The Borgia Bride (13 page)

Eyes ablaze, my father rose. ‘I am King of the two Sicilies, and you will show me the proper respect!’

‘Stop playing the madman! Naples and Sicily have been separate kingdoms for generations,’ Federico countered heatedly. ‘Your
son
is now King, and you had best go begging on your knees to him for your life, for you have committed nothing less than treason!’

My father’s face contorted with rage. ‘Liar!’ he screamed. ‘Guards—!’ He turned to Trusia indignantly. ‘Where are the guards? Have them seize this man!’

‘The guards are all gone,’ Trusia answered softly.

‘Listen carefully to me,’ Federico said. ‘There is only one way you can save your life. Tell us where the Crown treasures are, and we will leave you in peace.’

‘Not only a liar, but a thief,’ my father sneered. ‘You would steal my crown. My sword! Trusia, bring me my sword!’ In his agitation, he moved away from his chair and swung a fist at Federico; the latter ducked, missing the blow, but his temper had been ignited. The two brothers locked arms, wrestling, glaring at each other, each panting with the effort to break free from the other’s grasp.

‘You’re as mad as Father!’ Federico shouted. ‘Even madder!’

‘I’ll kill you myself!’ my father shrieked.

My brother Alfonso stepped into the fray; with the help of Francesco, he prised the two apart.

‘Take him from my sight!’ my father screamed, and retook his imaginary throne. Madonna Trusia hurried to his side, whispered something in his ear, then made her way over to where Alfonso and Francesco were still trying to calm Federico.

‘He is too agitated now,’ she said. ‘We will need to try a different approach.’ She gestured for us to leave, then returned to my father’s side and stroked his arm soothingly.

Grudgingly, Federico let himself be led outside, where the rest of us contemplated what to do next.

‘Logic holds no sway here,’ Alfonso said. ‘He cannot be reasoned with. We must play along with his beliefs in order to get what we want.’

‘He is weak,’ Federico countered. ‘Accuse him of treason, show him the rope, and he will break.’

Alfonso shook his head. ‘You saw him—you two will only come to blows again. It is time for a different approach.’

‘It’s true, Federico.’ Francesco spoke up, in a rare display of disagreement with his older brother. ‘That was no pretence—he has gone mad.’

At that instant, Madonna Trusia emerged from the chamber and quietly shut the door behind her. ‘Don Francesco is right. I have calmed him sufficiently, but I think it would be wise for you brothers to remain outside.’ She looked at my brother and me. ‘Alfonso, Sancha…If you go to your father, and tell him the treasures are necessary to save the kingdom—the kingdom he believes he still rules—perhaps he will give them to you. He trusts you.’

I shook my head. ‘Let Alfonso go. Father trusts him—but he will not listen to anything I have to say. He despises me.’

She jerked her head slightly, as if my words themselves were a slap, then gazed at me with a disbelief that outweighed my own. ‘Your father has always admired you. Why, he has always told me that, had you been born a man, you would be the man he would want to become.’

Anger laced with longing rose in me.
Then why did he never tell me so? Why has he always treated me with the utmost contempt? Why delight in hurting me?

My emotional struggle must have shown on my face, for my mother came to my side and gently took my hand. ‘Come,’ she said, in a tone that comforted and conferred courage. ‘I will lead you and Alfonso inside. Let your brother do most of the speaking, and all will go well.’

We three returned to the chamber.

‘Your Majesty,’ my mother said, ignoring my discomfort at her use of the term. ‘Look, your children have come to visit you.’

The former King Alfonso II had been regal and controlled when all of us had entered together. But now, as he sat in his phantom throne staring out at Messina’s harbour, his shoulders, once so straight, were slightly hunched, and in his eyes was a disturbing vagueness.

‘Vesuvio,’ he remarked, frowning at the vista. ‘This window has a dreadful view; I can’t see Vesuvio. We will have to hire an architect to remedy that.’

