The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  ‘Donna Sancha! Madonna Trusia is here!’

  ‘What?’ I sat up, fogged by sleep. For a moment, the announcement seemed very natural; it was Christmas, and my mother had come to visit her children, just as she did every holiday. I had forgotten that she had gone to Sicily; I had even forgotten about the uprising, and the French.

  ‘What?’ I repeated, this time properly startled, as my waking memory returned. I pulled a wrapper around my shoulders and hurried into my antechamber.

  In the instant before I laid eyes upon my mother, I hoped that she had come to her senses, had accepted my offer to come and live in Naples. My heart ached to think of her, cut off from the world, trapped with a man who might have loved her in his tortured way, but had never known how to demonstrate that love properly; now that he had gone mad, he could not even acknowledge her presence.

  One glance at Madonna Trusia drew from me a horrified gasp. I expected a smiling, radiant beauty; instead, standing just inside the doorway next to Donna Esmeralda was a stricken old woman dressed in black. Even her golden hair was veiled, like the sun blotted out by storm clouds. She was frail, thin, with an ashen pallor and grey shadows beneath her eyes. It was as though all my father’s misery and pain had been transferred to her, sapping the joy and comeliness that had been hers.

  My mother sagged into the nearest chair and spoke to Esmeralda without looking at either of us. ‘Fetch my son.’

  Beyond that, she said no more; she did not need to, for I knew at once what had happened. I pulled a chair close to hers, and took her hand; she bowed her head, unwilling to meet my gaze. We sat in silence, waiting. I felt a constricting ache at the base of my throat, but did not permit myself to cry.

  After a time, Alfonso appeared. He, too, took a single glance at our mother and knew at once what had transpired. ‘He is dead?’ he whispered.

  Trusia nodded. My brother knelt before her and hugged her skirts, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair; I looked on, an outsider, for my greatest sorrow was not my father’s death, but the suffering it provoked in the two I loved most.

  At last Alfonso raised his head. ‘Was he ill?’

  My mother put a hand to her mouth and shook her head; for a long moment, she could not speak. When she at last had a measure of control, she lowered her hand, and in a tone that seemed rehearsed, began to tell the tale.

  ‘It was three weeks ago…He had seemed to come to himself previously, to realize what had occurred—but then he stopped sleeping altogether, and the madness returned worse than ever. He was angry, restless, often pacing and shouting, even when he was alone in his favourite chamber. You remember the room—the one with the great chair, and the sconce above it.

  ‘That night,’ she continued, with increasing difficulty, ‘I was awakened by a great groaning, scraping sound coming from Alfonso’s chamber. I feared he might have hurt himself, so I hurried to see him at once…I took a taper since he always sat in darkness.

  ‘I found him pushing his chair across the room, and when I asked him why he was doing so, he answered irritably, “I have grown weary of the view.” What else could I do?’ She paused, filled with sudden remorse. ‘The attendants were all aslumber, so I set down the candle and helped him as best I could myself. When he was satisfied, I left him in the darkness.

  ‘I went back to bed, strangely agitated. I could not sleep—and only a few moments later, I heard another noise—this one not as loud, but there was something about it…Something so that I knew…’ She put her hands to her face and bowed beneath the weight of the memory.

  From thence, she was only able to speak haltingly, so I summarize here what she relayed:

  My father had carried in a second chair, one much lighter than the one he had used as a delusional throne, and set it beneath the heavy wrought-iron sconce suspended from the ceiling, then stepped onto its seat. He had procured a length of rope; this he knotted to his royal sash, which bore upon it jewels and medals won for his victories at Otranto.

  The rope he fastened securely to an arm of the sconce; the sash he wrapped snugly about his neck.

  The sound my mother heard was that of the lighter chair being kicked over.

  The heart ofttimes knows things before the mind deduces them; the impact of wood hitting marble evoked in Trusia such alarm that she rushed, without wrapper or candle, into my father’s chamber.

  There, in the faint light of the stars and the beacon of Messina’s harbour, she saw the dark form of her lover’s body, rotating slowly in the noose.

