The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis

east of the royal castle, along the shoreline, protected by the ancient Angevin walls and newer, sturdier walls erected by Ferrante and my father. From my bedchamber balcony, I had a direct view: never had I seen so much artillery, so many great heaps of iron balls the size of a man’s head. During my lifetime, the armoury had been a mostly deserted place, filled with silent cannons rusted by salt and spray: now it was bustling and noisy as soldiers worked on the equipment, practised drills, and shouted to one another.

      Our palace, too, was surrounded by the military. On the winter days when it was not too cool and the sun shone, I liked to take my meals on the balcony—but now I stopped the practice, for it was disheartening to see the soldiers lined up around the castle walls below, their weapons at the ready.

      Each morning, Ferrandino was visited by his commanders. He spent his days closeted in the office that had been his grandfather’s, then his father’s, discussing strategy along with his generals and the royal brothers. He was only twenty-six years of age, but the lines in his brow were those of a man much older.

      Of our military plans, I had only the news which Alfonso, who often attended the meetings, shared with me: that Ferrandino had posted royal decrees lowering the taxes on the nobles, promising rewards and the return of lands for those who remained loyal to the Crown and fought with us against the French. Word was spread that our father had willingly abdicated in favour of his son and had left Naples for a monastery, in order to do penance for his many sins. Meanwhile, we waited to hear from the Pope and the Spanish King, hoping for promises of more troops; Ferrandino and the brothers hoped the barons might be swayed by the decrees and send a representative, promising support. What Alfonso did not say—but which was clear to me—was that such expectations were founded on the deepest desperation.

      With each passing day, the young King’s expression grew more haunted.

      In the meantime, Alfonso and Jofre engaged in swordplay as a method of easing the nerves that afflicted us all. Alfonso was the better swordsman, having been schooled in the Spanish fashion as well as being naturally more graceful than my little husband; Jofre was immediately impressed and made fast friends with him. Wishing always to please those in his company—which now included my brother—Jofre treated me with more respect and gave up visiting courtesans. The three of us—Alfonso, Jofre and I—became inseparable; I watched as the two men in my life parried with blunted swords, and cheered for them both.

      I treasured those few pleasant days in the Castel Nuovo with a sense of poignancy, knowing they would not last long.

      The end came at dawn, with a blast that shook the floor beneath my bed and jolted me awake. I threw off my covers, flung open the doors and ran out onto the balcony, vaguely aware that Donna Esmeralda was beside me.

      A hole had been blown in the nearby armoury wall. In the greyish light, men lay half-buried in the rubble; others ran about shouting. A crowd—some of them soldiers, wearing our uniforms, others in commoner’s clothing—stormed into the armoury through the breach in the stone and began to hack at the startled victims with swords.

      I glanced at once at the horizon, anticipating the French. But there were no invading armies here, no dark figures marching across the sloping hills towards the town, no horses.

      ‘Look!’ Donna Esmeralda clutched my arm, then pointed.

      Just below us, at the Castel Nuovo walls, the soldiers who had for so long guarded us now unsheathed their sabres. The streets outside the palace came alive with men, who emerged from every door, from behind every wall. They swarmed toward the soldiers, then engaged them; from beneath us came the sharp, high ring of steel against steel.

      Worse, some of the soldiers joined with the commoners, and began to fight against their fellows.

      ‘God help us!’ Esmeralda whispered, and crossed herself.

      ‘Help me!’ I demanded. I dragged her back inside the bedchamber. I pulled on a gown and compelled her to lace it; I did not bother with tying on sleeves, but instead fetched the stiletto, and nestled it carefully into its little sheath on my right side. Deserting all decorum, I helped Esmeralda into a gown, then took a velvet bag and put what jewels I had brought with me into it.

      By that time, Alfonso rushed into the chamber; his hair was dishevelled, his clothes hastily donned. ‘It does not seem to be the French,’ he said swiftly. ‘I’m going at once to the King, to get his orders. Keep packing; you women must be sent to a safe place.’

      I glanced at him. ‘You are unarmed.’

      ‘I will get my sword. First, I must speak with the King.’

      ‘I will go with you. I have packed everything I need.’

      He did not argue; there was no time. We ran together through the corridors as, outside, the cannon thundered again, followed by screams and moans. I imagined more of the armoury collapsing, imagined men writhing beneath piles of stones. As I passed the whitewashed walls, their expanse broken by the occasional portrait of an ancestor, the place that I had always considered eternal, mighty, impregnable—the Castel Nuovo—now seemed fragile and ephemeral. The high, vaulted ceilings, the beautiful arched windows latticed with dark Spanish wood, the marble floors—all I had taken for granted could, with the blast of a cannon, be rendered to dust.

      We headed for Ferrandino’s suite. He had not yet been able to bring himself to sleep in our father’s royal bedroom, preferring instead his old chambers. But before we reached them, we found the young King, his nightshirt tucked into his breeches, scowling at Prince Federico in an alcove just outside the throne room. Apparently, the two men had just exchanged unpleasant words.

      Federico, bare-legged and unslippered, still in his nightshirt, clutched a formidable-looking Moorish scimitar. Between the two men stood Ferrandino’s top captain, Don Inaco d’Avalos, a stout, fierce-eyed man of the highest reputation for bravery; the King himself was flanked by two armed guards.

      ‘They’re fighting each other in the garrisons,’ Don Inaco was saying, as Alfonso and I approached. ‘The barons have reached some of them—bribery, I suppose. I no longer know which men I can trust. I suggest you leave immediately, Your Majesty.’

      Ferrandino’s expression was set and cold as marble: he had been preparing himself for this, but his dark eyes betrayed a glimmer of pain. ‘Have those you deem loyal protect the castle at all costs. Buy us as much time as you can. I need your best men to escort the family to the Castel dell’Ovo. From there, we will need a ship. Once we are gone, give the order to retreat.’

      Don Inaco nodded, and went at once to do the King’s bidding.

      As he did, Federico lifted the scimitar and pointed it accusingly at his nephew; I had never seen the old prince so redfaced with outrage. ‘You are handing the city over to the French without a fight! How can we leave Naples at her hour of direst need? She has already been deserted once!’

      Ferrandino stepped forward until the weapon’s curved tip rested against his breast, as if he dared his uncle to strike. The guards who had flanked the King looked nervously at one another, uncertain as to whether they should intervene.

      ‘Would you have us all stay, old man, and have the House of Aragon die?’ Ferrandino demanded passionately. ‘Would you have our army remain behind to be slaughtered, so that we never have a chance of reclaiming the throne? Think with your head, not your heart! We have no chance of winning—not without aid. And if we must retreat and wait for that aid, then we will do so. We are only leaving Naples for a time; we will never desert her. I am not my father, Federico. Surely you know me better by now.’

      Grudgingly, Federico lowered the weapon; his lips trembled with an inexpressible mix of emotions.

      ‘Am I your King?’ Ferrandino pressed. His gaze was ferocious, even threatening.

      ‘You are my King,’ Federico allowed hoarsely.

      ‘Then tell your brothers. Pack everything you can. We must leave as swiftly as possible.’

      The old prince gave a single nod of assent, then hurried back down the corridor.

      Ferrandino