The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