Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

When the guard came to fetch me, he led me to the King’s chambers. The throne was draped in black; my father would not ascend it until his formal coronation some months hence.

Ferrante’s former office already bore my father’s touch: a fine carpet, booty captured during the Battle of Otranto, covered the marble floor; Moorish tiles hung from the walls. I had heard my father had beheaded many Turks; I wondered how many he had killed to obtain these particular trophies. I gazed down at the red-and-gold patterned carpet searching for blood stains, eager to distract myself with odd thoughts in order to maintain my composure during the unpleasant exchange.

The new King was busy, surrounded by advisors; as I entered, he was squinting at several documents scattered on the dark wooden desk. At that instant, I realized that no longer could we Neapolitans simply refer to ‘King Alfonso’ to mean the Magnanimous. There were now King Alfonsos I and II.

I stared beyond the latter through the unshuttered west-facing windows that looked onto the Castel dell’Ovo and the water beyond. It was said that the great stone fortress, supposedly built by Virgil, rested upon a great magical egg hidden upon the ocean floor. If the egg were ever to crack, Naples herself would crumble and fall into the sea.

I waited in silence until my father glanced up and frowned distractedly; I was an afterthought in the midst of a busy afternoon. His son Ferrandino, now the de facto Duke of Calabria, leaned over his shoulder, one hand resting on the desk. Ferrandino looked up at the same time, and gave me a polite but formal nod whose subtext was clear: I am next in line to the throne, a legitimate heir, and you are not .

‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia in early May,’ my father said curtly.

I bowed graciously from the shoulders in reply, and directed a single thought at him: You cannot hurt me .

The King directed his attention back to Ferrandino and one of the advisors; after murmuring a few sentences to them, he looked back up as if surprised to see me still standing before him.

‘That is all,’ he said.

I curtsied, triumphant over my self-control, but also disappointed that my father seemed too preoccupied to notice. I turned to leave, but before the guard escorted me through the doorway, the King spoke again.

‘Oh. To appease His Holiness, I have agreed to make his son Jofre a prince-only fitting, given your rank. Therefore, you will both rule the principality of Squillace, where you will reside.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal, then returned to his work.

I left swiftly, blinded by hurt.

Squillace lay several days to Naples’ south, on the opposite coast. It was a far longer journey from Naples to Squillace than from Naples to Rome.

When I returned to my chambers, I tore the portrait of San Gennaro from its place of honour and hurled it against the opposite wall. As it clattered to the floor, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek and crossed herself, then spun about and followed me out to the balcony, where I stood seething, transforming my grief into rage.

‘How dare you! There can be no excuse for such sacrilege!’ she scolded, stalwart and glowering.

‘You don’t understand!’ I snapped. ‘Jofre Borgia and I are to live in Squillace!’

Her expression softened at once. For a moment, she stood silently, then asked, ‘Do you think this will be any easier for Alfonso than for you? Will you force him again to comfort you when his own heart is breaking? You may be more likely to show your temper, Donna Sancha-but do not be fooled. He is the more sensitive soul.’

I turned and stared into Esmeralda’s wise, lined face. I wrapped my arms about my ribs, let go a shuddering breath, and forced my internal tempest to ease.

‘I must get hold of my emotions,’ I said, ‘before Alfonso learns of this.’

That evening, I took supper alone with my brother. He spoke animatedly of his training in swordsmanship, and of the fine horse my father had recently purchased for him. I smiled and listened, adding little to the conversation. Afterwards we took a stroll in the palace courtyard, watched by a lone, distant guard. It was the beginning of March, and the night air was brisk but not unpleasant.

Alfonso spoke first. ‘You are quiet tonight, Sancha. What troubles you?’

I hesitated before answering. ‘I was wondering whether you had heard the news…’

My brother gathered himself, and said, with feigned casualness, ‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia, then.’ His tone at once turned soothing. ‘It won’t be bad, Sancha. As I said before, Jofre might be a decent young man. At least, you’ll live in Naples; we’ll be able to see each other…’

I stopped in mid-stride, turned toward him, and rested my fingertips gently on his lips. ‘Dear brother.’ I fought to keep my voice steady, my tone light. ‘Pope Alexander wants not just a princess for his son; he wants his son to be a prince. Jofre and I will go to Squillace to rule.’

Alfonso blinked once, startled. ‘But the contract…’ he began, then stopped. ‘But Father…’ He fell silent. For the first time, I focused not on my feelings, but on his. As I saw a wave of pain pass over his fair young features, I thought my heart would melt.

I wrapped an arm about him, and began once more to walk. ‘I can always come visit Naples. And you can visit Squillace.’

He was used to being the comforter, not the comforted. ‘I will miss you.’

‘And I you.’ I forced a smile. ‘You told me once that duty is not always pleasant. That is true, but we shall make the best of it with visits and letters.’

Alfonso stopped walking, and pressed me to him. ‘Sancha,’ he said. ‘Ah, Sancha…’ He was taller, and had to bow his head to rest his cheek against mine.

I stroked his hair. ‘It will be all right, little brother,’ I said. I held him tightly and did not permit myself to weep. Ferrante, I thought, would have been proud.

The month of May came all too soon, and with it, Jofre Borgia. He arrived in Naples with a large entourage, and was escorted into the Great Hall of the Castel Nuovo by my uncle, Prince Federico, and my brother Alfonso. Once the men had arrived, I made a grand entrance, coming down the staircase in a sea green brocade gown with an emerald choker round my neck.

I could see at once from my bridegroom’s slightly slack-jawed reaction that I had made a favourable impression; the reverse was certainly not true.

I had been told Jofre Borgia was ‘almost thirteen’-and I expected to encounter a youth resembling my brother. Even in the short span of time since I had told Alfonso of my engagement, his voice had deepened further, his shoulders broadened and become more muscular. He now surpassed me in height by the breadth of a hand.

But Jofre was a child. I had passed my sixteenth birthday since meeting the strega, and I was now a woman with full breasts and hips. I had known sexual ecstasy, known the touch of an experienced man’s hands.

As for the youngest Borgia, he stood a full head shorter than me. His face still had a babe’s chubbiness, his voice was pitched higher than mine, and his frame was so slight I could well have lifted him off his feet. To make matters worse, he wore his copper blond hair like a girl, in long ringlets that spilled onto his shoulders.

I had heard, as had everyone with ears in Italy, of Alexander’s uncontrollable passion for beautiful women. As a young cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia had scandalized his aged uncle, Pope Callixtus, by conducting a baptism, then escorting all the women in the entourage into the walled church courtyard and locking the gate, leaving the enraged men outside to listen to the sounds of giggling and lovemaking for some hours. Even now, Pope Alexander had brought his latest mistress, sixteen-year-old Giulia Orsini, to live with him in the Vatican-and was given to flagrant public displays of affection for her. It was reputed no woman was safe from his advances.