The Borgia Bride

  Alfonso and the King armed themselves with swords from Ferrandino’s chambers, then escorted me back to my rooms, though I had proven my ability to protect myself.

  When Donna Esmeralda saw me—drenched from head to skirt with thickening blood—she screamed, and would have fallen had Alfonso not caught her. Once she learned I had not been harmed, she recovered remarkably. Jofre was there, too, having come searching for me, and he cried out my name with such fear and alarm I was quite gratified. Even after he learned I was well, he clasped my hand—undeterred by its sticky coating—and would not leave my side until the King gave the order.

  Once the men had left—promising to return with instructions—Donna Esmeralda brought a basin of water and set to work bathing me.

  As she dipped a cloth in the water, rosy and clouded from my victim’s blood, she whispered, ‘You are so brave, Madonna! His Majesty should give you a medal. What was it like, to kill a man?’

  ‘It was…’ I paused, searching for the right words to describe my feelings. ‘Necessary. Just something you do because it is necessary.’ In truth, it had been remarkably simple. I began to tremble, not because I had taken a man’s life, but because I had done so with ease.

  ‘Here, here.’ Donna Esmeralda draped a shawl around my naked shoulders; I had thrown the damp gown on the floor, leaving it for an Angevin traitor or a Frenchman to find later and puzzle over. ‘I know you are bold, but it has still been a great shock.’

  I had no patience for coddling, however. I dressed again quickly, then rinsed my blade in the bloodied water, wiped it carefully, and resheathed it beneath my clean bodice. Only then did I help Esmeralda gather up our most vital belongings in a trunk. The costliest jewels I hid on my person, wrapping them tightly against my hips, beneath my skirts. Many beautiful things—fine fur coverlets, carpets, silk tapestries and brocade hangings, as well as heavy candelabra of silver and gold, paintings by old masters—had to be left behind for our enemies.

  After that, there was nothing more to be done than wait, and calm ourselves each time the cannons roared.

  Shortly before noonday, Jofre appeared with servants to carry our trunk, and a pair of armed guards. Out of a habit acquired before appearing in public, I smoothed my hair—only to discover it was stiff from remnants of dried blood.

  Once again, I moved swiftly through the corridors of the Castel Nuovo: this time I did not allow myself the luxury of studying the walls and furnishings, of indulging in grief over what I was leaving behind. I kept my mind divorced from my emotions, with the former ascendant. We may have been in the midst of defeat—but I believed that Ferrandino was right, that it was only temporary. I did my best to bear myself with dignity and assurance, for the House of Aragon had never needed it more. Jofre, to his credit, walked beside me, his manner grave and intense, but revealing no fear.

  At last, our little party arrived at the double doors leading to the enclosed courtyard, and paused while the guards hurried forward to open them.

  Beside me, Donna Esmeralda broke into loud sobs.

  I chided her at once. ‘Save them for when we are alone,’ I commanded. ‘Walk with pride. We are not vanquished; we will return. And Naples will welcome us when we come.’

  She obeyed, wiping her eyes upon her ample sleeve.

  The doors opened onto a scene of the most utter disarray. The courtyard was filled beyond its capacity with people: distant relatives and noble acquaintances who had managed to find sanctuary inside the castle walls when the fighting had first begun, and frantic servants and employees who had deserted their posts and now realized they were about to be left behind at the mercy of the rebels. These two groups had been herded together and were now guarded at sabre-point by a contingent of our soldiers, in order to keep them away from the carriages prepared for our escape.

  There were other soldiers as well—some recently expired, dragged off into corners, and some wounded, moaning with pain. Those who were whole surrounded the four enclosed carriages of the sort used for local trips around the city; these vehicles were encircled first by men on horseback, two abreast, then by foot soldiers. Our men were dressed for battle, in Spanish helmets with blue and gold plumes, and engraved plate armour covering their chests and backs.

  Every bit of greenery had been trampled, including the first flowers of spring. Even the once-fragrant air was now filled with smoke from burning palazzos and the acrid, sulphurous stench of artillery. The sound of human voices, lifted in a chorus of desperation and terror, drowned out all else save the cannons.

