The Borgia Bride

XXXVI

The egg has cracked, Alfonso said. He was dressed, as always, in pale blue satin; his visage was uncharacteristically stern, a warning. And this time it cannot be repaired…

I woke with a gasp to a humid August morning, and the sound of Esmeralda’s cries out in the antechamber. I ran out to find her huddled over, clutching her heart, as if she was in the grip of a fierce pain.

‘Esmeralda!’ I rushed to her side and caught her fleshy upper arms. She was older now, and quite plump; I thought at once of Ferrante’s attack of apoplexy, and helped her to a chair. ‘Sit, darling…’ I rose, found wine and poured a goblet, then raised the rim to her lips. ‘Here, drink. Then the guard will fetch the doctor.’

She took a sip, coughed, then with a dismissive wave of her hand, wheezed, ‘No doctor!’ She looked up at me, her eyes full of grief, and said wretchedly, ‘Oh, Donna Sancha! If only this were something a doctor could help…’ She drew a gasping breath, then added, ‘Do not call the guard. I just spoke to him. He brought news…’

‘What has happened?’ I demanded.

‘Our Naples,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with a corner of her pendulous sleeve. ‘Oh, Madonna, it breaks my heart…Your uncle, Federico, was forced from the throne into exile. King Ferdinand the Catholic and King Louis-they conspired and joined their armies; now they share rule of Naples. Today, the French and Spanish banners both fly over the Castel Nuovo. Ferdinand is now regent of the city proper.’

I released a long breath as I knelt slowly beside her. Even though Alfonso’s death had stolen from me my reason and joy, there had always remained the faint but distant hope that someday, I might return home-to the royal palace, to Federico and the brothers, and the family I had known. Now that, too, had been taken from me.

The royal House of Aragon was no more.

I was too stunned for speech. Donna Esmeralda and I remained silent, grieving in silence for some moments until I said knowingly, a corner of my lip twitching with hatred: ‘And Cesare Borgia…he rode with King Louis’ army into the city.’

She looked at me, astonished. ‘Why, yes, Madonna…How did you know?’

I did not answer.

I fell again into a numb despair, one that even Esmeralda and the doctor’s draught could not pierce. My only respite came during my walks with Donna Dorotea-who now did almost all of the speaking while I listened, mute and uninterested.

One day she brought news of Lucrezia, who had returned to Rome that autumn in response to the adamant summons of her father. Dorotea relayed an encounter between the Pope and his daughter. In the papal throne room, in the presence of Lucrezia’s ladies, the Pope’s servants and the chamberlain, His Holiness told Lucrezia that he and Cesare had studied the suitors lined up for her hand. They had chosen one: Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina. Orsini had proposed marriage to Lucrezia a few years earlier, but had been rejected in favour of my brother.

Now, Alexander informed his daughter, she would become the Duchess of Gravina. Politically, this was the wisest course of action.

No, Lucrezia had told her father. She would have nothing to do with the man.

Startled, Alexander had asked her reason.

‘Because all my husbands have been very unlucky!’ Lucrezia announced angrily, and stormed from the chamber without asking His Holiness’ leave.

Word of this spread quickly throughout Rome. When the Duke of Gravina heard of her refusal, he took great offence (or perhaps he considered the truth of Lucrezia’s words), and withdrew his offer at once.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself restless one evening, and took to wandering the corridors. Winter was approaching, and I kept my cape wrapped tightly about me as I headed for the loggia, to take in the bracing night air.

Even before I stepped from the landing onto the floor, I could hear the bells of Saint Peter’s, singing a funeral dirge.

Staring out over the balcony’s edge, pale as the fur she was wrapped in, stood a small, slender woman wrapped in white ermine, accompanied by guards who waited at a respectful distance. I was so distracted by the bells, I was almost upon her before I noticed her.

She was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen, more beautiful even than the Pope’s former mistress, the delicate Giulia. This woman was alabaster-skinned, golden-haired, with blue eyes brighter than any gem; in her bearing was a rare dignity and grace, and in her gaze was a profound sadness. I understood at once why Cesare had wanted to possess her.

‘Caterina Sforza,’ I breathed.

She turned her striking features toward me and regarded me. There was no hostility in her gaze, no condescension, only a grief that verged on madness.

She moved slightly aside, making room at the balcony. It was a clear invitation and I took it, stepping up to stand beside her.

She was silent some time, gazing out again at the piazza in front of the great stone edifice of Saint Peter’s, where a torch-lit funeral procession was slowly making its way out of the cathedral and into the street. From the number of mourners, I judged the deceased to be a person of some importance.

