He continued this behaviour even though I pleaded with him to stop. I think my concern made him feel more manly. I cannot blame him: he wished to help me; and perhaps, if he had the standing of his siblings, he might have had his father’s ear. But he did not—and there was nothing he could do to sway His Holiness in my favour.
But he could at least begin to act like a Borgia. No doubt this is what he supposed he was doing the night I was awakened by a shout outside my bedchamber.
‘Donna Sancha! Donna Sancha!’
I sat up in bed, hand to my pounding heart, wakened after hours of deep slumber by a male voice in my antechamber. Beside me, Donna Esmeralda woke at once; my other ladies stirred with startled cries.
‘Who is it?’ I demanded, in my most authoritative voice. I struggled from my covers as one of the ladies hurriedly lit a lamp.
‘It is Federico, a sergeant in the Spanish Guard, one of your husband’s men. Don Jofre is seriously injured. We have taken him up to his bed and called for the doctor; we thought you should be notified.’
‘Seriously? How seriously?’ I demanded, my tone rising with panic. By this time, I had clasped my velvet wrap about me and run out into the antechamber, where Federico stood holding a lantern. Dressed in civilian clothing, he was perhaps eighteen, dark as a Moor, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat. The lower-half of his tunic hung low, neatly slit by a swiping blade that had failed to penetrate the skin; the gaping hole revealed part of his bare abdomen and the top of his breeches. His black eyes glittered from too much wine.
But his voice and stance were steady; he had been frightened into sobriety. ‘He has taken an arrow in the thigh, Madonna.’
Such a wound was easily fatal. Without calling for attendants, I ran barefoot into the corridor. I do not remember crossing the building or ascending the stairs to Jofre’s suite; I only remember men bowing, doors opening, until I was at my husband’s side.
He lay pale and sweating on the bed, his brown eyes wide with pain. His men had cut away his leggings and breeches, exposing the wound, and the arrow, half-broken, its point firmly lodged in my husband’s thigh. The flesh around the arrow was purplish-red and swollen, bleeding copiously, rivulets running down either side of the leg. A sheet had been folded several times and placed beneath the wound; it was soaked through.
Jofre was alert, and I took his hand; his grip was limp but grateful, and he tried to smile up at me, but could produce no more than a sickly grimace. ‘My darling,’ I said; they seemed the only words I could utter.
‘Do not be angry, Sancha,’ he whispered. The smell of alcohol emanated from his breath and clothes—I realized that his men had probably poured wine on the wound to cleanse it. Even so, he and his entourage had been quite drunk, a fact that had no doubt facilitated the current crisis.
‘Never,’ I told him. ‘Never.’ There was no guile in Jofre. If he had done anything amiss, it was only out of the hope of eventually helping me. ‘Who did this to you?’
Jofre was too weak to answer; instead, I heard Federico’s voice behind me; the young soldier had kept pace with me and followed me into his master’s chamber, but I had been too distraught to notice. ‘One of the sheriff’s soldiers, Madonna Sancha. We were crossing the bridge by the Castel Sant’Angelo when the sheriff demanded we halt and be inspected. Don Jofre identified himself as the prince of Squillace, but the sheriff chose not to believe him, Madonna, and…’ He paused, editing the story for my sake. ‘Words were exchanged. Apparently, one of the soldiers felt that the Prince insulted the sheriff, for he fired an arrow, and you can see the result.’
I was aghast. ‘Has the sheriff been arrested? And the soldier who fired the arrow?’
‘No, Madonna. We were too concerned for the prince’s sake. We brought him here immediately.’
‘Something must be done. The men responsible must be punished.’
‘Yes, Madonna. Unfortunately, we do not have the authority.’
‘Who does?’
Federico considered this. ‘Most certainly, His Holiness.’
The Pope’s doctor appeared, an elderly heavy-set man in dress as fine as any Borgia’s, obviously put out at being roused in the hours before dawn. He scowled mightily, his thick black eyebrows rushing together, at the sight of me.
‘No women. I must remove the arrow, and will have no fainting here.’
I scowled even more fiercely back at him. I would not be treated in such a dismissive manner—but more importantly, I would not allow myself to be forced from Jofre’s side.
‘I am no delicate maiden,’ I insisted. ‘Do your work, and leave me to comfort him.’
This time, Jofre succeeded in producing a pale smile.
I held his hand and wiped the sweat from his clammy brow as the doctor proceeded to examine, to prod, then to cut about the wound. Fortified wine was brought, and I held the silver goblet to Jofre’s trembling lips and urged him to drink.
When he had taken an amount sufficient to please the doctor, the worst of the surgery commenced. The doctor gripped the shaft with both his hands and pulled. Jofre gritted his teeth and moaned, but at last was reduced to keening aloud and bearing down like a woman in childbirth.
After several tries, the arrow came free, and Jofre fell back, limp, though still in pain. Much blood came with it—a fact the doctor pronounced good, as it would help to cleanse away the dangerous rust and lessen the chance of infection. The wound was washed once more with fortified wine, then bandaged.
I stayed with Jofre that night, not daring to sleep even when he at last dozed, despite his misery.
Spring–Summer 1499
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 unt
il 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, expectan
t 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?’