Only one thing troubled me more greatly: The knowledge that my little brother would suffer similar loneliness—perhaps worse, since Donna Esmeralda had said he was more sensitive than me. That was the hardest of all to endure.
At last I went inside to my ladies, to begin the preparations for the marriage ceremony, to be held mid-morning.
As the day progressed, the sky grew more dismal and overcast, a perfect reflection of my mood. For Alfonso’s sake, I hid my sorrow; I remained gracious, poised.
As a bride, I was magnificent in my gown; when I entered the castle’s Royal Chapel, a murmur of awe ran through the waiting assembly. I took no pleasure in such appreciation. I was too preoccupied with avoiding the gaze of my brother, allowing myself only a glimpse of him as I passed. He looked regal and adult in a tunic of dark blue, with a gold-hilted sword at his hip. His expression was taut, grave, without a trace of the radiance he had inherited from our mother. He stared carefully ahead at the altar.
Of the religious ceremony, I can tell you only that it went on interminably, and that poor Jofre bore himself with all the regal grace he could summon. But when the time came for him to pass the Bishop’s kiss on to me, he was compelled to stand on tip-toe, and his lips trembled.
Afterwards came a concert, then a lunch that endured for hours, with much drinking of wine and salutes to the new bride and groom. When dusk came, Jofre retired to a nearby palazzo which had been prepared for us. Sunset was entirely hidden by the great, dark storm clouds that had gathered over the bay.
I arrived with the night and the first muted rolls of thunder, accompanied by my father the King, and the Cardinal of Monreale, Giovanni Borgia. The Cardinal was a homely, middle-aged man, with coarse lips and a demeanour to match. His head was shaved in the priest’s tonsure, and his bald crown covered with a red satin skullcap; his portly form was covered by a white satin cassock topped by purple velvet robes, and his thick fingers sparkled with diamonds and rubies.
I left the men in the corridor and entered the bedchamber, which my women had readied for us. Donna Esmeralda undressed me, carrying away not just the beautiful wedding gown, but even my silk chemise. Naked, I was led to the nuptial bed, where Jofre waited. At the sight of me, his eyes grew round; he stared with a naive lack of restraint as one of my ladies pulled back the sheet for me, waited for me to lie beside my new husband, then drew the covering up only so far as my waist. There I lay, my full breasts bared to the world.
Jofre was too shy and I too disheartened to make small talk during this embarrassing ritual—one of the more unpleasant requirements of nobility and power, and there was naught could rescue us from it.
When the King and Cardinal Borgia, whose office it was to witness the nuptial event, entered the chamber, Jofre greeted them with a gracious smile.
It was clear that Cardinal Borgia shared his cousin Rodrigo’s appreciation for younger women, for he stared quite pointedly at my bosom and sighed. ‘How beautiful they are. Like roses.’
I fought the impulse to cover myself. I seethed with resentment that this old man should be carnally entertained at my expense; nor was I at ease with the fact that my father had never seen me unclothed.
The King’s gaze flickered over my nakedness with a detachment that made me shudder; he gave a cold little smile. ‘Like all flowers, they will wither quickly enough.’ His eyes were no longer troubled; tonight, they were bright. He had achieved all he had ever wanted in this world—he was King, with the Pope’s blessing, and such was all the sweeter because he would also soon be rid of his troublesome daughter. This was the moment of his greatest triumph over me; this was the moment of my greatest defeat.
Never did my hatred for my father burn so brightly as it did at that moment; never had my humiliation been so complete. I turned my face away, lest Jofre and the cardinal see the loathing in my eyes. I wanted desperately to pull the sheets around me, to storm from the bed, but the intensity of my anger left me wooden, unable to move.
Jofre broke the brief silence with disarming honesty. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, Your Holiness, if I find myself at the mercy of nerves.’
The cardinal laughed lecherously. ‘You are young, my boy—at your age, all the nerves in Naples cannot impede your performance.’
