The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

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       II

      Slightly more than three years passed. The year 1492 arrived, and with it a new pope: Rodrigo Borgia, who took the name Alexander VI. Ferrante was eager to establish good relations with him, especially since previous pontiffs had looked unkindly on the House of Aragon.

      Alfonso and I grew too old to share the nursery and moved into separate chambers, but we were apart only when sleep and the divergence in our education required it. I studied poetry and dance while Alfonso perfected his swordsmanship; we never discussed our foremost concern—that I was now fifteen, of marriageable age, and would soon move to a different household. I comforted myself with the thought that Alfonso would become fast friends with my future husband and would visit daily.

      At last, a morning dawned when I was summoned to the King’s throne room. Donna Esmeralda, could not entirely hide her excitement. She dressed me in a modest black gown of elegant cut and fine silk, with a satin brocade stomacher laced so tightly I gasped for air.

      Flanked by her, Madonna Trusia, and Donna Elena, I crossed the palace courtyard. The sun was obscured by heavy fog; it dripped onto us like soft, slow rain, spotting my gown, covering my face and carefully arranged hair with mist.

      At last we arrived at Ferrante’s wing. When the doors opened onto the throne room, I saw my grandfather sitting regally on his crimson cushions; beside him stood a stranger—an acceptable-looking man of stocky, muscular build. Next to him was my father.

      Time had not bettered Alfonso, Duke of Calabria. If anything, my father was more temperamental—indeed, vicious. Recently, he had called for a whip and flogged a cook for serving his soup cold; he beat the poor woman until she fainted from loss of blood. Only Ferrante was able to stay his hand. He had also dismissed, with much cursing and shouting, an aged servant from the household for failing to properly shine his boots. To quote my grandfather, ‘Wherever my eldest son goes, the sun retreats behind the clouds in fear.’

      His face, while still handsome, was a portrait in misery; his lips twitched with barely-repressed indiscriminate anger, his eyes emanated an unhappiness he delighted in sharing. He could no longer bear the sound of childish laughter; Alfonso and I were required to maintain silence in his presence. One day I forgot myself, and let loose a giggle. He reached down and struck me with such force, I stumbled and almost fell. It was not the blow that hurt as much as the realization that he had never lifted a hand against any of his other children—only me.

      Once, when Trusia had believed me to be preoccupied, she had confided to Esmeralda that she had gone one night to my father’s chambers only to find it in total darkness. When she had fumbled about for a taper, my father’s voice emerged from the blackness: ‘Leave it so.’ When my mother moved towards the door, he commanded: ‘Sit!’ And so she was compelled to sit before him, on the floor. When she began to speak, in her soft, gentle voice, he shouted: ‘Hold your tongue!’

      He wanted only silence and darkness, and the knowledge that she was there.

      I bowed gracefully before the King, knowing my every action was being sized up by the common-looking, brown-haired stranger beside the throne. I was a woman now, and had learned to funnel all my childish stubbornness and mischief into a sense of pride. Others might have called it arrogance—but ever since the day my father had wounded me, I had vowed never to let myself show hurt or any sign of weakness. I was perpetually poised, unshakable, strong.

      ‘Princess Sancha of Aragon,’ Ferrante said formally. ‘This is Count Onorato Caetani, a nobleman of good character. He has asked for your hand, and your father and I have granted it.’

      I lowered my face modestly and caught a second glimpse of the Count from beneath my lowered eyelashes. An ordinary man of some thirty summers, and only a count—and I a princess. I had been preparing myself to leave Alfonso for a husband—but not one so undistinguished as this. I was too distraught for a gracious, appropriate reply to spring quickly to my lips. Fortunately, Onorato spoke first.

      ‘You have lied to me, Your Majesty,’ he said, in a deep, clear voice.

      Ferrante turned in surprise at once; my father looked as though he might strangle the Count. The King’s courtiers suppressed a gasp at his audacity, until he spoke again.

      ‘You said your granddaughter was lovely. But such a word does no justice to the exquisite creature who stands before us. I had thought I was fortunate enough to gain the hand of a princess of the realm; I had not realized I was gaining Naples’ most precious work of art as well.’ He pressed his palm against his chest, then held out his hand as he looked into my eyes. ‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘My heart is yours. I beg you, accept such a humble gift, though it be unworthy of you.’

      Perhaps, I mused, this Caetani fellow will СКАЧАТЬ