# The Borgia Bride

Jeanne Kalogridis

This sweeping historical novel tells the dramatic tale of that most intriguing of Renaissance women, Lucrezia Borgia.Incest. Poison. Betrayal. Three wedding presents for the Borgia bride…Italy 1492 Pope Alexander VI is elected. And so begins the Borgia reign of terror.Alexander murders, bribes and betrays to establish his dynasty. No one is immune. Rome is a hotbed of accusation and conspiracy. Every day, the River Tiber is full of new bodies.Sancha de Aragon, daughter of King Alfonso II of Naples, arrives in Rome newly wed to Alexander’s youngest son, Jofre. Their marriage protects Naples against the ambitions of the French King Louis and gains Spanish support for the Borgias. But Rome is very different to her beloved Naples.The debauchery of the Borgia inner-circle is notorious: every lust is indulged and every indiscretion overlooked. Sancha is no innocent: she possesses an indomitable spirit which allows her to survive in the snake-pit, but her ancestors once rivalled the Borgias in cruelty and Sancha’s greatest fear is that blood will out.Lucrezia Borgia’s vicious jealously stings Sancha at first, but gradually the two young women develop a cautious friendship. Lucrezia, adored by her father but used ruthlessly as a political tool, seems deceptively innocent and sympathetic, and their bond strengthens when Lucrezia is married to Sancha’s treasured brother, Alfonso. But when Sancha falls in love with Cesare Borgia, her husband’s enigmatic older brother, she has no idea of how bizarre and internecine are the family's true ties. Alexander is rather more than an indulgent father; Lucrezia not the innocent she appears; and Cesare’s ambition burns wildly. The only safe relationship with the Borgias is none at all: as Sancha, her brother and Naples are soon to discover…

## The Borgia Bride. Jeanne Kalogridis


## Dedication

For Jane Johnson

For the chance.

## The House of Aragon


## The House of Borgia


## Map


## Contents

Title Page

Dedication

THE HOUSE OF ARAGON

THE HOUSE OF BORGIA

Map

Prologue

Autumn 1488

I

Late Spring 1492

II

Late Summer 1492—Winter 1494

III

Winter—Spring 1494

IV

Summer 1494—Winter 1495

V

Winter 1495

VI

VII

Spring—Summer 1495

VIII

Summer 1495—Late Spring 1496

IX

Late Spring 1496

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

Summer 1496

XV

XVI

Autumn 1496—Early Spring 1497

XVII

Spring—Summer 1497

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

Autumn 1497

XXII

Early Spring 1498

XXIII

Summer 1498

XXIV

Autumn—Winter 1498

XXV

Spring 1499—Winter 1499

XXVI

Spring—Summer 1499

XXVII

Late Summer 1499

XXVIII

Autumn—Winter 1499

XXIX

Late Winter 1499

XXX

Winter—Early Summer 1500

XXXI

Summer 1500

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

Late Summer 1500—Spring 1501

XXXV

Summer 1501—Early Winter 1503

XXXVI

Summer 1503

XXXVII

XXXVIII

Afterword

Acknowledgements

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

## Prologue

The canterella, it is called: a poison powder so deadly a mere sprinkling of it can kill a man, strike him down in a matter of days. The effects are ghastly. One’s head aches as if in a vice; the vision blurs; the body quakes with fever. The bowels release a bloody flux, and the gut clamps tight in an agony that makes the victim howl.

Rumour says only the Borgias know its secret: how to compound it, store it, administer it so as to hide the taste. Rodrigo Borgia—or shall I say, His Holiness Alexander VI—learned the secret from his favourite mistress, the fiery-haired Vannozza Cattanei, when he was still a cardinal. Rodrigo’s elder brother, Pedro Luis, would undoubtedly have been elected pope…were it not for subtle and well-timed administration of the canterella.

Being generous parents, Rodrigo and Vannozza shared the recipe with their offspring—at the very least with their sweet-faced daughter, Lucrezia. Who better to lull the wary into carelessness than she with the demure smile and the soft voice? Who better to murder and betray than she who is hailed as Rome’s greatest innocent?

The ‘Borgia fever’ has decimated Rome like the plague, thinning the ranks of prelates until every cardinal with land and a bit of wealth lives in terror. After all, when a cardinal dies, his riches go at once to the Church.

And it takes a great deal of wealth to fund a war. A great deal of wealth to amass an army large enough to capture every city-state in all of Italy, and declare oneself leader not only of things spiritual, but of things secular. This pope and his bastard son, Cesare, want more than Heaven; they will have Earth, as well.

In the meantime, I sit in the Castel Sant’ Angelo with the other women. From my chamber window, I can see the Vatican nearby, the papal apartments, and the Palazzo Santa Maria where I once lived with my husband. I am allowed to roam the grounds and am accorded courtesy, but there is no more status, and I am under guard, a prisoner. I curse the day I first heard the name Borgia; I pray for the day when I hear the bells toll for the old man’s death.

But there is freedom to be had. At this very moment, I hold the vial up to the bright Roman sun that streams into my generously-appointed apartment. The container is Venetian glass, emerald-coloured, shining like a gem: the powder inside is drab bluish-grey, opaque.

Canterella, I whisper. Beautiful, beautiful canterella, rescue me…

Autumn 1488

## I

I am Sancha of Aragon, natural daughter of the man who became Alfonso II, King of Naples, for a year and a day. Like the Borgias, my people came to the Italian peninsula by way of Spain, and like them, I spoke Spanish at home and Italian in public.

My most vivid childhood memory was formed at the end of my eleventh summer, on the nineteenth of September, the year of our Lord 1488. It was the Feast Day of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples. My grandfather, King Ferrante, had chosen that particular date to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of his ascension to the Neapolitan throne.

Normally, we royals did not attend the event held in Gennaro’s grand Duomo, the cathedral built in his honour. We preferred to celebrate in the comfort of the Chiesa Santa Barbara, the church enclosed within the magnificent walled grounds of the royal palace, the Castel Nuovo. But that year, my grandfather deemed it politic to attend the public ceremony, given the anniversary. Thus, our large entourage processed into the Duomo, watched at some distance by the zie, the aunts, di San Gennaro, the wailing, black-clad women who pleaded with the Saint to protect and bless Naples.

Naples needed blessing. It had been the site of many wars; my family of Aragonese royalty had won the city through bloody battle only forty-six years prior. Although my grandfather was peacefully handed his throne by his father, the revered Alfonso the Magnanimous, Alfonso had violently wrested Naples from the Angevins, supporters of the Frenchman Charles of Anjou. King Alfonso was beloved for rebuilding the city, for constructing grand palaces and piazzas, strengthening the walls, restocking the royal library. My grandfather was less loved. He was more interested in maintaining a strong hold on the local nobles whose veins held Angevin blood. He spent years in petty wars against different barons, and never came to trust his own people. In turn, they never came to trust him.

Naples had also been the site of earthquakes, including one witnessed in 1343 by the poet Petrarch, which razed half the city and sank every ship in the normally placid harbour. There was also Monte Vesuvio, which was still prone to eruptions.

For these reasons, we had come to beseech San Gennaro that day, and, with luck, to witness a miracle.

The procession into the Duomo was no less than grand. We royal women and children entered first, escorted by blue-and-gold clad guards to the front of the sanctuary, past the black-clad commoners who bowed before us like wheat beneath the wind. Ferrante’s Queen, the nubile Juana of Aragon, led us, followed by my aunts Beatriz and Leonora. They were followed by my then-unmarried half-sister Isabella, who had been assigned the care of myself and my eight-year-old brother, Alfonso, as well as Ferrante’s youngest daughter, my aunt Giovanna, born the same year as I.

The older females were dressed in the traditional garb of the Neapolitan noblewoman: black gowns with full skirts, tightly-laced bodices, and sleeves narrow at the shoulders then blossoming to the width of church bells at the wrist, so that they draped downward well past the hip. We children were allowed colour: I wore a gown of bright green silk with a brocade bodice laced tightly against absent breasts. Around my neck hung pearls from the sea, and a small gold cross; on my head was a veil of black gossamer. Alfonso wore a pale blue velvet tunic and breeches.

My brother and I walked hand-in-hand just behind my half-sister, careful not to trip on her voluminous skirts. I did my best to look proud and self-assured, my gaze restricted to the back of Isabella’s gown, while my brother stared freely out at the assembly. I allowed myself one sidewise glance, at the great cracks in an archway between two large marble columns; above it, a round portrait of Saint Dominic had split in two. A scaffolding stood just beneath it, marking the last of the repairs from an earthquake that had ravaged the Duomo two years before Ferrante came to power.

I was disappointed to have been left in Isabella’s care, and not my mother’s. My father usually invited my mother, Madonna Trusia Gazullo, a ravishing golden-haired noblewoman, to all functions. He particularly delighted in her company. I believe my father was incapable of love, but certainly he must have come close to it in my gentle mother’s arms.

King Ferrante, however, declared it unseemly to bring my father’s mistress as part of the royal entourage inside a church. Just as strongly, my grandfather insisted that my brother Alfonso and I come. We were children, not to be blamed for the accident of our parentage. After all, Ferrante himself was of illegitimate birth.

For that reason, my brother and I had been raised as royal children, with all rights and privileges, in the Castel Nuovo, the king’s palace. My mother was free to come and go as my father wished, and often stayed at the palace with him. Only subtle reminders from our half-siblings and more pointed ones from our father reminded us that we were lesser creations. I did not play with my father’s legitimate children, as they were several years older, or with my Aunt Giovanna or Uncle Carlo, both close to my own age. Instead, my little brother Alfonso and I were inseparable companions. Though my father’s namesake, he was the opposite: golden-curled, sweet-faced, good-natured, his sharp intelligence remarkably free of guile. He had Madonna Trusia’s pale blue eyes, while I resembled our father to such a striking degree that, had I been a son, we would have been twins separated by a generation.

