The Borgia Bride

XXVI

Fortunately, the midwife’s prediction was correct: Lucrezia made a full recovery, and in time became annoyed with the over-attentiveness and coddling that her father, Alfonso, and I shamelessly heaped on her. Although there had been some jealousy between Donna Esmeralda and Lucrezia’s new head lady-in-waiting, Donna Maria, they now became united in their goal of ensuring that the Duchess of Bisciglie was always warm, pampered, and overfed.

In only a few months’ time, our solicitousness was repaid. Lucrezia walked with me out of earshot of our entourages one April evening, after supper, as we strolled from the Vatican back to the palace, and whispered, ‘I am pregnant again. But we must tell no one for some time, until I am sure the child is safe.’

‘No races,’ I hissed back at her, and she had enough of a sense of humour to smile wryly back at me.

‘No races,’ she agreed.

We smiled and linked arms, warmed by our shared secret. Rome seemed to me a safe haven that night, with the lanterns of boats twinkling below us on the Tiber, and the golden glow emanating from the graceful arched windows of the palace we approached.

Meanwhile, events in France were not proceeding precisely according to Cesare Borgia’s plan. The writ was to be delivered by Cesare, and presented to the King only in exchange for Carlotta of Aragon’s hand.

Thus armed, Cesare had left for France. I put the matter out of my mind, confident that Alfonso’s and my political status in the House of Borgia was now secure.

Upon Cesare’s arrival in France, he was directed by Carlotta and her father, King Federico, to entreat Louis for his permission to wed her; the King, however, while receiving Cesare politely, refused to discuss the subject. In the interim, Louis insisted on having the writ of divorce turned over to him-so fiercely that Cesare began to doubt for his safety. He stalled for as long as he could, but in the end, he yielded to Louis’ demand, and turned over the writ.

The instant Louis had what he desired, Cesare lost all advantage, and the French King would hear no more about Carlotta.

In frustration, Cesare turned again to Carlotta’s father, Federico of Naples-who, after being evasive for a great deal of time, finally flatly rejected Cesare’s offer. Typically outspoken, Uncle Federico commented disgustedly that he would not have his daughter wed to a man with a reputation as an ‘adventurer’. In other words, he was saving his daughter for a legitimate suitor, not a pope’s bastard who had so lightly freed himself of priestly vows, and certainly not a man with a rumoured penchant for murder.

Cesare’s appeals to Louis were ignored. By this time, months had passed. Cesare threatened to return to Italy, and the Pope made noises about finding him an Italian wife-but the Duke of Valencia was not given leave to depart France, or even the King’s court.

Instead, he was offered the hand of one French princess, then another; in time, a whole procession of French beauties was offered to him, and he must have finally realized the truth. While he was being treated well, he was the King’s prisoner until he relented to Louis’s plan: a French wife for Pope Alexander’s son.

In late spring Don Garcia, Cesare’s personal messenger, arrived in Rome from France. The news was of such import that His Holiness invited Garcia to join us at the family table at supper-although Garcia stood to recite his piece.

Cesare was betrothed, and the King of France had given his approval. The bride was Charlotte d’Albret, the King of Navarre’s daughter, and Louis’ cousin.

Beside me, Alfonso listened carefully, his expression revealing no sign of his inner distress; on my other flank, Jofre let go a cheer on behalf of his brother. It did not occur to him that his bride and brother-in-law were now in grave political danger.

With Juan dead, Lucrezia was Alexander’s favourite child; but a son always takes precedence over a daughter, so the Pope’s first loyalty-and his fear-was owed to Cesare. And Cesare had chosen to ally himself with France-out of spite and a desire for revenge on me, and perhaps the entire House of Aragon, after the all-too-public sting of Carlotta’s refusal.

As for His Holiness, he showed a maudlin pleasure. ‘At last, all my children shall be wed,’ he sighed, ‘and perhaps I shall soon be a grandfather.’

Lucrezia directed at me a complicitous little smile, one I could barely return, for I was heartsick.

