The Borgia Bride

V

Early the next morning, Jofre and I left on the journey to our new home in the southernmost reaches of Calabria. I kept my private vow to be brave: I embraced my brother and mother and kissed them both good-bye without shedding a tear; we all repeated promises to visit, to write.

King Alfonso II, of course, could not be bothered to take his leave.

Squillace was a rock scalded by the sun. The town itself stood perched atop a steep promontory. Our palace, painfully rustic by Neapolitan standards, lay far from the sea, the view partially blocked by the ancient monastery founded by the scholar Cassiodorus. The coastline was stark and spare, lacking Naples’ full, graceful curve, and the faded leaves of scraggly, struggling olive orchards constituted the only greenery. The region’s greatest contribution to the arts, of which the populace was immensely proud, was its red-brown ceramics.

The palace was a disaster; furniture and shutters were broken, cushions and tapestries torn, walls and ceilings cracked. The temptation to yield to self-pity and to curse my father for sending me to such a dismal place was great. Instead, I occupied myself with making the palace into a suitable dwelling for royalty. I ordered fine velvet to replace the moth-eaten brocade on the aged thrones, had the worn wood refinished, and sent for fine marble to replace the uneven terra cotta floor of the throne room. The private chambers of the royal couple—the prince’s to the immediate right of the throne room, the princess’ to the left—were in even worse disrepair, and required me to order even more fabrics and hire more craftsmen to set things aright.

Jofre kept himself occupied in quite a different manner. He was young, and away from his domineering family for the first time; now that he was master of his own kingdom, he had no idea how to comport himself properly—and so he did not. Soon after our arrival in Squillace, we were descended upon by a group of Jofre’s male friends from Rome, all of them eager to celebrate the new prince’s good fortune.

In the first few days after our marriage—including the time spent in our comfortable carriage during our southward journey—Jofre half-heartedly tried to make good on his promise to become a better lover. But he tended towards ineptitude and impatience; his own desire soon overwhelmed him, and he usually fulfilled his own needs without addressing mine. After the tenderness and tears he had displayed on our wedding night, I had hoped that I had found someone as kind as my brother. I soon learned that Jofre’s pretty words sprang not so much from compassion as a desire to placate. There was a great difference between goodness and weakness, and Jofre’s agreeable nature was born of the latter.

This was made abundantly clear after the appearance of Jofre’s friends a week after our arrival in Squillace. All of them were young nobles, some married, most not, none of them older than me. There was a pair of his relatives as well, both recently descended upon Rome in order to make the most of their connections to His Holiness: a Count Ippolito Borja from Spain, who had not yet taken to Italicizing the spelling of his name, and a young cardinal of fifteen, Luis Borgia, whose air of smug self-importance immediately provoked my dislike. The palace was still in chaos—scaffolding was everywhere, and the floors were still cracked terra cotta; the marble had not yet been laid in the throne room. Don Luis did not miss an opportunity to comment on the pathetic nature of our dwelling and our principality, especially compared to the magnificence of Rome.

When the crowd arrived, I played my role of hostess in as decent a fashion as possible, given our rural surroundings. I put on a feast and poured for them our best Lachrima Christi, brought from Naples, since the local wine was unpalatable. I dressed modestly in black, as a good wife ought, and at the feast, Jofre showed me off proudly; the men flattered me with countless toasts to my beauty.

I smiled; I was bright and charming, attentive to the men who wanted to impress me with tales of their valour and their wealth. When the hour grew late and everyone else was inebriated, I retired to my chambers and left my husband and his guests to do as they pleased.

I was awakened in the hours before dawn by the muffled screams of a child. Donna Esmeralda, who slept beside me, heard them too: alarmed, we regarded each other only an instant, then snatched our wrappers and hurried toward the source of the sound. No one of conscience could have ignored anything so heart-rending and pitiful.

We had not far to go. The instant I threw open the door that led from my outer chamber to the throne room, I was greeted by a scene Bacchanalian beyond my imagination.

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.’

As unhappy as I was in Squillace, I had no desire to go live among the Borgias. At least in Squillace, I was close to the sea. Jofre also looked grim at the thought of returning to his native city. He spoke only in the most passing terms about his family, never at length; from what little he had said, I gathered that he was intimidated by them.

‘How can we disprove these charges?’ I asked.

‘I have been sent on an official investigation,’ Marigliano said. Although I was far from comfortable with the notion of being scrutinized by a papal representative, I liked the old count’s candour. He was gracious but forthright, a man of integrity. ‘I shall require access to all the servants in the household, in order to interview them.’

‘Speak to anyone,’ Jofre said at once. ‘They will be happy to tell you the truth about my wife.’ I smiled at my husband, grateful for his support.

The count continued. ‘There is also the question of extravagance. His Holiness is not pleased with the amount of money that has been spent upon the Squillace palace.’

‘I believe that is a question you can answer with your own eyes,’ I told him. ‘Simply look about you, and judge whether our surroundings are too lavish.’

At that, even Marigliano had to smile.

The investigation was concluded within two days. By then, the count had spoken with every servant and lord—and lady-in-waiting; I made sure, as well, that he conferred privately with little Matteo. All of our entourage was wise enough not to implicate Jofre in any wrong-doing.

I escorted Marigliano himself to his waiting carriage. He hesitated a moment for his attendant to precede him, so that he and I could speak privately.

