The Borgia Bride

  The ring that had been my mother’s; the ring that Juan had stolen from me the day he raped me. I managed, through an act of supreme self-control, not to wince. ‘Where did you get this?’ I whispered.

  ‘Does it matter?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Donna Sancha, you know that you are, and have always been, the one great love of my life. Make my happiness complete. Say that you will marry me when I am free.’

  I looked away, overwhelmed by disgust, but forced to convey a much different emotion. I remained silent a time, carefully searching for the proper words—but none existed that could save my life. ‘I am not myself free,’ I said at last. ‘I am bound to Jofre.’

  He shrugged, as if this were something easily cast off. ‘We can offer Jofre the cardinalship; I have no doubt he would take it. It is easy enough to have the marriage annulled.’

  ‘Not so,’ I replied, my tone neutral. ‘Cardinal Borgia of Monreale himself witnessed our first marital act. There is no doubt the marriage was consummated.’

  The first traces of irritation crept into his voice as he began to realize that his case was lost, and he had no real idea why, which annoyed him even more. ‘Cardinal Borgia is in our hands. He will say whatever we want. Do you not love me? Do you not wish to be my wife?’

  ‘It is not that,’ I said earnestly. ‘I do not wish to shame Jofre. Such an act would surely crush him.’

  He stared at me as if I were a madwoman. ‘Jofre will recover. Again, there is the cardinalship, a position which will bring him power and riches to generously soothe his pain. We would send him to Valencia, to make the situation less awkward; you two would never need set eyes on each other again.’ He paused. ‘Madonna, you are not a fool. Quite the opposite: you are supremely intelligent. You realize I am to be Captain-General of my father’s army.’

  ‘I do,’ I answered softly.

  ‘I am not the ineffectual dolt Juan was. I see the opportunities such a position presents. I intend to extend the realm of the Papal States.’

  ‘I have always known you were a man of great ambition,’ I said, in the same uncritical tone.

  ‘I intend,’ he said, his voice hard, his expression intent as he leaned closer, ‘to unite Italy. I intend to be its ruler. And I am asking you to be my queen.’

  I was obliged to feign an expression of surprise, to pretend I had not already heard similar words while hiding in Lucrezia’s closet.

  ‘Do you not love me?’ he demanded in frustration, letting the force of his emotions through. ‘Sancha, I had thought that—surely I was not mistaken as to the depth of the feelings we shared for each other.’

  His words pierced my defences. I lowered my face. ‘I have never loved any man more,’ I confessed, with regret. I knew my own heart: I could easily be corrupted, and play the malevolent queen to Cesare’s king.

  That gave him hope; he stroked my cheek with the back of his finger. ‘It is settled, then. We will be wed. You are too tender-hearted toward Jofre; trust me, he is a man. He will recover.’

  I pulled my face away from his outstretched hand and said firmly, ‘You have not heard me, Cardinal. My answer is no. I am impressed and moved. But I am not the woman you seek for such a role.’

  Red-faced, he dropped his hand and rose, his movements taut with repressed fury. ‘Clearly you are not, Madonna. You are dismissed.’

  He spent no further time trying to convince me; his wounded sense of dignity would not permit it. Yet I could tell, as I rose and left to join my ladies, that he was utterly confused, even hurt, by my rejection. He could not believe my given reason—concern for Jofre—as the truth.

  I was relieved he appeared unable to divine the real cause—that I knew him to be a murderer.

  I expected retaliation for my refusal. I kept my stiletto beneath my pillow, close at hand; even so, I slept fitfully that night. Every rustling breeze at the window, every creak in the corridor beyond seemed to me the sounds of an approaching assassin. I had rejected Cesare, and thought my life forfeit. I did not expect to live more than a matter of days afterward; I judged each morning I rose to be my last.

  I told Lucrezia that I had turned down her brother’s proposal. I was not entirely comfortable confiding in her, given her apparent talent for duplicity—indeed, I had consulted Donna Esmeralda regarding her trustworthiness, but even Esmeralda’s gossips could not agree about Lucrezia’s true character. Even so, I had to try to learn the degree of retribution I should expect from Cesare.

