The Borgia Bride

XXIV

Alfonso rode into Rome in the midst of summer; and I, in desperation to speak to him privately, played the overeager sister and rode out alone to meet his entourage before it even crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge that led to Vatican Hill.

He rode on horseback at the front of his company, accompanied by several grooms, while wagons piled with his belongings and bridal gifts followed; I easily spotted the golden hair in the bright sun. I spurred my horse on, and when he recognized me, he gave a shout, and galloped forth to meet me.

We dismounted and embraced; despite my worry over his impending marriage, I could not help smiling with joy at the sight of him. He was as glorious-looking as ever, clad in pale blue satin. ‘Alfonso, my darling.’

‘I am here, Sancha! Here at last! I never need leave you again.’

His grooms trotted up to join us. ‘May I have a moment with my brother?’ I asked sweetly.

They acquiesced and rode back to join the slow wagons.

I put my cheek against his. ‘Alfonso,’ I whispered in his ear, ‘as happy as I am to see you, you must not go through with this marriage.’

He released a disbelieving little laugh. ‘Sancha,’ he said aloud, ‘now is hardly the time and place.’

‘Now is the only time and place. Once we arrive at the Vatican, it will no longer be safe to talk freely.’

My tone was so fierce, so urgent, he grew sombre. ‘I am already committed. To break the contract now would be unconscionable, cowardly…’

I drew a breath. I had little time to make my case, and my brother was a very trusting soul. How was I to relay quickly the degree of treachery I had witnessed? ‘Ethics are of no use here. You know the lines written by the Aragonese poets concerning Lucrezia,’ I said. I felt guilt, imagining what she would feel if she knew what I was telling her intended bridegroom.

‘Please.’ He blushed; he knew precisely to what I alluded.

I quoted Sannazaro. ‘Hic jacet in tumulo Lucretia nomine, sed re Thais: Alexandri filia, sponsa, nurus.’ It was an epitaph suggested for Lucrezia: ‘Here in her tomb lies Lucrezia in name, but Thais in fact: Alexander’s daughter, spouse, daughter-in-law.’ Pantsilea or some other soul must have shared Cesare’s incest with Lucrezia with others, for even the poets in Naples and Spain had begun to write scathing couplets about her (in this case comparing her to the ancient Egyptian sinner-cum-saint, Thais, who had repented of her incestuous ways).

I did not need to say that the rumours were fact; Alfonso was quick enough to realize why I recited the verse.

‘Sancha,’ he said, his voice low and tense, his words swift. ‘Even if every charge against her is true, I am not free. I have vowed to do this for the sake of Naples. Other men, with ties to France, have proposed-and we cannot permit any French influence on His Holiness. Without full papal support, the House of Aragon is doomed. The new French King has already proclaimed himself ruler of our territory; we must have the Pope on our side in case of another invasion.’

I fought to keep the anguish from my expression; Alfonso’s entourage could not see me show anything but happiness. ‘You do not understand-you will have to watch your every move. They are murderers,’ I whispered, my expression as pleasant as if we were discussing the glorious weather.

‘As are most rulers, among them our own relatives,’ he countered. ‘Am I not charming, Sancha?’

‘The most charming man I have ever met-almost.’ He tried to make me smile again, but I was too full of despair.

‘I will charm even the Borgias. I will win their trust. I am not a fool; I will give them no cause to rid themselves of me. And the marriage has brought our family a great boon: the Duchy of Bisciglie.’ He paused; his tone turned playful as he tried to turn my dismay back to joy. ‘Is Lucrezia entirely cruel? Will she treat me badly? Is she a hideous hag?’

‘No, no, and no.’ I released a sigh of pure misery, realizing I had been defeated. Nothing would stop the marriage.

‘You said in your letters that you and she are friends. You seem to have survived thus far.’

‘After a fashion, yes.’ I paused. ‘Lucrezia has actually been quite kind to me.’

‘Then she is not a heartless monster. And I am not here to judge her. I will treat her well and be a good husband, Sancha. I can think of no better way to win over her father and Cesare.’

I put my hand on his bearded cheek. ‘You could not be any other kind of husband, little brother. I pray God you take care.’

I rode into the city with him. Cesare was waiting to receive him in front of the Vatican. The Cardinal of Valencia’s manner was at once cordial and cool; he was sizing up this man who might exert untoward influence over his sister, and I believe he was justifiably concerned. I did my best not to reveal my inner turmoil.

At last we dismounted, and I followed as my brother was led up the Vatican steps into the building itself and the throne room, where Alexander sat waiting, bedecked entirely in white satin, with his heavy gold-and-diamond cross upon his breast.

Lucrezia sat on the velvet cushion beside him. Like her groom-to-be, she had dressed in palest blue-in her case, a gown of silk, with silver trim and seed pearls covering the bodice, and a matching cap; her cheeks were flushed, and she looked almost pretty, with her golden ringlets spilling past her shoulders. At the sight of Alfonso, her face lit up like a beacon; she was unquestionably besotted with him from the first instant.

