The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

conversation was interrupted by a faraway thunder. Three simultaneous thoughts competed for my attention:

       It is nothing, a passing storm.

       Has Vesuvio come alive?

       Dear God, it is the French.

      Wide-eyed, I stared in turn at my brother, then husband as the sound came again—this time unmistakably from the northwest—and echoed against nearby Pizzofalcone. No doubt we all shared the last thought, for we rose as one, and together raced upstairs to the floor above, where a balcony offered a view of the city’s western horizon. Soon Donna Esmeralda joined us, and pointed due north of Vesuvio, towards Naples’ furthermost boundary. I followed the gesture with my gaze, and saw small puffs of dark smoke in the distance. Thunder rolled again.

      ‘Cannon fire,’ Esmeralda said with conviction. ‘I will never forget the sound. I have heard it in my dreams ever since the baronial uprisings against Ferrante, when I was a young woman.’

      We watched, captivated by the horizon, not daring to speak further as we awaited the answer to a single question: Was this Ferrandino being welcomed, or the French announcing themselves?

      I stroked my hand lightly over the stiletto hidden in my bodice, reassuring myself it was still there.

      ‘Look!’ Jofre shouted, with such abruptness that I started. ‘Over there! Soldiers!’

      Marching in loose formation, small, dark forms moved on foot over the gently rolling landscape towards the city. It was impossible to distinguish the colour of their uniforms, to ascertain whether they were Neapolitan or French.

      Alfonso came to himself. ‘Federico must know at once!’ he exclaimed, and hastened to leave; Esmeralda called to him.

      ‘Don Alfonso, I think he already does!’ She gestured at the walls outside our own palace, where armed guards hurried into defensive positions. Even so, my brother departed to make certain.

      For a long, dreadful moment those of us remaining squinted into the distance, not knowing whether we should welcome or fight those who made their way steadily towards the city and the royal palace.

      Suddenly, hoisted above the approaching troops, I saw the banner: golden lilies against deep blue.

      ‘Ferrandino!’ I cried, then seized my husband and kissed him madly upon the lips and cheeks. ‘See, it is our flag!’

      Ferrandino’s entry into Naples was far from joyous. The cannons I had mistakenly thought were fired by our own soldiers, announcing their arrival, had in fact been fired by angry barons lying in wait to attack the young prince. Although our rebellious nobles lacked the numbers and the weaponry to launch a serious campaign on their own, they managed to kill a few of our men. One of the cannon blasts startled Ferrandino’s horse, so that he was almost thrown.

      We family awaited him in the Great Hall. There were no flowers on this day, no tapestries or adornments of any kind; everything of value had been packed away in case of the need for swift flight.

      Ferrandino was far different from the arrogant young man I had known as a girl. He was still handsome but exhausted and gaunt, humbled and aged by responsibility, war and disappointment. All he wants are pretty girls to admire him and a soft bed, old Ferrante had said years ago, but it was clear the prince had had neither for a very long time.

      He entered the room. He had changed his tunic and washed away the dust of travel, but his face was brown from sun, his dark hair and beard unkempt, untrimmed. Ferrante’s daughter, Giovanna, then seventeen, dark-haired and voluptuous, threw her arms around him and they kissed with great passion. Despite the fact that she was his aunt, he had long ago fallen in love with her, and she with him; they were betrothed.

      ‘My boy.’ Federico was first of the brothers to embrace him warmly.

      Ferrandino returned his and Francesco’s embraces and kisses a bit wearily, then scanned the assembled group. ‘Where is Father?’

      ‘Sit down, Your Highness,’ Federico said, his voice tinged with affection and sorrow.

      Ferrandino glanced at him with alarm. ‘Do not tell me he is dead.’ Giovanna, standing on his other side, put a comforting hand upon his arm.

      Federico’s lips pressed together tightly to form a thin, straight line. ‘No.’ And as the young prince sat, the older muttered, ‘Better though if he were.’

      ‘Tell me,’ Ferrandino commanded. He glanced at the rest of us, standing around the table, and said, ‘Everyone, sit. And Uncle Federico, you speak.’

      With a great sigh, Federico lowered himself onto the chair next to his nephew. ‘Your father is gone, boy. Gone and sailed to Sicily, as best we can tell, and taken the Crown treasures with him.’

      ‘Gone?’ The prince stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. ‘What do you mean? For his safety?’ He looked round at our solemn-faced assembly, as if pleading for a word, a sign, to help him understand.

      ‘Gone as in deserted. He left in the middle of the night without telling anyone. And he has left the kingdom without funds.’

      Ferrandino turned wooden; for a long moment, he did not speak, did not look at anyone. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch.

      Federico broke the silence. ‘We told the people that King Alfonso decided to abdicate his throne in favour of you. It is the one way we can regain the trust of the barons.’

      ‘They showed no trust today,’ Ferrandino said tightly. ‘They fired on us, brought down some men and horses. A few fools with swords even charged our infantry.’ He paused. ‘My men need food and fresh supplies. They cannot fight on empty bellies. They have been through enough. When they learn—’

      He broke off and covered his face with his hands, then bent forward until his brow touched the table. All was silent.

      ‘They will learn that you are the King,’ I said, surprising even myself with my sudden, vehement words. ‘And you will be a better King by far than my father ever was. You are a good man, Ferrandino. You will treat the people fairly.’

      Ferrandino straightened and ran his hands over his face, forcing away his grief; Prince Federico directed a look of profound approval at me.

      ‘Sancha is right,’ Federico said, turning back to his nephew. ‘Perhaps the barons mistrust us now. But you are the one man who can win their confidence. They will see that you are just, unlike Alfonso.’

      ‘There is no time,’ Ferrandino said tiredly. ‘The French will soon be here, with an army more than thrice the size of ours. And now there is no money.’

      ‘The French will come,’ Federico agreed grimly. ‘And we can only do our best when they do. But Jofre Borgia has written to his father, the Pope; we will get you more troops, Your Highness. And if I have to swim to Sicily with these tired old arms’—he held them out dramatically—‘I will get you the money. That I swear. All we must do now is find a way to survive.’

      Instinct propelled me to rise, to go to Ferrandino’s side and kneel. ‘Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I swear fealty to you, my sovereign lord and master. Whatever I have is yours; I am entirely at your command.’

      ‘Sweet sister,’ he whispered, and clutched my hand; he drew me to my feet, just as old Federico knelt and likewise pledged his loyalty. One by one, each family member followed suit. We were a small group, torn by fear and doubt over what would betide us in the coming days; our voices wavered slightly as we cried out:

       Viva Re Ferrante!

      But our hearts were never more earnest.

      So it was that King Ferrante II of Naples came to power, without ceremony, a crown, or jewels.

       VII