  As the guards genuflected, I stepped with the utmost regal bearing into the madness.

  ‘Make way!’ they cried out. ‘Make way for the Prince and Princess of Squillace!’

  A murmur traversed the crowd. Nearby soldiers turned and, with a sincerity and an admiration I did not understand, bowed low. ‘Make way for Princess Sancha!’

  So large was the gathering and so confined our surroundings that men stood pressed shoulder against shoulder; yet never was I jostled, never once was my personage touched.

  A captain emerged from the assembly. ‘Your Highnesses,’ he said to me and my husband. ‘His Majesty has requested that you accompany him.’

  The captain himself led us past two of the carriages. Uncle Federico was pushing his brother into the first, with the same ferocity he had used to wield the scimitar earlier that morning. The weapon was in a scabbard at his hip now; every man, royal or not, bore arms.

  The foot soldiers surrounding the King’s carriage parted to permit us passage, and the horsemen flanking it reined their steeds back so that we could enter. As one of the guards proffered his arm so that I might climb up into the carriage, he said, as I touched him lightly: ‘It is an honour, Your Highness. You are Naples’ greatest heroine.’

  Inside, I found Alfonso, Giovanna, and Ferrandino awaiting us. As dreadful as the situation certainly must have been for him, the young King managed a faint smile; he had overheard the guard’s statement. ‘Come, sit beside me, Sancha. I will feel safer. As you have no doubt realized, you have earned quite a reputation for your bravery today.’

  In the face of such a statement, my composure wavered: I had not thought of my deed as an act of courage, but rather a disturbing symptom of my heritage. I lowered my eyes and stammered, as Jofre and Esmeralda entered the carriage behind me, ‘It was mere accident that I was the only one with a weapon, Majesty. Had my brother been armed, he would have been first to defend you; and had you been armed yourself, we would have had no fear, given your skill as a swordsman.’ I took my seat beside the King, who was flanked on his other side by Giovanna. Across from her sat Alfonso, then Jofre, with Esmeralda last, opposite me.

  ‘Accident or not, because of you, we are here,’ Ferrandino countered, ‘and we are grateful. You are my lucky talisman now, Sancha.’

  He fell silent as the carriage lurched; with the movement came the shouts of men, as lookouts from the towers above us relayed the circumstances outside the castle gates to the soldiers below. Apparently, our flight from the Castel Nuovo had been anticipated by enemy forces, for a large group of foot soldiers hurried to reinforce those already protecting our front.

  Several guards ran to the gates and unbolted them; they swung open onto chaos.

  Outside, our men fought traitors within their own ranks, as well as commoners and nobles. Once the gates opened, our reinforcements rushed into the fray with fearsome roars—and were soon engaged in swordplay so rapid my eyes could scarcely follow it.

  Our carriage wheels rolled forward just past the archway, then settled with a creak to rest beneath the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I. We were effectively trapped inside the unbarred courtyard while our protectors tried to hack their way through the enemy line at the gate.

  I peered through the carriage window.

  ‘Do not look!’ Jofre warned, and Ferrandino echoed him.

  ‘Do not look! I am sorry you women must be exposed to the harshness of war.’

  B
ut I was fascinated, just as I had been by Ferrante’s museum of mummified corpses. I watched as an unarmoured Angevin nobleman, his fine brocade tunic damp with sweat and blood, his face soot-covered, wielded his sword mercilessly upon the infantryman farthest to my right. The noble was middle-aged, exquisitely trained; our soldier was young and terrified, and not long after being engaged, he stumbled slightly. It was enough for the older Angevin to move in for the kill, which he did, most efficiently: one stroke, two, and the young foot man turned, shrieking, to stare in horror at his right arm—which no longer bore a sword, or a hand, or an elbow. It was no more than a bleeding stump, and the lad fell back in a faint.

  The noble parried his way past a second infantryman, then a third, by which time I could hear his victorious shout: ‘Death to the House of Aragon! Death to Ferrandino!’

  His lips were still rounded in the final ‘O’ when one of our horsemen—disconcertingly close to the window—leaned down with his sabre and neatly ran the width of his blade along the Angevin’s shoulders, severing the head from the body.