After supper, I contrived a moment alone with Alfonso in his chambers, before he went to Lucrezia for the night. Such was my level of unease and suspicion that I demanded Alfonso dismiss all his servants-including the most trusted men who had served him for years in Naples. I insisted we retire into his bedchamber after locking the door to the outer suite, for I worried that someone might press an ear there and listen to any conversation held in the antechamber.

I spoke first, before Alfonso had the opportunity.

‘If Cesare goes through with this, a French invasion is inevitable-and we are doomed. You know how easily Lucrezia rid herself of her first husband.’ I sat on a tufted ottoman and shivered, drawing my fur wrap tightly about me.

Alfonso stood with his back to me in front of his balcony. He had thrown open the shutters, and took in the warm spring air as he stared out at the night. The darkness framed his golden head and his square, muscular shoulders, clad in the palest green brocade. He appeared strong and resolute, invincible, but as I studied his pose, I read the concern in his posture, saw a tension not there before supper.

Alfonso most deliberately closed the shutters, and turned away from the balcony-movements that revealed a rare anger rising in him. His face showed strain; I knew my comment had provoked him, but I also knew I was not the sole source of his ire.

‘That was not her doing. She fought the divorce as best she could, and is still deeply shamed by it. Her father coerced her.’

‘Nevertheless, she does as she is told.’

His manner turned uncharacteristically cool. ‘Do not be so certain. We love each other, Sancha. Lucrezia has been misused by her father for far too many years, and her loyalty to him is strained. But she knows I would never hurt her, never betray her.’

‘I can only hope you are right. But there are others whose fates I dare not speak of-’ I was thinking of Perotto, of Pantsilea…and mostly of Juan, whose relation by blood could not save him.

Alfonso flared. ‘I will not hear such talk. Lucrezia is my wife. And she is incapable of even the mildest cruelty.’

I turned conciliatory. ‘I love Lucrezia as a sister and friend. I am not accusing her of anything. But Cesare…’ I lowered my voice at once. ‘If he decides to ally the papal army with France…’

Alfonso’s anger fled, replaced by sombreness. ‘I know. We must take great care from now on. There will be spies; we dare not take the chance of speaking freely, even in front of our own servants, and we must watch everything we put into writing.’ He paused. ‘I will meet privately with the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors. There are cardinals with strong ties to Spain and Naples who can be trusted, and have the Pope’s ear.’ He forced an encouraging smile. ‘Do not fret, Sancha. The deed is not yet accomplished; I will do everything in my power to stop this marriage. And I will have Lucrezia speak to her father as well; she has more influence over him than anyone.’

‘Lucrezia!’ I exclaimed. ‘Alfonso, you dare not speak to her about any of this.’

He looked at me, his hurt tempered by indignation. ‘I speak to Lucrezia about everything,’ he stated simply. ‘She is my life, my soul. I could hide nothing from her.’

Despair settled over me like instant nightfall. ‘You must understand, little brother. Lucrezia’s first loyalty will always be to her family.’ And as he opened his mouth to protest, I raised a hand for silence. ‘That shows no weakness in her character, but rather a strength. Confess, Alfonso: to whom are you more loyal? The House of Borgia, or the House of Aragon?’

He sighed. ‘You have a point, my sister. I will be discreet in what I discuss with my wife. In the meantime, have faith: I will lobby with all my ability against this French marriage.’

I tried to have faith. Alfonso performed as promised, and the representatives of both the Spanish and Neapolitan Kings warned the Pope of dire consequences should Cesare’s marriage to Louis’ kinswoman be allowed. Alexander seemed to listen.

But one morning in mid-May, as Lucrezia and I sat on our velvet cushions, flanking Alexander’s throne as he heard petitioners, the arrival of a visitor was announced. Cesare’s messenger, Don Garcia, had just dismounted his horse after a hard four-day ride from Blois in France.

He had news for His Holiness, happy news, the page reported, but he begged Alexander’s forbearance: he had scarcely slept and could not stand. He wished to make his report after some hours of rest.

Alexander, in his excitement, would not hear of it. He dismissed the petitioners, summoned Jofre, Alfonso, and the exhausted rider to his throne. The family arrived, followed by Don Garcia-leaning heavily on a servant, for he could not walk unaided.