‘Certainly,’ Madonna Trusia said. ‘Your Majesty, Don Alfonso and Donna Sancha have come to see you.’ And she stepped back, directing a nod at my brother.

‘Your Majesty,’ Alfonso stated, his voice distinct and loud. ‘I must speak to you regarding a matter of extreme urgency.’

My father grunted, and at last took his gaze from the window and turned it upon his youngest child. ‘Alfonso. You seem to have become a man.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Have you married yet?’

‘No.’ My brother paused. ‘There is great trouble in Naples, Father. The barons are in revolt, and the French have invaded. Our troops have desperate need of funds; we must borrow from the Crown treasure. It is the only way to keep the throne safe.’

My father’s gaze swept over me. ‘And Sancha. You married the Pope’s little bastard. Tell me, has he yet grown a beard?’

I felt a rush of temper, but guarded my tongue; I also felt sorrow, to see the man reduced thus. My father’s cold, unyielding cruelty had destroyed his kingdom, and separated him from his family and his sanity. Only my mother remained loyal.

‘He is older,’ I replied softly.

My father nodded, then stared back out the window at the foreign coastline. ‘How much of it is required?’ he asked suddenly.

‘A great deal,’ my brother replied. ‘But I will take only what is needed.’

‘There is the matter of a key…’ My father murmured. He gestured for Alfonso to approach him—then took notice of me and my mother standing nearby. ‘The women must leave,’ he commanded.

My mother bowed; I followed suit, then left with her to join the brothers, who waited anxiously out in the corridor.

‘He trusts Alfonso,’ Trusia told them. ‘I think we will meet with success.’

Her instincts were correct. Only a moment later, my brother emerged from the chamber, alone and smiling. In his hand, he held a golden key.

The key did in fact unlock the closet where my father had hidden the treasures; and I reflected on how my mother’s and brother’s gentleness and patience had led to our salvation, when anger and demands had failed. Once again, I resolved to be less headstrong, to be more like my sweet-natured brother.

Ferrandino and Uncle Federico argued over whether or not to leave sufficient funds to keep my father comfortable in his madness; Federico wanted to leave nothing, but in the end, the King’s wishes were obeyed. Ferrandino turned over a reasonable sum to my mother, with instructions to use it frugally.

We spent only a few restless weeks in Messina. During that time, the Spanish ambassador brought us three separate pieces of amazing news. The first, which we had both expected and dreaded, was that our exhausted forces in the Castel dell’Ovo had finally surrendered to the French: Virgil’s egg had cracked.

The second revelation was one that gave Jofre great relief, and put us all in good humour. I had never forgiven Pope Alexander for surrendering to King Charles so easily, or for handing over his son, Cesare, to ride with the French as a hostage. Cesar e and Alexander were cunning, however; before the army ever entered Naples, Cesare escaped the French army one night, taking with him as much of the stolen spoils of war as he could manage. This he did by bribing a number of Charles’ soldiers to help him.

The third message followed with surprising swiftness on the heels of the second. Hearing of the formation of the Holy League—with its formidable army far outnumbering his own—Charles VIII took fright, and retreated from Naples several weeks after invading it, leaving a single garrison behind. (This news revealed even more of the Pope’s and Cesare’s shrewdness; the latter had taken care to absent himself before King Charles learned of the League.) It brought Ferrandino no small amount of pleasure to learn that
Il Re Petito
was a vicious little man, who treated our rebellious barons so badly that they turned their swords against the French and now called for the return of the House of Aragon.

This inspired Ferrandino to make plans to join his encamped forces, commanded by Captain Don Inaco d’Avalos, on the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples. Ischia was a short distance from the city’s coastline, easily allowing the King to launch attacks on the mainland.

I was determined to go with him, and Jofre dared raise no objections—I was so filled with optimism that I expected we would return home, triumphant, within days. Alfonso also decided to go to Ischia, in case his skill as a fighter was required; Francesco and Federico, chose to remain behind in Sicily until Naples was freed.