  The head toppled down, bouncing off the horse’s flank, then beneath its hooves, which kicked it beneath our carriage; a swift gush of blood spewed from the decapitated corpse’s neck, then its brocade-clad shoulders fell back and away. Our wheels attempted to roll forward and were obstructed as if by a great stone; the driver lashed his steeds until they pulled with all their might. With a great upward lurch, the carriage jolted over the Angevin impediment. Blessedly, the cacophony of battle drowned out the sound.

  Across from me, Donna Esmeralda began a tremulous, impassioned prayer to San Gennaro for our safety; white-faced, Giovanna seized Ferrandino’s arm and held it fast.

  More swords flashed silver in the sun. I saw a commoner engage our men, and get run through for his efforts; I saw another of our foot soldiers wounded, this time in the thigh. He fought as long as he could, then fell for want of blood. Though I could not see his end, given the height of the carriage and the soldiers that blocked my line of sight, I saw the rebel who raised his sword, again and again, and hacked at the fallen man.

  After a time, we began to move in earnest, and made our way out onto the street. I turned for a final look at the Castel Nuovo. The gates were still open wide, even though the last of the royal carriages had passed; Angevins and commoners swarmed beneath the Triumphal Arch. In vain, I searched for helmets with plumes of gold and blue.

  I craned my neck even more: behind us, the armoury was fully ablaze, its stone walls jagged and gaping. Farther beyond, greyish haze rose from fires dotting the landscape near Vesuvio. One would have thought the volcano had belched smoke and flame on the city, but this time, it bore innocent, silent witness to the destruction wrought by man.

  Before I could take in more, Alfonso, seated next to Esmeralda, spoke firmly. ‘Leave it, Sancha. There is no point…’

  He was right, of course. I forced myself to turn round and face forward, to censor the thoughts that tried to rise, of the pitiful people we had left behind in the courtyard, of my childhood home, abandoned to the enemy.

  We clattered down the cobblestone streets. Our path took us directly along the coast. To my left lay the placid bay; to my right stood the exterior gardens of the royal palace, now a battlefield, and past them, the Pizzofalcone, on whose slopes Aragonese palaces burned. Behind me lay the city.

  Our progress was steady but far from swift, given the size of our military escort. But our destination, the ancient fortress of the Castel dell’Ovo, which guarded the harbour of Santa Lucia, loomed ever closer. Now that we had passed through the thick of the fighting, for the first time I considered not what our family was leaving behind, but where we were going. Ferrandino had called for a ship: had he a destination in mind?

  Were I King of a war-torn nation whose treasury had been stripped bare, there was but one place I would go. The notion caused me some trepidation—but I was immediately distracted by a sight that aroused my indignance: two commoners were running away from the royal palace, carrying the rolled-up Turkish carpet that had graced the floor of my father’s office. Worse, a third man accompanied them, clutching in his arms the golden bust of Alfonso I from my grandfather’s mantel.

  My indignance did not last long. My ears filled with a booming, searing blast of wind: at the same instant, the carriage pitched sideways to the left, hurling me against Ferrandino and him against Giovanna; likewise, Esmeralda was thrown against my husband and brother. I cried out involuntarily at the shock, half-deafened, barely able to hear my own voice or the shrieks of the others.

  Simultaneously, I was spattered with blood entering the window. For a breathtaking moment, we teetered on two wheels, propped against screaming men and horses. As all of us within the carriage clawed for purchase, soldiers rushed to push it: at last, it settled upright with a jolt.

  Once we had collected ourselves, I stared out my window at the source of the commotion: a cannonball. It sat harmlessly now upon the cobblestone, but it had exacted a grisly toll. Beside it lay one of our riders, his thigh and the belly of his hapless mount sheared almost in half; the blood and bones and meat of man and horse mingled, impossible to distinguish.

  Only one kindness had been granted them: both appeared to have been struck dead at once, for the young soldier’s open eyes and composed expression showed intensity, but no sign of astonishment or fear; he still bore the reins in one clutched fist. The horse’s large, handsome head was up, the bit still in his mouth, his eyes intelligent and bright; one of his front hooves was lifted gracefully, in preparation for the next prancing step. Each seemed, with the exception of their horrid, gaping wounds, a beautiful example of youth and strength.

