The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  ‘No, my darling,’ I told her truthfully. ‘These are political matters that have everything to do with your father and Cesare, and nothing to do with you. I know how greatly Alfonso loves you. He has told me so many times.’

  This only made her more sorrowful. ‘Ah, my Sancha, do not tell me you are leaving me, too.’

  ‘Dear Lucrezia,’ I murmured into her shoulder. ‘Sometimes, we are forced to do what we least desire.’

  Jofre argued with his father, but we understood that it would do no good. Unlike Alfonso, I did not entreat my spouse to follow me: I do not believe Jofre felt confident enough to leave behind the only privilege he ever enjoyed—that of being a Borgia, if in name only.

  That morning, I commanded all my servants to commence packing.

  At nightfall, Jofre came to me in my chamber and sent Esmeralda and the servants away. ‘Sancha,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘This is a horrid thing Father has done to you. I can never forgive him. And I will never be happy without you. I have been a pitiful husband; I am not ambitious or handsome, or strong of will, like Cesare—but I love you with all my soul.’

  I flushed at the mention of Cesare and wondered whether Jofre had known of our affair. It would have been impossible to have lived in Rome without hearing the rumours, but I had hoped my husband—always wanting to believe the best of people—had ignored them.

  ‘Oh, Jofre,’ I replied. ‘How is it you have remained such a guileless soul in the midst of such deceit?’ I took him in my arms, and that night, he bedded me, for what might well have been the last time.

  Jofre left before dawn. By noon of the following day, my servants had stored in trunks all I wanted; most of my finery and elaborate gowns I abandoned.

  As I left my chambers en route to the waiting carriage, Lucrezia appeared in the corridor, her eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘Sister!’ she called as she approached. She was already slow of step, being four months with child. ‘Do not leave without allowing me to bid you goodbye!’

  When she neared and threw her arms around me, I whispered, ‘You must not do this. The servants will see, and report this to the Pope—he will be angry.’

  ‘Damn Father,’ she said vehemently, as we embraced.

  ‘You are brave and kind to come,’ I said. ‘It breaks my heart to say farewell.’

  ‘Not farewell. Only goodbye,’ she countered. ‘I swear to you, we shall meet again. Upon my life, I will see you and Alfonso restored to good graces within this family. I will not let either of you go.’

  I held her tightly. ‘My darling Lucrezia,’ I murmured, ‘you have my friendship and loyalty for life.’

  ‘And you mine,’ she proclaimed solemnly.

  We drew apart to study each other, and she gave a forced little laugh. ‘Here now. Enough of sadness. We will meet again, and you will be by my side when your brother’s first child is born. Think on that happy time to come, and I shall do the same, each time sorrow threatens. Let us promise each other.’

  I managed a smile. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I will leave you now, with the knowledge that our separation will be a short one.’ She turned, with such courage and determination that I straightened my shoulders.

  It was the year 1499. It had been rumoured by the common folk and proclaimed passionately from pulpits that God would see fit to end the world in the coming Jubilee Year of 1500. Surely it felt to me, as I prepared to leave the Palazzo Santa Maria under a pall of shame, that my own world was already ending…but in truth, the rumours were right. The end of my world was coming, but not until the following year.

  Late Summer 1499

  XXVIII

  As I rode away from Rome, I held my head high. I refused all sense of embarrassment at having been banished so rudely by Alexander from the place I had come to know as home. Any shame belonged not to me or my brother, who were innocent of any wrongdoing, but to Cesare and his inconstant father. Even so, my heart ached at the thought of leaving Lucrezia and Jofre behind; I found no small irony in the fact that I, who had been so unhappy at the thought of coming to Rome, was now so unhappy to leave it for the place I loved best.

  On the second day of travel, we caught sight of the coast, and the sea; it was, as always, a tonic for me. By the time I arrived in Naples, my sorrow had eased somewhat, and I was glad to be home; but my joy was dimmed by Alfonso’s honest sorrow. I had seen the stricken look on Lucrezia’s face the day that her father told her Alfonso had gone. Yet as much as she loved my brother, Alfonso adored her even more—and each day in Naples, I was forced to gaze upon a face more troubled, more heartbroken than Lucrezia’s.