At last Donna Caterina sighed. ‘Another cardinal, no doubt,’ she said, in a voice stronger and more resonant than I would have expected, ‘cut down in order to finance Cesare’s wars.’ She paused. ‘Each time I hear the bells toll, I pray they are for the Holy Father.’

‘I pray they are for Cesare,’ I countered. ‘He is a far worthier candidate for death.’

She looked at me, tilting her lovely head and appraising me frankly. ‘It is better if Alexander dies first, you see,’ she explained. ‘For if his son predeceases him, he will simply find another Cesare to head his army, and continue the Borgia terror. It is a game they play together: the Pope merely pretends not to be able to control Cesare’s cruelty, but believe me, each hand knows exactly what the other is doing at all times. Of course, if Alexander were to die…’ She leaned toward me and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Surely I told you what the Venetian ambassador said to me, long ago, about Cesare.’

I smiled politely. ‘We have never spoken, Madonna.’ I could not fault her for her confusion; I was not in full possession of my senses myself.

She seemed not to hear my words. ‘It was some time ago, before he murdered Lucrezia’s last husband. Cesare was busy testing the waters, playing Spain against France, and France against Spain, waiting to see which alliance would prove the most advantageous.’ She laughed softly. ‘He was so inconstant…He actually went to the Venetian ambassador at one point and swore allegiance to Venice. He said that he trusted neither France nor Spain to protect him should anything happen to the Holy Father. And the ambassador told him, most frankly, ‘You would certainly need help, it is true; for if anything ever happened to His Holiness, your affairs would not last three days.’ She laughed again, and directed her attention once more to the torches moving silently through the dark streets of Rome.

I followed her gaze and contemplated the tiny travelling flames, the small black shapes of the grieving that faded into the surrounding night. Born of madness or not, my brother’s ghost had spoken the truth: I had tried to kill the wrong man.

For the first time since coming to the Castel Sant’Angelo, I considered the canterella in my possession not as a means of self-destruction, but as a solution to the problems facing all of Italy. I returned to my rooms and sat brooding for hours. I possessed the weapon, but not sufficient knowledge of its use; nor did I have the means to deliver it to its target. I was watched at all times: I could scarcely walk into the Vatican and offer His Holiness a cup of wine. Esmeralda, too, was closely guarded; she no longer possessed the freedom to contact an assassin.

‘I am ready,’ I whispered to the strega in the darkness. ‘But if I am to fulfil my destiny, you must send help. I cannot accomplish this alone.’

The next day at dusk, as I sat in my antechamber with Donna Esmeralda waiting for supper to be delivered, the doors were thrown open without the usual courteous knock. We turned; the two guards flanking the entrance bowed low as first Donna Maria, then Lucrezia herself, entered.

Donna Esmeralda rose and stared balefully at the two women, her arms folded across her chest in silent disapproval of our visitors.

I said nothing, but stood and studied Lucrezia. She was clad in blue-green silk skirts, with a matching velvet bodice and sleeves; her neck sparkled with emeralds, and diamonds dotted the gold netting covering her hair. She was dressed grandly, in the Roman style, while I had gone back to wearing unadorned Neapolitan black.

But all her finery could not hide her pallor, or put the spark of life back into her haggard, hollow eyes. Sorrow had worn her; any prettiness she ever possessed had fled.

At the sight of me, she gave a small, tentative smile and spread her arms.

I offered no welcome. I stared steadily at her, my arms at my sides, and watched her smile fade to an expression of veiled hurt and guilt.

‘Why have you come?’ I asked. There was no rancour in my tone, only bluntness.

She motioned for Donna Esmeralda and Donna Maria to step outside into the corridor; after they complied, she ordered the guards to close the doors, giving us privacy.

Once assured our words had no witnesses, she answered, ‘I was in Rome.’ Her voice was soft, tinged with shame. ‘But I shall not remain here long. I had to see for myself how you were faring. I have been worried; I heard you were unwell.’

‘It is all true, what they have said,’ I told her flatly. ‘I quite lost my mind. But it returns to me now and again.’

‘And it is all true, what they have said about me,’ she replied, with a trace of irony. ‘I am obliged to marry again.’

I had no reply for such a statement-not when Alfonso’s ghost hovered between us, a silent rebuke.

