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The Borgia Bride
Fearlessly, I pressed my fingers against the shining lacquered brown cheek.
It was cold and hard, like my grandfather and father.
Like me.
IV
The reparation of the strained relationship between Naples and the papacy took time. I was not surprised when an entire month passed before I received the expected summons from my father.
I had prepared myself for the encounter, and reconciled myself to the thought of marriage to Jofre Borgia. The fact filled me with a strange pride; my father would expect his announcement to wound me, and be disappointed when it did not.
When the guard came to fetch me, he led me to the King’s chambers. The throne was draped in black; my father would not ascend it until his formal coronation some months hence.
Ferrante’s former office already bore my father’s touch: a fine carpet, booty captured during the Battle of Otranto, covered the marble floor; Moorish tiles hung from the walls. I had heard my father had beheaded many Turks; I wondered how many he had killed to obtain these particular trophies. I gazed down at the red-and-gold patterned carpet searching for blood stains, eager to distract myself with odd thoughts in order to maintain my composure during the unpleasant exchange.
The new King was busy, surrounded by advisors; as I entered, he was squinting at several documents scattered on the dark wooden desk. At that instant, I realized that no longer could we Neapolitans simply refer to ‘King Alfonso’ to mean the Magnanimous. There were now King Alfonsos I and II.
I stared beyond the latter through the unshuttered west-facing windows that looked onto the Castel dell’Ovo and the water beyond. It was said that the great stone fortress, supposedly built by Virgil, rested upon a great magical egg hidden upon the ocean floor. If the egg were ever to crack, Naples herself would crumble and fall into the sea.
I waited in silence until my father glanced up and frowned distractedly; I was an afterthought in the midst of a busy afternoon. His son Ferrandino, now the de facto Duke of Calabria, leaned over his shoulder, one hand resting on the desk. Ferrandino looked up at the same time, and gave me a polite but formal nod whose subtext was clear: I am next in line to the throne, a legitimate heir, and you are not.
‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia in early May,’ my father said curtly.
I bowed graciously from the shoulders in reply, and directed a single thought at him: You cannot hurt me.
The King directed his attention back to Ferrandino and one of the advisors; after murmuring a few sentences to them, he looked back up as if surprised to see me still standing before him.
‘That is all,’ he said.
I curtsied, triumphant over my self-control, but also disappointed that my father seemed too preoccupied to notice. I turned to leave, but before the guard escorted me through the doorway, the King spoke again.
‘Oh. To appease His Holiness, I have agreed to make his son Jofre a prince—only fitting, given your rank. Therefore, you will both rule the principality of Squillace, where you will reside.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal, then returned to his work.
I left swiftly, blinded by hurt.
Squillace lay several days to Naples’ south, on the opposite coast. It was a far longer journey from Naples to Squillace than from Naples to Rome.
When I returned to my chambers, I tore the portrait of San Gennaro from its place of honour and hurled it against the opposite wall. As it clattered to the floor, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek and crossed herself, then spun about and followed me out to the balcony, where I stood seething, transforming my grief into rage.
‘How dare you! There can be no excuse for such sacrilege!’ she scolded, stalwart and glowering.
‘You don’t understand!’ I snapped. ‘Jofre Borgia and I are to live in Squillace!’
Her expression softened at once. For a moment, she stood silently, then asked, ‘Do you think this will be any easier for Alfonso than for you? Will you force him again to comfort you when his own heart is breaking? You may be more likely to show your temper, Donna Sancha—but do not be fooled. He is the more sensitive soul.’
I turned and stared into Esmeralda’s wise, lined face. I wrapped my arms about my ribs, let go a shuddering breath, and forced my internal tempest to ease.
‘I must get hold of my emotions,’ I said, ‘before Alfonso learns of this.’
That evening, I took supper alone with my brother. He spoke animatedly of his training in swordsmanship, and of the fine horse my father had recently purchased for him. I smiled and listened, adding little to the conversation. Afterwards we took a stroll in the palace courtyard, watched by a lone, distant guard. It was the beginning of March, and the night air was brisk but not unpleasant.