‘Your Holiness, forgive me,’ Garcia begged. ‘I will tell you this: that your son, Cesare Borgia, the Duke of Valentinois, is now four days’ happily wed to Charlotte d’Albret, Princess of Navarre, and the marriage was consummated before King Louis himself.’

I listened woodenly. Alexander clasped his hands, ecstatic. Later, I learned he had helped seal the marriage months before, by granting Charlotte’s brother a cardinal’s hat-even as he had pretended to listen to the Spanish and Neapolitans.

‘So it is done!’ He studied the swaying, worn messenger and demanded, ‘Someone bring a chair! I give you leave, Don Garcia, to sit in my presence-so long as you give a complete, full account of the wedding. Leave no detail out.’

A chair was brought; reluctantly, Garcia dropped into it, and-prodded by the Pope’s questions-droned on for a full seven hours. Food and drink was brought after a few hours for the speaker and his audience. I sat and listened, growing ever more horrified as Alexander grew ever more delighted.

I heard how Cesare and his bride-‘quite beautiful, with pale, delicate skin and fair hair,’ according to Garcia-exchanged rings in a solemn ceremony. Cesare had, in a manly display, consummated the marriage physically six times in front of King Louis, who applauded and called him ‘a better man than me.’ So many distinguished guests, including the King and his entourage, attended the reception afterwards that there was no room for them all, and they were forced to hold the celebration outdoors in a meadow.

The Pope revelled in Cesare’s union. Each visitor to the Vatican was regaled with the story of Cesare’s wedding, complete with His Holiness bringing out mounds of jewels he intended to send his new daughter-in-law, and holding each gem up to the light for the visitor to admire.

Alfonso and I could only attempt to control the damage. One cardinal whose help Alfonso had solicited, Ascanio Sforza, gently tested the waters in the midst of a conversation with the Pope concerning Church business. He did not believe, Cardinal Sforza told His Holiness, that Louis really intended to invade Naples, since Queen Anne and her people were against it. Besides, the French had already learned their lesson, when King Charles was forced to retreat in humiliation.

The Pope laughed derisively in Sforza’s face. King Federico should take care, Alexander remarked, grinning, lest he find himself in the same position as my father had-believing all the while that the French would never come, then fleeing when Charles’ army neared Naples’ gate.

Upon hearing this, I lost hope-even though Alfonso continued his political lobbying in secret. I took wicked pleasure in one thing: the news that university students in Paris were performing comic parodies of Cesare’s wedding; the Roman sense of grandeur was considered vulgar and extreme by French standards. Cesare’s silver-shod horses had made him a laughingstock.

Jofre finally realized that I was no longer in His Holiness’ good graces, and decided the best course of action was to prove himself a true Borgia, like his brothers. In the company of Spanish soldiers, he roamed the streets at night, drunk and wielding his sword in a pale imitation of Juan, but Jofre’s gentle nature had never equipped him for fighting.

He continued this behaviour even though I pleaded with him to stop. I think my concern made him feel more manly. I cannot blame him: he wished to help me; and perhaps, if he had the standing of his siblings, he might have had his father’s ear. But he did not-and there was nothing he could do to sway His Holiness in my favour.

But he could at least begin to act like a Borgia. No doubt this is what he supposed he was doing the night I was awakened by a shout outside my bedchamber.

‘Donna Sancha! Donna Sancha!’

I sat up in bed, hand to my pounding heart, wakened after hours of deep slumber by a male voice in my antechamber. Beside me, Donna Esmeralda woke at once; my other ladies stirred with startled cries.

‘Who is it?’ I demanded, in my most authoritative voice. I struggled from my covers as one of the ladies hurriedly lit a lamp.

‘It is Federico, a sergeant in the Spanish Guard, one of your husband’s men. Don Jofre is seriously injured. We have taken him up to his bed and called for the doctor; we thought you should be notified.’