  I had wanted to be strong and perfect and brave, for the sake of the others, but I bowed my head, able to bear no more; in that fashion, I travelled the rest of the way to the Castel dell’Ovo. The image of the young rider and his mount accompanied me; indeed, it travels with me still.

  I had grown up in Naples, but had never had cause to visit the homely keep named for Virgil’s mythical egg. It was scarcely the place for a princess to entertain herself, being a great stone square, wider at the base than at the top, with no furnishings other than military weaponry; it had been constructed to serve as a lookout and first defence against those who invaded by sea, and a last refuge and defence against those who invaded by land. It smelled dank and forbidding; the worn, uneven brick steps were slippery with mildew.

  Rather than stay in safer quarters below, I insisted on climbing to the top, where soldiers served as lookouts. Several cannons, accompanied by piles of iron balls, stood at each turret, ready to fire down into the city. All of us who had travelled in the carriages—including those in the family who had preceded and followed us—had been deeply shaken not just by the ignominy of forced retreat, but by the suffering we had witnessed. I could not bear to sit and mourn with Donna Esmeralda as we waited for rescue; instead, I distracted myself by looking out at the sea, for the ship that was to take us away.

  There was no sign of it. For hours, there was no sign, and I paced restlessly upon the aged bricks of the terrace while, from time to time, Alfonso emerged from below and asked whether the boat had been spotted.

  No, I told him again and again, and each time, he returned to the chamber downstairs, where the King and his general were engaged in discussions of strategy. I stared west, refusing to watch the destruction of the city behind me, and watched as the sun moved lower towards the horizon.

  The final time he inquired about the ship, I demanded:

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He leaned forward and spoke in my ear, as if relaying a state secret that the soldiers were not to hear, even though his answer seemed so expected and obvious to me, it would have made no difference had he shouted it down into the streets. ‘Sicily. They say the King there has granted Father refuge in Messina.’

  I gave a single nod.

  Soon it was dusk, and I went downstairs to see the fa
mily. Given the delay, we had all grown quite nervous as to whether the general had kept his word, and the ship was indeed on its way: but once the sun had completely set, a shout came from one of the lookouts.

  We hurried down to the ship without protocol, without elegance, without fanfare. The vessel was small and fleet, designed for speed, not comfort; for safety’s sake, she flew the yellow and red Spanish banner instead of the Neapolitan colours.

  Despite Donna Esmeralda’s urging that I come below, I stood on the deck as we set sail from Santa Lucia’s harbour. Although it was night, the city glowed from the blazes that had been set, and the cannons lit up the sky like bursts of lightning, allowing me to pick out landmarks: the armoury and Santa Chiara, where my father had been crowned, were both aflame; the Poggio Reale, a magnificent palace built by my father when he was still Duke, was almost entirely consumed. I was relieved to see that the Duomo had, for the time being, survived.

  As for the Castel Nuovo, it burned brightest of all. I could not help wondering how the people had reacted when they discovered Ferrante’s museum.

  I stood a long time watching on the deck, listening to the lap of the waves as Naples receded, a glittering, angry red jewel.

  Spring–Summer 1495

  VIII

  We sailed due south through the warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and within a matter of days, arrived in Messina, once called Zancle, or ‘sickle’, by the Greeks due to its scythe-shaped harbour. I was grateful to see land; I did not travel well by sea, and this was the longest journey I had made on a sailing ship. My first two days were spent in misery.

  Sicily had been ruled for the past twenty-seven years by King Ferdinand of Aragon, he who had joined his kingdom to that of his wife, Isabella of Castile, with the idea of uniting Spain. Besides his blood ties to my family, Ferdinand had good reason to be kindly to the Borgias. As Jofre explained it, when his father Rodrigo was still Cardinal of Valencia, Ferdinand sought Pope Sixtus IV’s formal sanction of an Inquisition, by which he and Isabella hoped to rid their kingdom of all Moors and Jews, Christianized or not.