Isabella led us to an aisle at the front of the sanctuary which had been roped off; even after we had settled into our place in the Duomo, my brother and I continued to clasp hands. The great cathedral dwarfed us. High overhead, the distance of several Heavens, was the massive, gilded cupola, rendered dazzling by the sunlight that streamed in through its arching windows.

The royal men came next. My father—Alfonso, Duke of Calabria, that sprawling, rustic region far to the south, on the eastern coast—led the way. Heir to the throne, he was renowned for his ferocity in battle; in his youth, he had wrested the Strait of Otranto from the Turks in a victory that brought him glory, if not the people’s love. His every move, every glance and gesture, was imperious and forbidding, an effect accentuated by his severe costume of crimson and black. He was more beautiful than any woman present, with a perfect straight, thin nose and high, upward-slanting cheekbones. His lips were red, full, sensuous beneath his thin moustache, his dark blue eyes large and arresting beneath a crown of shining jet hair.

Only one thing marred his handsomeness: the coldness in his expression and eyes. His wife, Hippolyta Sforza, had died four years before; the servants and our female relatives whispered she had given up in order to escape her husband’s cruelty. I remembered her vaguely as frail with bulging eyes, an unhappy woman; my father never failed to remind her of her failings, or the fact that theirs was a marriage of convenience because she came from one of Italy’s most ancient and powerful families. He also assured poor Hippolyta that he took far greater pleasure in my mother’s embrace than in hers.

I watched as he moved in front of us women and children, forming a row directly in front of the altar, to one side of the empty throne that awaited the arrival of his father, the King.

Behind him came my uncles: Federico and Francesco. Then came my father’s eldest son, named for his grandfather, but affectionately called Ferrandino, ‘little Ferrante’. He was nineteen then, second in line to the throne, the second most handsome man in Naples but the most attractive, for he possessed a warm, outgoing nature. As he passed the worshipers, feminine sighs echoed in his wake. He was followed by his younger brother Piero, who had the misfortune to resemble his mother.

King Ferrante entered last, in breeches and a cape of black velvet, and a tunic of silver brocade embroidered with fine gold thread. At his hip was the sheathed, jewelled sword given him upon his coronation. Though I knew him as an old man with a limp exacerbated by gout, on this day he moved gracefully, without any hesitation in his gait. His good looks had been eroded by age and indulgence. His hair was white, thinning, revealing a scalp burned pink by the sun; he had a ponderous double chin beneath his trimmed beard. His eyebrows were dark and startling, especially in profile, due to each thick hair’s attempt to launch itself in a different direction. These stood above eyes strikingly like mine and my father’s—an intense blue with hints of green, capable of changing colour depending on the light and hues surrounding him. His nose was red, pock-marked, his cheeks covered with broken veins. But his bearing was straight, and he was still capable of silencing a crowd simply by walking into a room.

His solemn expression, upon entering the Duomo San Gennaro, generated pure ferocity. The crowd knelt even lower, and waited for the King to settle himself upon a throne near the altar.

Only then did they dare rise; only then did the choir begin to sing.

I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of the altar, where a silver bust of San Gennaro wearing his bishop’s mitre had been placed in front of burning tapers. Nearby stood a marble statue, slightly larger than life, of Gennaro in full regalia, two fingers of one hand lifted in blessing, a crosier resting in the crook of his arm.

Once the King was situated and the choir had fallen silent, the Bishop of Naples emerged and gave the invocation; his assistant then appeared, bearing a silver reliquary in the shape of a lantern. Behind the glass was something small and dark: I could not see clearly from my position, being too short—my view was blocked by the backs of my black silk-clad aunts and the men’s velvet capes, but I peeped in between. I knew it was a vial containing the dried blood of the martyred San Gennaro, tortured, then brutally beheaded on the orders of the Emperor Diocletian over a thousand years before.

Our bishop and the priest prayed. The zie di San Gennaro let out sonorous wails, beseeching the saint. Carefully, the priest, without touching the glass, turned the reliquary end-over-end, one time, then two.

An eternity seemed to pass. Beside me, Isabella had lowered her head and shut her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer. On my other flank, little Alfonso had lowered his head solemnly, but was peering out from beneath his curls in fascination at the priest.

I believed fervently in the power of God and the saints to intervene in the affairs of men. Deeming it safest to follow Isabella’s example, I bowed my head, squeezed my eyes closed, and whispered a prayer to Naples’ patron saint: Bless our beloved city, and keep it safe. Protect the King and my father and mother and Alfonso. Amen.

A murmur of awe passed through the crowd. I caught a glimpse of the altar, of the priest proudly displaying the silver reliquary, holding it up for the crowd’s scrutiny. ‘Il miracolo e fatto,’ he proclaimed.

The miracle is accomplished.

The choir led the congregation in singing the Te Deum, praising God for bestowing this blessing.

From my vantage point I could not see what had occurred, but Isabella whispered in my ear: the dark, dried substance in the vial had begun to melt, then bubble, as the ancient blood once again became liquid. San Gennaro signified that he had heard our prayers, and was pleased; he would protect the city which he had served as bishop during his mortal years.

It was a good omen, she murmured, especially for the King on his anniversary. San Gennaro would protect him from all enemies.

The current Bishop of Naples took the reliquary from the priest and stepped down from the altar to the throne. He held the square, silver-and-glass box before King Ferrante and waited for the monarch to unseat himself and approach.

My grandfather neither rose nor knelt in the presence of such a marvel. He remained settled on his throne, forcing the bishop to bring the reliquary to him. Only then did Ferrante yield to ancient custom and press his lips to the glass, beneath which lay the sacred blood.

The bishop retreated to the altar. The royal males of Aragon then approached one by one, my father first, and kissed the holy relic in turn. We women and children followed—I and my brother still firmly clinging to each other. I pursed my mouth against the glass, warmed by the breath of my relatives, and stared at the dark liquid housed inside. I had heard of miracles, but never before seen one; I was amazed.

I stood beside Alfonso as he took his turn; afterwards, we processed back to our assigned places.

The bishop handed the reliquary back to the priest and made the sign of blessing, two fingers of his right hand slicing a cross through the air, first over my grandfather, then over the assembled royal family.

The choir broke into song. The old King rose, a bit stiffly. The guards left their positions about the throne and preceded him outside the church, where carriages waited. As always, we followed.

Custom required the entire congregation, including royals, to remain in place during the ceremony, while each member came forward to kiss the relic—but Ferrante was too impatient to be kept waiting for commoners.

We returned directly to the Castel Nuovo, the trapezoidal hulk of mud-coloured brick built two hundred years earlier by Charles of Anjou to serve as his palace. He had first removed the crumbling remnants of a Franciscan convent dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Charles had valued protection over elegance: each corner of the castle, which he called the Maschio Angiono, the Angevin Keep, was reinforced by vast cylindrical towers, their toothy merlons jutting against the sky.

The palace stood directly on the bay, so close to the shore that, as a child, I often stuck an arm through a window and imagined I caressed the sea. On that morning a breeze rose off the water, and as I rode in the open carriage between Alfonso and Isabella, I inhaled with pleasure the scent of brine. One could not live in Naples without being in constant sight of the water, without coming to love it. The ancient Greeks had named the city Parthenope for the ancient siren, half-woman, half-bird, who for unrequited love of Odysseus had cast herself into the sea. According to legend, she had washed up on Naples’s shore; even as girl, I knew it was not for love of a man that she had been lured into the waves.

I pulled off my veil to better enjoy the air. To get an improved view—of the concave lunar crescent of coastline, with dusky violet Vesuvio to the east, and the oval-shaped fortress, Castel dell’Ovo, just to our west—I rose in the carriage and turned round. Isabella reseated me at once with a harsh tug, though her expression remained composed and regal, for the benefit of the crowd.

Our carriage rumbled through the castle’s main gate, flanked by the Guard Tower and the Middle Tower. Connecting the two was the white marble Triumphal Arch of Alfonso the Magnanimous, erected by my great-grandfather to commemorate his victorious entry into Naples as its new ruler. It marked the first of many renovations he made to the crumbling palace, and once the arch was in place, he rechristened his new residence the Castel Nuovo.

I rode beneath the lower of the two arches, and stared up at the bas relief of Alfonso in his carriage, accompanied by welcoming nobles. Far above, his hand reaching beyond the towers, an exuberant, larger-than-life statue of Alfonso gestured toward the sky. I felt exuberant, too. I was in Naples, with the sun and the sea and my brother, and I was happy.

I could not imagine that such joy could ever be taken from me.

Once inside the inner courtyard with the main gate closed, we climbed from the carriages and entered the Great Hall. There, the longest table in the world held a feast: bowls of olives and fruit, all manner of breads, two roast boars, their jaws propped open with oranges, roast stuffed fowl, and seafood, including succulent little crayfish. There was much wine, too—the Lachrima Christi, the tears of Christ, made from Greco grapes cultivated on the fertile slopes of Vesuvio. Alfonso and I took ours diluted with water. The Hall was adorned with flowers of every variety; the vast marble columns were draped with swags of gold brocade, trimmed in blue velvet, to which were fastened wreaths of blood-coloured roses.

Our mother, Madonna Trusia, was there to greet us; we ran to her. Old Ferrante liked her, and cared not a whit that she had borne two children to my father without the benefit of wedlock. As always, she greeted each of us with a kiss on the lips, and a warm embrace; I thought she was the loveliest woman there. She glowed, an innocent golden-haired goddess amidst a flock of scheming ravens. Like her son, she was simply good, and spent her days worrying not about what political advantage she might gain, but what love she might give, what comfort. She sat between me and Alfonso, while Isabella sat to my right.