Lucrezia’s gaze was fixed not on me, but down and away, on a distant spot in the past, as though her explanation were an apology to my brother, not to me. Her face grew taut with loathing and self-disgust. ‘I refused at first-but I am far too valuable a political commodity to have my own way. My father and Cesare…I need not tell you what pressure they brought to bear on me.’ A slight flush coloured her cheeks, as an unspoken memory provoked her anger; she gathered herself, and finally looked directly at me.

‘But I convinced them to let me make the choice, leaving them with final approval. They agreed. I have made it, and they have approved.’ She drew a breath. ‘I chose a D’Este of Ferrara.’

‘A D’Este,’ I whispered. My cousins in the Romagna. Cesare never dared attack them; their army was too strong. He had long ago told me that he would prefer to make them his allies.

‘Cesare likes the arrangement, because he thinks it will bring him more soldiers,’ Lucrezia confided. ‘I was required to visit them, so the old duke, my potential father-in-law, could be assured I was a “Madonna of good character”, as he put it.’ She gave a wry, fleeting smile. ‘I passed old Ercole’s test. But what I did not tell Father or Cesare is that the D’Estes will never be convinced to fight for the papacy. They are good Catholics, but they are wise: they do not trust Pope Alexander or his Captain-General.

‘Duke Ercole insists that I go to Ferrara to wed his son, and live there afterwards, which I have agreed to eagerly. I will never again return to Rome. I will stay with my new husband, surrounded by a strong family and a strong army which cannot be bent to the Borgias’ will.’ Her voice grew laden with emotion. ‘His name is Alfonso.’

It took me a moment to realize that she had uttered the name of her intended groom: Alfonso d’Este, my brother’s cousin.

‘So you see,’ she continued, ‘this is to be our last meeting, Sancha.’ She regarded me with sad affection. ‘If there was only something I could do to help your circumstances…’

‘There is,’ I answered immediately. ‘You can do me one final act of kindness.’

‘Anything.’ She waited, eager, expectant.

‘You can tell me how much of the canterella it takes to kill a man.’

She was utterly startled at first, then composed herself and grew very still. Through the distant look in her eyes, her expression, I watched her travel back to the convent of San Sisto, where she had been pregnant with Cesare’s child, and so filled with despair that she planned to end her life.

I watched her recall the missing vial of poison.

She studied me intently then; our gazes met, both steady. In that wordless exchange, we shared complicity in a plot as solid, as explicit in goal as any hatched by her brother and father. To kill a man, I had said. She knew, from the resolve in my shoulders, in the upward tilt of my jaw, that I had no intention of using the vial’s contents on myself.

I was never so sure of her loyalty, or her gratitude.

‘Only a few grains,’ she replied at last. ‘It is extremely potent. It is slightly bitter, so sprinkle it onto food-something sweet, like honey or jam, or directly into wine. That way, the victim cannot taste it.’

I gave a slow nod. ‘Thank you.’

In the next instant, it was as though we had never spoken of such things; her expression changed abruptly. A look of yearning crept into her eyes, a plea. I countered quickly before she could ask the question:

‘Do not ask me for forgiveness, Lucrezia, for I can never give it.’

The last flicker of hope in her eyes died, like a flame extinguished. ‘Then I will pray to God for it,’ she said solemnly. ‘And I will ask only that you remember me.’

I yielded then. I stepped forward and embraced her tightly. ‘That I can do.’

She wrapped her arms about me. ‘Good-bye, Sancha.’

‘No,’ I responded sadly, my cheek against hers. ‘This is farewell.’

Preceding Lucrezia’s departure for Ferrara, there were numerous celebrations in the city. Dorotea and I watched from the loggia on clear nights as all manner of sumptuously-dressed nobles and dignitaries processed through the streets and piazzas to the Vatican, on their way to pay their respects to the bride-to-be. There were fireworks, and cannons; Dorotea enjoyed the distractions, but they only fuelled my hatred.

One morning, as I sat in my antechamber reading, the doors to my apartment opened. I looked up, annoyed at the unannounced intrusion.

Cesare Borgia stood in the entrance.

War had aged him, as had the pox; even his beard, which now bore traces of premature silver, could not hide the prominent scars on his cheeks. There were streaks of silver as well in his hair, which had begun to thin, and shadows beneath his jaded eyes.

‘You are as beautiful as the day I first saw you, Sancha,’ he said, his voice wistful, soft as velvet. His flattery was wasted. My lips twisted at the sight of him; surely he could only bear evil news.

Then I saw the solemn little boy holding his hand, and let go a sound that was both a laugh and a sob. ‘Rodrigo!’ I threw down my book and ran to the child at once.

