The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

men and arms Squillace can render.’

      ‘Why has my uncle, and not my father, the King, sent you?’ I demanded. I was convinced that my father had not cared enough to keep me informed, that this was yet another slight.

       But the messenger’s answer surprised me. ‘It has been necessary for Prince Federico to be involved in the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom. I am sorry to be the one to tell you, Your Highness. His Majesty is unwell.’

      ‘Unwell?’ I rose, surprised by how greatly this news unsettled me, by the fact that I cared. ‘What is wrong with him?’

      The young man would not meet my gaze. ‘Nothing physical afflicts him, Your Highness. Nothing the doctors can help. He…he has been deeply shaken by the French threat. He is not himself.’

      I sank slowly back into my chair, ignoring the poignant glance my husband directed at me. The image of the rider in front of me disappeared: I saw only my father’s face. For the first time, I focused not on the viciousness there, on the mocking expression directed at me. Instead I saw the dark, haunted look in his eyes, and realized I should not have been surprised to hear he was mentally unsound. He was, after all, the son of Ferrante, who had not only killed his enemies, but dressed their tanned hides in glorious costumes and spoke to them like the living.

      I should not have been surprised by any of it: I should have realized from the beginning that my father was insane, my father-in-law a traitor. And the French were, despite all of Alfonso’s efforts to convince me otherwise, on their way to Naples.

      I rose and this time stayed on my feet. ‘You may eat and rest as much as you need,’ I told the messenger. ‘Then, when you again face Prince Federico, tell him that Sancha of Aragon has heeded his call. I will see him in the flesh not long after your return.’

      ‘Sancha!’ Jofre protested. ‘Have you not paid attention? Charles is leading his army to Naples. It is too dangerous! It makes far more sense to remain here in Squillace; the French have little reason to attack us. Even if they do decide to seize our principality, it will be some months…’

      Skirts swirling, I turned on him. ‘Dear husband,’ I countered, in a voice colder and more unyielding than iron, ‘have you not paid attention? Uncle Federico has asked for help, and I will not deny him. Have you so quickly forgotten that you, by virtue of your marriage to me, are yourself a Prince of Naples? You should not only provide troops, your own sword should be raised in her defence. And if you will not go, I shall take your sword and raise it myself.’

      For that, Jofre had no reply; he stared at me, pale and somewhat embarrassed to be chided in front of a stranger for his cowardice.

      As for myself, I swept from the room, headed back to my chambers to tell my ladies to commence packing at once.

      I was going home.

Winter 1495

       VI

      The carriage that had borne me and my new husband to Squillace was outfitted for the journey back to Naples. This time we rode with a larger contingent of guards, armed for battle, traversing Italy in a north-easterly diagonal from coast to coast. Given the size of our entourage—three wagons bore our attendants and luggage—the trip required several days.

      During that time I contemplated with dread the reunion between myself and my father. Deeply shaken, the messenger had said. Unwell. Not himself. He had let the running of the kingdom fall to Federico. Was he yielding to the same madness that had claimed Ferrante? Whatever the situation, I vowed I would put all personal hurt and antipathy aside. My father was the King, and during this time of looming war, required total fealty. If he was in any condition to understand me, I would pledge it to him.

      On the final morning of our journey, when we saw Vesuvio towering over the landscape, I caught Donna Esmeralda’s hand with excitement. Such gladness it was, to at last draw near the city, and see the great cupola of the Duomo, the dark stone of the Castel Nuovo, the hulking fortress of the Castel dell’Ovo; such gladness, and at the same time, sorrow, knowing that my beloved city was endangered.

      At last our carriage pulled beneath the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso the Magnanimous into the courtyard of the royal palace. Look-outs had reported our arrival, and my brother was waiting as Jofre and I were assisted from the carriage. I smiled broadly: Alfonso was fourteen; the Neapolitan sun glinted off the beginnings of a blond beard upon his cheeks.

      ‘Brother!’ I cried. ‘Look at you; you are a man!’

      He smiled back, flashing white teeth; we embraced. ‘Sancha,’ he said, in a voice that had deepened even further, ‘how I have missed you!’

      We reluctantly let go of one another. Jofre was waiting nearby; Alfonso took his hand. ‘Brother, I am grateful you have come.’

      ‘We could do no else,’ Jofre replied graciously—a statement which was true, if only because of my insistence.

      While the servants dealt with the luggage and our other effects, Alfonso led us toward the palace. As the joy of reunion slowly faded, I noted the tension in my brother’s face, his manner, his step. Something evil had just occurred, something so terrible that Alfonso was waiting for the proper moment to tell us. ‘We have prepared chambers for both of you,’ he said. ‘You will want to refresh yourselves before you greet Prince Federico.’

      ‘But what of Father?’ I asked. ‘Should I not go first to him? Despite his troubles, he is still the King.’

      Alfonso hesitated; a ripple of emotion crossed his features before he could suppress it. ‘Father is not here.’ He faced me and my husband, his tone as sombre as I had ever heard it. ‘He fled during the night. Apparently he had been planning this for some time; he took most of his clothing and possessions, and many jewels.’ He lowered his face and flushed, mortified. ‘We had not deemed him capable of this. He had taken to his bed. We discovered this only a few hours ago, Sancha. I think you can understand why all of the brothers, especially Federico, are preoccupied at the moment.’

      ‘Fled?’ I was aghast, bitterly ashamed. Up to that moment, I had considered the most treacherous man in Christendom to be the Pope, who had deserted Naples in her hour of greatest need—but my own father had proven capable of even greater betrayal.

      ‘One of his attendants is missing,’ my brother added sadly. ‘We assume he was part of the plan. We are not certain where Father has headed. They are conducting an investigation at this moment.’

      An agonizing hour passed, during which time I paced the elegant guest bedchamber; Giovanna now resided in the one that had once been my own. I walked out onto the balcony; now my view faced east towards Vesuvio and the armoury. I paused to stare out at the water. I remembered how, a very long time ago, I had stood upon my old balcony and hurled Onorato’s ruby into the sea. I wished that I could reverse my childish action now; such a gem could purchase rations for countless soldiers, or dozens of cannons from Spain.

      At last Alfonso came for me, with Jofre flanking him. Together, we went to the King’s office, where Uncle Federico sat dejectedly at the dark wooden desk. He had aged since I had last seen him; his black hair had begun to silver, and the shadows I had seen upon my father’s face were now beginning to gather beneath Federico’s brown eyes. His features were round and not as handsome, his demeanour stern as old Ferrante’s, yet somehow still kindly. Across from him sat his younger brother, Francesco, and his even younger half-sister, Giovanna.

      At the sight of us, they rose. Federico had clearly taken charge; he stepped forward first, and embraced Jofre, then me. ‘You have your mother’s loyal heart, Sancha,’ he told me. ‘And Jofre, you are a true knight of the realm, to have come to Naples’ aid. As Protonotary and Prince, we welcome you.’

      ‘I have told them the news regarding His