‘’Tis not my age that gives me hope of success,’ Jofre countered, ‘but the dazzling beauty of my bride.’
From any other lips—save perhaps my Alfonso’s—such words would have been a pretty display of courtly wit. But Jofre uttered them with sincerity, and a shy sidewise glance.
Both men laughed—my father derisively, the cardinal appreciatively. The latter slapped his thigh. ‘Take her then, boy. Take her! I can see from the rise of the sheet that you are ready!’
Awkwardly, Jofre rolled toward me. At that point, his attention was on me: he could not see our two witnesses lean forward in their chairs, keenly watching his every move.
With my assistance, he managed to climb atop me; he was more slender than I and shorter, so when he pressed his pursed lips against mine, his male member poked hard into my belly. Again he trembled, but this time, not from nerves. Given his feminine appearance, I had earlier feared Jofre might be the sort who preferred boys to women, but such was clearly not the case.
Fighting to ignore the sheer misery of the situation, I steadied him and parted my legs as he slid downward toward his goal. Unfortunately, he began to thrust too soon, into my thigh. Unlike the elder Borgia, this youngest one was entirely uneducated as to the act of love. I reached for him, intending to guide him—but the instant I touched him, he let go a cry, and my hand was filled with his seed.
Instinctively, I pulled the evidence out from beneath the sheets and away, inadvertently revealing the mishap to our witnesses. Jofre let go another groan, this one of pure failure, and rolled onto his back.
My father was smiling as broadly as I had ever seen him. Hand extended, palm up, he turned to the chuckling cardinal and demanded: ‘Your purse, Holiness.’
With good humour, the cardinal shook his head, and withdrew from his satin cassock a small purple velvet bag, sagging with coin. This he dropped in the King’s hand. ‘Pure luck, Your Majesty. Pure luck, and nothing more.’
As one of my ladies hurried into the chamber and cleaned my hand with a damp cloth, Jofre propped himself up on his elbows and stared at the two men. His cheeks flushed bright scarlet at the realization that his performance had been the subject of a wager.
The cardinal registered his discomfort and laughed. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, boy. I lost because I didn’t believe you would get so far. You endured longer than most your age. Now we can all get to the real business at hand.’
But my husband’s eyes had filled with mortified tears; he moved away from me and huddled on his side of the bed.
His suffering allowed me to transcend my own shame. My actions did not spring from a desire to be done quickly with this sordid business, but from a desire to free Jofre from his unhappiness. He seemed a gentle soul; he did not deserve such cruelty.
I rolled toward him and whispered in his ear. ‘They mock us because they envy us, Jofre. Look at them: they are old. Their time is past. But we are young.’ I placed his palms upon my breasts. ‘There is no one else in the room. It is only you and I together, here in our marriage bed.’
For pity’s sake, I kissed him—softly, with tender passion, as Onorato had once kissed me. I closed my eyes, blotting out the sight of our tormentors, and imagined I was with my former lover. I ran my hands over Jofre’s narrow, bony back, then down between his thighs. He shivered, and moaned when I caressed his maleness, just as I had been taught; soon he was firm enough to be guided into me, this time successfully.
I kept my eyes closed. In my mind’s eye, there was nothing in the world save me, my new husband, and the approaching thunder.
Jofre was no Onorato. He was small, and I received little stimulation; had it not been for his violent thrusting and the fact I had helped him enter me, I wou
ld scarcely have known he penetrated me.
Still, I held on tightly; given the pressure against my chest, I could not help releasing gasps. I only hoped he interpreted them as sounds of pleasure.
After perhaps a minute, the muscles of his legs stiffened; with a howl, he reared his torso backwards. I opened my eyes and saw his own widen with astonishment, then roll upwards, at which point I knew we had met with success.
He collapsed atop me, panting. I felt the subtle sensation of his male organ shrinking inside me, then sliding out altogether; with it came liquid warmth.
I knew that this time, there would be no sexual pleasure for me. Onorato might have cared about satisfying my desire, but it was of no concern to the three men here tonight.