  Expressionless, toneless, my mother proclaimed, ‘I can never rest now, for I know he suffers in Hell. He is in the Forest of the Suicides, where the Harpies nest, for he hanged himself in his own house.’

  Still kneeling before her, Alfonso gently caught her hands. ‘Dante is pure allegory, Mother. At worst, Father is in purgatory, for he did not know what he was doing. He did not even know he was in Messina when I spoke to him. No man would condemn another for an unknowing act—and God is more compassionate and wiser than any man.’

  My mother looked up at him with an expression of pathetic hope, then turned to me. ‘Sancha, do you believe this is possible?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied. But if one put any faith in Dante, King Alfonso II would right now be in the seventh circle of Hell, in the river of blood which boiled the souls of those ‘tyrants who dealt in blood and plunder’. If there were any justice, he would be trapped next to his sire, Ferrante, torturer, creator of the museum of the dead.

  There was one other place he belonged—in the farthest depths of Hell, in Satan’s jaws, the place reserved for the greatest traitors. For he had betrayed not just his family, but his entire people. There was no brimstone there, no fire, no heat—only the worst cold of all, cruel and bitter.

  As cold as my father’s heart, as cold as the look I had so often seen in his eyes.

  My mother remained in Naples and recovered slowly from her sorrow. For myself, I prayed out of desperation to a God I doubted: Keep my heart from evil; let me not become as my father was. After all, I had already killed a man. Often I woke, gasping, feeling a spray of warm blood upon my brow, my cheeks, imagining that I wiped my eyes and gazed at the amazement in my victim’s dying eyes. A noble act, everyone said. I had saved the King. Perhaps I had saved Ferrandino, but there was still nothing noble in the taking of a life.

  Despite the tragedy of my father’s death—the circumstances of which were hidden from the public and the servants and never discussed again within our family—life in Naples grew happy once more. Ferrandino and Giovanna were married in a glorious royal ceremony, the palace was refurbished and became once more a luxurious dwelling, and the gardens began to grow back. Under Alfonso’s influence, Jofre became a dutiful husband.

  Five months passed. By May of the year 1496, I had just grown comfortable in my contentment, and no longer dreamed every night of cannon fire and warm blood, no longer closed my eyes and saw the silhouette of my father’s body dangling in the darkness. I had Ferrandino’s promise that my husband and I would remain in Naples; I had the company of my mother and brother, and wanted for nothing. For the first time, I entertained the idea of raising my sons and daughters in Naples, amongst family members who would show them only love.

  Pope Alexander, however, had other plans.

  I was sitting with my mother and brother at supper when Jofre appeared with a piece of parchment in his hand, and a look of dread on his face. I surmised at once that he was obliged to tell me the contents of the letter, and that he was terrified of my reaction.

  He had good reason to be afraid. The letter was from his father. I guessed correctly that the scene between us was about to become unpleasant, so I excused myself from supper, and we two went to discuss the matter in private.

  According to Alexander, ‘the war in Naples has reminded us of our own mortality, and the fragility of all life. We wish to live out the rest of our years surrounded by our children.’

  All of them—incl
uding Jofre, and especially his wife.

  I thought of the Count of Marigliano, who had visited me in Squillace at Alexander’s behest, when I had been accused of unfaithfulness to Jofre. He had warned me in a discreet manner that one day His Holiness would no longer be able to contain his curiosity: he would want to see with his own eyes the woman his youngest son had married, the woman everyone claimed was more beautiful than his mistress, La Bella.

  I cursed, I waved my arms at poor cowed Jofre. I insisted that I would not go to Rome, even though I knew my refusal was doomed. I went to Ferrandino and begged him to convince His Holiness to let me remain in Naples—but we both knew that a king’s word held less sway than a pope’s. There was nothing that could be done. After waiting so long for Naples to be returned to me, she was taken from me again.

  Late Spring 1496

  X

  Jofre and I rode into Rome on the twentieth of May, 1496, to the chiming of cathedral bells at ten o’clock in the morning on a brilliantly sunny day. For the entertainment of the assembled crowds of noblemen and commoners, we organized ourselves into a parade, which would be met by Lucrezia Borgia, the Pope’s second eldest child and only daughter, and led to the Vatican.