I had not seen my nephew in more than a year, but recognized him immediately; his golden curls and blue eyes were unmistakably my brother’s. He had been dressed in a princely little tunic of dark blue velvet.

I sank to my knees before him and spread my arms. ‘Rodrigo, my darling! It is your Tia Sancha, do you remember me? Do you know how I love you?’

The little boy-almost two years of age, now-turned away at first, and rubbed his eyes with his fists, embarrassed.

‘Go to her,’ Cesare murmured encouragingly, and nudged the boy towards me. ‘She is your aunt, your father’s sister…She and your mother loved each other very dearly. She was present the day you were born.’

At last Rodrigo seized me with impetuous affection. I enfolded him in my arms, not understanding why Cesare was granting this precious visit, and for the moment not caring. It was pure bliss. I pressed my cheek against the child’s down-soft hair as Cesare spoke, his tone uncharacteristically awkward.

‘Lucrezia cannot take the child with her to Ferrara.’ It was not the custom to permit a child from a previous marriage to be raised in another man’s household. ‘She has asked that you raise him as your own. I did not see the harm in it, and so I brought him.’

Despite my joy, I could not resist hurling a barb. ‘A child ought not be raised in a prison!’

Cesare answered with astonishing mildness. ‘It will not be a prison for him, but a home. All privileges will be accorded him; he will be free to come and go, to visit his grandfather and uncles whenever he wishes. Anything he needs will be provided at once, without question. I have already arranged for him to have the best tutors when the time comes.’ He paused, then the cool, arrogant tone I knew so well resurfaced. ‘He is, after all, a Borgia.’

‘He is a prince of the House of Aragon,’ I said heatedly, without easing my hold on the boy for an instant.

At that, Cesare graced me with a thin smile, but there was only humour, no malevolence, in it. ‘Servants will be arriving soon with his things,’ he added, then left me to ponder how such a monster could at times be so human.

I called for Donna Esmeralda, to show off my newest, most precious jewel; the two of us covered the bewildered child with kisses.

Lucrezia had betrayed me and Alfonso had died, but they had left me the greatest of all gifts: their son.

From that moment, all traces of my madness disappeared. Little Rodrigo restored my hope and purpose. I realized that I had not destroyed all that I loved; and I began to entertain the idea of escaping with the child to Naples, ruled now by King Ferdinand of Spain. I could never return to the Castel Nuovo, but I would not be unwelcome in the city I so adored. My mother, my aunts, and even Queen Juana still lived there. I would be among family there. The women who had known my brother could now know his son.

I had the weapon to achieve my goal; thanks to Lucrezia, I had the knowledge to use it. Only one thing remained: the means to deliver it. Now that sanity had returned, I remained patient, willing to bide my time, to consider carefully how to fulfil the destiny the strega had foreseen.

I spent my days caring for Rodrigo. It took him time to accept that he would not see his mother again; most of all, he missed his nurse, who had gone as part of Lucrezia’s entourage to Ferrara. Many nights he kept Donna Esmeralda and me up with his crying-but in truth, I slept better than I ever had before the child’s arrival. Happily, Jofre enjoyed his nephew’s company as well; he was fond of playing with the child, and on those evenings my husband came to dine, he carried Rodrigo to bed.

A docile year passed; summer went swiftly, and winter came again, too soon. The boy thrived and grew. Cesare, fortunately, spent all of his time with his army; I did my best to be patient.

Christmas passed, then the New Year. One night in early January, Jofre appeared for supper. On this particular occasion he lingered in the doorway, pale and shaken, unsmiling; even when Rodrigo came running to greet him, he did not bend down to lift the child, as was his wont, but absently laid a hand upon the disappointed boy’s head.

‘Husband,’ I asked, concerned, ‘are you unwell?’

‘I am fine,’ he said, without conviction. ‘I need to speak to you in private tonight.’

I nodded, and quickly arranged for Donna Esmeralda to take the child early to bed, and for the other attendants, who usually served us at table and removed the platters, to set out the food and wine for us, then depart.

Once everyone had gone, Jofre opened the front doors and curtly dismissed the guards, then stood staring after them a time into the empty corridor; he returned and peered at the balcony, to make sure we were truly alone. Only then did he go to the table and sag down into a chair. The candlelight glinted off his closely-trimmed copper-gold beard, which failed to compensate for his weak chin.

He held out his goblet for wine; his hand was so unsteady that when I poured the ruby liquid into it, it sloshed over the rim. Once the goblet was full, he took a long drink, then set it down and groaned.

‘My brother is the Devil Himself.’ He leaned forward, elbow on the table, and clutched his forehead with trembling fingers.