The night before we were to set sail, I called upon Madonna Trusia. We sat together in her small antechamber while my father sat in the darkness in his imaginary throne room, staring out at the lights reflecting on the dark waters of Messina’s harbour.

‘Come with us,’ I urged. ‘Alfonso and I have missed you terribly. There is nothing here for you anymore; Father is not even aware of who surrounds him. We can hire servants to care for him.’

Wistful, she shook her head, then lowered her face and stared down at her pale, graceful hands, placed one atop the other in her lap. ‘I miss you both as well. But I cannot leave him. You do not understand, Sancha.’

‘You are right,’ I said curtly. I was furious with my father, for the spell he had cast over her, for the fact that, even insane and seemingly helpless, he was able to make such a good person miserable. ‘I do not understand. He has betrayed his family and his people, yet you remain loyal to him. Your children adore you, and will do everything possible to make you happy; all he can give you is hurt.’ I hesitated, then with great emotion, asked the question that had troubled me my whole life. ‘How could you ever have loved a man so cruel?’

Trusia lifted her chin at that, and regarded me intensely; her voice held a trace of indignance, and I understood that the depth of her love for my father transcended all else. ‘You speak as though I had a choice,’ she said.

We reached Ischia in the fullness of spring; it was round and rugged, covered with olive trees, fragrant pines, and a profusion of flora that had earned it the nickname ‘The Green Island’. The landscape was dominated by Monte Epomeo, which erupted every few centuries, rendering the soil dark and fertile.

Jofre, Alfonso and I stayed with Ferrandino in the isolated grand Castello connected to the main island by a bridge built by my great-grandfather, Alfonso the Magnanimous. There was little to do as April bled into May, then May into June, save pray (with a sceptic’s faithlessness) for our army as they made forays onto the mainland. The campaigns went well: our losses were few, for we now had the barons’ support as well as that of the Holy League. The French were disheartened.

Neither Jofre nor Alfonso were needed to fight—to their disappointment, I suspect, and to my deep relief. We three again became inseparable; we dined together, visited the small towns—Ischia and Sant’Angelo—and the hot mineral springs, reputed to be good for the health.

But I began each morning alone, with a walk down to the beach of fine sand, and stared across the calm waters of the bay. On clear days, Naples’ curving coastline was visible; Vesuvio stood like a beacon, and I could just make out the Castel dell’Ovo, a small, dark dot. I stood so long I grew brown from the sun; Donna Esmeralda often came after me, scolding, and forced me to cover my head with a shawl.

On foggy days, I still went out, and like my father, vainly sought a glimpse of Vesuvio.

I had thought myself homesick in Squillace—but then, I had been certain of a home to which I could return. Now I knew not whether the palace in which I had spent my childhood stood. I yearned for Santa Chiara and the Duomo as if they were loved ones, and feared for their safety. I thought of the graceful ships in the harbour with their bright sails, of the courtyard gardens, which—had they not been destroyed—now would have been in full bloom, and my heart ached.

Ferrandino met constantly with his military advisors. We saw almost nothing of him until the month of July, when my husband, brother and I were summoned to his office.

He sat at his desk; beside him stood his Captain, Don Inaco, and I knew from the brilliant, satisfied smiles on the faces of both men what news the King was about to share with us.

Ferrandino could scarcely restrain himself; even before we had finished bowing, he spoke, his tone giddier than I had ever heard it. ‘Pack your trunks, Your Highnesses.’

‘Mine was never unpacked,’ said I.

Our journey across the Bay of Naples was swift. Indeed, it took more time for servants to load our ship with provisions and belongings than it took to sail from Ischia into the harbour of Santa Lucia.

Our royal entourage, consisting of His Majesty Ferrandino, his betrothed, Giovanna, Jofre, Alfonso, and me, boarded the vessel in exceedingly high spirits. As the ship launched, Alfonso had bottles of wine and goblets brought, and we repeatedly toasted the King, the House of Aragon, and the city to which we were returning. Those were the most joyous moments of my life; I believe they were for Ferrandino as well, for his eyes had never been so bright, nor his smile so broad. At an impetuous instant, he seized Giovanna round her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her passionately—much to the delight of our cheering assembly.

