The Borgia Bride (12 page)

Rather than stay in safer quarters below, I insisted on climbing to the top, where soldiers served as lookouts. Several cannons, accompanied by piles of iron balls, stood at each turret, ready to fire down into the city. All of us who had travelled in the carriages—including those in the family who had preceded and followed us—had been deeply shaken not just by the ignominy of forced retreat, but by the suffering we had witnessed. I could not bear to sit and mourn with Donna Esmeralda as we waited for rescue; instead, I distracted myself by looking out at the sea, for the ship that was to take us away.

There was no sign of it. For hours, there was no sign, and I paced restlessly upon the aged bricks of the terrace while, from time to time, Alfonso emerged from below and asked whether the boat had been spotted.

No, I told him again and again, and each time, he returned to the chamber downstairs, where the King and his general were engaged in discussions of strategy. I stared west, refusing to watch the destruction of the city behind me, and watched as the sun moved lower towards the horizon.

The final time he inquired about the ship, I demanded:

‘Where are we going?’

He leaned forward and spoke in my ear, as if relaying a state secret that the soldiers were not to hear, even though his answer seemed so expected and obvious to me, it would have made no difference had he shouted it down into the streets. ‘Sicily. They say the King there has granted Father refuge in Messina.’

I gave a single nod.

Soon it was dusk, and I went downstairs to see the family. Given the delay, we had all grown quite nervous as to whether the general had kept his word, and the ship was indeed on its way: but once the sun had completely set, a shout came from one of the lookouts.

We hurried down to the ship without protocol, without elegance, without fanfare. The vessel was small and fleet, designed for speed, not comfort; for safety’s sake, she flew the yellow and red Spanish banner instead of the Neapolitan colours.

Despite Donna Esmeralda’s urging that I come below, I stood on the deck as we set sail from Santa Lucia’s harbour. Although it was night, the city glowed from the blazes that had been set, and the cannons lit up the sky like bursts of lightning, allowing me to pick out landmarks: the armoury and Santa Chiara, where my father had been crowned, were both aflame; the Poggio Reale, a magnificent palace built by my father when he was still Duke, was almost entirely consumed. I was relieved to see that the Duomo had, for the time being, survived.

As for the Castel Nuovo, it burned brightest of all. I could not help wondering how the people had reacted when they discovered Ferrante’s museum.

I stood a long time watching on the deck, listening to the lap of the waves as Naples receded, a glittering, angry red jewel.

We sailed due south through the warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and within a matter of days, arrived in Messina, once called
Zancle
, or ‘sickle’, by the Greeks due to its scythe-shaped harbour. I was grateful to see land; I did not travel well by sea, and this was the longest journey I had made on a sailing ship. My first two days were spent in misery.

Sicily had been ruled for the past twenty-seven years by King Ferdinand of Aragon, he who had joined his kingdom to that of his wife, Isabella of Castile, with the idea of uniting Spain. Besides his blood ties to my family, Ferdinand had good reason to be kindly to the Borgias. As Jofre explained it, when his father Rodrigo was still Cardinal of Valencia, Ferdinand sought Pope Sixtus IV’s formal sanction of an Inquisition, by which he and Isabella hoped to rid their kingdom of all Moors and Jews, Christianized or not.

Sixtus flatly refused. Only after long, intense lobbying by the persuasive and powerful Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia did the Pope slightly relent—allowing the Inquisition to proceed in the province of Castile alone.

‘King Ferdinand was so grateful for my father’s help,’ Jofre told me, with a naiveté that might have been touching had it not chilled me to the bone, ‘that he lent his full support to my father’s election as Pope.’

Ferdinand the Catholic
, Rodrigo Borgia had always referred to the Spanish King thereafter.

After we set foot upon land and news of our flight from Naples had spread, we were welcomed by the Spanish ambassador, Don Jorge Zuniga. We had taken refuge at a barely adequate villa that left us sorely crowded, with the brothers sharing a bedchamber, Alfonso and Jofre another, and Giovanna, Esmeralda and I a third, so that Ferrandino had the privacy befitting a monarch.

Don Jorge appeared the night of our arrival. He cut a dashing figure, in a cape and matching tunic of bright carmine, with a quick, easy smile beneath a drooping black moustache. I believe he had expected a warm welcome from our family, and abject pleas for help; he certainly did not expect what he received.

‘Your Highnesses,’ he said, bowing low to us all, and removing a feathered velvet cap with a sweep of his arm. ‘It is with great sorrow that I learned of the circumstances surrounding your journey to our fair island.’ He paused. ‘Our agents informed us of the uprising amongst the barons; we assume that they were emboldened by the events at Capua.’ The city of Capua lay inland, not far to the north of Naples. ‘The citizens there were so frightened by the size of Charles’ army that they opened the gates and let the French enter at will.’ He paused. ‘His Majesty King Ferdinand welcomes you, and stands ready to offer whatever aid you require.’

