The Borgia Bride

XXVII

In the morning, I left my slumbering husband, put on proper dress and went to His Holiness’ apartments quite early, before he left for the day’s official business.

He received me in his office, seated behind a grand, gilded desk. I curtsied, then said urgently, ‘Your Holiness. Your son Jofre was wounded last night in an altercation with the sheriff.’

‘Wounded?’ He rose, instantly concerned. ‘Is it grave?’

‘It was last night, Holiness. Jofre’s thigh was pierced by a rusty arrow; he survived the night through the grace of God. There is no fever yet; the doctor is hopeful he will recover. But his condition is still serious.’

I watched as he relaxed slightly. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Jofre was with some of his men last night, quite late; they were crossing the bridge at Sant’Angelo when the sheriff stopped them and demanded to know their business.’

‘As well he should,’ Alexander said. ‘I have spoken to Jofre about his late-night escapades. He has been going about with his Spaniards, looking for fights. And it seems he finally managed to find one.’

His tone was dismissive; I stared at him and gasped aloud. ‘Your Holiness, the men responsible for wounding Jofre must be brought to justice!’

Alexander sat, clearly no longer concerned by the matter; he beheld me with his great brown eyes-eyes that appeared benevolent on the surface, yet hid such a conniving soul. ‘It sounds as though they were doing their duty. I cannot “punish” them, as you ask, for it. Jofre received what he deserved.’ He looked down at a paper on his desk, ignoring me.

‘He is your son!’ I exclaimed, no longer trying to hide my anger.

He glanced up at me coldly. ‘Of that, you were misinformed, Madonna.’

My temper seized hold of my tongue before my intelligence could. ‘You have told the world otherwise,’ I countered sharply, ‘which makes you both a liar and a cuckold.’

He rose again at that-swiftly, with an anger to match mine, but before he could respond, I turned my back on him, deliberately not requesting permission to take my leave, and stormed from the room, slamming the door in my wake.

Afterwards, I became convinced I had greatly worsened Alfonso’s and my situation. By afternoon, I had grown so agitated over my misdeed that I went searching for my brother, and was forced to wait several hours until his return from a hunt.

We met in our typical clandestine fashion-in Alfonso’s inner sanctum, with the door to the outer chamber locked. As my brother listened, resting in a chair after a hard day of riding-too worn even to remove his cape before sitting-I paced before him and confessed my idiocy and sense of guilt.

He shook his head indulgently and sighed. ‘Sancha, you must realize: your displays of temper might greatly annoy Alexander, but in the end, he understands that you were defending your husband. No ill will come of your encounter.’ There was no point in trying to convince him otherwise; he was too accustomed to seeing the good in people. No matter how long he remained in Rome, he would never understand the Borgia talent for treachery.

I let go a sigh; but then Alfonso added, ‘You have not worsened our situation. Indeed, our situation can scarcely grow any worse.’

And he told me, at last, the fact he had kept hidden from me for some days: that the representatives of the Spanish King, Ferdinand, had grown increasingly outraged by Alexander’s actions. In fact, they were setting sail in the morning for Spain, in order to meet with Ferdinand himself. Their departure was intended as a deliberate affront to the Pope, and before they took their leave, they relayed to His Holiness their belief that the papal army had been receiving munitions from France, smuggled in wine barrels.

Alfonso conveyed this with a heaviness that was born of far more than physical exhaustion. With one temple resting on his fist, he said wearily, ‘And the Pope has managed to so thoroughly infuriate the Spanish with his constant flattery of King Louis that the ambassadors insulted Alexander outright. In fact, Garcillaso de Vega had the courage to tell His Holiness directly: “I hope you are forced to follow me to Spain-as a fugitive, on a barge, not on a fine ship such as mine.’”

I could not help emitting a gasp of delight at the thought of de Vega putting Alexander in his place; at the same time, I knew such frankness would only draw vengeance. ‘What did the Pope say?’

‘He sputtered,’ Alfonso said. ‘He said that Don de Vega dishonoured him, to accuse him of complicity with France. He said that his loyalty to Spain remains unchanged.’

I was silent; I studied my brother carefully. I feared that Lucrezia still influenced him so greatly that he might try to dismiss the Spanish ambassadors’ retreat as an overreaction; but he did not. His expression remained grave, troubled.

After a pause, Alfonso spoke again, his tone one of frank defeat. ‘I have been talking regularly with Ascanio Sforza,’ he said. ‘He points out that while Lucrezia may love me, her voice will go unheard in this matter as far as the Pope is concerned. She protested her divorce from Giovanni Sforza vigorously, but in the end, it made no difference.’

I held my tongue, gracious enough not to point out that I had said the same weeks ago and been dismissed. Instead, I said, ‘Only one person has Alexander’s ear, and that is Cesare. He is the greatest danger we face.’

Alfonso pondered this gravely, then continued. ‘Sforza is thinking of leaving Rome. He is unsure how long it will be safe for supporters of the House of Aragon to remain here.’

I froze. I knew that Cesare’s political manoeuvring with the French left my brother and me in a grave situation. But the actual physical danger-the fact that the Borgias might try to assassinate Alfonso-had never seemed entirely real until that moment, when I looked at my gentle brother and realized what Cesare had done: the House of Aragon was in dire peril. The French alliance had even given the Pope the audacity to deny Jofre’s paternity to my face.

Had Cesare’s claim that he wished to marry Carlotta of Aragon merely been a ruse? Had he always intended to wed a bride chosen by King Louis, and to ally himself with my country’s worst enemy? If he desired revenge against me, he could do no better than to threaten Alfonso; I cared more for my brother’s life than my own.