  Alexander VI had done what no pope before him had dared to: he openly acknowledged his children as his own, instead of referring to them as ‘nieces’ or ‘nephews’, as other pontiffs had done in the past. It was said he loved them dearly, and this must have been the case, for he brought them all to live with him in the papal palace immediately after his election. Even outside my marriage to Jofre, I had heard talk of Lucrezia: it was rumoured that she was exceptionally beautiful.

  ‘What is your sister like?’ I had asked Jofre, on our journey northward.

  ‘Sweet,’ he had said casually, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Modest, and very charming. You will like her.’

  ‘Is she beautiful?’

  He hesitated at that. ‘She is…pretty. Not so pretty as you, of course.’

  ‘And your brothers?’

  ‘Cesare?’ A shadow passed over my husband’s face at the mention of the brother I might have married. ‘He is very handsome.’

  ‘I meant his personality.’

  ‘Ah. He is ambitious. Very smart.’ Again, I detected dislike, but Jofre was swift to avoid the truth when it involved unpleasant matters. Even so, when I pressed about his brother, Juan, he scowled openly and said, ‘You need not worry yourself about him. He lives in Spain with his wife.’

  Great beauty has its price. Glad though I was that fate had dealt me fine features, I also knew well the jealousy they provoked in other women. Therefore, I took care that day not to outshine my sister-in-law: I wore the simple black dress of a married noblewoman, with the huge sleeves fashionable in the south; my horse was draped in black, and I rode a respectful distance behind my husband.

  Jofre, however, was eager to impress Rome and his family with the glories of princehood. He insisted I be accompanied by my full court of twenty women, and a large retinue that even included jesters clad in the brightest shades of yellow, red and purple.

  We entered the city from the south. I had never before set foot in Rome; awe overtook me as we rode through the worn city gates and looked upon the rolling hills. ‘Over there,’ Jofre called back to me from his steed, and pointed to his right as we made our way upon the Via del Circo Massimo; there stood the Arch of Constantine, the ancient prototype of my own great-grandfather’s triumphal arch. Further down to our east rested the great Colosseum, the many-tiered stone ellipse where so many Christians had met their end, and the Pantheon, that temple to all gods, with its countless white columns and massive dome, the largest in all Rome—ironically far larger than any Christian church.

  The only cities I knew consisted of one or two royal palaces, several smaller palazzi, a few cathedrals, and numerous white- washed buildings crowded together on slopes and coastlines, on narrow streets. Rome possessed a grandeur and a scope beyond my ken. Spread out on land that continued beyond the horizon, the buildings possessed a size, an elegance, an ornateness that left me breathless. The streets were wide, filled with carriages of the wealthy; the palaces of cardinals and noble families were massive, of classic rectangular design, covered with marble statuary and bas relief scenes from pagan mythology. Any one of them was finer by far than Naples’ dull brown Castel Nuovo, with its awkward, irregular shape.

  Only the broad Tiber was a disappointment. When we reached the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge alongside the great fortress of the Castel Sant’Angelo, crowned by a statue of the Archangel Michael, I first saw Rome’s famous river. Its stinking waters were filled with floating refuse and crowded with merchant ships. But I was soon distracted by the sight before me: the sprawling cobblestone Piazza of Saint Peter’s, and beyond it, the great sanctuary itself, older than a millennium, where the first pontiff’s bones rested. Directly adjacent, on its northern side, stood the Vatican.

  Just before we arrived at the vast piazza, we were met by scarlet-clad cardinals on horseback, and the papal guards on foot; the Spanish ambassador rode up to Jofre and greeted him. As our procession made its way into the square, I saw her from a distance, and knew her at once: Lucrezia.

  She drew closer upon a white horse, while all those in her large entourage were mounted upon steeds of black or brown. Her attendants were clad in red-and-gold brocade, while she wore a gown of shining white satin and a gold brocade stomacher, trimmed with pearls. Upon her head was a golden net studded with diamonds, and round her throat a necklace fashioned of a great ruby surrounded by more diamonds.

  She rode up to her brother. We three—I, Jofre, Lucrezia—dismounted, and she gave him a smile and welcoming kiss. Then she turned to me.