Ferrandino sat in the centre of our assembled family, in a place of honour, while the rest of us stood out of deference to his rank. Don Jorge, however, failed to notice the significance of this, prompting Uncle Federico to growl at him:

‘You will not address Ferrandino as His Highness any longer. He is now King Ferrante II of Naples.’

Don Jorge blinked in utter confusion, and began, ‘But King Alfonso…’ Then, ever the diplomat, he sensed the disapproval emanating from us, and bowed a second time, directing the gesture at Ferrandino. ‘Your Majesty. I humbly beg your pardon.’

‘Granted,’ Ferrandino said. Like the rest of us, he was exhausted, but projected an admirable air of authority. Even so, no amount of kingliness could erase the lines in his brow or the desperation in his eyes. His appetite remained poor, despite Giovanna’s coaxing, and his cheekbones now stood out in startling relief. ‘I do not know under what pretext my father came here to Messina; I can only assume that he was not forthcoming concerning the circumstances. I am also sure that you are a man of discretion, who can be trusted with the truth.’

‘Of course,’ the ambassador replied smoothly.

‘My father deserted us in our hour of greatest need,’ Ferrandino continued, ‘and stole a great deal of money from the state. We are here to retrieve it.’

Uncle Federico, whose indignance had been slowly building, could no longer contain himself. ‘You have been hosting a criminal! Is it not bad enough that your king did not supply us with troops in time…’

My half-brother turned on him and said sharply, ‘That is enough, uncle. You will not interrupt our conversation again.’

Federico pursed his lips.

‘We must offer our most abject apologies,’ Don Jorge said. ‘We assumed, when His Majesty—when His Highness Alfonso arrived, he did so for health reasons, to take advantage of our weather. We thought, most wrongly, that the family was aware of his arrival.’ He paused, tilted his head to study us each in turn, then said, ‘You are all royals here; I have no doubt you can all be trusted with the most confidential material.’

‘They can,’ Ferrandino affirmed.

‘I bring you very good news for the House of Aragon. Your calls for help have not fallen on deaf ears, Your Majesty. The Pope, the Emperor, King Ferdinand, Milan, Venice and Florence have banded together to form a Holy League. I apologize that we were unable to inform you of this fact earlier; there was too great a danger that the French might have intercepted a message and learned of our plans. But an army surpassing that of Charles’ will shortly be marching south from Rome to meet him.’

Ferrandino’s expression and eyes softened abruptly, as if he were looking upon something inexpressibly tender, like a newborn son, or a much-adored lover; for an instant, I thought he might weep. Though moved, he collected himself sufficiently to say, in a low voice, ‘God bless the Pope and the Emperor; and God bless King Ferdinand.’

Don Jorge arranged for carriages the following morning to take us to my father’s refuge. Federico, however, suggested Ferrandino remain behind—‘For,’ as he said, ‘it would not be seemly for the King to go begging for what is rightly his.’ The plan was to shame—and if necessary, threaten—my father into coming to his new sovereign, pledging fealty, asking forgiveness, and, most importantly, turning over the Crown treasures, which were still necessary if our troops were to fight alongside the Holy League. Certainly, they would be necessary for the day to day running of the kingdom—a prospect for which we now had real hope.

Ferrandino—transformed into a younger-looking man by what was probably his first night’s true rest in a year—agreed to Federico’s plan. Our two uncles wanted to go alone on their mission, but my brother convinced them otherwise. ‘Sancha and I must accompany you,’ Alfonso insisted. ‘We have a right to see our father and our mother, and ask them ourselves the reason for their actions.’

Thus, we all descended on the palazzo where the former Alfonso II now resided—a grand structure situated on a gentle slope above the harbour. Curiously, not a single guard stood watch at the unbarred gate; our own driver climbed down and swung it open wide, manoeuvred the carriage inside the courtyard, then secured the gate behind us.

Nor did servants greet us at the door. Don Federico opened it and called out loudly until two feminine voices chorused from a distance: ‘Who is there?’

One belonged to Donna Elena, my mother’s long-time lady-in-waiting; the other, to Madonna Trusia herself.

Uncle Federico stepped inside the entryway and thundered, ‘No less than the House of Aragon! And we have come to set things aright!’

Trusia appeared in the corridor. She had weathered well; being younger than my father, she had at last reached the age where she was at her fullest womanly bloom, with ripe lips and well-sculpted cheeks beneath large eyes. I drew in a small, silent breath; after a time apart, I was amazed by my mother’s beauty.

At the sight of us standing in the arching doorway, her face brightened at once, and she half-ran to greet us.

Her expression reflected naught but joy; it dimmed only when she registered our sombre—and in the case of Federico, hostile—demeanour.

