The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

side of the throne where Ferrante sat; the effect on the marble floor was so dazzling that I did not see my father until he took a step forward. Only he stood in attendance; the vast chamber was otherwise empty.

      Ferrante’s health had been failing of late, and his normally ruddy complexion had taken on a dark crimson hue, leaving him in foul spirits. But this morning he was smiling as I curtsied.

      ‘Sancha, I have wonderful news.’ His words echoed off the vaulted ceiling. ‘You know that your father and I have been trying for some time to strengthen Naples’ ties to the Papacy…’

      I knew. I had been told since childhood that the papacy was our best protection against the French, who had never forgiven my great-grandfather for defeating Charles of Anjou.

      ‘The problem has been that His Holiness, Pope Alexander, dedicated both his sons to the priesthood…eh, what are their names?’ Ferrante scowled and turned to my father. I knew them before the Duke had a chance to reply; I even knew the given name of the Pope, who before his election had been Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.

      ‘Cesare, sixteen, and Jofre, eleven.’

      ‘Yes, Cesare and Jofre.’ The King’s expression lightened. ‘Well, at long last, we have succeeded in convincing His Holiness that it would be wise to tie himself to Naples.’ He beamed proudly. ‘You are betrothed to the son of the Pope.’

      I paled; my lips parted. As I fought to control myself, my father remarked with cruel delight, ‘She is upset. She thinks she has feelings for this Caetani fellow.’

      ‘Sancha, Sancha,’ my grandfather said, not unkindly. ‘We have already informed Caetani of the arrangements; in fact, we have already found him a suitable wife. But you must do what is best for the Crown. And this is an infinitely better match. The Borgias are wealthy beyond anything you have ever seen. Best of all, the marriage contract states you will both live in Naples.’ He gave me a small wink, to show that he had done this for my benefit; he had not forgotten my attachment to Alfonso.

      I stared at my father, my heartbreak spilling forth as fury. ‘You have done this,’ I charged, ‘because you knew I loved Onorato. You could not stand to see me happy. I will not marry your Cesare Borgia; I spit on the name.’

      Rendered graceful by rage, Ferrante rose to his feet with the speed of a falcon diving for prey. ‘Sancha of Aragon! You will not speak to the Duke of Calabria in that tone!’

      Hot-cheeked, I bowed my head and glared down at the floor.

      My father was laughing.

      ‘Spit on the name of Cesare Borgia all you like,’ he said. ‘You are to be married to the younger one, Jofre.’

      Unable to contain my temper, I swept from the King’s throne room and headed back to my own suite. So rapid was my pace that Donna Esmeralda, who had awaited me outside, fell behind.

      Such was my intent. For when I reached the balcony where Onorato had presented me with the ruby, I tore the great jewel from my neck. Briefly, I held it up to the sky; for an instant, my world was bathed red.

      I clenched my fist over the gem and cast it down into the placid bay.

      Behind me, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek of pure horror. ‘Madonna!’

      I cared not. Imperious, tormented, I strode away. I could think only of Onorato, agreeing all too swiftly to take a different bride. I had allowed myself to love him, to trust another man besides my brother—yet my heart was of no consequence to him, to Ferrante, to my father. To them I was chattel, a pawn to be used for political gain.

      Only when I arrived at my bedchamber and banished all the ladies did I fling myself upon my pillows. But I did not permit myself to weep.

      Alfonso came as soon as he was free from his lessons. Donna Esmeralda silently let him enter, knowing he alone had the ability to soothe me. Morose and self-pitying, I lay facing the wall.

      The instant I felt Alfonso’s gentle hand upon my shoulder, I turned.

      He was still a boy of twelve, but already showed the signs of approaching adulthood. Over the past three-and-a-half years, he had shot up a forearm in height; he now stood slightly taller than me. His voice had not changed completely, but it had lost all trace of childish falsetto. His face now revealed a blend of the best of his father’s and mother’s features: he would grow into a strikingly handsome man.

      Despite his increased exposure to our father and his study of politics, his eyes were still gentle, untainted by selfishness or guile. I gazed up into them.

      ‘Duty is a hard thing,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry, Sancha.’

      ‘I love Onorato,’ I murmured.

      ‘I know. There is nothing that can be done. The King has made up his mind. He is right that it is to Naples’ advantage.’ Somehow, hearing the words from my brother’s lips was not as painful as hearing them from Ferrante’s. Alfonso would tell me only the truth, and that lovingly. He paused. ‘They did not do this to intentionally hurt you, Sancha.’

      So; my heated outburst at my father was no secret. I scowled, too full of rancour to agree with the latter statement. ‘But Jofre Borgia is only eleven, Alfonso! He is a child!’

      ‘Only a year my junior,’ Alfonso said lightly. ‘He will grow older.’

      ‘Onorato was a man. He knew how to treat a woman.’

      My little brother actually blushed; I suppose it was uncomfortable for him to imagine me in the nuptial embrace. But he collected himself and responded, ‘Jofre may be young—but he can be taught. And for all you know, he might be quite personable. You might like him. I will certainly do everything in my power to make friends with him.’

      I scoffed. ‘How can I possibly like him? He is a Borgia!’ His father, Rodrigo Borgia, supposedly achieved the position of pontiff not through piety, but through guile and bribery. His efforts to buy the papacy were rumoured to be so blatant that, soon after his election, certain members within the College of Cardinals called for an investigation. Mysteriously, their objections soon ceased, and the man who christened himself Pope Alexander VI now enjoyed the full support of the College. It had even been said that Rodrigo had poisoned the likeliest contender for the papal tiara: his own brother.

      Alfonso eyed me sombrely. ‘We have never met the Borgias, so we cannot judge them. And even if every word of gossip about His Holiness is true, you are not being fair to Jofre. Sons are not always like their fathers.’

      His latter statement silenced my objections. Even so, I had to ask, in the most dolorous tone, ‘Why must there be marriage? It only takes us away from those we love.’

      But for Alfonso’s sake, I vowed to myself, I would not be selfish. I would try to be like him—brave and good, and willing to do what was best for the realm.

      Many months passed, and 1493 arrived. The more I contemplated marriage to a Borgia, the more concerned I became. King Ferrante could insist that Jofre and I maintain a household in Naples, and could commit it to writing. But a pope’s word held more authority than a king’s. What if Alexander changed his mind, and called his son back to Rome? What if he demanded a separate kingdom for Jofre elsewhere? I would be bound to accompany my husband. Only a Neapolitan husband would do, one who would never have reason to take me from my native city.

      Since the day I had discovered Ferrante’s leering mummies, my religious faith had been tentative, half-hearted. Now I embraced it full force, in a desperate test. I called one morning for a private carriage and slipped away, accompanied by a single guard and a driver.

      I headed for the Duomo, startling the stray worshipers inside, who were abruptly herded out by my guard.

      At the altar where the miracle had occurred, I knelt. There, with all my sincerity, I prayed to San Gennaro. I begged him to free me from my engagement to Jofre Borgia, to find me a good Neapolitan husband. Together, I promised, we would donate vast sums of money for the upkeep of the