Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

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.

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.