Ferrante presided over the feast at the head of the table. In the distance behind him stood a great archway which led to his throne room, then his private apartments. Over it hung a huge tapestry of Naples’ royal insignia, gold lilies against a deep blue background, a fleur-de-lis legacy from the days of Angevin rule.

That archway held special fascination for me that day; that archway was to be my passage to discovery.

When the feast ended, musicians were brought in and dancing began, which the old King watched from a throne. Without so much as a sidelong glance at us children, my father took my mother’s hand and led her away to dance. I took advantage of the merriment to slip from Isabella’s half-attentive gaze and make a confession to my brother.

‘I am going to find Ferrante’s dead men,’ I told him. I intended to enter the King’s private chambers without his permission, an unforgivable violation of protocol even for a family member. For a stranger, it would be a treasonous act.

Above his goblet, Alfonso’s eyes grew wide. ‘Sancha, don’t. If they catch you—there is no telling what Father will do.’

But I had been struggling with unbearable curiosity for days, and could no longer repress it. I had heard one of the servant girls tell Donna Esmeralda—my nursemaid and an avid collector of royal gossip, that it was true: the old man had a secret ‘chamber of the dead’, which he regularly visited. The servant had been ordered to dust the bodies and sweep the floor. Until then I had, along with the rest of the family, believed this to be a rumour fuelled by my grandfather’s enemies.

I was known for my daring. Unlike my younger brother, who wished only to please his elders, I had committed numerous childhood crimes. I had climbed trees to spy upon relatives engaged in the marriage act—once during the consummation of a noble marriage witnessed by the King and the Bishop, both of whom saw me staring through the window. I had smuggled toads inside my bodice and released them on the table during a royal banquet. And I had, in retaliation for previous punishment, stolen a jug of olive oil from the kitchen and emptied its contents across the threshold of my father’s bedchamber. It was not the olive oil that worried my parents so much as the fact that I had, at the age of ten, used my best jewellery to bribe the guard in attendance to leave.

Always I was scolded and confined to the nursery for lengths of time that varied with the misdeed’s audacity. I did not care. Alfonso was willing to remain a prisoner with me, to keep me comforted and entertained. This knowledge left me incorrigible. The portly Donna Esmeralda, though a servant, neither feared nor respected me. She was unimpressed by royalty. Though she was of common blood, both her father and mother had served in Alfonso the Magnanimous’ household, then in Ferrante’s. Before I was born, she had tended my father.

At the time, she was in the midst of her fourth decade, an imposing figure: large boned, stout, broad of hip and jaw. Her raven hair, heavily streaked with grey, was pulled back tautly beneath a dark veil; she wore the black dress of perpetual mourning, though her husband had died almost a quarter of a century before, a young soldier in Ferrante’s army. Afterwards, Donna Esmeralda had become devoutly religious; a gold crucifix rested upon her prominent bosom.

She had never had children. And while she had never taken to my father—indeed, she could scarcely hide her contempt for him—when Trusia gave birth to me, Esmeralda behaved as though I was her own daughter.

Although she loved me, and tried her best to protect me, my behaviour always prompted her reproach. She would narrow her eyes, lips tugged downward with disapproval, and shake her head. ‘Why can you not behave like your brother?’

That question never hurt; I loved my brother. In fact, I wished to be more like him and my mother, but I could not repress what I was. Then Esmeralda would make the statement that cut deeply.

‘As bad as your father was at that age…’

In the great dining hall, I looked back at my little brother and said, ‘Father will never know. Look at them…’ I gestured at the adults, laughing and dancing. ‘No one will notice I’m gone.’ I paused. ‘How can you stand it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?’

‘No,’ he answered soberly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it might be.’

I did not understand until later what he meant. Instead, I gave him a look of frustration, then, with a whirl of my green silk skirts, turned and threaded my way through the throng.

Unseen, I slipped beneath the archway and its grand tapestry of gold and blue. I believed myself to be the only one to escape the party; I was wrong.

To my surprise, the huge panelled door to the King’s throne room stood barely ajar, as if someone had meant to close it but had not quite succeeded. I quietly pulled it open just enough to permit my entry, then shut it behind me.

The room was empty, since the guards were busy eyeing their charges out in the Great Hall. Though not quite as imposing as the Hall in size, the room inspired respect: against the central wall sat Ferrante’s throne: a structure of ornately carved dark wood cushioned in crimson velvet, set upon a short dais with two steps. Above it, a canopy bore Naples’ insignia of the lilies, and on either side, arched windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing a glorious view of the bay. Sunlight streamed through the unshuttered windows, reflecting off the white marble floors and the whitewashed walls, giving a dazzling, airy effect.

It seemed too open, too bright a place to hold any secrets. I paused for a moment, examining my surroundings, my exhilaration and dread both growing. I was afraid—but, as always, my curiosity overpowered my fear.

I faced the door leading to my grandfather’s private apartments.

I had entered them only once before, a few years earlier when Ferrante was stricken by a dangerous fever. Convinced he was dying, his doctors summoned the family to make their farewells. I was not sure the King would even remember me—but he had laid his hand on my head and graced me with a smile.

I had been astonished. For my entire life, he had greeted me and my brother perfunctorily, then looked away, his gaze distant, troubled by more important matters. He was not given to socializing, but I caught him at odd moments watching his children and grandchildren with sharp eyes, judging, weighing, missing no detail. His manner was not unkind or rude, but distracted. When he spoke, even during the most social of family events, it was usually to my father, and then only of political affairs. His late marriage to Juana of Aragon, his third wife, had been a love match—he had no need to further his political advantage, to produce more heirs. But he’d long ago spent his lust; the King and Queen moved in separate circles and now spoke only when occasion demanded it.

When he had lain in his bed, supposedly dying, and put his hand upon my head and smiled, I had decided then that he was kind.

Back in the throne room, I drew a breath for courage, then moved swiftly toward Ferrante’s private chambers. I did not expect to find any dead men; my anxiety sprang from the consequences of my actions were I caught.

On the other side of the heavy throne room door, the sound of the revellers and music grew fainter; alone, I could hear the sweep of my silk skirts against marble.

Tentatively, I opened the door leading to the King’s outer chamber. I recognized the room, having passed this way when Ferrante had been sick. Here was an office, with four chairs, a large desk, tables, many sconces for late-night illumination, a map of Naples and the Papal States upon the wall. There was also a portrait of my great-grandfather Alfonso wearing the jewelled sword he had brought from Spain, which Ferrante had worn earlier in the Duomo.

Daringly, I pressed against walls, thinking of hidden compartments, of passageways; I scanned the marble floor for cracks that hinted at staircases leading down to dungeons, but found nothing.

I continued on through an archway into a second room furnished for the taking of private meals; here again, there was nothing of note.

All that remained was Ferrante’s bedchamber. This was sealed off by a heavy door. Squashing all thoughts of capture and punishment, I boldly opened it, and made my way into the most interior and private of the royal chambers.

Unlike the other bright, cheerful rooms, this one was oppressive and dark. The windows were covered with hangings of deep green velvet, blotting out the sun and the air. A large throw of the same green covered most of the bed, accompanied by numerous blankets of fur; apparently, Ferrante suffered from chills.

The chamber was fairly unadorned given the status of its resident. The only signs of grandeur were a golden bust of King Alfonso on the mantel, and gold candelabra flanking either side of the bed.

My gaze was drawn to an interior wall, where another door stood fully opened. Beyond it lay a small, windowless closet, outfitted with a wooden altar, candles, rosary, a statuette of San Gennaro, and a cushioned prayer bench.

Yet at the termination of that tiny chamber, past the humble altar, was another portal—this one closed. It led further inward, its edges limned with a faint, flickering light.

I experienced excitement mixed with dread. Had the maidservant told the truth, then? I had seen death before. The extended royal family had suffered loss, and I had been paraded past the pale, posed bodies of infants, children, and adults. But the thought of what might lie beyond that interior door taxed my imagination. Would I find skeletons stacked atop each other? Mounds of decomposing flesh? Rows of coffins?

Or had the servant’s confession to my nursemaid sprung from a desire to keep the rumour alive?

My anticipation rose to near-unbearable levels. I passed quickly through the narrow altar room, and placed unsteady fingers on the bronze latch leading to the unknown. Unlike all the other doors, which were ten times my girlish width and four times my height, this one was scarcely large enough to admit a man. I pulled it open.

Only the cold arrogance conferred by my father’s blood allowed me to repress a shriek of terror.

Shrouded in gloom, the chamber did not easily reveal its dimensions. To my childish eyes, it seemed vast, limitless, due in part to the darkness of unfinished stone. Only three tapers lit the windowless walls: one some distance from me, and two on large iron sconces flanking the entrance.

Just beyond them, his face lit by the candles’ wavering golden glow, stood my welcoming host. Or rather, he did not stand, but was propped against a vertical beam extending just past the crown of his head. He wore a blue cape, attached to the shoulders of his gold tunic with fleur de lis medallions. At breast and hip, ropes bound him fast to his support. A wire connected to one arm raised it away from his body, and bent it out at the elbow, the palm turned slightly upward in a beckoning gesture.

Enter, Your Majesty.

His skin looked like lacquered sienna parchment, glossy in the light. It had been stretched taut across his cheekbones, baring his brown teeth in a gruesome grin. His hair, perhaps luxuriant in life, consisted of a few dull auburn hanks hung from a shrivelled scalp. And his eyes…

Ah, his eyes. His other features had been allowed to shrink gruesomely. His lips had altogether disappeared, his ears become thick, tiny flaps stuck to his skull. His nose, half as thin as my little finger, had lost its fleshy nostrils and now terminated in two gaping holes, enhancing his skeletal appearance. But the disappearance of the eyes had not been tolerated; in the sockets rested two well-fitting, highly-polished orbs of white marble, on which were carefully painted green irises, with black pupils. The marble gleamed in the light, making me feel I was being watched.