  She listened to my news solemnly. She was honest—she did not say that I would never receive retribution. But she reassured me on one account. ‘You must understand,’ she said. ‘I have spoken with my brother since. He nurses hope that you will come to your senses. I do not believe him capable of physically harming you; his heart is still hopelessly yours.’

  This was of some comfort—yet I was troubled as I contemplated what retaliation Cesare would take, once he realized that I would never yield.

  Lucrezia and I continued our friendship, and met almost daily. One morning in late spring, she came to my chambers with a request that I accompany her on a walk in the gardens, and I happily obliged.

  When we were out of earshot of our ladies, who were walking several steps behind us, holding their own conversations, Lucrezia said coyly, ‘So. You have spoken of your brother, Alfonso, and you claim that he is one of the most handsome men in all Italy.’

  ‘It is no claim,’ I replied, with easy good humour. ‘It is God’s own truth. He is a golden god, Madonna. I saw him last summer in Squillace, and he has only grown more handsome.’

  ‘And he is kind?’

  ‘No sweeter man was ever born.’ I stopped in mid-stride and stared over at her, seized by a sudden wonderful conviction. ‘You know all this; I have spoken of him many times. Lucrezia—tell me—is he coming to visit us at Rome?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said, and clapped her hands like a gleeful child; I grabbed those hands, smiling with joy. ‘But Sancha, it is even better than that!’

  ‘What can be better than a visit from Alfonso?’ I demanded. What a fool I was; how ignorant!

  ‘He and I are to be married.’ She waited, smiling, for my exuberant reaction.

  I gasped. I felt pulled down into a horrible black vortex, a suffocating Charybdis from which I could not extricate myself.

  Yet extricate myself I did, through some involuntary grace. I did not—could not—smile, but managed to save the situation by pulling her to me solemnly in a tight embrace.

  ‘Sancha,’ she said, her voice muffled by my shoulder, ‘Sancha, you are so sweet. I have never seen you so emotional.’

  Once I had control of myself, I drew back with a forced smile. ‘Have you kept this secret from me long?’

  Silently, I damned Alfonso. He had said nothing to me of the marriage proposal. If he had, I might have had the chance to warn him, to explain the peculiar circle of Hell he was about to enter. But writing to him was out of the question; my letters would surely be taken aside and examined by Alexander and Cesare, given the political importance of this union. I was bound to wait until he arrived in Rome—as a bridegroom.

  But had he not heard of Giovanni Sforza’s charges? Had he been fool enough to disbelieve them? And all of Italy knew Lucrezia had just given birth. No doubt Alfonso accepted the lie that Perotto had been the father, and was willing to overlook Lucrezia’s youthful indiscretion.

  This was all my fault, I told myself, for sparing Alfonso the miserable truth of life in Rome.

  I had wanted to protect him. And, like a good Borgia, I had learned to keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Not so long,’ Lucrezia replied in answer to my question. ‘Father and Cesare did not tell me until this morning. I am so happy! At last, I will have a husband my own age—one who is handsome and kind. I am the luckiest woman in Rome! And your brother has agreed to take up residence here. We will all live together in Santa Maria.’ She clasped my hand. ‘I was so full of despair only a few months ago that I wanted to take my own
life. But you saved me, and for that I shall always be grateful. Now I have hope again.’

  Cesare could have chosen no more perfect way to make me hold my tongue, to mind my manners, to behave in whatever way he wished. He knew of my love for Alfonso—I spoke often of him at family dinners, and at our private trysts. Cesare knew that I would do anything to protect my little brother.

  ‘I am glad for you,’ I managed.

  ‘I know how terribly you have missed him. Perhaps Father and Cesare were thinking of that, too, when they chose him.’ The naiveté in her statement astounded me.

  ‘I have no doubt they were,’ I said, knowing that Lucrezia would never hear the irony in it.

  I arrived in my bedchamber that night to find Donna Esmeralda weeping as she knelt at her shrine to San Gennaro.

  ‘The end of the world is coming at last,’ she moaned, clasping the small gold crucifix about her neck. ‘They have killed him. They have killed him, and we will all pay.’

  I pulled her to her feet and forced her to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Who, Esmeralda? Who do you mean?’

  ‘Savonarola,’ she said. ‘Alexander’s delegates. He would not stop preaching, so they hanged him, then burned his body.’ She shook her head, whispering, ‘God will strike Alexander down, Madonna. Mark my words: even a pope cannot continue in such wickedness.’