Alexander seemed besotted himself. He broke into a broad grin, and said, ‘The bridegroom, and new Duke of Bisciglie! Welcome, Alfonso! Welcome, dear son, to our family! So, Lucrezia, the rumours are true-your husband-to-be is an exceedingly handsome man!’

Alfonso dutifully knelt to kiss the Pope’s slipper; once that formality was dispensed with, Alexander rose and stepped down to put his arm around his future son-in-law’s shoulders. ‘Come. Come. We have prepared a fine dinner-though I think we should not eat too much, for tomorrow there is the wedding-feast!’

He laughed, and Alfonso smiled. In the interim, Lucrezia rose from her little cushion and descended the stairs. When Alfonso encountered her, he bowed and kissed her hand.

‘Madonna Lucrezia,’ he said-and only my brother could speak with the sincerity to make the following words convincing, ‘you shine like a star at night. Compared to your beauty, everything that surrounds you is darkness.’

She giggled like a child; Alexander beamed in approval of such pretty words. He replaced his arm around Alfonso’s shoulders, and the two of them headed for the papal apartments and the waiting banquet, while Lucrezia followed with a dreamy expression. Cesare went next, his features arranged pleasantly, but his gaze piercing; I brought up the rear, wearing a frozen smile.

The wedding was held in the Hall of the Saints, where the ill-fated marriage to Giovanni Sforza had taken place. The guests were few, mostly the Vatican household and some cardinals.

Lucrezia looked lovely in a gown of black satin, with a gold stomacher seeded with diamonds. She and Alfonso might have been mistaken for brother and sister, with their golden curls and pale eyes-just as, ironically, I might have been mistaken for the sister of the dark-haired Cesare, who was dressed in black velvet for the occasion. Out of deference for the bride, I dressed in sombre Neapolitan garb.

During the wedding, I stood next to Jofre-with Cesare uncomfortably close, just on my husband’s other side. As Cardinal Giovanni Borgia asked the bride and groom to utter their vows, the acting Captain-General of the papal forces, Juan de Cervillon, unsheathed a handsome jewelled sword and held it over the heads of the new Duke and Duchess of Bisciglie. It symbolized that these two should never be parted by any cause; as I stared at the shining blade, I thought of the strega’s card-the heart pierced by two swords. I had blotted much of the incident from my memory, but now more of it returned at the sight of de Cervillon’s weapon, with haunting force.

I will never resort to evil! I had proclaimed haughtily. Certainly, I could think of no worse evil at the moment than being forced to wed Cesare.

Then you condemn to death those whom you most love, the strega had said.

I watched the proceedings with no emotion other than fear.

But Alfonso and Lucrezia were all smiles. The two could not have seemed happier; I held onto the fact desperately, hoping it would spare my brother the pain I had encountered at the Borgias’ hands.

Alfonso gave his answer in a sure, strong voice; Lucrezia’s reply was soft and shy as she gazed upon him with honest devotion. One look at her eyes, and at Alfonso’s, and I knew: they had been struck by the same thunderbolt that wounded me the day I met the Cardinal of Valencia.

Soon the presiding legate pronounced the pair man and wife. Radiant, Alfonso and Lucrezia processed arm in arm from the Hall, followed by Captain de Cervillon and Cardinal Borgia.

Unfortunately, as the rest of us began to leave from the private chapel to the reception area, an argument began. ‘The Princess of Squillace is sister to the groom, and her party will proceed next,’ Donna Esmeralda insisted in a strident voice. Soon she was shoving one of Cesare’s grooms aside; his servants were demanding precedence over mine. It is impossible to completely hide one’s personal feelings from one’s servants, and Cesare’s people and mine were, in a matter of seconds, at each other’s throats. One of Jofre’s grooms stepped forward and demanded, ‘Let the Prince and Princess of Squillace pass!’

In reply, he received a swift blow to the jaw, and fell back into the arms of his fellows. Donna Esmeralda and my ladies began shrieking; it did not help that His Holiness’ entourage became caught up in the mêlée as well.

More punches were thrown, and swords drawn; the Pope’s attendants became so terrified, they ran up the steps behind the altar and fled the chapel, leaving Alexander unprotected in the middle of a brawl. ‘Enough!’ he shouted, flailing his arms, his golden mantle very nearly pierced by a blade, and in danger of slipping from his shoulders. ‘Enough! This is a happy occasion!’

His pleas were drowned out by shouts. Jofre’s groom recovered enough to wrestle his attacker to the floor; the pair blocked any progress in or out of the chapel.

‘Stop!’ Jofre called, his voice adding to the cacophony. ‘Stop this idiocy at once!’