I swallowed; I trembled. Up to that moment, I had been a child on a silly quest, thinking she was playing a game, having an adventure. But there was no thrill in this discovery, no precocious joy, no naughty glee—only the knowledge that I had stumbled onto something very adult and terrible.

I stepped up to the creature before me, hoping that what I saw was somehow false, that it had never been human. I pressed a tentative finger against its satin-breeched thigh and felt tanned hide over bone. The legs terminated in thin, stockinged calves, and fine, tufted silk slippers that bore no weight.

I drew my hand away, convinced.

How can you stand it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?

No. Because it might be.

How wise my little brother was: I wished more than anything to disremember what I had just learned. Everything I had believed about my grandfather shifted then. I had thought him a kindly old man, stern, but forced to be so by the burden of rulership. I had believed the barons who rebelled against him to be bad men, lovers of violence for no reason save the fact they were French. I had believed the servants who said the people despised Ferrante to be liars. I had heard Ferrante’s chambermaid whisper to Donna Esmeralda that the King was going mad, and I had scoffed.

Faced with an unthinkable monstrosity, I did not laugh now. I trembled, not at the ghastly sight before me, but at the realization that Ferrante’s blood flowed through my veins.

I stumbled forward in the twilight past the chamber’s sentry, and saw perhaps ten more bodies in the shadows, all propped and bound, marble-eyed and motionless. All save one.

Some six dead men’s distance, a figure bearing a lit taper turned to face me. I recognized my grandfather, his whitebearded visage rendered pale and spectral in the flickering glow.

‘Sancha, is it?’ He smiled faintly. ‘So. We both took advantage of the celebration to slip away from the crowd. Welcome to my museum of the dead.’

I expected him to be furious, but his demeanour was that of one greeting guests at an intimate party. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Not a peep, and you even touched old Robert.’ He inclined his head at the corpse nearest the entrance. ‘Very bold. Your father was much older than you when he first entered this place; he screamed, then burst into tears like a girl.’

‘Who are they?’ I asked. I was repelled—but curiosity demanded that I know the entire truth.

Ferrante spat on the floor. ‘Angevins,’ he answered. ‘Enemies. That one’—he pointed to Robert—‘he was a count, a distant cousin of Charles d’Anjou. He swore to me he’d have my throne.’ My grandfather let go a satisfied chuckle. ‘You can see who had what.’ Ferrante moved stiffly over to his former rival. ‘Eh, Robert? Who’s laughing now?’ He gestured at the macabre assembly, his tone growing suddenly heated. ‘Counts and marquis, and even dukes. All of them traitors. All of them yearning to see me dead.’ He paused to calm himself. ‘I come here when I need to remember my victories. To remember I am stronger than my foes.’

I gazed out at the men. Apparently the museum had been assembled over a period of time. Some bodies still had full, thick heads of hair, and stiff beards; others, like Robert, looked slightly tattered. But all were dressed in finery befitting their noble rank, in silks and brocades and velvets. Some had gold-hilted swords at their hips; others wore capes lined with ermine, and precious stones. One had a black velvet cap with a white ostrich plume, tilted at a jocular angle. Some simply stood. Others struck various poses: one propped a wrist on his hip, another reached for the hilt of his sword; a third held out a palm, gesturing at his fellows.

All of them stared ahead blankly.

‘The eyes,’ I said. It was a question.

Ferrante blinked down at me. ‘Pity you’re a female. You’d make a good king. Of all his children, you’re most like your father. You’re proud and hard—much more so than he. But unlike him, you’d have the nerves to do whatever’s necessary for the kingdom.’ He sighed. ‘Not like that fool Ferrandino. All he wants are pretty girls to admire him and a soft bed. No backbone, no brains.’

‘The eyes,’ I repeated. They troubled me; there was a perversity to them that I had to understand. I had heard what he had just told me—words I had not wanted to hear. I wanted to distract myself, to forget them. I wanted to be nothing like the King, like my father.

‘Persistent little thing,’ he said. ‘The eyes dissolve when a body is mummified—no way around it. The first ones had shut eyelids over empty sockets. They looked like they were sleeping. I wanted them to hear me when I spoke to them. I wanted to be able to see them listening.’ He laughed again. ‘Besides, it was more effective that way. My last “guest”—how it terrified him, to see his missing compatriots staring back at him!’

I tried to make sense of it all from my naive perspective. ‘God made you King. So if these men were traitors, they went against God. It was no sin to kill them.’

My remark disgusted him. ‘There is no such thing as sin!’ He paused; his manner turned instructive. ‘Sancha, the miracle of San Gennaro…it almost always occurs in May and September. But when the priest emerges with the reliquary in December, why do you think the miracle so often fails?’

The question took me by surprise; I had no inkling of the answer.

‘Think, girl!’

‘I don’t know, Your Majesty…’

‘Because the weather is warmer in May and September.’

I still did not understand. My confusion registered on my face.

‘It’s time you stopped subscribing to this foolishness about God and the saints. There’s only one power on earth—the power over life and death. For the time being, in Naples at least, I possess it.’ Once more, he prodded me. ‘Now, think. The substance in the vial is at first solid. Consider the fat on a pig, or a lamb. What happens to that fat if you roast the animal on a spit—that is, expose it to warmth?’

‘It drips down into the fire.’

‘Heat turns the solid into a liquid. So perhaps, if you took the reliquary of San Gennaro from its cool, dark closet out into the Duomo on a warm, sunny day and wait for a while…il miracolo e fatto. Solid to liquid.’

I was already shocked; my grandfather’s heresy only deepened that sensation. I recalled Ferrante’s cursory attitude towards all things religious, his eagerness either to absent himself from or to be done swiftly with Mass. I doubted he ever knelt at the little altar which led to the chamber housing his true convictions.

Yet I was simultaneously intrigued by his explanation of the miracle; my faith was now imperfect, threaded with doubt. Even so, habit was strong. I prayed silently, speedily to God to forgive the King, and for San Gennaro to protect him despite his sins. For the second time that day, I prayed for Gennaro to protect Naples—though not necessarily from crimes wrought by nature or disloyal barons.

Ferrante reached with his bony, blue-veined hand for my smaller one, and squeezed it in a grip that allowed no dissent. ‘Come, child. They will wonder where we are. Besides, you have seen enough.’

I thought of each man within the museum of the dead—how they must have been introduced by my gloating grandfather to the fate awaiting them, how the weaker ones must have wept and pleaded to be spared. I wondered how they had been killed; certainly by a method that left no trace.

Ferrante held the taper high and led me from his soulless gallery. While I waited inside the altar room as he closed the little door, I reflected on the clear pleasure he took from the company of his victims. He was capable of killing without compunction, capable of savouring the act. Perhaps I should have feared for my own life, being an unnecessary female, yet I could not. This was my grandfather. I studied his face in the golden light: it wore the same benign expression, possessed the same ruddy cheeks with their latticework of tiny broken veins that I had always known. I searched his eyes, so like mine, for signs of the cruelty and madness that had inspired the museum.

Those eyes scrutinized me back, piercing, frighteningly lucid. He blew out the taper and set it upon the little altar, then retook my hand.

‘I will not tell, Your Majesty.’ I uttered the words not out of fright or a wish to protect myself, but out of a desire to let Ferrante know my loyalty to my family was complete.

He let go a soft laugh. ‘My dear, I care not. All the better if you do. My enemies will fear me all the more.’

Back through the King’s bedchamber we went, through the sitting room, the outer office, then last of all the throne room. Before he pushed open the door, he turned to regard me. ‘It’s not easy for us, being the stronger ones, is it?’

I tilted my chin to look up at him.

‘I’m old, and there are those who will tell you I’m becoming feeble-minded. But I still notice most things. I know how you love your brother.’ His gaze focused inward. ‘I loved Juana because she was good-natured and loyal; I knew she would never betray me. I like your mother for the same reason—a sweet woman.’ He drew his attention outward to study me. ‘Your little brother takes after her; a generous soul. Worthless when it comes to politics. I’ve seen how devoted you are to him. If you love him, look out for him. We strong have to take care of the weak, you know. They haven’t the heart to do what’s necessary to survive.’

‘I’ll take care of him,’ I said stoutly. But I would never subscribe to my grandfather’s notion that killing and cruelty were a necessary part of protecting Alfonso.

Ferrante pushed open the door. We walked hand-in-hand back into the Great Hall, where the musicians played. I scanned the crowd for Alfonso, and saw him standing off in a far corner, staring owl-eyed at us both. My mother and Isabella were both dancing, and had for the moment altogether forgotten us children.

But my father, the Duke of Calabria, had apparently taken note of the King’s disappearance. I glanced up, startled, as he stepped in front of us and stopped our progress with a single question.

‘Your Majesty. Is the girl annoying you?’ During my brief lifetime, I had never heard the Duke address his father in any other fashion. He looked down at me, his expression hostile, suspicious. I tried to summon the mannerisms of pure innocence, but after what I had seen, I could not hide the fact I had been shaken to the core.

‘Not in the least,’ Ferrante replied, with good humour. ‘We’ve just been exploring, that’s all.’

Revelation, then fury, flashed in my father’s beautiful, heartless eyes. He understood exactly where my grandfather and I had been—and, given my reputation as a miscreant, realized I had not been invited.