Alfonso spoke first. ‘You are quiet tonight, Sancha. What troubles you?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘I was wondering whether you had heard the news…’
My brother gathered himself, and said, with feigned casualness, ‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia, then.’ His tone at once turned soothing. ‘It won’t be bad, Sancha. As I said before, Jofre might be a decent young man. At least, you’ll live in Naples; we’ll be able to see each other…’
I stopped in mid-stride, turned toward him, and rested my fingertips gently on his lips. ‘Dear brother.’ I fought to keep my voice steady, my tone light. ‘Pope Alexander wants not just a princess for his son; he wants his son to be a prince. Jofre and I will go to Squillace to rule.’
Alfonso blinked once, startled. ‘But the contract…’ he began, then stopped. ‘But Father…’ He fell silent. For the first time, I focused not on my feelings, but on his. As I saw a wave of pain pass over his fair young features, I thought my heart would melt.
I wrapped an arm about him, and began once more to walk. ‘I can always come visit Naples. And you can visit Squillace.’
He was used to being the comforter, not the comforted. ‘I will miss you.’
‘And I you.’ I forced a smile. ‘You told me once that duty is not always pleasant. That is true, but we shall make the best of it with visits and letters.’
Alfonso stopped walking, and pressed me to him. ‘Sancha,’ he said. ‘Ah, Sancha…’ He was taller, and had to bow his head to rest his cheek against mine.
I stroked his hair. ‘It will be all right, little brother,’ I said. I held him tightly and did not permit myself to weep. Ferrante, I thought, would have been proud.
The month of May came all too soon, and with it, Jofre Borgia. He arrived in Naples with a large entourage, and was escorted into the Great Hall of the Castel Nuovo by my uncle, Prince Federico, and my brother Alfonso. Once the men had arrived, I made a grand entrance, coming down the staircase in a sea green brocade gown with an emerald choker round my neck.
I could see at once from my bridegroom’s slightly slack-jawed reaction that I had made a favourable impression; the reverse was certainly not true.
I had been told Jofre Borgia was ‘almost thirteen’—and I expected to encounter a youth resembling my brother. Even in the short span of time since I had told Alfonso of my engagement, his voice had deepened further, his shoulders broadened and become more muscular. He now surpassed me in height by the breadth of a hand.
But Jofre was a child. I had passed my sixteenth birthday since meeting the strega, and I was now a woman with full breasts and hips. I had known sexual ecstasy, known the touch of an experienced man’s hands.
As for the youngest Borgia, he stood a full head shorter than me. His face still had a babe’s chubbiness, his voice was pitched higher than mine, and his frame was so slight I could well have lifted him off his feet. To make matters worse, he wore his copper blond hair like a girl, in long ringlets that spilled onto his shoulders.
I had heard, as had everyone with ears in Italy, of Alexander’s uncontrollable passion for beautiful women. As a young cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia had scandalized his aged uncle, Pope Callixtus, by conducting a baptism, then escorting all the women in the entourage into the walled church courtyard and locking the gate, leaving the enraged men outside to listen to the sounds of giggling and lovemaking for some hours. Even now, Pope Alexander had brought his latest mistress, sixteen-year-old Giulia Orsini, to live with him in the Vatican—and was given to flagrant public displays of affection for her. It was reputed no woman was safe from his advances.
It was impossible to believe that Jofre was the same man’s son.
I thought of Onorato’s strong hands moving over my body; I thought of how he had mounted me, how I had grasped his powerful back as he rode me, then brought me to pleasure.
Then I looked upon this skinny child and secretly cringed with disgust at the thought of the marriage bed. Onorato had known my body better than I had myself; how could I possibly teach this effeminate young creature all a man should know about the art of love?
My heart despaired. I went through the next several days in stunned misery, performing as best I could the role of the happy bride. Jofre spent his time in the company of his entourage, and made no effort at courtship; he was no Onorato, concerned with my feelings. He had come to Naples for one reason: to gain a princely crown.
The civil ceremony came first, in the Castel Nuovo, presided by the Bishop of Tropea and witnessed by my father and Prince Federico. In his anxiety, little Jofre shouted out his hasty reply to the Bishop’s question well before the old man had finished asking, which caused a ripple of amusement to pass through the crowd. I could not smile.
