Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

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.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. Incensed by the cardinal’s cruelty and irreverence, I forgot all modesty and let go my wrapper; it dropped to the floor. Clad only in my undergarment, I strode directly to Matteo and tried to pull him away.

His face contorted with inebriated fury, the cardinal held onto the child. ‘Let him scream! I paid the little bastard!’

I cared not; the boy was too young to know better. I pulled again, harder; sobriety conferred on me a determination Luis lacked. His grip weakened and I led the sobbing boy over to an outraged Donna Esmeralda. She took him away to be looked after.

Indignant, Luis Borgia rose-too swiftly, given his drunkenness. He collapsed, and sat quickly down on the stair leading up to my throne, then rested an arm and his head upon the new velvet cushion covering the seat, stained now by Matteo’s blood.

‘How dare you,’ I said, my voice quavering with anger. ‘How dare you harm a child, paid or not, and how dare you disrespect me by performing such an act upon my throne! You are no longer welcome as a guest in this palace. Come morning, you will leave.’

‘I am your husband’s guest,’ he slurred, ‘not yours, and you would do well to remember that he rules here.’ He turned toward my husband; Jofre’s eyes were still closed fast, his lips still parted, as he slapped his body against the whore’s. ‘Jofre! Your Highness, pay attention! Your new wife is a keening virago!’

Jofre blinked; his thrusting ceased. ‘Sancha?’ He regarded me uncertainly; he was far too intoxicated to register the implications of the situation, to feel shame.

‘These men must leave,’ I said, in a clear, strong voice to make sure he heard. ‘All of them, in the morning, and the whores must go straightaway.’

‘Bitch,’ the cardinal said, then leaned his head over my new velvet throne cushion, and emptied the contents of his stomach.

As I insisted, Jofre’s guests did leave the next afternoon. My husband was indisposed for most of the day; not until evening did I speak to him of the previous night’s events. His memory was most spotty. He only remembered his friends urging him to drink. He recalled nothing of the whores, he claimed, and certainly he would never sully the honour of the throne willingly by committing such an act-his friends must have dared him.

‘Is such behaviour typical in Rome?’ I demanded. ‘For it will not do here-or anywhere else I dwell, for that matter.’

‘No, no,’ Jofre reassured me. ‘It was Luis, my cousin-he is a profligate, but I should never have allowed myself to become so drunk that I lost my senses.’ He paused. ‘Sancha…I do not know why I sought comfort in the arms of a whore, when I have the loveliest wife in all Italy. You must know…You are the love of my life. I know I am clumsy and thoughtless; I know I am not the shrewdest of men. I do not expect you to return my love. Only have mercy upon me…’

He then begged my forgiveness, so pitifully that I gave it, for there was no point in making our lives unpleasant out of resentment.

But I remembered his weakness, and took note of the fact that my husband was easily swayed, and not a man to be relied upon.

Less than two weeks later, we received a new visitor, one sent from His Holiness himself, the Count of Marigliano. He was an older man, prim and stately, with silvering hair and subdued but elegant dress. I welcomed him with a fine supper, relieved that, unlike Jofre’s other friends, he did not appear at all interested in revelry.

What he was interested in, however, shocked me.

‘Madonna Sancha,’ he said sternly, as we enjoyed the last of the Lachrima Christi after supper (Jofre’s friends had earlier drunk up almost the entire supply brought from Naples). ‘I must now bring up a most difficult subject. I am sorry that I must speak of such things to you in the presence of your husband, but you both must be informed of the charges that have been brought against you.’

‘Charges?’ I studied the old man incredulously; Jofre, too, was startled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

The count’s tone struck the perfect balance between firmness and delicacy. ‘Certain…visitors to your palace have reported witnessing unseemly behaviour.’

I glanced at my husband, who was guiltily studying his goblet, turning it round in its fingers so that its inlaid faceted gems caught the light.

‘There was unseemly behaviour,’ I said, ‘but it had naught to do with me.’ I had no intention of implicating Jofre; neither did I intend for my accuser to achieve his revenge. ‘Tell me, was one of these witnesses Cardinal Luis Borgia?’

The count gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘May I ask how you would know this?’

‘I discovered the cardinal in a compromising situation,’ I replied. ‘The situation was such that I demanded he leave the palace as soon as possible. He was not pleased.’

Again, the old man gave a slight nod as he absorbed this information.

Jofre, meantime, was flushed with what seemed a combination of both anger and embarrassment. ‘My wife has done nothing wrong. She is a woman of the highest character. What charges have been brought against her?’

The count lowered his gaze in a show of reluctance and modesty. ‘That she has entertained not one, but several men at different times in her private chambers.’

I let go a small laugh of disbelief. ‘That is absurd!’

Marigliano shrugged. ‘Nonetheless, His Holiness is quite distraught over the matter, to the point of recalling both of you to Rome.’