‘I will deal with her,’ the Duke said, in a tone of great menace. He was famous for his vicious treatment of his enemies, the Turks; he had insisted on personally torturing and killing those captured in the Battle of Otranto, by methods so inhuman we children were not permitted to hear of them. I told myself I was not afraid. It was unseemly for him to have me, a royal, thrashed. He did not realize that he already imposed on me the worst punishment possible: he did not love me, and made no secret of the fact.

And I, proud as he, would never admit my desperate desire to gain his affection.

‘Don’t punish her, Alfonso,’ Ferrante said. ‘She has spirit, that’s all.’

‘Girls ought not to have spirit,’ my father countered. ‘This one least of all. My other children are tolerable, but she has done nothing but vex me since the day of her birth—a day I deeply regret.’ He glared down at me. ‘Go. His Majesty and I have matters to discuss. You and I will speak about this later.’

Ferrante let go my hand. I made a little curtsy and said, ‘Your Majesty.’ I would have run full tilt had the Hall not been filled with adults who all would have turned and demanded decorum; as it was, I walked as swiftly as possible over to my waiting brother.

He took a single glimpse at my face and threw his arms about me. ‘Oh, Sancha! So it is true…I am so sorry you had to see. Were you frightened?’

My heart, which had grown so chilled in the presence of my two elders, thawed in Alfonso’s presence. He did not want to know the details of what I had witnessed; he wanted only to know how I had fared. I was a bit surprised that my little brother was not more shocked to learn that the rumour was true. Perhaps he understood the King better than I did.

I drew back, but kept my arms entwined with his. ‘It was not so bad,’ I lied.

‘Father looked angry; I fear he will punish you.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t. Ferrante didn’t care a whit.’ I paused, then added with childish bravado, ‘Besides, what will Father do? Make me stay in my room? Make me go without supper?’

‘If he does,’ Alfonso whispered, ‘I will come to you, and we can play quietly. If you’re hungry, I can bring you food.’

I smiled and laid a palm on his cheek. ‘The point is, you mustn’t worry. There’s nothing Father can do that will really hurt me.’

How very wrong I was.

Donna Esmeralda was waiting outside the Great Hall to lead us back to the nursery. Alfonso and I were in a jolly mood, especially as we moved past the classroom where, had this not been a holiday, we would have been studying Latin under the uninspired tutelage of Fra Giuseppe Maria. Fra Giuseppe was a sad-faced Dominican monk from the nearby monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, famed as the site where a crucifix had spoken to Thomas Aquinas two centuries earlier. Fra Giuseppe was so exceedingly corpulent that both Alfonso and I had christened him in Latin Fra Cena, Father Supper. As we passed by the classroom, I solemnly began the declension of our current favourite verb. ‘Ceno,’ I said. I dine.

Alfonso finished, sotto voce. ‘Cenare,’ he said. ‘Cenavi. Cenatus.’

Donna Esmeralda rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

I giggled at the joke on Fra Giuseppe, but at the same time, I recalled a phrase he had used in our last lesson to teach us the dative case. Deo et homnibus peccavit.

He has sinned against God and men.

I thought of Robert’s marble eyes, staring at me. I wanted to know they were listening.

Once we were in the nursery, the chambermaid joined Esmeralda in carefully removing our dress clothes while we wriggled impatiently. We were then dressed in less restrictive clothing—a loose, drab gown for me, a plain tunic and breeches for Alfonso.

The door to the nursery opened, and we turned to see our mother, Madonna Trusia, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Donna Elena, a Spanish noblewoman. The latter had brought her son, our favourite playmate: Arturo, a bony, long-limbed hellion who excelled at chases and tree-climbing, both sports I enjoyed. My mother had changed from her formal black into a pale yellow gown; looking at her smiling face, I thought of the Neapolitan sun.

‘Little ones,’ she announced. ‘I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic.’

Alfonso and I whooped our approval. We each grasped one of Madonna Trusia’s soft hands. She led us from the nursery into the castle corridors, Donna Elena and Arturo in tow.

But before we reached freedom, we had an unfortunate encounter.

We passed my father. Beneath his blue-black moustache, his lips were grim with purpose, his brow furrowed. I surmised he was headed for the nursery to inflict my punishment. Given the current circumstances, I could also guess what it would be.

We came to an abrupt stop.

‘Your Highness,’ my mother said sweetly, and bowed. Donna Elena followed suit.

He acknowledged Trusia with a curt question. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I am taking the children on a picnic.’

The Duke’s gaze flickered over our little assembly, then settled on me. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, defiant, resolved to show no sign of disappointment at his next utterance.

‘Not her.’

‘But Your Highness, it is a holiday…’

‘Not her. She misbehaved abominably today. It must be dealt with at once.’ He paused and gave my mother a look that made her wilt like a blossom in scorching heat. ‘Now go.’

Madonna Trusia and Elena bowed again to the Duke; my mother and Alfonso both shot me sorrowful little glances before moving on.

‘Come,’ my father said.

We walked in silence to the nursery. Once we arrived, Donna Esmeralda was summoned to witness my father’s formal address.

‘I should not be required to waste an instant of my attention on a useless girl child with no hope of ascending to the throne—much less such a child who is a bastard.’

He had not finished, but his cursory dismissal so stung that I could not let an opportunity to retaliate pass. ‘What difference does it make? The King is a bastard,’ I interrupted swiftly, ‘which makes you the son of a bastard.’

He slapped my cheek so hard it brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them spill. Donna Esmeralda started slightly when he struck me, but managed to keep herself in check.

‘You are incorrigible,’ he said. ‘But I cannot permit you to further waste my time. You are not worth even a moment of my attention. Discipline should be the province of nursemaids, not princes. I have denied you food, I have closeted you in your room—yet none of this has done anything to calm you. And you are almost old enough to be married. How shall I turn you into a proper young woman?’

He fell silent and thought a long moment. After a time, I saw his eyes narrow, then gleam with understanding. A slight, cold smile played on his lips. ‘I have denied you the wrong things, haven’t I? You’re a hard-headed child. You can do without food or the outdoors for a while, because while you like those things, they are not what you love most.’ He nodded, becoming ever more pleased with his plan. ‘That is what I must do, then. You will not change until you are denied the one thing that you love above all else.’

I felt the first pangs of real fear.

‘Two weeks,’ he said, then turned and addressed Donna Esmeralda. ‘She is to have no contact with her brother for the next two weeks. They are not permitted to eat, to play, to speak with each other—not even permitted to catch a glimpse of each other. Your future rests on this. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, Your Highness,’ Donna Esmeralda replied tautly, her eyes narrowed and her gaze averted. I began to wail.

‘You cannot take Alfonso from me!’

‘It is done.’ In my father’s hard, heartless expression, I detected traces of pleasure. Filius Patri similis est. The Son is like the Father.

I flailed about for reasons; the tears that had gathered on the rims of my eyes were now in true danger of cascading onto my cheeks. ‘But…but Alfonso loves me! It will hurt him if he can’t see me, and he’s been a good son, a perfect son. It’s not fair—you’ll be punishing Alfonso for something he didn’t do!’

‘How does it feel, Sancha?’ my father taunted softly. ‘How does it feel to know you are responsible for hurting the one you love the most?’

I looked on the one who had sired me—one who so cruelly relished hurting a child. Had I been a man, and not a young girl, had I borne a blade, anger would have overtaken me and I would have slit his throat where he stood. In that instant, I knew what it was like to feel infinite, irrevocable hatred for one I helplessly loved. I wanted to hurt him as he had me, and take pleasure in it.

When he left, I at last wept; but even as I spilt angry tears, I swore I would never again permit any man, least of all the Duke of Calabria, to make me cry.

I spent the next two weeks in torment. I saw only the servants. Though I was allowed outside to play if I wished, I refused, just as I petulantly refused most of my meals. I slept poorly and dreamed of Ferrante’s spectral gallery.

My mood was so dark, my behaviour so difficult that Donna Esmeralda, who had never lifted a finger against me, slapped me twice in exasperation. I kept ruminating over my sudden impulse to kill my father; it had terrified me. I became convinced that without Alfonso’s gentle influence, I should become a cruel, half-crazed tyrant like the father and grandfather I so resembled.

When the two weeks finally passed, I seized my little brother and embraced him with a ferocity that left us both breathless.

When at last I could speak, I said, ‘Alfonso, we must take a solemn oath never to be apart again. Even when we are married, we must stay in Naples, near each other, for without you, I will go mad.’

‘I swear,’ Alfonso said. ‘But Sancha, your mind is perfectly sound. With or without me, you need never fear madness.’

My lower lip trembled as I answered him. ‘I am too much like Father—cold and cruel. Even Grandfather said it—I am hard, like him.’

For the first time, I saw real anger flare in my brother’s eyes. ‘You are anything but cruel; you are kind and good. And the King is wrong. You aren’t hard, just…stubborn.’

‘I want to be like you,’ I said. ‘You are the only person who makes me happy.’

From that time on, I never once gave our father cause to punish me.

Late Spring 1492

## II

Slightly more than three years passed. The year 1492 arrived, and with it a new pope: Rodrigo Borgia, who took the name Alexander VI. Ferrante was eager to establish good relations with him, especially since previous pontiffs had looked unkindly on the House of Aragon.

Alfonso and I grew too old to share the nursery and moved into separate chambers, but we were apart only when sleep and the divergence in our education required it. I studied poetry and dance while Alfonso perfected his swordsmanship; we never discussed our foremost concern—that I was now fifteen, of marriageable age, and would soon move to a different household. I comforted myself with the thought that Alfonso would become fast friends with my future husband and would visit daily.

At last, a morning dawned when I was summoned to the King’s throne room. Donna Esmeralda, could not entirely hide her excitement. She dressed me in a modest black gown of elegant cut and fine silk, with a satin brocade stomacher laced so tightly I gasped for air.