Jofre made light of the preacher Savonarola and his dire predictions that Charles VIII would bring about the end of the world. ‘My father, His Holiness, has commanded Savonarola to come to Rome and defend his view of the Apocalypse—which seems to have been a bit premature. Savonarola, coward that he is, pleads illness and says he cannot make the journey.’

We roared as Jofre suggested a new toast: ‘To Savonarola’s continued ill health.’ I was glad that Esmeralda was below deck, so that she could not hear the insult to the priest she so revered.

As we drew closer to the Neapolitan coastline, silence overtook us. Vesuvio, which during our exile had come to represent for me a beacon of hope, still held vigil over the city: but its dusky purple was the lone spot of colour in a once-verdant landscape now reduced to cinders. The fields, the slopes, all of which should have been abloom with flowers, bright with ripening crops, were blackened, as though the great mount had erupted once again.

Only Ferrandino still smiled; he had seen this devastation before, in forays with his captains. ‘Have no despair,’ he told us. ‘The French may have ensured we would have no harvest this season—but the fires they set will enrich the soil, and bring us bountiful yield next year.’

Even so, the rest of us remained quiet and disturbed. As we pulled into the harbour alongside the charred skeletons of ships, the Castel dell’Ovo—its solid, ancient stone unmarred—was a reassuring sight. I stared anxiously into the city proper, past the jagged, war-torn walls, and clutched Alfonso’s arm excitedly.

‘Look!’ I cried. ‘The Church of Santa Chiara still stands! And the Duomo!’ It was true: despite the flames I had seen emerging from her, the exterior of Santa Chiara was nearly unscathed, save for streaks of soot. The Duomo appeared untouched.

But as our little family rode together in a carriage, headed for the Castel Nuovo, I struggled to hide my grief and hatred—nor was I alone. Even Ferrandino’s expression had grown grim; Giovanna was fighting tears, and Alfonso kept his face turned to the window.

It was a short ride from the harbour to our destination—but even that brief distance allowed us to view some of the destruction wrought by the French. Palace after palace, commoners’ dwellings, all of them had been scorched, reduced to rubble by cannon fire, or both. The armoury, once filled with artillery and soldiers, protected by a double thickness of walls, was nothing more than a blackened heap of stones and trapped, festering corpses.

Giovanna covered her nose. I could not help noticing that, along with the usual perfume of salt water that I so loved, the Bay now released a subtle but ghastly smell—that of rotting flesh. Apparently, it was easier to be rid of the dead by feeding them to the waves instead of the earth.

The walls surrounding the Castel Nuovo wore a madman’s uneven, gap-toothed grin. ‘No matter,’ Ferrandino said, and pointed overhead. ‘Look who greets us.’ I gazed upward, and for the first time since arriving in Naples, smiled; the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I still stood proud and unscarred, and our carriage rode beneath it, past the waiting guards who held the gate open for our entry.

Inside the courtyard, now a pile of trampled earth denuded of its gardens, a captain left his contingent of soldiers and ran up to the carriage, opened the door, and bowed. ‘Welcome, Your Majesty,’ he said, and assisted Ferrandino down. ‘We must apologize for the state of the royal palace. We had hoped to have it ready for your arrival today, but unfortunately, most of the servants who worked here were killed. We have been forced to recruit untrained commoners and impoverished nobles, and they have been slow to repair the damage.’

‘It matters not,’ Ferrandino replied graciously. ‘We are glad to be home.’

But any happiness I felt upon being ushered in through the great doors soon fled. The captain led us towards the throne room, where the seneschal was to meet with the King and discuss plans for restoring the palace and dealing with the local famine. We passed through corridors scarred from the bite of duelling blades, and darkened by spatters of blood. Portraits of our ancestors had been cut from their frames and slashed; the golden frames had been stolen, the shreds of painted canvas left upon the floors. Statues, carpets, tapestries, sconces—all the things I had known since childhood, and thought permanent, as eternal as my family’s right to the Crown, had been stolen. We walked on bare floors, past bare walls.