‘Your Highnesses,’ she addressed the brothers, with a curtsy. Then she craned her neck to peer past them, at Alfonso and me. ‘And my children! How I have missed you! Sancha—it has been so long!’

She opened her arms to me. Despite my hurt and disapproval, I went to her, and let myself be enfolded by them, let my cheeks be kissed—but I could not return the embrace. ‘How?’ I asked bitterly. ‘How could you let yourself be party to such a terrible thing?’

She drew back, puzzled. ‘Your father is ill. How could I abandon him? Besides, his guard compelled me to accompany him.’

Before I could press her further, Alfonso sought out her embrace. His response was more trusting—but still distant. He clearly believed her incapable of wrongdoing, and was waiting for an explanation.

Uncle Federico was disgusted. ‘We have not come here for reunions. A crime against the realm has been committed—a crime, Madonna, in which you share complicity.’

My mother paled visibly, and laid a hand to her throat. ‘It is true, Alfonso abandoned his throne—but he did not know what he was doing. I swear before God, Your Highness, I was not aware of his intention to flee until the very night I was forced at sword-point to join him.’ She paused, then straightened and assumed a slight air of defiance. ‘His only crime is madness. He needs my help, Don Federico. In retrospect, I would have come freely with him. If there was any crime, it was mine alone, in not writing to you to explain the circumstances. But until this morning, when the guards fled, I was not at liberty to do so.’

Federico studied her with a hawk-like gaze for a long moment. He had always liked Trusia; indeed, she had never earned the mistrust of anyone in the court. At last he spoke, his tone solemn and calm. ‘Donna Trusia, let us go inside, where we can speak privately.’

‘Of course.’ She led us to a chamber where she was given leave to sit with us. Prince Federico told her the entire sad tale—of the Crown treasures missing, of Ferrandino returning to discover Naples had neither King nor funds for his soldiers, of our perilous flight from the rebels.

Trusia was shocked by our news. When she recovered herself, she said, ‘You all know I am not given to deceit. I would never support such heinous thievery. Perhaps I am a fool and alone in my ignorance; this morning I was surprised to find that all the servants, with the exception of Donna Elena, had gone. Last night, we heard the rumour that you had arrived in Messina.’

‘They knew,’ my brother responded, ‘and feared recompense.’

‘Indeed,’ Federico interjected with vehemence, ‘if I find them, I will see them hanged for treason.’ He calmed himself. ‘For now, we must recover the Crown treasures, assuming that no one has made off with them. They are our only hope; without them, Ferrandino has no chance of recovering and holding the throne.’

My mother’s reply was simple. ‘Tell me what I must do.’

We were led to the room where my father now spent his days—alone, Trusia said, save for those few times when he made a request of a servant, or had a peculiar question for his mistress. At the door, my mother turned to Federico and Francesco, her expression pleading. ‘You remember how he was in the days before we left…’

‘Yes,’ Francesco replied. His manner was kindlier, more sympathetic than Federico’s. ‘Bedridden. Confused. But there were times we could consult him on matters, when he was quite lucid.’

‘Those times are past,’ my mother answered sadly. ‘He does not remember coming here, or comprehend his situation. You will need diplomacy and patience if you are to recover the treasure.’

She opened the door.

Inside was a vast chamber, sparsely furnished. Its most notable feature was a very broad arched window, spanning from ceiling to floor, and providing a magnificent view of Messina’s harbour.

On the opposite wall stood a very large, ornately carved wooden chair; above it hung a massive wrought iron candelabrum holding some two-score tapers. The combination resembled a throne beneath a canopy; and in the chair sat my father.

His visage startled me. His hair had turned from almost entirely black to mostly grey, and his complexion had taken on the ashen pallor of one who shunned all light. He was noticeably thin, and his royal garb—a blue silk tunic embroidered with gold thread, and a sash decorated with medals from Otranto—hung loosely on his frame.

He had been staring vacantly out the window; when we entered, he gave us the most cursory of glances, as if he still saw us every day, as if he had never left Naples under cover of night.

‘Yes?’ he demanded imperiously; and when, after a pause, all of us—even the vociferous Federico—remained speechless, he stamped his foot in irritation. ‘Do not stand there gaping! Bow, and address me properly!’

Anger flared in Federico’s eye. Ignoring Trusia’s warning look, he stepped forward. ‘I will not bow. But I will address you properly—Your Highness. For that is what you are: a prince who has given up his right to be King.’

My father’s face reddened with fury; he pointed accusingly at his brother and exhorted the rest of us: ‘Seize that man, and punish him for his impudence!’

Another moment of silence passed; Federico faced my father with a hard little smile. ‘Your orders are no good here, Alfonso. Don’t you remember? You abandoned your throne. You left us to face the French alone, and sailed here with Trusia. You gave up your right to the Crown when you fled like a coward, and stole the money Ferrandino needed for our troops.’