Flanked by her, Madonna Trusia, and Donna Elena, I crossed the palace courtyard. The sun was obscured by heavy fog; it dripped onto us like soft, slow rain, spotting my gown, covering my face and carefully arranged hair with mist.

At last we arrived at Ferrante’s wing. When the doors opened onto the throne room, I saw my grandfather sitting regally on his crimson cushions; beside him stood a stranger—an acceptable-looking man of stocky, muscular build. Next to him was my father.

Time had not bettered Alfonso, Duke of Calabria. If anything, my father was more temperamental—indeed, vicious. Recently, he had called for a whip and flogged a cook for serving his soup cold; he beat the poor woman until she fainted from loss of blood. Only Ferrante was able to stay his hand. He had also dismissed, with much cursing and shouting, an aged servant from the household for failing to properly shine his boots. To quote my grandfather, ‘Wherever my eldest son goes, the sun retreats behind the clouds in fear.’

His face, while still handsome, was a portrait in misery; his lips twitched with barely-repressed indiscriminate anger, his eyes emanated an unhappiness he delighted in sharing. He could no longer bear the sound of childish laughter; Alfonso and I were required to maintain silence in his presence. One day I forgot myself, and let loose a giggle. He reached down and struck me with such force, I stumbled and almost fell. It was not the blow that hurt as much as the realization that he had never lifted a hand against any of his other children—only me.

Once, when Trusia had believed me to be preoccupied, she had confided to Esmeralda that she had gone one night to my father’s chambers only to find it in total darkness. When she had fumbled about for a taper, my father’s voice emerged from the blackness: ‘Leave it so.’ When my mother moved towards the door, he commanded: ‘Sit!’ And so she was compelled to sit before him, on the floor. When she began to speak, in her soft, gentle voice, he shouted: ‘Hold your tongue!’

He wanted only silence and darkness, and the knowledge that she was there.

I bowed gracefully before the King, knowing my every action was being sized up by the common-looking, brown-haired stranger beside the throne. I was a woman now, and had learned to funnel all my childish stubbornness and mischief into a sense of pride. Others might have called it arrogance—but ever since the day my father had wounded me, I had vowed never to let myself show hurt or any sign of weakness. I was perpetually poised, unshakable, strong.

‘Princess Sancha of Aragon,’ Ferrante said formally. ‘This is Count Onorato Caetani, a nobleman of good character. He has asked for your hand, and your father and I have granted it.’

I lowered my face modestly and caught a second glimpse of the Count from beneath my lowered eyelashes. An ordinary man of some thirty summers, and only a count—and I a princess. I had been preparing myself to leave Alfonso for a husband—but not one so undistinguished as this. I was too distraught for a gracious, appropriate reply to spring quickly to my lips. Fortunately, Onorato spoke first.

‘You have lied to me, Your Majesty,’ he said, in a deep, clear voice.

Ferrante turned in surprise at once; my father looked as though he might strangle the Count. The King’s courtiers suppressed a gasp at his audacity, until he spoke again.

‘You said your granddaughter was lovely. But such a word does no justice to the exquisite creature who stands before us. I had thought I was fortunate enough to gain the hand of a princess of the realm; I had not realized I was gaining Naples’ most precious work of art as well.’ He pressed his palm against his chest, then held out his hand as he looked into my eyes. ‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘My heart is yours. I beg you, accept such a humble gift, though it be unworthy of you.’

Perhaps, I mused, this Caetani fellow will not make such a bad husband after all.

Onorato, I learned, was quite wealthy, and continued to be outspoken concerning my beauty. His manner towards Alfonso was warm and jovial, and I had no doubt he would welcome my brother into our home whenever I wished. As our courtship proceeded rapidly, he surprised me with gifts. One morning as we stood on the balcony looking out at the calm glassy bay, he moved as if to embrace me—and instead slipped a necklace over my head.

I drew back, eager to examine this new trinket—and discovered, hung on a satin cord, a polished ruby half the size of my fist.

‘For the fire in your soul,’ he said, and kissed me. Whatever resistance remained in my heart melted at that moment. I had seen enough wealth, taken its constant presence for granted long enough, to be unimpressed by it. It was not the jewel, but the gesture.

I enjoyed my first embrace. Onorato’s trimmed golden-brown beard pleasantly caressed my cheek and smelled of rosemary-water and wine, and I responded to the passion with which he pressed his strong body against mine.

He knew how to pleasure a woman. We were betrothed, so it was expected that we would yield to nature when alone. After a month of courting, we did. He was skilled at finding his way beneath my overskirt, my dress, my chemise. He used his fingers first, then thumb, slipped between my legs, and rubbed a spot that left me quite surprised at my own reaction. This he did until I was brought to a spasm of most astounding delight; then he showed me how to favour him. I felt no embarrassment, no shame; indeed, I decided this was truly one of the greatest joys of life. My faith in the teaching of priests was weakened. How could anyone deem such a miracle a sin?

This behaviour occurred on several occasions until, at last, he mounted me, and inserted himself; prepared, I felt no pain, only enjoyment, and once he had emptied himself in me, he took care afterwards to bring me pleasure as well. I so delighted in the act, and so often demanded it, Onorato would laugh and call me insatiable.

I suppose I am not the only adolescent to mistake lust for love, but I was so taken by my future husband that, during the last days of summer, as a whim, I visited a woman known for seeing the future. A strega, the people called her, a witch, but though she garnered respect and a certain amount of fear, she was never accused of evil and on occasion did good.

Flanked by two horsemen for protection, I travelled from the Castel Nuovo in an open carriage with my favourite three ladies-in-waiting: Donna Esmeralda, who was a widow, Donna Maria, a married woman, and Donna Inez, a young virgin. Donna Maria and I joked about the act of love and laughed all the way, while Donna Esmeralda pursed her lips at such scandalous talk. We passed beneath the glinting white Triumphal Arch of the Castel Nuovo, with Falcon’s Peak, the Pizzofalcone, serving as its inland backdrop. The air was damp and cool and smelled of the sea; the unobstructed sun was warm. We made our way past the harbour along the coast of the Bay of Naples, so bright blue and reflective of the sky that the horizon between the two blurred. We headed toward Monte Vesuvio to the east. Behind us, to the west, the fortress of Castel dell’Ovo stood guard over the water.

Rather than ride through the city gates and attract attention from commoners, I directed the driver to take us through the armoury, with its great cannons, then alongside the old Angevin city walls that ran parallel to the shoreline.

I was besotted with love, so giddy with happiness that my native Naples seemed even more beautiful than ever, with sunlight gleaming off the white castles and smaller stucco homes built on the rises. Though the date had not been set for the nuptials, I was already dreaming of my wedding day, of myself presiding as mistress of my husband’s household, smiling at him across a laden table surrounded by guests, of the children that would come and call out for their Uncle Alfonso. This was all I required of the strega—that she confirm my wishes, that she tell me the names of my sons, that she give me and my ladies something fresh to laugh and gossip about. I was happy because Onorato seemed a kind, pleasant man. Away from Ferrante and my father, in the company of Onorato and my brother, I would never become like the men I so resembled, but rather like the men I loved.

In the midst of my girlish giggling my eye caught sight of Vesuvio, destroyer of civilizations. Massive, serene, grey-violet against the sky, it had always seemed benign and beautiful. But that day, the shadow it cast on us grew deeper the closer we moved towards it.

A greater chill rode upon the breeze. I fell silent; so in turn did each of my companions. We rumbled away from the city proper, past vineyards and olive orchards, into an area of softly rolling hills.

By the time we arrived at the strega’s house—a crumbling ruin of a house built against a cavern—sombreness had overtaken us. One of the guards dismounted and announced my arrival with a shout at the open front door, while the other assisted me and my attendants from the carriage. Chickens scattered; a donkey tethered to a porch beam brayed.

From within, a woman’s voice called. ‘Send her in.’ It was, to my surprise, strong, not frail and reedy, as I had imagined.

My ladies gasped. Indignant, the first guard drew his sword, and stepped upon the threshold of the house-cave.

‘Insolent crone! Come out and beg Her Highness Sancha of Aragon for forgiveness! You will receive her properly.’

I motioned for the guard to lower his sword, and moved beside him. Try as I might, I could see nothing but shadow inside the doorway.

The woman spoke again, unseen. ‘She must come in alone.’

Again my man instinctively raised his sword and took a step forward; I thrust an arm into the air at his chest level, holding him back. An odd dread overtook me, a pricking of the skin at the nape of my neck, but I ordered calmly, ‘Go back to the carriage and wait for me. I shall go in unaccompanied.’

His eyes narrowed in disapproval, but I was the future King’s daughter and he dared not contradict me. Behind me, my ladies murmured in dismay, but I ignored them and entered the strega’s cave.

It was unthinkable for a princess to go anywhere alone. I was at all times attended by my ladies or by guards, except for those rare moments when I saw Onorato alone—and he was a noble, known to my family. I ate attended by family and ladies, I slept attended by my ladies; when I was a young girl, I had shared a bed with Alfonso. I did not know what it meant to be alone.

Yet the strega’s presumptuous request did not offend me. Perhaps I understood instinctively that her news would not be good, and wished only my own ears to receive it.

I recall what I wore that day: a deep blue velvet tabard, since it was cool, and beneath, a stomacher and underskirt of pale grey-blue silk trimmed with silver ribbon, covered by a split overskirt of the same blue velvet as the tabard. I gathered the folds of my own garments as best I could, drew a breath, and entered the seer’s house.

A sense of oppression overtook me. I had never been inside a peasant’s house, certainly never as dismal a dwelling as this. The ceiling was low, the walls crumbling and stained with filth; the floor was dirt and smelled of chicken dung—facts that augured the ruination of my silk slippers and hems. The entire house consisted of one tiny room, lit only by the sun that streamed through the unshuttered windows. The furnishings consisted of a small, crude table, a stool, a jug, a hearth with a cauldron, and a heap of straw in one corner.