There came afterwards the presentation of gifts from my new husband: rubies, pearls, diamonds, brocades woven with thread of real gold, silks and velvets, all to be made into adornments and gowns for me.
But our union had not yet been blessed by the Church, and so could not be physically consummated; I had a respite of four days before the Mass.
The next day was the Ascension and the Feast of the apparition of the Archangel Michael; it was also proclaimed a day of celebration for the Kingdom of Naples.
The black morning sky released a stinging downpour of rain and gusting winds. Despite the ominous weather, our family followed my father and his barons to the great cathedral of Santa Chiara, where Ferrante had lain in state only months before. There, the altar had been carefully prepared by Alexander’s Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, with all the symbols of Neapolitan rulership laid out in the order they would be presented to the new King: the crown, studded with gems and pearls; the royal sword, in a jewelled scabbard; the silver sceptre, topped with the gold Angevin lily; and the imperial globe.
My father led us into the church. He had never seemed more handsome, more regal than he did at that moment. He was dressed grandly in a tightly-fitted tunic and breeches of black satin, over which he wore a robe of shining crimson brocade lined with white ermine. Our family and the courtiers stopped at the designated place, but my father continued alone down the vast aisle.
I stood beside my brother and clutched his hand. Neither of us looked the other in the eye; I knew if I met Alfonso’s gaze, I would betray my unhappiness at an hour when I should have felt quite the opposite.
I had learned, shortly after my betrothal to Jofre was renewed, of the deal the new King had struck with Pope Alexander. Alfonso II would grant to Jofre Borgia the principality of Squillace; in return, His Holiness would send a papal legate (in this case, a powerful cardinal from his own family) to crown the King. Thus, Alexander gave his direct, irrevocable blessing and recognition to Alfonso’s reign.
The exchange had been the King’s idea—not the Pope’s, as my father had told me.
He had intentionally purchased his joy at the cost of my sorrow.
The man who would soon be known as Alfonso II stopped at the choir of the canons, where he was greeted by the Archbishop of Naples and the Patriarch of Antiochia. They led him to his seat before the altar, where he listened along with the rest of us as the Papal Bull declaring him undisputed ruler of Naples was read.
My father knelt on a cushion before Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, the papal legate, and carefully repeated the oath after him.
I listened at the same time I contemplated my fate.
Why did my father hate me so? He was indifferent to his other children, save the Crown Prince, Ferrandino—but he showed his eldest son attention only insofar as it was necessary to train him for his position in life. Was it because I had caused more trouble than the others?
Perhaps. But perhaps the answer also lay in old Ferrante’s words: Of all his children, you are most like your father.
But my father had shrieked when he saw the Angevin mummies; I had not.
You always were a coward, Alfonso.
Was it possible that my father’s cruelty sprang from fear? And did he despise me because I possessed the one attribute he did not—courage?
Near the altar, my father had finished swearing his oath. The cardinal handed him a piece of parchment, thus investing him as King, and said, ‘By virtue of Apostolic authority.’
Now a prince of the realm by virtue of marriage, Jofre Borgia stepped forward, small and solemn, with the crown. The cardinal took it from him, then placed it upon my father’s head. It was heavy and slid a bit; the prelate steadied it with one hand while he and the archbishop buttoned the strap beneath my father’s chin, to hold it fast.
The items of rulership were handed to the new King: the sword, the sceptre, the orb. Ceremony dictated that all the Pope’s prelates should now form a circle behind my father, but his brothers, sons, and loyal barons surged forward in an abrupt, impetuous show of support.
Laughing, my father sat down on his throne while the assembly cheered.
‘Viva Re Alfonso! Viva Re Alfonso!’
Despite my fury and resentment at being his pawn, I looked upon him, crowned and glorious, and was amazed by the sudden welling of loyalty and pride within me. I called out with the others, my voice breaking.
‘Viva Re Alfonso!’