  They maintained a constant correspondence—read by both His Holiness’ and our own King Federico’s spies—in which they proclaimed their constant devotion to one another, and in which my brother constantly begged Lucrezia to join him; on that issue, she never replied.

  We soon learned that Lucrezia had been ‘honoured’ by being appointed Governor of Spoleto—a town far north of Rome, and thus much, much farther from Naples. For a woman to be granted a governorship was an unheard-of thing, preposterous; it must have caused a stir within the Pope’s consistory of cardinals. Yet, such was Alexander’s faith in his daughter’s intellect and judgment, and his utter lack of faith in Jofre’s, that he never considered granting my husband the governorship. Or perhaps it was due to the fact that the Pope could not bear to overlook one of his own children to grant a boon to a child not truly his.

  Yet this ‘honour’ was no prize at all, but a courteous way for Alexander to keep both his children prisoner, lest they flee to the arms of their departed spouses. Jofre wrote me a stilted letter explaining that he was attended by six pages ‘sworn to keep me company and protect me night and day, never to leave my side’. In other words, he could not escape to join me even had he wished. I had no doubt Lucrezia was similarly accompanied.

  I was not surprised to hear of Alexander’s precautions; Alfonso told me how he had been forced to outride the Pope’s police on the morning he had fled Rome. They had pursued him until nightfall, when he managed to make his way to Genazzano, an estate owned by friends of King Federico’s; only then did the papal forces give up their pursuit, and, said Alfonso, ‘had they captured me, I am not sure I would be alive to speak these words now.’

  The revelation terrified me, and I began to feel uneasy at the thought of my brother and Lucrezia reuniting in Rome. I was torn: away from Lucrezia, I began to remember Cesare’s deviousness. While she might do her very best to protect her husband, what was to stop Cesare from doing him harm?

  And Cesare despised the entire House of Aragon for personal and now political reasons.

  Only two weeks after our arrival in Naples, I enjoyed a morning of riding with my ladies in the countryside. The air was cool and damp from the ocean breeze, but the sun provided a perfect degree of warmth; I could not help thinking of the miserable heat being suffered by those in Rome.

  I arrived back at our palazzo to discover Alfonso receiving a distinguished guest: the Spanish Captain Juan de Cervillon, who had been part of Lucrezia and Alfonso’s wedding party. While Captain de Cervillon’s position required him to live in Rome, his wife and children resided at their family estate in Naples. I presumed he had come south on personal business, and had stopped to visit us as a courtesy.

  I encountered him and Alfonso greeting each other at the entry to the Great Hall; I stopped as I passed by, on my way to a change of clothing, and welcomed the captain.

  He was in his fourth decade, with dark colouring, a well-groomed, handsome soldier. He cut a dashing figure in his dress uniform, decorated with a number of medals for his heroic service over many years to His Holiness as well as other popes and kings. As I arrived, he bowed low, the sheathed sword at his hip swinging behind him as he did so, and kissed my hand. ‘Your Highness. It is always an honour and pleasure to see you again. You are looking well.’

  ‘Naples agrees with me,’
I said bluntly. ‘It is always good to see you, too, Captain. What happy circumstance has prompted you to come?’

  He stood facing away from Alfonso, and so missed my brother’s warning glance at him; I was concerned and intrigued. So; I was not supposed to have known about de Cervillon’s visit. This realization made me all the more determined to remain and be party to whatever conversation passed between my brother and the captain.

  ‘I am here at the official request of King Federico,’ de Cervillon answered honestly. ‘His Majesty has been in communication with His Holiness, Pope Alexander, who is eager to negotiate the return of the Duke of Bisciglie to Rome. Of course,’ he added, lest I be offended, ‘this would include your return as well.’

  ‘I see.’ I forced the alarm I felt from my expression. I turned and gestured for my entourage of ladies to leave me and continue on to my chambers, then turned back towards my disapproving brother and Captain de Cervillon. ‘Then I should most certainly be included in this conversation. Please, gentlemen.’ I gestured at both my brother and the captain to enter the reception area. ‘Let me not slow our progress.’