Yet there was no one inside.

‘Come,’ the strega said, in a voice as beautiful, as melodious as one of Odysseus’ sirens. It was then I saw her: standing in a far, shadowed corner of the hovel, in a narrow archway behind which lay darkness. She was clad entirely in black, her face hidden by a dark veil. She was tall for a woman, straight and slender, and she lifted a beckoning arm with peculiar grace.

I followed, too mesmerized to remark on the lack of proper courtesy toward a royal. I had expected a hunchbacked, toothless crone, not this woman who moved as though she herself were the highest-born nobility. Into the dark passageway I went, and when the strega and I emerged, we were in a cave with a vast, high ceiling. The air was dank, making me grateful for the warmth of my tabard; there was no hearth here, no place for a fire. On the wall was a solitary torch—a rag soaked in olive oil—which provided barely enough light for me to find my way. The witch stopped at the torch briefly to light a lamp, then we proceeded further, past a feather bed appointed in green velvet, a fine, stuffed chair, and a shrine with a large, painted statue of the Virgin on an altar adorned with wildflowers.

She motioned for me to sit at a table much more accommodating than the one in the outer room. It was covered with a large square of black silk. I sat upon a chair of sturdy wood—finely crafted by an artisan, not made for a commoner—and carefully spread my skirts. The strega set the oil lamp down beside us, then sat across from me. Her face was still veiled in black gauze, but I could make out her features after a fashion. She was a matron of some forty years, dark-haired and complected; age had not erased her beauty. She spoke, revealing the pretty curves made by the bow of her upper lip, the handsome fullness of the lower.

‘Sancha,’ she said. It was familiar in the most insulting way, addressing me without my title, speaking without being spoken to first, sitting without permission, without genuflecting. Yet I was flattered; she uttered my name as if it were a caress. She was not speaking to me, but rather releasing my name upon the ether, sensing the emanations it produced. She savoured it, tasted it, her face tilted upwards as if watching the sound dissolve in the air above.

Then she looked back down at me; under the veil, amber-brown eyes reflected the lamplight. ‘Your Highness,’ she addressed me at last. ‘You have come to know something of your future.’

‘Yes,’ I answered eagerly.

She gave a single, grave nod. From a compartment beneath the table, she produced a deck of cards. She set them on the black silk between us, pressed her palms against them, and prayed softly in a language I did not understand; in a practised gesture, she fanned them out.

‘Young Sancha. Choose your fate.’

I felt exhilaration mixed with fear. I peered down at the cards with trepidation, moved an uncertain hand over them—then touched one with my forefinger and recoiled as though scalded.

I did not want that card—yet I knew that fate had chosen it for me. I let my hand waver above the spread a few moments more, then yielded, slid the card from the deck and turned it over.

The sight of it filled me with dread: I wanted to shut my eyes, to blot out the image, yet I could not tear my gaze from it. It was a heart, impaled by two blades, which together made a great silver X.

The witch regarded the card calmly. ‘The heart pierced by two swords.’

I began to tremble.

She picked the card up, gathered the deck and returned it to its hiding place beneath the table. ‘Give me your palm,’ she said. ‘No, the left one; it is closer to your heart.’

She took my hand between both of hers. Her touch was quite warm, despite the chill, and I began to relax. She hummed to herself, a soft, tuneless melody, her gaze fixed on my palm for some time.

Abruptly, she straightened, still clasping my palm, and stared directly into my eyes. ‘The majority of men are mostly good, or mostly evil, but you have within you the power of both. You wish to speak to me of insignificant things, of marriage and children. I speak to you now of far greater things.

‘For in your hands lie the fates of men and nations. These weapons within you—the good, and the evil—must each be wielded, and at the proper time, for they will change the course of events.’

As she spoke, I was seized by terrifying images: my father, sitting alone in darkness. I saw old Ferrante, whispering into the shrunken ears of the Angevins in his museum, staring into their sightless eyes…and his face, his form, changed to become mine. I stood on tiptoe, my firm flesh pressed against mummified leather, whispering…

I thought of the instant I had longed for a sword, that I might cut my own father’s throat. I did not want power. I feared what I might do with it.

‘I will never resort to evil!’ I protested.

Her voice held an edge of hardness. ‘Then you condemn to death those whom you most love.’

I refused to acknowledge the terrifying statement. Instead I clung to my naive little dream. ‘But what of marriage? Will I be happy with my husband, Onorato?’

‘You will never marry your Onorato.’

When she saw my trembling lip, she added, ‘You will be wed to the son of the most powerful man in Italy.’

My mind raced. Who, then? Italy had no king; the land was divided into countless factions, and no one man held sway over all the city-states. Venice? Milan? Unrivalled Florence? Alliances between such states and Naples seemed unlikely…

‘But will I love him?’ I pressed. ‘Will we have many children?’

‘No to both,’ she replied, with a vehemence approaching ferocity. ‘Take great care, Sancha, or your heart will destroy all that you love.’

I rode back to the castle in silence, frozen, shocked into stillness like a victim caught unawares, buried in a heartbeat by the ash of Vesuvio.

Late Summer 1492—Winter 1494

## III

A week after my visit with the strega, I was summoned from breakfast to an audience with the King. The urgent command came as such a surprise that Donna Esmeralda dressed me hastily—though I insisted on wearing Onorato’s ruby round my throat, a touch of grandeur despite my dishevelment—and we two appeared alone before my grandfather. The rising sun streamed through the arched windows on either 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 Duomo and for the care of Naples’ poor.

When I returned to the castle, I requested and received a painting of the saint. In my bedchamber, I erected a small shrine to Gennaro, where I repeated my promise morning and evening. Once a week, I arranged a private excursion to the Duomo. Esmeralda was pleased.

How nice, everyone said, that she is calming down and becoming devout. No doubt it is because she is to marry the Pope’s son next year.

I continued my regular devotions and fought not to become discouraged. The simple act of prayer brought with it a temporary peace, and I found myself adding to my original selfish request. I asked for the continued health of Alfonso, my mother, and Donna Esmeralda; I asked for health to be restored to old Ferrante, who was failing. I even prayed for a miracle so great I dared not believe in its possibility: that my father’s heart might be opened, that he might become happy and kind.

One late summer afternoon, a royal aide came to fetch me to Ferrante’s chambers. I was confused; I turned to Donna Esmeralda for support. I had done nothing of late to displease my elders; if anything, I had behaved circumspectly. In fact, in my hand was a Latin translation of the Proverbs; before the aide arrived, I had been reading the last one:

A perfect wife—who can find her?

She is far beyond the price of pearls.

Her husband’s heart has confidence in her, from her he will derive no little profit.

Advantage and not hurt she brings him all the days of her life.

San Gennaro, I had prayed, grant my petition and I will become thus.

I was dressed in the black, full-sleeved gown of the southern noblewoman; I had worn no colour since the announcement of my second engagement. Before leaving, I set down the little book, touched the small gold crucifix at my throat, then followed the King’s aide. Esmeralda stayed close by my side.

The door to the throne room was flung open; the chamber itself was empty. But as we crossed the marble floor, I heard sounds of agitation and anger coming from the King’s office.

The aide opened the door and ushered us inside.

Ferrante sat at his desk, his face starkly scarlet against his white beard. Queen Juana sat beside him, trying to calm him, only occasionally succeeding at capturing one of his wildly gesticulating hands and stroking it in an effort to soothe. Her murmurs were drowned out by my grandfather’s shouts. Beside them both stood my grim-faced father.

‘Roman son of a sow!’ Ferrante caught sight of me, and by way of explanation, waved at a letter on the desk. ‘The bastard has appointed his new College of Cardinals. Not a soul from Naples among them, despite the fact we had several qualified candidates. And he appointed two Frenchmen. He mocks me!’ My grandfather slammed his fist on the desk; Juana tried to clutch it, but he pulled it away. ‘The lying son of a whore mocks me!’

He drew a sudden wheezing breath, then put a hand to his brow as if dizzied.

‘You must calm yourself,’ Juana said with uncharacteristic firmness, ‘or I will send for the physician.’

Ferrante paused a moment and forced himself to slow his respiration. When he spoke again, it was more deliberately. ‘I will do better than that.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Sancha. I will not permit the wedding to go through until this situation is rectified. I will not allow a princess of the realm to be married to the son of a man who mocks us.’ He glared down at the letter on the desk. ‘Alexander must be taught that he cannot extend one hand to us, then betray us with the other.’

My grandfather had not forgotten the crime committed against him decades earlier by Alexander’s uncle Alonso, also known as the pontiff Callixtus III. Callixtus, disapproving of an illegitimate commoner like Ferrante taking Naples’ throne, had supported the Angevins.

As desperately as Ferrante needed the new Pope’s support, he had never entirely forgiven the Borgias.

My father’s tone was urgent. ‘Your Majesty, you are making a grave mistake. Some of the cardinals are old. They will die soon, and then we can lobby for their replacement with loyal Neapolitans. But the fact that the French now have a voice in the Vatican makes a liaison with the papacy all the more imperative.’

Ferrante turned on him, and with the candour born of ill health and old age, said, ‘You were always a coward, Alfonso. I have never liked you.’

An unpleasant silence ensued. At last, my grandfather looked back at me and snapped, ‘That’s all. Go on, then.’

I curtsied, then left before I betrayed my joy with a smile.

For four months, from the beginning of fall into the depths of winter, I was blissful. I added words of thanksgiving to my daily prayers. San Gennaro, I was convinced, had decided my pious behaviour earned me the right to remain with my brother.

And then something occurred which everyone but I had expected.

