Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

‘So it is done!’ He studied the swaying, worn messenger and demanded, ‘Someone bring a chair! I give you leave, Don Garcia, to sit in my presence-so long as you give a complete, full account of the wedding. Leave no detail out.’

A chair was brought; reluctantly, Garcia dropped into it, and-prodded by the Pope’s questions-droned on for a full seven hours. Food and drink was brought after a few hours for the speaker and his audience. I sat and listened, growing ever more horrified as Alexander grew ever more delighted.

I heard how Cesare and his bride-‘quite beautiful, with pale, delicate skin and fair hair,’ according to Garcia-exchanged rings in a solemn ceremony. Cesare had, in a manly display, consummated the marriage physically six times in front of King Louis, who applauded and called him ‘a better man than me.’ So many distinguished guests, including the King and his entourage, attended the reception afterwards that there was no room for them all, and they were forced to hold the celebration outdoors in a meadow.

The Pope revelled in Cesare’s union. Each visitor to the Vatican was regaled with the story of Cesare’s wedding, complete with His Holiness bringing out mounds of jewels he intended to send his new daughter-in-law, and holding each gem up to the light for the visitor to admire.

Alfonso and I could only attempt to control the damage. One cardinal whose help Alfonso had solicited, Ascanio Sforza, gently tested the waters in the midst of a conversation with the Pope concerning Church business. He did not believe, Cardinal Sforza told His Holiness, that Louis really intended to invade Naples, since Queen Anne and her people were against it. Besides, the French had already learned their lesson, when King Charles was forced to retreat in humiliation.

The Pope laughed derisively in Sforza’s face. King Federico should take care, Alexander remarked, grinning, lest he find himself in the same position as my father had-believing all the while that the French would never come, then fleeing when Charles’ army neared Naples’ gate.

Upon hearing this, I lost hope-even though Alfonso continued his political lobbying in secret. I took wicked pleasure in one thing: the news that university students in Paris were performing comic parodies of Cesare’s wedding; the Roman sense of grandeur was considered vulgar and extreme by French standards. Cesare’s silver-shod horses had made him a laughingstock.

Jofre finally realized that I was no longer in His Holiness’ good graces, and decided the best course of action was to prove himself a true Borgia, like his brothers. In the company of Spanish soldiers, he roamed the streets at night, drunk and wielding his sword in a pale imitation of Juan, but Jofre’s gentle nature had never equipped him for fighting.

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.