  I put my hands upon her shoulders. ‘Do not fear for yourself, Esmeralda: if it is true that God sees all hearts, then he sees yours, and knows you are a good woman. He would never have cause to punish you.’

  I could scarcely say the same for myself.

  When Esmeralda at last fell asleep, I pondered my brother’s situation for hours. I remembered my grandfather Ferrante’s words: If you love him, look out for him. We strong have to take care of the weak, you know. They haven’t the heart to do what’s necessary to survive.

  I would do anything to save my brother’s life—and Cesare was all too aware of the fact. I assumed that his choice of Lucrezia’s groom was part of a plot intended to coerce me into marrying him.

  The notion that once would have filled me with delight now made me shudder…for I knew that, to protect Alfonso, I would desert poor Jofre and marry a murderer.

  Summer 1498

  XXIV

  Alfonso rode into Rome in the midst of summer; and I, in desperation to speak to him privately, played the overeager sister and rode out alone to meet his entourage before it even crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge that led to Vatican Hill.

  He rode on horseback at the front of his company, accompanied by several grooms, while wagons piled with his belongings and bridal gifts followed; I easily spotted the golden hair in the bright sun. I spurred my horse on, and when he recognized me, he gave a shout, and galloped forth to meet me.

  We dismounted and embraced; despite my worry over his impending marriage, I could not help smiling with joy at the sight of him. He was as glorious-looking as ever, clad in pale blue satin. ‘Alfonso, my darling.’

  ‘I am here, Sancha! Here at last! I never need leave you again.’

  His grooms trotted up to join us. ‘May I have a moment with my brother?’ I asked sweetly.

  They acquiesced and rode back to join the slow wagons.

  I put my cheek against his. ‘Alfonso,’ I whispered in his ear, ‘as happy as I am to see you, you must not go through with this marriage.’

  He released a disbelieving little laugh. ‘Sancha,’ he said aloud, ‘now is hardly the time and place.’

  ‘Now is the only time and place. Once we arrive at the Vatican, it will no longer be safe to talk freely.’

  My tone was so fierce, so urgent, he grew sombre. ‘I am already committed. To break the contract now would be unconscionable, cowardly…’

  I drew a breath. I had little time to make my case, and my brother was a very trusting soul. How was I to relay quickly the degree of treachery I had witnessed? ‘Ethics are of no use here. You know the lines written by the Aragonese poets concerning Lucrezia,’ I said. I felt guilt, imagining what she would feel if she knew what I was telling her intended bridegroom.

  ‘Please.’ He blushed; he knew precisely to what I alluded.

  I quoted Sannazaro. ‘Hic jacet in tumulo Lucretia nomine, sed re Thais: Alexandri filia, sponsa, nurus.’ It was an epitaph suggested for Lucrezia: ‘Here in her tomb lies Lucrezia in name, but Thais in fact: Alexander’s daughter, spouse, daughter-in-law.’ Pantsilea or some other soul must have shared Cesare’s incest with Lucrezia with others, for even the poets in Naples and Spain had begun to write scathing couplets about her (in this case comparing her to the ancient Egyptian sinner-cum-saint, Thais, who had repented of her incestuous ways).

  I did not need to say that the rumours were fact; Alfonso was quick enough to realize why I recited the verse.

  ‘Sancha,’ he said, his voice low and tense, his words swift. ‘Even if every charge against her is true, I am not free. I have vowed to do this for the sake of Naples. Other men, with ties to France, have proposed—and we cannot permit any French influence on His Holiness. Without full papal support, the House of Aragon is doomed. The new French King has already proclaimed himself ruler of our territory; we must have the Pope on our side in case of another invasion.’

  I fought to keep the anguish from my expression; Alfonso’s entourage could not see me show anything but happiness. ‘You do not understand—you will have to watch your every move. They are murderers,’ I whispered, my expression as pleasant as if we were discussing the glorious weather.

  ‘As are most rulers, among them our own relatives,’ he countered. ‘Am I not charming, Sancha?’

  ‘The most charming man I have ever met—almost.’ He tried to make me smile again, but I was too full of despair.