The next three days I spent being fitted for a splendid wedding gown. The stomacher was made of the golden brocade my husband had given me, and the gown itself was of black velvet striped with satin, with a chemise of gold silk; both the gown and stomacher were seeded with Jofre’s pearls, and more of his diamonds and pearls were carefully woven into a headdress of the finest gold thread. The sleeves, which tied onto the bodice, were also of striped black velvet and satin, and so voluminous I could have fit my new husband into one. There was a time I would have taken great pride and interest in the gown, and in adorning myself to further enhance my beauty; this was not such a time. I looked upon that gown as a prisoner beholds his chains.
My wedding day dawned crimson, with the sun obscured by clouds. I stood on my balcony at the Castel Nuovo, unable to sleep the long night before, knowing that I was to surrender my home and all I knew to go and live in a strange city. I savoured the scent of the cool sea air and drew it deep into my lungs; would it smell as sweet in Squillace? I stared out at the leaden green bay, presided over by dark Vesuvio, knowing the memory of that moment would never be enough to sustain me. My life revolved around my brother, and his around mine; I conversed with him each morning, supped with him each night, spoke to him throughout the day. He knew and loved me better than my own mother. Jofre seemed a kindly lad, but he was a stranger. How could I cheerfully face life without Alfonso?
Only one thing troubled me more greatly: The knowledge that my little brother would suffer similar loneliness—perhaps worse, since Donna Esmeralda had said he was more sensitive than me. That was the hardest of all to endure.
At last I went inside to my ladies, to begin the preparations for the marriage ceremony, to be held mid-morning.
As the day progressed, the sky grew more dismal and overcast, a perfect reflection of my mood. For Alfonso’s sake, I hid my sorrow; I remained gracious, poised.
As a bride, I was magnificent in my gown; when I entered the castle’s Royal Chapel, a murmur of awe ran through the waiting assembly. I took no pleasure in such appreciation. I was too preoccupied with avoiding the gaze of my brother, allowing myself only a glimpse of him as I passed. He looked regal and adult in a tunic of dark blue, with a gold-hilted sword at his hip. His expression was taut, grave, without a trace of the radiance he had inherited from our mother. He stared carefully ahead at the altar.
Of the religious ceremony, I can tell you only that it went on interminably, and that poor Jofre bore himself with all the regal grace he could summon. But when the time came for him to pass the Bishop’s kiss on to me, he was compelled to stand on tip-toe, and his lips trembled.
Afterwards came a concert, then a lunch that endured for hours, with much drinking of wine and salutes to the new bride and groom. When dusk came, Jofre retired to a nearby palazzo which had been prepared for us. Sunset was entirely hidden by the great, dark storm clouds that had gathered over the bay.
I arrived with the night and the first muted rolls of thunder, accompanied by my father the King, and the Cardinal of Monreale, Giovanni Borgia. The Cardinal was a homely, middle-aged man, with coarse lips and a demeanour to match. His head was shaved in the priest’s tonsure, and his bald crown covered with a red satin skullcap; his portly form was covered by a white satin cassock topped by purple velvet robes, and his thick fingers sparkled with diamonds and rubies.
I left the men in the corridor and entered the bedchamber, which my women had readied for us. Donna Esmeralda undressed me, carrying away not just the beautiful wedding gown, but even my silk chemise. Naked, I was led to the nuptial bed, where Jofre waited. At the sight of me, his eyes grew round; he stared with a naive lack of restraint as one of my ladies pulled back the sheet for me, waited for me to lie beside my new husband, then drew the covering up only so far as my waist. There I lay, my full breasts bared to the world.
Jofre was too shy and I too disheartened to make small talk during this embarrassing ritual—one of the more unpleasant requirements of nobility and power, and there was naught could rescue us from it.
When the King and Cardinal Borgia, whose office it was to witness the nuptial event, entered the chamber, Jofre greeted them with a gracious smile.
It was clear that Cardinal Borgia shared his cousin Rodrigo’s appreciation for younger women, for he stared quite pointedly at my bosom and sighed. ‘How beautiful they are. Like roses.’
I fought the impulse to cover myself. I seethed with resentment that this old man should be carnally entertained at my expense; nor was I at ease with the fact that my father had never seen me unclothed.