‘Seriously? How seriously?’ I demanded, my tone rising with panic. By this time, I had clasped my velvet wrap about me and run out into the antechamber, where Federico stood holding a lantern. Dressed in civilian clothing, he was perhaps eighteen, dark as a Moor, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat. The lower-half of his tunic hung low, neatly slit by a swiping blade that had failed to penetrate the skin; the gaping hole revealed part of his bare abdomen and the top of his breeches. His black eyes glittered from too much wine.

But his voice and stance were steady; he had been frightened into sobriety. ‘He has taken an arrow in the thigh, Madonna.’

Such a wound was easily fatal. Without calling for attendants, I ran barefoot into the corridor. I do not remember crossing the building or ascending the stairs to Jofre’s suite; I only remember men bowing, doors opening, until I was at my husband’s side.

He lay pale and sweating on the bed, his brown eyes wide with pain. His men had cut away his leggings and breeches, exposing the wound, and the arrow, half-broken, its point firmly lodged in my husband’s thigh. The flesh around the arrow was purplish-red and swollen, bleeding copiously, rivulets running down either side of the leg. A sheet had been folded several times and placed beneath the wound; it was soaked through.

Jofre was alert, and I took his hand; his grip was limp but grateful, and he tried to smile up at me, but could produce no more than a sickly grimace. ‘My darling,’ I said; they seemed the only words I could utter.

‘Do not be angry, Sancha,’ he whispered. The smell of alcohol emanated from his breath and clothes-I realized that his men had probably poured wine on the wound to cleanse it. Even so, he and his entourage had been quite drunk, a fact that had no doubt facilitated the current crisis.

‘Never,’ I told him. ‘Never.’ There was no guile in Jofre. If he had done anything amiss, it was only out of the hope of eventually helping me. ‘Who did this to you?’

Jofre was too weak to answer; instead, I heard Federico’s voice behind me; the young soldier had kept pace with me and followed me into his master’s chamber, but I had been too distraught to notice. ‘One of the sheriff’s soldiers, Madonna Sancha. We were crossing the bridge by the Castel Sant’Angelo when the sheriff demanded we halt and be inspected. Don Jofre identified himself as the prince of Squillace, but the sheriff chose not to believe him, Madonna, and…’ He paused, editing the story for my sake. ‘Words were exchanged. Apparently, one of the soldiers felt that the Prince insulted the sheriff, for he fired an arrow, and you can see the result.’

I was aghast. ‘Has the sheriff been arrested? And the soldier who fired the arrow?’

‘No, Madonna. We were too concerned for the prince’s sake. We brought him here immediately.’

‘Something must be done. The men responsible must be punished.’

‘Yes, Madonna. Unfortunately, we do not have the authority.’

‘Who does?’

Federico considered this. ‘Most certainly, His Holiness.’

The Pope’s doctor appeared, an elderly heavy-set man in dress as fine as any Borgia’s, obviously put out at being roused in the hours before dawn. He scowled mightily, his thick black eyebrows rushing together, at the sight of me.

‘No women. I must remove the arrow, and will have no fainting here.’

I scowled even more fiercely back at him. I would not be treated in such a dismissive manner-but more importantly, I would not allow myself to be forced from Jofre’s side.

‘I am no delicate maiden,’ I insisted. ‘Do your work, and leave me to comfort him.’

This time, Jofre succeeded in producing a pale smile.

I held his hand and wiped the sweat from his clammy brow as the doctor proceeded to examine, to prod, then to cut about the wound. Fortified wine was brought, and I held the silver goblet to Jofre’s trembling lips and urged him to drink.

When he had taken an amount sufficient to please the doctor, the worst of the surgery commenced. The doctor gripped the shaft with both his hands and pulled. Jofre gritted his teeth and moaned, but at last was reduced to keening aloud and bearing down like a woman in childbirth.

After several tries, the arrow came free, and Jofre fell back, limp, though still in pain. Much blood came with it-a fact the doctor pronounced good, as it would help to cleanse away the dangerous rust and lessen the chance of infection. The wound was washed once more with fortified wine, then bandaged.

I stayed with Jofre that night, not daring to sleep even when he at last dozed, despite his misery.