The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

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.