The Borgia Bride

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.

The Strega held my gaze fast and turned the card over without looking at it.

It was a heart, pierced by a single sword.

I cringed at the keenness, the deadly length, of the blade.

She smiled faintly. ‘So. You have already fulfilled half your destiny. Only one weapon remains to be wielded now.’

‘No,’ I whispered, stricken. A vivid memory returned: the sensation of my hand upon the stiletto, as it tore into the throat of Ferrandino’s would-be assassin. I recalled the shudder of the handle as the narrow blade bit into bone and gristle, the warmth of the blood that rained down upon my brow and cheeks. If that deed had been the first part of my fate, what second horrific act was required of me?

Kindly, she caught my hands in hers; her grip was strong and warm. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘You possess all that you need to accomplish your task. But you are torn. You must seek clarity of mind and heart.’

I pulled away from her. I rose and slapped a gold ducat on the table, which she stared at as though it were some odd curiosity; she made no move to touch it. Meantime, I swept out of the cottage without another word, and rode home at a furious gallop.

I was a fool that day; or perhaps my mind was simply overwhelmed by fear, but I remained outraged by the Strega’s suggestion that I was anything other than helpless in the hands of the Borgias. I retired to my bed early that night, but I spent hours staring up into the darkness, in the grip of a cold panic that would not ease.

I closed my eyes and saw the image of my own heart, red and beating, skewered now by a single sword. I saw myself stepping forward and hoisting the sword above my head, with a surge of pure hatred: hatred for Cesare Borgia.

‘No…’ I whispered, too softly for the sleeping Esmeralda and my other ladies to hear. ‘I cannot, must not, commit murder, or I will become as Ferrante, as my father…I will go mad. There must be another way.’

I had another reason to be reluctant to commit such a crime. What I had not wanted to admit to myself, even then, was that my heart still belonged to Cesare. I abhorred him fiercely…yet a part of me still cared for him and could do him no harm. Like my mother, I was cursed: I could not altogether stop loving the cruellest of men.

I lulled myself to sleep by telling myself lies: that Cesare had no cause to hurt me or my brother, that the Pope would abide by his agreement.