With the French army at the Pope’s disposal, Cesare could take even more than Alfonso from me: he could take Naples.

At once I was transported into the long-ago past. I sat in the strega’s dark cave near Monte Vesuvio, saw her handsome features soften behind a veil of black gauze, heard her melodious voice proclaim:

Take care, or your heart will destroy all that you love.

Cesare, I thought, in an instant of wild fear, and instinctively laid a hand upon the stiletto always hidden in my bodice. Cesare, my heart…My black, evil heart. I cannot let you destroy my brother.

Jofre made a complete recovery, and gave up his foolish night-time raids. Alfonso and I stayed in Rome even in July, after Ascanio Sforza left for Milan to support his brother, Duke Ludovico Sforza. The French army had already crossed the Alps and were massing for an attack on that northern city.

My concern was for Alfonso alone: he was male, considered capable of political influence. I was only a woman, and therefore seen as an inconvenient spouse, but not a direct threat. We both tried to reassure ourselves that we were safe, especially since Lucrezia was four months pregnant, and Alexander was excitedly awaiting the birth of his first legitimate grandchild-heir to the Houses of Aragon and Borgia.

The Pope constantly repeated the claim that King Louis would never invade Naples; the French King was interested only in the region of Milan, he insisted, and nothing more. Once Louis had Milan firmly in his grasp, he and his army would leave.

We were desperate to believe Alexander’s tales.

But Alfonso was able to believe them only so long. He was hiding a secret from me, one I can still not forgive him for, even though I know he kept it only to protect me.

King Louis took control of Milan easily; the citizens, concerned for their necks, poured out into the streets to welcome him. As for Duke Ludovico and his cousin, Cardinal Sforza, they were unable to mass sufficient support to repel an invasion. Realizing this, they fled even before the city opened its gates to the French army.

Riding with the King was Cesare Borgia.

We were only two days into August, and the mornings were still pleasantly cool, when Lucrezia invited me to join her for a luncheon on the loggia of the palazzo. We were indulging in the happy talk of women when one of them is soon to deliver a child, when our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of papal attendants, then His Holiness.

He strode across the loggia with an uncharacteristic speed and intensity, his broad shoulders hunched forward. I was reminded of the Borgias’ family crest, for Alexander resembled nothing so much as an angry, charging bull.

He neared; the whiteness of his satin robes accentuated the ruddiness of his round face, the darkness of his narrowed eyes. His gaze pierced like a blade, and it alternated between me and Lucrezia; clearly, we had both done something to foster his fury and contempt.

We rose to our feet, Lucrezia struggling because of the burden she carried; but Alexander signalled at once for us to retake our seats.

‘No!’ he called. ‘Sit-you will need to.’ His tone was harsh, his expression thunderous. He arrived at our table and hurled a missive down next to Lucrezia’s plate. I sat, wooden, scarcely daring to draw a breath.

Lucrezia paled-perhaps she suspected what I was too startled to intuit-picked up the letter, and began to read. She let go a gasp, then a strange, nervous laugh of disbelief.

‘What is it?’ I asked, softly lest I further provoke His Holiness’ rage.

She gazed up at me, dazed; I thought she might faint. But she composed herself and spoke; I heard the approach of tears in her tone. ‘Alfonso. He says he is no longer safe in Rome. He has gone to Naples.’

‘And he beseeches you to join him!’ Alexander bellowed, sweeping a great hand toward the letter; Lucrezia cringed, as if fearing he might strike her. ‘You had best swear, before God, that you knew nothing of this.’

Lucrezia blinking rapidly, whispered, ‘I knew nothing. I swear.’

Alexander continued his ranting. ‘What kind of traitorous man is this, who accuses his own family-accuses me-of disloyalty, then leaves his poor, expectant bride? Even worse, what kind of cur puts his wife in such a position, asking her to desert her own blood, knowing of her familial and political responsibilities?’

I wanted to strike him myself then. I was furious at him for insulting my brother, a man more decent than Alexander could possibly fathom; and I was likewise furious at Alfonso for fleeing Rome without telling me.

At the same time, I understood why he had remained silent; such a secret put my own neck at risk. By leaving me behind, obviously not privy to his plans, Alfonso had ensured that I would be regarded by the Borgias as harmless.

‘You will of course not respond,’ Alexander ordered his daughter harshly, entirely unmoved by the tears that spilled down her cheeks, onto the parchment that lay next to her half-eaten luncheon. ‘Your movements in this house will be watched carefully from this moment forward, for you will be going nowhere without my permission, I assure you!’

He turned on me. ‘As for you, Donna Sancha-you can begin packing your trunks this very instant. Clearly, King Federico does not wish to leave behind any of his belongings here, so you will be following your brother to Naples.’

My cheeks flushed hot. I rose, my voice cold but shaking with anger. ‘I will do as my husband tells me to do.’

‘Your husband’-Alexander loomed threateningly close-‘has no say in this household, as you well know. I expect you to vacate the palazzo no later than tomorrow, and take your Aragonese temper and arrogance with you.’ He wheeled about and stalked off with the vigour of a much younger man, his pages scrambling to follow.

Lucrezia was left to sit, stunned, staring down at the letter written by the man closest to her, who was by now so far away. I went to her, knelt, and threw my arms around her. I closed my eyes, for I could not bear to look on her face, where one could see her very heart breaking.

‘Sancha,’ she said, drawing in a breath. ‘Why can I not simply have a happy life with my husband? Am I such a wretched, awful woman, such a horrible wife that men should flee me so?’

‘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.