The King’s gaze flickered over my nakedness with a detachment that made me shudder; he gave a cold little smile. ‘Like all flowers, they will wither quickly enough.’ His eyes were no longer troubled; tonight, they were bright. He had achieved all he had ever wanted in this world—he was King, with the Pope’s blessing, and such was all the sweeter because he would also soon be rid of his troublesome daughter. This was the moment of his greatest triumph over me; this was the moment of my greatest defeat.
Never did my hatred for my father burn so brightly as it did at that moment; never had my humiliation been so complete. I turned my face away, lest Jofre and the cardinal see the loathing in my eyes. I wanted desperately to pull the sheets around me, to storm from the bed, but the intensity of my anger left me wooden, unable to move.
Jofre broke the brief silence with disarming honesty. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, Your Holiness, if I find myself at the mercy of nerves.’
The cardinal laughed lecherously. ‘You are young, my boy—at your age, all the nerves in Naples cannot impede your performance.’
‘’Tis not my age that gives me hope of success,’ Jofre countered, ‘but the dazzling beauty of my bride.’
From any other lips—save perhaps my Alfonso’s—such words would have been a pretty display of courtly wit. But Jofre uttered them with sincerity, and a shy sidewise glance.
Both men laughed—my father derisively, the cardinal appreciatively. The latter slapped his thigh. ‘Take her then, boy. Take her! I can see from the rise of the sheet that you are ready!’
Awkwardly, Jofre rolled toward me. At that point, his attention was on me: he could not see our two witnesses lean forward in their chairs, keenly watching his every move.
With my assistance, he managed to climb atop me; he was more slender than I and shorter, so when he pressed his pursed lips against mine, his male member poked hard into my belly. Again he trembled, but this time, not from nerves. Given his feminine appearance, I had earlier feared Jofre might be the sort who preferred boys to women, but such was clearly not the case.
Fighting to ignore the sheer misery of the situation, I steadied him and parted my legs as he slid downward toward his goal. Unfortunately, he began to thrust too soon, into my thigh. Unlike the elder Borgia, this youngest one was entirely uneducated as to the act of love. I reached for him, intending to guide him—but the instant I touched him, he let go a cry, and my hand was filled with his seed.
Instinctively, I pulled the evidence out from beneath the sheets and away, inadvertently revealing the mishap to our witnesses. Jofre let go another groan, this one of pure failure, and rolled onto his back.
My father was smiling as broadly as I had ever seen him. Hand extended, palm up, he turned to the chuckling cardinal and demanded: ‘Your purse, Holiness.’
With good humour, the cardinal shook his head, and withdrew from his satin cassock a small purple velvet bag, sagging with coin. This he dropped in the King’s hand. ‘Pure luck, Your Majesty. Pure luck, and nothing more.’
As one of my ladies hurried into the chamber and cleaned my hand with a damp cloth, Jofre propped himself up on his elbows and stared at the two men. His cheeks flushed bright scarlet at the realization that his performance had been the subject of a wager.
The cardinal registered his discomfort and laughed. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, boy. I lost because I didn’t believe you would get so far. You endured longer than most your age. Now we can all get to the real business at hand.’
But my husband’s eyes had filled with mortified tears; he moved away from me and huddled on his side of the bed.
His suffering allowed me to transcend my own shame. My actions did not spring from a desire to be done quickly with this sordid business, but from a desire to free Jofre from his unhappiness. He seemed a gentle soul; he did not deserve such cruelty.
I rolled toward him and whispered in his ear. ‘They mock us because they envy us, Jofre. Look at them: they are old. Their time is past. But we are young.’ I placed his palms upon my breasts. ‘There is no one else in the room. It is only you and I together, here in our marriage bed.’
For pity’s sake, I kissed him—softly, with tender passion, as Onorato had once kissed me. I closed my eyes, blotting out the sight of our tormentors, and imagined I was with my former lover. I ran my hands over Jofre’s narrow, bony back, then down between his thighs. He shivered, and moaned when I caressed his maleness, just as I had been taught; soon he was firm enough to be guided into me, this time successfully.
I kept my eyes closed. In my mind’s eye, there was nothing in the world save me, my new husband, and the approaching thunder.
Jofre was no Onorato. He was small, and I received little stimulation; had it not been for his violent thrusting and the fact I had helped him enter me, I would scarcely have known he penetrated me.