  Alfonso shot me a look that was at once angry and indulgent; angry, because I was overstepping my bounds by intruding on what should have been a private conversation between the two men; and indulgent, because he knew that attempting to exclude me from the meeting would be useless. He sighed, called for a servant to bring drink and some food for Captain de Cervillon, then motioned us both into the reception area.

  I was worried that the Pope was softening towards Naples—and, odd as it may sound, I did not want him to invite my brother and me back to Rome; as sad as Alfonso was, I knew he was physically safe at home. Alexander’s recent change of heart had come in response to an angry letter from King Federico, who had become incensed when he heard of the Sforzas’s flight and Louis’ conquest of Milan. Our King had sent a message to Alexander: If you will not defend Naples, I shall find an ally in the Turks.

  This was a startling and grave threat, for the Turks were Rome’s most feared enemies. Federico’s challenge had the desired effect: Alexander was swift to reassure him that Rome was, and would always remain, Naples’ most loyal protector. Alfonso and I sat, as our station in life required, while de Cervillon stood with a soldier’s stiff formality to give what turned out to be a report.

  ‘Your Highnesses, King Federico has finally managed to negotiate an agreement with His Holiness which he feels is satisfactory.’

  It was clear from Alfonso’s expression that he had heard about these negotiations, and had been updated as to their content, but I had not.

  ‘What sort of agreement?’ I asked. It was inappropriate for me, a woman, to interject myself into the conversation, but both my brother and de Cervillon were quite used to my personality and thought nothing of it.

  ‘His Holiness personally guarantees the safety of the Duke of Bisciglie—and your safety, too, Your Highness—if he will return to his wife, the Duchess, in Rome.’

  ‘Spare me!’ I could not hide my sarcasm. ‘We all know that Alexander has invited King Louis to Saint Peter’s for Christmas Mass. Are we expected to attend with him?’

  ‘Sancha,’ Alfonso countered sharply. ‘You know that His Holiness has since changed his attitude after King Federico’s response. He has made his apologies and pledged his support for Naples.’

  ‘Still, I must insist on speaking frankly here,’ I said. ‘Who is the instigator of the negotiations? King Federico, His Holiness…or Cesare Borgia?’

  De Cervillon regarded me blankly.

  ‘Lucrezia,’ Alfonso answered, an undercurrent of indignance in his tone. ‘She has been lobbying her father steadily since her arrival at Spoleto; she has also been in touch with King Federico via the Neapolitan ambassador. She has never given up hope.’

  ‘I see.’ I lowered my face. I did not wish to seem ungrateful for Lucrezia’s help; I longed to see her and Jofre again myself. Yet, for fear of Cesare, I could not believe for an instant that my brother and I could safely return to Rome.

  Alfonso was surprisingly mistrustful. ‘I will consider the Pope’s offer only if he puts quill to parchment.’

  De Cervillon reached into his jacket, and produced a scroll sealed with wax. ‘Here is the writ, Duke.’

  Alfonso broke the seal and unrolled the parchment; a look of surprise dawned over his features as he read to the end of the document. ‘This is His Holiness’ signature.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ de Cervillon verified.

  I insisted on studying the writ myself, despite the fact that I knew any promises contained therein were worthless. It guaranteed my safety and Alfonso’s, should we choose to rejoin our spouses in Rome. In addition, Alfonso was to be granted ‘compensation’ for any inconvenience in the form of five thousand gold ducats, and additional lands once belonging to the Church were to be added to his and Lucrezia’s estate in Bisciglie.

  I, being merely Jofre’s wife, was offered nothing.

  I handed the document back to Alfonso with a sense of dread. I knew, from the lovesick hope in his eyes, that he had already made up his mind to return. It had only been a matter of time.

  My brother rolled the parchment back up. ‘I appreciate your bringing this to our attention, Captain. Please thank the King for all his efforts on our behalf; but at this time, I require some time to consider His Holiness’ offer.’