  ‘I will charm even the Borgias. I will win their trust. I am not a fool; I will give them no cause to rid themselves of me. And the marriage has brought our family a great boon: the Duchy of Bisciglie.’ He paused; his tone turned playful as he tried to turn my dismay back to joy. ‘Is Lucrezia entirely cruel? Will she treat me badly? Is she a hideous hag?’

  ‘No, no, and no.’ I released a sigh of pure misery, realizing I had been defeated. Nothing would stop the marriage.

  ‘You said in your letters that you and she are friends. You seem to have survived thus far.’

  ‘After a fashion, yes.’ I paused. ‘Lucrezia has actually been quite kind to me.’

  ‘Then she is not a heartless monster. And I am not here to judge her. I will treat her well and be a good husband, Sancha. I can think of no better way to win over her father and Cesare.’

  I put my hand on his bearded cheek. ‘You could not be any other kind of husband, little brother. I pray God you take care.’

  I rode into the city with him. Cesare was waiting to receive him in front of the Vatican. The Cardinal of Valencia’s manner was at once cordial and cool; he was sizing up this man who might exert untoward influence over his sister, and I believe he was justifiably concerned. I did my best not to reveal my inner turmoil.

  At last we dismounted, and I followed as my brother was led up the Vatican steps into the building itself and the throne room, where Alexander sat waiting, bedecked entirely in white satin, with his heavy gold-and-diamond cross upon his breast.

  Lucrezia sat on the velvet cushion beside him. Like her groom-to-be, she had dressed in palest blue—in her case, a gown of silk, with silver trim and seed pearls covering the bodice, and a matching cap; her cheeks were flushed, and she looked almost pretty, with her golden ringlets spilling past her shoulders. At the sight of Alfonso, her face lit up like a beacon; she was unquestionably besotted with him from the first instant.

  Alexander seemed besotted himself. He broke into a broad grin, and said, ‘The bridegroom, and new Duke of Bisciglie! Welcome, Alfonso! Welcome, dear son, to our family! So, Lucrezia, the rumours are true—your husband-to-be is an exceedingly handsome man!’

  Alfonso dutifully knelt to kiss the Pope??
?s slipper; once that formality was dispensed with, Alexander rose and stepped down to put his arm around his future son-in-law’s shoulders. ‘Come. Come. We have prepared a fine dinner—though I think we should not eat too much, for tomorrow there is the wedding-feast!’

  He laughed, and Alfonso smiled. In the interim, Lucrezia rose from her little cushion and descended the stairs. When Alfonso encountered her, he bowed and kissed her hand.

  ‘Madonna Lucrezia,’ he said—and only my brother could speak with the sincerity to make the following words convincing, ‘you shine like a star at night. Compared to your beauty, everything that surrounds you is darkness.’

  She giggled like a child; Alexander beamed in approval of such pretty words. He replaced his arm around Alfonso’s shoulders, and the two of them headed for the papal apartments and the waiting banquet, while Lucrezia followed with a dreamy expression. Cesare went next, his features arranged pleasantly, but his gaze piercing; I brought up the rear, wearing a frozen smile.

  The wedding was held in the Hall of the Saints, where the ill-fated marriage to Giovanni Sforza had taken place. The guests were few, mostly the Vatican household and some cardinals.

  Lucrezia looked lovely in a gown of black satin, with a gold stomacher seeded with diamonds. She and Alfonso might have been mistaken for brother and sister, with their golden curls and pale eyes—just as, ironically, I might have been mistaken for the sister of the dark-haired Cesare, who was dressed in black velvet for the occasion. Out of deference for the bride, I dressed in sombre Neapolitan garb.

  During the wedding, I stood next to Jofre—with Cesare uncomfortably close, just on my husband’s other side. As Cardinal Giovanni Borgia asked the bride and groom to utter their vows, the acting Captain-General of the papal forces, Juan de Cervillon, unsheathed a handsome jewelled sword and held it over the heads of the new Duke and Duchess of Bisciglie. It symbolized that these two should never be parted by any cause; as I stared at the shining blade, I thought of the strega’s card—the heart pierced by two swords. I had blotted much of the incident from my memory, but now more of it returned at the sight of de Cervillon’s weapon, with haunting force.