longer than my hand and half as wide; he proffered it to me as a gift.
‘For your protection,’ he said, his tone infinitely serious. ‘We cannot predict what might happen, and I will not rest until I know that you are capable of defending yourself.’
I laughed, partly from a desire to dismiss such a topic.
‘Do not scoff,’ Alfonso urged. ‘It is no joke: The French are on their way to Naples. Open it.’
Reluctantly, I did as instructed. Inside the box, nestled against black velvet, was a small, long dagger with a narrow silver hilt.
‘A stiletto,’ my brother explained, as I drew it from its little scabbard. The hilt was quite short; most of the weapon consisted of the triangular blade, of fine, polished steel terminating in a wickedly sharp point. I dared not even touch the tip with my finger to test its keenness; I knew it would draw blood at once.
‘I chose this for you because it can be easily concealed in your gown,’ Alfonso said. ‘We have seamstresses who can set to work immediately. I came this morning because we have no time to waste. I shall instruct you in its use now.’
I let go a clicking sound of scepticism. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, brother, but this can hardly do battle against a sword.’
‘No,’ Alfonso agreed, ‘and therein lies its beauty. Any soldier will presume you are unarmed, and will therefore approach you without fear. When your enemy draws close, that is when you surprise him. Here.’ He took the weapon from me, and showed me how to hold it properly. ‘With a dagger like this, the best method of doing damage is underhanded, thrusting upward.’ He demonstrated, slitting an imaginary opponent from belly to throat, then handed the little blade to me. ‘Take it. You try.’
I copied his movements precisely.
‘Good, good,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘You are a natural fighter.’
‘I am a daughter of the House of Aragon.’
He at last smiled faintly, which had been my intent.
I scrutinized the steel in my hand. ‘This might be suitable against an Angevin,’ I remarked, ‘but hardly deadly against an armoured Frenchman.’
‘Ah, Sancha, therein lies its power. It is slender enough to pierce chain mail, to slip between spaces in armour—and keen and strong enough, if wielded with sufficient enthusiasm, to penetrate light metal. I know; it was mine.’ He paused. ‘I only pray you never have to use it.’
For his sake, I pretended not to share his fear. ‘It is pretty,’ I said, holding it to the sunlight. ‘Like jewellery. I shall wear it always, as a keepsake.’
But in the days that followed, after small pockets had been added to my bodice, just above the folds of my skirts, I practised alone: withdrawing the stiletto swiftly, surreptitiously, wielding it underhanded, over and over, slaying invisible foes.
Two more days passed, during which time the royal brothers met constantly to formalize their strategy. An edict was announced in the streets, that King Alfonso II had abdicated in favour of his son, Ferrandino. We hoped this would mollify the barons, and keep them from fighting with the French against the Crown. In the meantime, Jofre wrote an impassioned letter to his father, Alexander, giving the official explanation of the abdication and begging for papal support; Prince Federico edited it heavily, then sent it to Rome via secret courier.
One sun-filled February morning, shortly before noonday, I was dining with Jofre and Alfonso when our quiet, listless conversation was interrupted by a faraway thunder. Three simultaneous thoughts competed for my attention:
It is nothing, a passing storm.
Has Vesuvio come alive?
Dear God, it is the French.
Wide-eyed, I stared in turn at my brother, then husband as the sound came again—this time unmistakably from the northwest—and echoed against nearby Pizzofalcone. No doubt we all shared the last thought, for we rose as one, and together raced upstairs to the floor above, where a balcony offered a view of the city’s western horizon. Soon Donna Esmeralda joined us, and pointed due north of Vesuvio, towards Naples’ furthermost boundary. I followed the gesture with my gaze, and saw small puffs of dark smoke in the distance. Thunder rolled again.
‘Cannon fire,’ Esmeralda said with conviction.
‘I will never forget the sound. I have heard it in my dreams ever since the baronial uprisings against Ferrante, when I was a young woman.’
We watched, captivated by the horizon, not daring to speak further as we awaited the answer to a single question: Was this Ferrandino being welcomed, or the French announcing themselves?
I stroked my hand lightly over the stiletto hidden in my bodice, reassuring myself it was still there.
‘Look!’ Jofre shouted, with such abruptness that I started. ‘Over there! Soldiers!’
Marching in loose formation, small, dark forms moved on foot over the gently rolling landscape towards the city. It was impossible to distinguish the colour of their uniforms, to ascertain whether they were Neapolitan or French.
Alfonso came to himself. ‘Federico must know at once!’ he exclaimed, and hastened to leave; Esmeralda called to him.
‘Don Alfonso, I think he already does!’ She gestured at the walls outside our own palace, where armed guards hurried into defensive positions. Even so, my brother departed to make certain.
For a long, dreadful moment those of us remaining squinted into the distance, not knowing whether we should welcome or fight those who made their way steadily towards the city and the royal palace.
Suddenly, hoisted above the approaching troops, I saw the banner: golden lilies against deep blue.
‘Ferrandino!’ I cried, then seized my husband and kissed him madly upon the lips and cheeks. ‘See, it is our flag!’
Ferrandino’s entry into Naples was far from joyous. The cannons I had mistakenly thought were fired by our own soldiers, announcing their arrival, had in fact been fired by angry barons lying in wait to attack the young prince. Although our rebellious nobles lacked the numbers and the weaponry to launch a serious campaign on their own, they managed to kill a few of our men. One of the cannon blasts startled Ferrandino’s horse, so that he was almost thrown.
We family awaited him in the Great Hall. There were no flowers on this day, no tapestries or adornments of any kind; everything of value had been packed away in case of the need for swift flight.
The Borgia Bride Page 9