‘Well done, well done,’ the cardinal said, with a faint note of disappointment that his task was so swiftly completed. He blessed us and the bed.
Just behind him stood my father. With Jofre still lying atop me, I stared up at the man who had betrayed me, keeping my gaze cold, heartless. I did not want him to have the pleasure of seeing the unhappiness he had inflicted.
He wore a small, victorious smile; he did not care that I hated him. He was glad to be done with me, even gladder to have received something of value in exchange.
The two men left, and my new husband and I were finally alone. My ladies would not trouble us until morning, when the sheets would be collected as further evidence of our contract’s consummation.
For a long moment, Jofre lay atop me in silence. I did nothing, for after all, he was now my lord and master and it would be rude to interrupt him. And then he pushed my hair behind my ear, and whispered, ‘You are so beautiful. They described you to me, but words cannot do you justice. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
‘You are sweet, Jofre,’ I replied sincerely. A boy he might be, but a likeable one, utterly guileless, if lacking in intelligence. I could grow fond of him…but never love him. Not the way I had loved Onorato.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a sudden vehemence. ‘I’m so sorry…I—I—’ Quite abruptly, he burst into tears.
‘Oh, Jofre.’ I wrapped my arms about him. ‘I’m sorry they were horrible to you. What they did was unspeakable. And what you did was—it was perfectly normal.’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not the bet. It was unkind of them, yes, but I am a terrible lover. I know nothing about pleasuring women. I knew I would disappoint you.’
‘Hush,’ I said. He tried to pull up and away, onto his elbows, but I pressed him down against me, against my breasts. ‘You are simply young. We all begin inexperienced…and then we learn.’
‘Then I will learn, Sancha,’ he promised. ‘For your sake, I will learn.’
‘Hush,’ I said, holding him to me like the child he was, and began to stroke his long, soft hair.
Outside, the storm had finally broken, and the rain came down in sheets.
Summer 1494–Winter 1495
V
Early the next morning, Jofre and I left on the journey to our new home in the southernmost reaches of Calabria. I kept my private vow to be brave: I embraced my brother and mother and kissed them both good-bye without shedding a tear; we all repeated promises to visit, to write.
King Alfonso II, of course, could not be bothered to take his leave.
Squillace was a rock scalded by the sun. The town itself stood perched atop a steep promontory. Our palace, painfully rustic by Neapolitan standards, lay far from the sea, the view partially blocked by the ancient monastery founded by the scholar Cassiodorus. The coastline was stark and spare, lacking Naples’ full, graceful curve, and the faded leaves of scraggly, struggling olive orchards constituted the only greenery. The region’s greatest contribution to the arts, of which the populace was immensely proud, was its red-brown ceramics.
The palace was a disaster; furniture and shutters were broken, cushions and tapestries torn, walls and ceilings cracked. The temptation to yield to self-pity and to curse my father for sending me to such a dismal place was great. Instead, I occupied myself with making the palace into a suitable dwelling for royalty. I ordered fine velvet to replace the moth-eaten brocade on the aged thrones, had the worn wood refinished, and sent for fine marble to replace the uneven terra cotta floor of the throne room. The private chambers of the royal couple—the prince’s to the immediate right of the throne room, the princess’ to the left—were in even worse disrepair, and required me to order even more fabrics and hire more craftsmen to set things aright.
Jofre kept himself occupied in quite a different manner. He was young, and away from his domineering family for the first time; now that he was master of his own kingdom, he had no idea how to comport himself properly—and so he did not. Soon after our arrival in Squillace, we were descended upon by a group of Jofre’s male friends from Rome, all of them eager to celebrate the new prince’s good fortune.
In the first few days after our marriage—including the time spent in our comfortable carriage during our southward journey—Jofre half-heartedly tried to make good on his promise to become a better lover. But he tended towards ineptitude and impatience; his own desire soon overwhelmed him, and he usually fulfilled his own needs without addressing mine. After the tenderness and tears he had displayed on our wedding night, I had hoped that I had found someone as kind as my brother. I soon learned that Jofre’s pretty words sprang not so much from compassion as a desire to placate. There was a great difference between goodness and weakness, and Jofre’s agreeable nature was born of the latter.
