The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

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.

      Still, I held on tightly; given the pressure against my chest, I could not help releasing gasps. I only hoped he interpreted them as sounds of pleasure.

      After perhaps a minute, the muscles of his legs stiffened; with a howl, he reared his torso backwards. I opened my eyes and saw his own widen with astonishment, then roll upwards, at which point I knew we had met with success.

      He collapsed atop me, panting. I felt the subtle sensation of his male organ shrinking inside me, then sliding out altogether; with it came liquid warmth.

      I knew that this time, there would be no sexual pleasure for me. Onorato might have cared about satisfying my desire, but it was of no concern to the three men here tonight.

      ‘Well done, well done,’ the cardinal said, with a faint note of disappointment that his task was so swiftly completed. He blessed us and the bed.

      Just behind him stood my father. With Jofre still lying atop me, I stared up at the man who had betrayed me, keeping my gaze cold, heartless. I did not want him to have the pleasure of seeing the unhappiness he had inflicted.

      He wore a small, victorious smile; he did not care that I hated him. He was glad to be done with me, even gladder to have received something of value in exchange.

      The two men left, and my new husband and I were finally alone. My ladies would not trouble us until morning, when the sheets would be collected as further evidence of our contract’s consummation.

      For a long moment, Jofre lay atop me in silence. I did nothing, for after all, he was now my lord and master and it would be rude to interrupt him. And then he pushed my hair behind my ear, and whispered, ‘You are so beautiful. They described you to me, but words cannot do you justice. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

      ‘You are sweet, Jofre,’ I replied sincerely. A boy he might be, but a likeable one, utterly guileless, if lacking in intelligence. I could grow fond of him…but never love him. Not the way I had loved Onorato.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a sudden vehemence. ‘I’m so sorry…I—I—’ Quite abruptly, he burst into tears.

      ‘Oh, Jofre.’ I wrapped my arms about him. ‘I’m sorry they were horrible to you. What they did was unspeakable. And what you did was—it was perfectly normal.’

      ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not the bet. It was unkind of them, yes, but I am a terrible lover. I know nothing about pleasuring women. I knew I would disappoint you.’

      ‘Hush,’ I said. He tried to pull up and away, onto his elbows, but I pressed him down against me, against my breasts. ‘You are simply young. We all begin inexperienced…and then we learn.’

      ‘Then I will learn, Sancha,’ he promised. ‘For your sake, I will learn.’

      ‘Hush,’ I said, holding him to me like the child he was, and began to stroke his long, soft hair.

      Outside, the storm had finally broken, and the rain came down in sheets.

Summer 1494—Winter 1495