‘What has he done now?’

‘He and Father are no longer satisfied with simply the Romagna. Cesare has moved down into the Marches, and taken Senigallia.’ I had never been to Senigallia, but I had heard of it-a beautiful town south of Pesaro, on the eastern coast, with such soft, fine-grained sand the beaches were said to be made of velvet.

‘Why are you surprised?’ I interrupted acidly. ‘Surely you have always known your brother’s ambition is boundless. He would never be satisfied with only the Romagna.’

Jofre stared glumly down at his plate without touching the golden-brown leg of roasted fowl and chestnuts there. ‘You have not heard, then, how he took the city.’

I shook my head.

‘He called on all the condottieri of the Romagnol cities to ride with him.’ These were the heads of the noble houses which had been defeated; they had been forced to serve as commanders in Cesare’s army, leading their own men to do the Borgias’ bidding. They had all sworn fealty-at the point of a sword. ‘So they marched on Senigallia,’ Jofre continued. ‘The papal army was so mighty, the city opened its gates and surrendered without a struggle. But it is then that the tale turns ghastly…’ He shuddered. ‘I cannot believe I share the same mother as this man; he is more treacherous than the Turks, more bloodthirsty than the one in Wallachia they called the Impaler.

‘Cesare wanted more than the city as his prize. He invited all the condottieri inside the city walls, saying he wished for them to inspect the castle and sup with him, to celebrate the great victory.

‘The commanders obeyed; they had no cause to expect anything but reward for their loyalty. But my brother…he ordered his men to surround them. The city gates were then closed, shutting them off from their own men.

‘By morning, Cesare had killed every single one of them. Some strangled, others stabbed, or smothered…’ He laid his arm upon the table and rested his brow upon it.

I sat stone-faced across from him, trying to fathom the horror of what I had just heard. Proud, noble families who had ruled for centuries had been abruptly rendered powerless, broken. The Borgias truly controlled the Romagna at last.

He murmured into the crook of his arm, ‘Father and Cesare had already selected new rulers; they were all simply awaiting word to seize command of each city.’ He lifted his face and added miserably, ‘cardinals die almost daily in Rome. Their wealth is being added to the Church’s coffers, and all of it goes to fund the wars. Father will talk of nothing else. He is proud of Cesare, proud of the victories…I cannot bear it.’ He began to shiver so violently that the plate beside him clattered. ‘Now they are both so filled with arrogance, nothing will stop them. With Lucrezia gone to Ferrara, they cannot manipulate her anymore…and so their eyes have turned to me. Father made a comment to me yesterday about needing some of our wealth…for the wars. He spoke about Squillace, and other properties I have in Naples, and my gems and gold-how they might be of use to Cesare, and the Church. His tone was quite threatening. I have begun to fear for my own safety…Outside of my money, I am useless to them. What is to stop me from being their next victim?’

At his cowardice, I could no longer hold my tongue. ‘Why do you tremble now, Jofre? Why do you show such surprise? Surely you have not been such a fool all these years, yet you chose to remain blind and deaf to all that has occurred around you! You know as well as I that Perotto and Pantsilea were innocents, slaughtered because they knew too much. You witnessed without comment the hanging of Don Antonio, Cardinal Sforza’s guest, with your own eyes. You know the Tiber has been filled to overflowing for years with the victims of your father and brother. Worst of all, you let Cesare murder your brother Juan, and my Alfonso, and did nothing to protect either! Do not complain to me, your wife-I live within the walls of a prison, with women who all were violated by Cesare!’

He let go a tortured groan. ‘I am sorry, so sorry for all that has happened…but what can I do?’

‘Were you a man, you would free me of this,’ I said softly, harshly. ‘Were you a man, you would long ago have taken a blade to your wicked family’s throat.’

His brow was furrowed with worry, but his gaze was fierce; and his voice was very low as he confessed, ‘Then I want to be a man now, Sancha. I want to be free to go to Squillace, and spend the rest of my days there in peace.’

So clear was his intention, so vehement his words that I fell silent. Here was the means I had been awaiting; but I had to be sure of Jofre’s steadiness. I would have chosen a more strong-willed accomplice. Yet the longer I gazed into his determined eyes, the more certain I became that this was my opportunity.

At last I said quietly, ‘I can help you, husband. I know of a way to stop the terror. But you must forsake the Borgias and swear your loyalty to me alone, to the death.’

He rose from his seat, moved swiftly to my side, then knelt and kissed my slipper. ‘To the death,’ he said.