  She had been chosen to greet us, Jofre had earlier explained, because she held a special place in the hearts of the people of Rome. To them, she was as the Virgin Mary: gentle and pure, imbued with a special love for her subjects. Even her name symbolized chastity and honour: she had been christened after that Lucrezia of ancient Rome who, having been raped by her husband’s foe, chose suicide as the only noble option, for she would not live with shame as her companion.

  Behind the pale, upward-curving lips, behind the gentleness emanating from this Lucrezia’s gaze, I saw at once the jealousy hidden there—and the powerful intelligence. And at once I believed every story I had heard of Pope Alexander’s deviousness and cunning, for here it was, reflected in his daughter.

  Physically, she belied her reputation: she was no beauty—though her bearing held such pride and confidence as to make her seem attractive from a distance. Her face was as plain as Jofre’s, weak-chinned, with a plump fold of neck beneath it; her eyes were large and a rather colourless shade of grey. Her hair, like her younger brother’s, was pale coppery gold, and for the day’s festivities it had been most carefully arranged into perfect, curling tendrils, which fell freely onto her shoulders and down her back, in the style of an unmarried woman.

  She might as well have been. Jofre had shared with me the family gossip: that Lucrezia’s husband, Count Giovanni Sforza of Milan, had taken every possible opportunity since their marriage to avoid his bride. At the moment, he was entrenched at his estate in Pesaro, refusing every summons from the Pope to return to his wife, much to Lucrezia’s embarrassment. This astounded me; and when I asked Jofre, ‘Why will he not come to her?’ my husband—usually naively straightforward in other matters—would only answer, ‘He is afraid.’

  Afraid of Pope Alexander’s wrath, I had assumed. Milan, which housed Sforza’s duchy, had struck a deal with the French to protect itself; the region’s rulers were no friends to Naples. Sforza’s fear must have been that of political retribution.

  Yet, when I considered it at length, I recalled that Sforza had absented himself from Lucrezia long before King Charles ever dreamed of setting foot in Italy. Did he so despise his wife?

  In the piazza that morning, Lucrezia’s expression, so cautious, so self-consc
iously pleasant and appropriate to the occasion, held no clue. ‘Sister,’ she said, just loudly enough to be heard by the crowds, just softly enough to be considered demure. ‘Welcome to your home.’

  We embraced solemnly, each kissing the other’s cheeks. She grasped my arms in a manner that held me firmly in place, kept me from pressing too close against her; and in the instant that she pulled away, I caught the flicker of pure hatred in her eyes.

  Lucrezia, beloved mistress of Rome, led us through the piazza and into the Vatican, and the magnificent chamber where Pope Alexander sat upon his golden throne, surrounded by the most powerful cardinals in Italy. The resemblance Lucrezia shared with him was striking: he had the weak chin, with many folds beneath it (for he had entered his sixth decade of life), and eyes of the same shape and size, though their colour was brown. His nose was more prominent, and his iron-grey hair was shaved in the monk’s tonsure; the bald area of his scalp was covered with a white skullcap. A great gold cross, glittering with diamonds, hung from his neck and rested just above his belly; on his finger he wore the ruby ring of Peter. He projected an aura of physical strength, for his chest and shoulders were broad and muscular, his face bright with life.

  As we entered, he beamed like a lovesick bridegroom. ‘Jofre, my son! And Sancha, my daughter! So it is true—you are every bit the beauty Jofre’s letters claimed! Indeed, you are more magnificent than poor words could ever convey! Look!’ He gestured to the assembly. ‘Her eyes are green as emeralds!’

  I did not hesitate. I was used to heads of state, uncowed by protocol. I strode forward without waiting for my husband and ascended the stairs to the throne, where I knelt and kissed the pontiff’s satin-slippered foot, as ritual demanded. Some seconds later, I was aware of Jofre kneeling beside me.

  Alexander was pleased by my forthright show of reverence, my lack of timidity. He placed a large, cool hand upon my head in blessing, then pointed to a red velvet cushion placed on the marble step just to the left of his throne. ‘Here, my dear!’ Take your seat beside me. I have reserved a special place for you.’