‘They have taken everything,’ Giovanna said bitterly. ‘Everything.’

Ferrandino’s tone was surprisingly hard. ‘It is the way of war. Nothing can be done; complaints serve no good.’

She fell silent, but the hatred in her eyes did not ease.

In the alcove where I had killed the traitorous guard, blood still stained the floor and walls; the signs of my murderous act had yet to be cleaned away.

Our arrival in the throne room only increased my resentment. The windows that looked out upon the harbour had been broken, leaving jagged shards; empty wine bottles had been smashed in every corner. Peasant women were frantically sweeping up the glass with brooms.

‘His Majesty, King Ferrandino,’ the captain announced. The women stopped their work, so overwhelmed to see the King with his courtiers that one crossed herself instead of genuflecting. Another maidservant knelt on the top step leading to the throne, and was scrubbing the bare seat vigorously with a rag; she turned from the waist and bowed as best she could. The great chair itself had been hacked at; deep nicks in the arms and legs marred the pattern carved in the wood.

The throne cushion lay to one side on the floor; it had been slashed and stained with a dark liquid I thought at first was blood. I moved over to it, peered down, and recoiled at the smell of urine.

‘Your Majesty, Your Highnesses!’ the maidservant cried. ‘Forgive me. There were so many things to clean—the French committed unspeakable acts, everywhere in the palace, before they fled. They even befouled the throne.’

‘The only way the French could befoul our throne,’ I countered swiftly, ‘would be to set King Charles’ twisted little arse upon it.’

At this, everyone in our company laughed, though there was little humour in the sound.

The doors to the King’s office lay open; inside, Ferrante’s great desk had been chopped into a pile of kindling, the unused remainder stacked beside the fireplace. A few rustic chairs, confiscated from a commoner’s house, replaced the finer pieces which had once graced the chamber. The seneschal stood waiting.

‘I apologize for the conditions, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘It will take some time for us to import proper furniture.’

‘It matters not,’ Ferrandino replied, and went inside for his meeting.

The rest of us returned to our old chambers to oversee the unpacking of our belongings. I had not expected any of my furnishings to remain, but I had not expected to see Donna Esmeralda—who had sailed upon the same ship with us, but ridden in a different carriage with the other attendants—sitting on the floor in my bedchamber, her skirts swirled about her, a look of hatred on her face.

‘Your bed,’ she said, seething. ‘Your fine bed. The bastards set it afire; there is smoke all over the ceiling.’

I was taken aback; I had never heard her use such language. But her husband had been killed fighting the Angevins—men of French descent, and probably no different in her eyes from those who had marched with Charles.

‘It matters not,’ I echoed Ferrandino. ‘It matters not, because the bastards are gone, and we are here.’

And in Naples I remained. The first few months were difficult. Food was scarce and given the expense of rebuilding, the seneschal would not permit us to import wine or rations; we depended greatly on the few local huntsmen and fishermen who had survived the war. We drank water, and made do without our customary retinue of servants; often, I helped Donna Esmeralda, now my only attendant, perform menial tasks.

Yet each day brought improvement, and we were filled with optimism, especially since Ferrandino had the support of his people.

Then, in a chance moment of frustration, Jofre, tired of all the deprivation, said that we would be better off in Squillace. I at once requested an audience with Ferrandino, and quickly received permission to see him.

By that time, he had a desk—though not as grand a one as its predecessor—and a proper chair. He was in an expansive mood; now that the kingdom had stabilized, and sporadic fighting ceased, he had set the date for an official coronation ceremony and his wedding to Giovanna. He sat and listened as I said:

‘You once told me my presence brought you good luck. Do you believe that?’

He smiled, and with a hint of teasing in his voice, replied, ‘I do.’

‘Then let me and my husband remain in Naples. Make it an official decree, that I should not have to return to Squillace unless emergency requires it.’