This was made abundantly clear after the appearance of Jofre’s friends a week after our arrival in Squillace. All of them were young nobles, some married, most not, none of them older than me. There was a pair of his relatives as well, both recently descended upon Rome in order to make the most of their connections to His Holiness: a Count Ippolito Borja from Spain, who had not yet taken to Italicizing the spelling of his name, and a young cardinal of fifteen, Luis Borgia, whose air of smug self-importance immediately provoked my dislike. The palace was still in chaos—scaffolding was everywhere, and the floors were still cracked terra cotta; the marble had not yet been laid in the throne room. Don Luis did not miss an opportunity to comment on the pathetic nature of our dwelling and our principality, especially compared to the magnificence of Rome.
When the crowd arrived, I played my role of hostess in as decent a fashion as possible, given our rural surroundings. I put on a feast and poured for them our best Lachrima Christi, brought from Naples, since the local wine was unpalatable. I dressed modestly in black, as a good wife ought, and at the feast, Jofre showed me off proudly; the men flattered me with countless toasts to my beauty.
I smiled; I was bright and charming, attentive to the men who wanted to impress me with tales of their valour and their wealth. When the hour grew late and everyone else was inebriated, I retired to my chambers and left my husband and his guests to do as they pleased.
I was awakened in the hours before dawn by the muffled screams of a child. Donna Esmeralda, who slept beside me, heard them too: alarmed, we regarded each other only an instant, then snatched our wrappers and hurried toward the source of the sound. No one of conscience could have ignored anything so heart-rending and pitiful.
We had not far to go. The instant I threw open the door that led from my outer chamber to the throne room, I was greeted by a scene Bacchanalian beyond my imagination.
The unfinished floor was covered with tangled bodies, some writhing in drunken passion, others motionless, snoring from a surfeit of wine. Jofre’s friends and whores, I realized with disgust, though as a woman, it was not my place to comment on the peccadilloes of my husband’s guests.
But when I glanced at the two thrones, a fury rose in me which would not be ignored.
In the prince’s throne sat Jofre, somewhat askew; he was entirely naked from the waist down, and his slippers, stockings and breeches lay in a heap upon the step leading to his throne. His pale, bare legs
were wrapped tightly about those of a woman who sat upon his lap. No courtesan of noble blood, she was the coarsest, commonest sort of local whore, perhaps twice Jofre’s age, with lips stained an unnatural lurid red and eyes lined heavily with kohl; she was gaunt, poor, unlovely. Her cheap red satin gown had been pulled up to her waist, revealing no undergarment beneath, and her small, sagging breasts had been lifted up from their bodice so that my young husband could clutch them with his hands.
So drunk was he that he failed to notice my entrance and continued to ride his mount, she releasing exaggerated cries with each thrust.
Dalliances were expected of royal men; I had no right to complain, save for the disrespect Jofre now showed the symbol of rulership. Although I had tried to prepare myself for the inevitability of Jofre’s unfaithfulness, I still felt the sting of jealousy.
But it was the sacrilege occurring beside my husband that I would not endure.
Cardinal Luis Borgia, he who so worshiped all things Roman, sat upon my throne—entirely unclothed, his red robe and cardinal’s hat lost somewhere amidst the carnal assembly. Upon his lap was balanced one of our kitchen servants, a boy of perhaps nine years, Matteo, whose breeches had been carelessly pulled down to his knees. Tears streamed down Matteo’s cheeks; it was he who had screamed, he whose cries had now turned to moans of pain as the young cardinal entered him vigorously, brutally, clutching him fast by the midsection so that the child would not be thrown to the floor. The boy himself fought the forward momentum by gripping the recently refinished wooden arms of the throne.