‘Madonna Sancha,’ he said. ‘Given what I know about Luis Borgia, I had no doubt when I began this investigation that you were innocent of the charges. Now I know you are not only innocent, but a woman who has inspired great affection and loyalty in all those who surround her.’ He glanced about us with a faint furtiveness. ‘You are deserving of the full truth. It is not just because of the cardinal’s charges that I was sent here.’

I could not imagine what he hinted at. ‘Why, then?’

‘Because these witnesses also spoke of your great beauty. Your husband described it in letters in the most lyrical terms, which piqued His Holiness’ interest. But now it has been said that you are even more beautiful than La Bella.’

La Bella, the Beautiful One: This was the nickname given to Giulia Orsini, the Pope’s current mistress, for it was claimed she was the most beautiful woman in Rome, and perhaps in all Italy.

‘And what will you report to His Holiness?’

‘I am an honest man, Madonna. I must tell him that it is true. But I will also tell him that you are the sort of woman who will remain loyal to her husband.’ He paused. ‘To be frank, Your Highness, I do not believe the latter fact will make any difference.’

This was one time I took no pleasure in flattery. I had not wanted a marriage to Jofre Borgia because I had been in love with another man, because I had wanted to stay in Naples with my brother, and because Jofre had been a mere child. Now I had yet another reason for regret: a father-in-law with lascivious designs—who just happened to be the leader of all Christendom.

‘May God bless and keep you, Your Highness,’ Marigliano said, then climbed into his carriage, bound for Rome.

I soon had an even greater worry than the thought of an amorous father-in-law, a pope with dreams of making me his new mistress.

Only a month after my wedding, news filtered southward into Calabria: Charles VIII, King of France, was planning to invade Naples.

Re Petito, the people called him, ‘The Little King’, for he had been born with a short, twisted spine and crooked limbs; he looked more gargoyle than man. He had also been born with a craving for conquest, and it took little for his advisors to convince him that the Angevins in Naples longed for a French king.

His queen, the lovely Anne of Brittany, did her best to dissuade him from his dreams of invasion. She and the rest of France were devoutly Catholic and deeply loyal to the Pope, who would be outraged by an intrusion into Italy.

Concerned, I wrote to my brother Alfonso to learn the truth of the matter. It took weeks to receive a reply which gave little comfort.

Have no fear, dearest sister,

True, King Charles is hungry for conquest—but at this very moment, our father is meeting with His Holiness Alexander in Vicovaro. They have forged a military alliance, and have carefully planned their strategy; once Charles hears of this, he will be filled with doubts, and will give up his foolish notion of invasion. Besides, with the Pope so strongly on our side, the French people will never support an attack on Naples.

Alfonso could not help trying to couch everything he told me in the most positive terms, but I understood his letter all too well. The French threat was real—so real that my father and the Pope were drawing up battle plans at a retreat outside Rome.

I read the text aloud to Donna Esmeralda. ‘It is just as the priest Savonarola predicted,’ she stated darkly. ‘It is the end of the world.’

I scoffed. I had no patience for the Florentine fool who fancied himself anointed by God, nor for the masses who flocked to hear his Apocalyptic message. Girolama Savonarola railed against Alexander from the safety of his pulpit in the north and lambasted the ruling family of his own city, the Medicis. The Dominican priest had actually presented himself to Charles of France and claimed that he, Savonarola, was God’s own messenger, chosen by Him to reform the church, to cast out the pleasure-loving pagans who had overrun her. ‘Savonarola is a raving madman,’ I said. ‘He thinks that King Charles is a judgment sent by God. He thinks Saint John predicted the invasion of Italy in the Apocalypse.’

She crossed herself at my lack of reverence. ‘How can you be sure he is wrong, Madonna?’ She lowered her voice, as if concerned that Jofre, on the other side of the palace, might hear. ‘It is the wickedness of Pope Alexander and the corruption of his cardinals that has brought this upon us. Unless they repent, we have no hope…’

‘Why would God punish Naples for Alexander’s sins?’ I demanded.

For that, she had no reply.

Even so, Donna Esmeralda took to praying to San Gennaro; I took to fretting. It was not just that the family throne was threatened; my little brother was no longer considered too young to fight. He was trained in the art of the sword. If the need arose, he would be called upon to wield one.

Life continued for the remainder of the summer in Squillace. I was kind to Jofre, though given his weak character, I could not bring myself to love him. In public we were affectionate with one another, even though he visited my bedchamber less often and spent more nights in the company of local whores. I did my best to show no sign of hurt or jealousy.

September arrived, and brought with it evil news.

Dearest sister, Alfonso wrote,

perhaps you have already heard: King Charles has led his troops through the Alps. The feet of French soldiers are planted on Italian soil. The Venetians have struck a bargain with them, and thus caused their city to be spared, but Charles’ eye is now on Florence.

You must not worry. We have amassed a sizable army under the command of Crown Prince Ferrandino, who will lead his men northward to stop the enemy before it ever arrives in Naples. I am remaining here with Father, so you need have no concern over me. Our army, once joined by papal forces, will be invincible. There is no call for fear, for His Holiness Alexander has publicly stated, ‘We would lose our mitre, our lands and our life, rather than fail King Alfonso in his need.’

I could no longer hide my distress. Jofre tried his best to comfort me. ‘They will get no further than Rome,’ he promised. ‘My father’s army will stop them.’

Meanwhile, the French made good time. They sacked Florence, that centre of culture and artistry, then pushed their way relentlessly southward.

Our troops are making progress, Alfonso wrote. They will soon join up with the papal army and stop Charles’ men.

On the last day of December in the year 1494, my brother’s prediction was put to the test. Laden heavily with priceless, stolen goods, the French entered Rome.