His gaze became serious. ‘I told you once, Donna Sancha, that you could request anything of me and you would have it. This is a small favour to ask, and one that I will grant without hesitation.’

‘Thank you.’ I kissed his hand. I believed then that I had finally undone my father’s heartless trick, and that I was at last safely home to stay.

My husband was displeased by the promise I exacted from Ferrandino, but lacked the courage to protest. Autumn came—and with it, according to Jofre, a papal brief ordering the doomsayer Savonarola to cease preaching, a writ the wild-eyed preacher ignored. Winter followed. By Christmas, the Castel Nuovo had begun to resemble its former self. We did our best to aid the poor and the starving, made so by Charles’ destruction of that year’s harvest; as for us royalty, we enjoyed our first decent feast to celebrate the Nativity.

By then, Donna Esmeralda and I were sleeping on an actual bed, and the windows in the palace had been repaired or covered with heavy cloth to keep out the chill air. Drowsy after our Christmas feast, I had gone to lie down when Esmeralda called to me from the outer chamber.

‘Donna Sancha! Madonna Trusia is here!’

‘What?’ I sat up, fogged by sleep. For a moment, the announcement seemed very natural; it was Christmas, and my mother had come to visit her children, just as she did every holiday. I had forgotten that she had gone to Sicily; I had even forgotten about the uprising, and the French.

‘
What?’
I repeated, this time properly startled, as my waking memory returned. I pulled a wrapper around my shoulders and hurried into my antechamber.

In the instant before I laid eyes upon my mother, I hoped that she had come to her senses, had accepted my offer to come and live in Naples. My heart ached to think of her, cut off from the world, trapped with a man who might have loved her in his tortured way, but had never known how to demonstrate that love properly; now that he had gone mad, he could not even acknowledge her presence.

One glance at Madonna Trusia drew from me a horrified gasp. I expected a smiling, radiant beauty; instead, standing just inside the doorway next to Donna Esmeralda was a stricken old woman dressed in black. Even her golden hair was veiled, like the sun blotted out by storm clouds. She was frail, thin, with an ashen pallor and grey shadows beneath her eyes. It was as though all my father’s misery and pain had been transferred to her, sapping the joy and comeliness that had been hers.

My mother sagged into the nearest chair and spoke to Esmeralda without looking at either of us. ‘Fetch my son.’

Beyond that, she said no more; she did not need to, for I knew at once what had happened. I pulled a chair close to hers, and took her hand; she bowed her head, unwilling to meet my gaze. We sat in silence, waiting. I felt a constricting ache at the base of my throat, but did not permit myself to cry.

After a time, Alfonso appeared. He, too, took a single glance at our mother and knew at once what had transpired. ‘He is dead?’ he whispered.

Trusia nodded. My brother knelt before her and hugged her skirts, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair; I looked on, an outsider, for my greatest sorrow was not my father’s death, but the suffering it provoked in the two I loved most.

At last Alfonso raised his head. ‘Was he ill?’

My mother put a hand to her mouth and shook her head; for a long moment, she could not speak. When she at last had a measure of control, she lowered her hand, and in a tone that seemed rehearsed, began to tell the tale.

‘It was three weeks ago…He had seemed to come to himself previously, to realize what had occurred—but then he stopped sleeping altogether, and the madness returned worse than ever. He was angry, restless, often pacing and shouting, even when he was alone in his favourite chamber. You remember the room—the one with the great chair, and the sconce above it.

‘That night,’ she continued, with increasing difficulty, ‘I was awakened by a great groaning, scraping sound coming from Alfonso’s chamber. I feared he might have hurt himself, so I hurried to see him at once…I took a taper since he always sat in darkness.

‘I found him pushing his chair across the room, and when I asked him why he was doing so, he answered irritably, “I have grown weary of the view.” What else could I do?’ She paused, filled with sudden remorse. ‘The attendants were all aslumber, so I set down the candle and helped him as best I could myself. When he was satisfied, I left him in the darkness.