The task fell to Cesare. Without a word, he drew a dagger and in a swift, single movement was leaning over the two fighting men, the tip of the blade in reach of either’s throat. The ferocity in his gaze convinced the two wrestling that he would not hesitate to spill blood, even here, even now, on his sister’s wedding-day.

The room fell silent. ‘Disengage,’ Cesare said, in a deadly low voice, yet all heard it.

The grooms rolled aside, and stood, wide-eyed and complacent.

‘Where is His Holiness’ entourage?’ Cesare asked, in the same calm, low-yet altogether terrifying-tone.

His groom pointed to the altar, and the steps that led back toward the private papal chambers. ‘Hiding, Your Holiness.’

‘Fetch them. He is to process next, and must be attended.’

The groom sped to the altar, and up the stairs. Cesare, his dagger still drawn, but lowered, glanced at Jofre’s groom, the other participant in the altercation. ‘He will no doubt need help,’ the cardinal said.

With exaggerated eagerness, Jofre’s groom followed. It took some minutes before the full entourage appeared, but at last, the Pope was able to leave the chapel. Graciously-or rather, with the appearance of graciousness, Cesare insisted on my entourage departing next.

The ceremony was followed by a protracted supper, then dancing. Alfonso was, as always, filled with such charm and good cheer that even the Borgias were infected. For the first time since I had come to Rome, the Pope danced-first with Lucrezia, then with me. Despite his great size, he was possessed of the same athletic grace as his son Cesare.

I was especially happy to see that no courtesans were present-not even the Pope’s mistress Giulia. He seemed to be trying to convince Alfonso that the rumours surrounding the Sforza scandal and the birth of Lucrezia’s child were untrue; regardless, I was relieved that the celebration did not spiral downwards into the Borgias’ customary lewdness. The Pope drank far less wine than his custom, for once considerate of Lucrezia’s happiness. Even Cesare was pleasant.

Alfonso and I performed a Neapolitan dance for His Holiness, and my brother’s eyes were bright, his smile genuine. I knew that part of his joy came from knowing we two would be together again-but I could also see that his delight with Lucrezia was sincere. They had, as Alexander put it jocularly over supper, ‘taken to each other. Look at those two! It is as though the rest of us do not exist. Shall we all retreat quietly, lest we disturb them?’

I could not understand why my little brother, who had his choice of more beautiful and honourable women, should fall in love with Lucrezia; I only hoped for his happiness.

After much dancing, theatricals were presented on a small stage that had been erected in the reception area. One presentation involved a beautifully dressed maid who coaxed a unicorn to lay its head upon her lap. The maid was played by none other than Giulia, the Pope’s mistress, but this was not the greatest irony, for I at last recognized, from his body and movements, the man beneath the heavy unicorn’s mask, a full headpiece with a gilded horn, and holes for the eyes and mouth.

It was Cesare Borgia, portraying the very symbol of chasteness and loyalty.

As dawn approached, Lucrezia and Alfonso retired together, with a smugly smiling Giovanni Borgia following them. My poor brother was about to be subjected to the same indignity I had-that of having the leering cardinal witness his first sexual union with his spouse. At least, I reflected, Alfonso did not have the added embarrassment of having his own father watch the proceedings; I wondered whether the cardinal would comment about roses.

A few weeks after the marriage, Cesare was granted what he had dreamt of for years: the chance to present his case before the consistory of cardinals, asking them to free him from a vocation for which he had never been suited. In exchange, he swore that he would surrender himself to the service of the Church and go at once to France, where he would do everything necessary to save Italy from another invasion by another French king.

There was no more doubt that Cesare would be granted his petition than there had been doubt that Lucrezia would be declared virgo intacta.

Cesare got his wish. No sooner had it been granted than he began looking about for a suitable mate. I steeled myself for the worst, expecting to receive another summons to his office: to my astonishment, Lucrezia revealed that he had chosen Carlotta of Aragon-my cousin, the legitimate daughter of Uncle Federico, the King of Naples.

I was ecstatic; I thought I had underestimated Cesare. Lucrezia had said that he truly cared for me-and perhaps that was why he wished neither to coerce me, nor cause me harm. Even better, his choice of bride made Alfonso’s position, as a Prince of Naples, more secure in the House of Borgia.

Carlotta was at the time in France, being educated at the court of the piously Catholic, pro-Borgia Queen Anne of Brittany, widow of Re Petito, Charles VIII, who had died that spring. Cesare dressed himself in his best finery, and, astride his white horse shod with silver, headed north. He was confident he would win Carlotta’s hand, for the new King, Louis XII, greatly desired a divorce from his crippled, barren wife, Queen Jeanne, so that he could marry Anne, whom he loved.

And Cesare was just the person who, as the Pope’s son, could deliver a writ of divorce directly into Louis’ hands-for a price.

With a sigh of relief, I watched him ride away, believing my country’s troubles had at last ended.