  ‘Of course.’ De Cervillon snapped his heels together smartly and again bowed. When he rose, he said, ‘I wish to convey to both Your Highnesses the depth of loyalty and respect I possess for both of you. Please know that I would gladly surrender my life to protect you. I would not bring you such an offer were I myself not entirely convinced of its genuineness.’ There was an integrity, a humble goodness in his eyes and tone, that convinced me that he meant from his heart every word he uttered. He was too kind, I thought, too excellent a human being to have to serve the likes of the Borgias.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ I replied.

  ‘You are an uncommonly fine man,’ Alfonso told him, ‘and we have and will always hold you in the highest esteem.’ He rose, indicating that the meeting was at an end. ‘I will notify King Federico and His Holiness of my decision within a few days’ time. And I will remark to them both, Captain, on the excellence of your attitude and your service.’

  ‘Thank you.’ De Cervillon bowed again. ‘May God be with you.’

  ‘And with you,’ we echoed.

  Alfonso could not bear to wait even the few days he had mentioned to de Cervillon. That night, he composed three letters—one to King Federico, one to His Holiness, and one to his wife—saying that he would rejoin Lucrezia as soon as the Pope gave him leave.

  I went riding again the following morning—this time alone, intentionally slipping away from Donna Esmeralda and my servants and guards. I had a task to perform, and was in no mood for company.

  I rode inland, away from the harbour and the smell of the sea, to where the land was dotted with foliage and orchards. I rode toward Vesuvio, the now-stilled volcano, dark and massive against the blue sky.

  Twice, I took wrong turns; the landscape had changed over the years. But instinct eventually guided me back to the ramshackle cottage built into the hillside. There was no donkey braying now, but a silent mule, and even more chickens, wandering freely in and out of the open doorway.

  I stood on the threshold and called: ‘Strega! Strega!’

  There was no answer. I stepped inside, ducking my head at the low ceiling; sun streamed in through the unshuttered windows. I tried to ignore the spider webs in every corner, and the chickens perched atop the crude dining-table; chicken dung covered everything, including the straw mattress in the corner.

  ‘Strega!’ I called again, but all was silence; disappointed, I decided that she had probably died years ago.

  I turned to leave; but before I did, instinct bade me try one last time. ‘Strega, please! A noblewoman has dire need of your services. I will pay handsomely!’


  Someone stirred in the inner chamber built into the hillside. I drew my breath and waited until the Strega appeared.

  She stood in the dark portal leading back to the cavern, still dressed entirely in black and veiled. In the streaming sunshine of the outer room, I could see she had grown gaunt. Her hair had gone silver, and though one eye remained amber, the other was opaque, milky white.

  The woman regarded me with her good eye. ‘I have no need of your money, Madonna.’ She held an oil lamp in her hand; without further comment, she turned and retreated back into the chamber hewn from the cavern. I followed. Once again, we passed a feather bed—still clean and grandly appointed—and a large shrine to the Virgin, the altar covered in thorny roses.

  She motioned, and I sat at the table covered in black silk. The Strega set the lamp down beside us.

  ‘Madonna Sancha,’ she said. ‘Long ago, you were told your fate. Has it come to pass?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I replied. I was dumbfounded by the fact that she recognized me—but I decided that she had probably never entertained a royal of the realm until the day I came to her. Certainly she would have remembered a visit by a princess as easily as I had remembered her.

  ‘And you have…concerns.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. I was terrified of returning to Rome, terrified of the fate that might await me and my brother there.

  ‘I will not read your palm,’ she said. ‘I learned all I could from it when I last took your hand.’

  Instead, she silently produced her cards and fanned them out face down upon the black silk. She spoke not a word, merely gazed at me with her one good eye from behind her veil of gauze, the other, clouded eye staring at a point far beyond, at the future.

  Choose, Sancha. Choose your fate.

  The cards had grown even more weathered and dirty. I took in a breath, held it, and tapped the back of the card farthest from me, as if by choosing it, I could somehow distance myself from what was to come.