Winter and summer in Naples are both temperate, but one rare night in late January 1494, it turned so bitterly cold that I invited Donna Esmeralda and another lady-in-waiting into my bed. We piled fur blankets high, and still shivered.

I slept fitfully, given the cold; or perhaps I sensed evil coming, for I was not as surprised as I should have been when a loud knock came at the door to my outer chamber. A male voice called, ‘Your Highness! Your Highness, it is urgent!’

Donna Esmeralda rose. Limned by the fireplace, the soft, downward-sloping curves of her body, covered in a white wool nightgown, took on a coral glow. Shaking with cold, she clasped a fur throw about her; a single thick braid fell forward onto her shoulder, over her breast, past her thick waist. Her expression was one of alarm. An interruption at such an hour could not bring happy news.

I rose from the bed and lit a candle while, in the outer chamber, low voices murmured. Esmeralda returned almost at once; her expression was so stricken that I knew even before she spoke what she would say.

‘His Majesty is gravely ill. He has asked for you.’

There was no time to dress properly. Donna Esmeralda fetched a black wool tabard, and held it behind me while I slipped my arms backwards into the opening, then pulled the flowing garment forward and secured it at my breast with a brooch. That, over my silk shift, would have to do. I waited as she then coiled my braid at the nape of my neck and fastened it with a pin.

I went out and followed the grim-faced young guard, who held a lantern to light our way. In silence, he led me to the King’s bedchamber.

The door stood wide open. Though it was night and the heavy curtains were drawn, the room was brighter than I had ever seen it. Every taper on the great candelabra was lit, and three oil lamps burned on the night table. Beneath the great gilded mantel, a large fire blazed, casting off enormous heat and glinting off the golden bust of King Alfonso.

Off in one corner, two young physicians conferred sombrely, quietly. I recognized them as Doctors Galeano and Clemente, reputed to be the best in Naples.

The bed-curtains had been pulled back, and in the centre of the bed lay my grandfather. His face was a dark mottled purple, the colour of Lachrima Christi. His eyes were squinted tightly shut, his lips parted; his breath came in short, sharp bursts.

Juana sat on the bed beside him, barefoot and unashamed to be wearing only her nightgown; her hair was loose, and a dark, waving tendril had fallen across her face. She gazed down at her husband with a look of extreme tenderness and compassion that I have witnessed elsewhere only in artists’ depictions of saints. The King’s left hand was enveloped between both of hers. I wondered at the love inspired by this man, capable of so many atrocities.

In a chair some distance away sat my father. He leaned forward, staring at Ferrante, fingers of both hands spread, pressing into his brow and temples: he wore an entirely unselfconscious look of dismay. His eyes glittered with unshed tears, reflecting countless tiny flames. He glanced up when I entered, then quickly turned away.

Next to him stood the royal brothers: Federico and Francesco, both of whom grieved openly; Federico sobbed without restraint.

The doctors acknowledged me at last. ‘Your Highness,’ Clemente said. ‘We believe His Majesty suffers from unchecked bleeding of the brain.’

‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ I asked.

Doctor Clemente shook his head reluctantly. ‘I am sorry, Your Highness.’ He paused. ‘Before he lost the power of speech, he called your name.’

I was too numbed to know how to respond to this, too numbed even to weep at the realization that the King was dying.

Juana lifted her serene face. ‘Come,’ she said to me. ‘He wanted to see you. Come sit next to him.’

I moved to the bed, and with the assistance of one of the doctors, climbed onto it so that I sat on my grandfather’s right, while Juana sat on his left.

Gently, I lifted Ferrante’s limp hand and squeezed it.

And gasped as his bony fingers gripped mine like talons.

‘You see,’ Juana whispered. ‘He knows you. He knows you have come.’

For the next few hours, Juana and I sat together in a silence broken only by an occasional sob from Federico. I understood why Ferrante, as he was dying, would cling to his wife; her sweet goodness no doubt brought him comfort. But I did not understand, at that moment, why he had called for me.

The King’s breathing gradually grew fainter and more irregular. He was gone for minutes before Juana finally realized he had not drawn a breath in some time, and called for the doctors to make a determination.

Even in death, he clung to us; I had to pry my hand loose from his grip.

I half-slid from the bed to my feet, and found myself facing my father. All signs of grief and anxiety had vanished from him; he stood before me, composed, commanding, regal.

He was now King.

My grandfather lay in state for a single day in the cathedral of Santa Chiara, which we royalty preferred for official functions due to its size and grandeur. It had always been used for funerals, as its chapels and naves housed the crypts of Neapolitan royalty. Behind the altar lay the Tomb of Robert the Wise, Naples’ first Angevin ruler: the grave site was topped by a towering monument, the top level of which showed the living King Robert, crowned and triumphant, upon his throne. Beneath lay a sculpture of the King in the repose of death, hands piously crossed upon a sceptre. To the right of the altar was the Tomb of Charles, Duke of Calabria, Robert’s only son.

In the early hours of pre-dawn, before the rest of the city woke to the news, our family filed past Ferrante’s washed, carefully posed corpse in its coffin.

His face was pinched and stern, his body shrunken and frail, with no trace of the leonine spirit that had once filled it. He was at last like the men in his museum: utterly powerless.

All that night, I had considered why my grandfather had liked me while he lived, why he had called for me in death. Hard and cold, he had called me proudly, as if these were qualities to be admired.

Perhaps he had needed the comfort of Juana’s kindness; perhaps he had also needed my strength.

I knew at once that my marriage to Jofre Borgia was now inevitable. My father had vehemently stated his opinion; the wedding was only a matter of time. There was no point in behaving like a child, in expressing anger over my fate. It was time to accept it, to be strong. I could rely on no one save myself: if God and the saints existed, they did not concern themselves with the petty requests of heartbroken young women.

After the family said its farewells to Ferrante, a feast was held in the Great Hall. There was no music that day, no dancing, but a great deal of talking and distractions.

I passed alone and unseen to Ferrante’s bedchamber. The bed-curtains were still pushed back, and the canopy swathed in black; the green velvet hangings were likewise draped in the colour of mourning.

One of the oil lamps on the night table still flickered with a faint, bluish flame. I lifted it, opened the door to the narrow altar room, and from there, passed into the kingdom of the dead.

Little had changed from the way I remembered it; the expired Angevin called Robert still welcomed me with a sweep of his bony arm. This time, I was not alarmed. There was nothing frightening here, I told myself, just a collection of tanned hide and bone propped against iron poles.

But two new corpses had been added to the collection since I last visited, more than four years ago. I walked up to the nearer of them, and held the lamp up to the mummy’s face. His marble eyes had dark brown irises painted on them; his beard and moustache were thick, his gleaming black hair luxuriant and curling. This was no fair-haired Angevin, but a Spaniard, or Italian. There was still a slight fullness to his features that spoke of recent demise. Alive, he had no doubt been a handsome man, who had laughed and wept, and perhaps been disappointed in love; he had known, too, what it was to be the victim of relentless cruelty.

Fearlessly, I pressed my fingers against the shining lacquered brown cheek.

It was cold and hard, like my grandfather and father.

Like me.

Winter—Spring 1494

## IV

The reparation of the strained relationship between Naples and the papacy took time. I was not surprised when an entire month passed before I received the expected summons from my father.

I had prepared myself for the encounter, and reconciled myself to the thought of marriage to Jofre Borgia. The fact filled me with a strange pride; my father would expect his announcement to wound me, and be disappointed when it did not.

When the guard came to fetch me, he led me to the King’s chambers. The throne was draped in black; my father would not ascend it until his formal coronation some months hence.

Ferrante’s former office already bore my father’s touch: a fine carpet, booty captured during the Battle of Otranto, covered the marble floor; Moorish tiles hung from the walls. I had heard my father had beheaded many Turks; I wondered how many he had killed to obtain these particular trophies. I gazed down at the red-and-gold patterned carpet searching for blood stains, eager to distract myself with odd thoughts in order to maintain my composure during the unpleasant exchange.

The new King was busy, surrounded by advisors; as I entered, he was squinting at several documents scattered on the dark wooden desk. At that instant, I realized that no longer could we Neapolitans simply refer to ‘King Alfonso’ to mean the Magnanimous. There were now King Alfonsos I and II.

I stared beyond the latter through the unshuttered west-facing windows that looked onto the Castel dell’Ovo and the water beyond. It was said that the great stone fortress, supposedly built by Virgil, rested upon a great magical egg hidden upon the ocean floor. If the egg were ever to crack, Naples herself would crumble and fall into the sea.

I waited in silence until my father glanced up and frowned distractedly; I was an afterthought in the midst of a busy afternoon. His son Ferrandino, now the de facto Duke of Calabria, leaned over his shoulder, one hand resting on the desk. Ferrandino looked up at the same time, and gave me a polite but formal nod whose subtext was clear: I am next in line to the throne, a legitimate heir, and you are not.

‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia in early May,’ my father said curtly.

I bowed graciously from the shoulders in reply, and directed a single thought at him: You cannot hurt me.

The King directed his attention back to Ferrandino and one of the advisors; after murmuring a few sentences to them, he looked back up as if surprised to see me still standing before him.

‘That is all,’ he said.

I curtsied, triumphant over my self-control, but also disappointed that my father seemed too preoccupied to notice. I turned to leave, but before the guard escorted me through the doorway, the King spoke again.

‘Oh. To appease His Holiness, I have agreed to make his son Jofre a prince—only fitting, given your rank. Therefore, you will both rule the principality of Squillace, where you will reside.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal, then returned to his work.

I left swiftly, blinded by hurt.

Squillace lay several days to Naples’ south, on the opposite coast. It was a far longer journey from Naples to Squillace than from Naples to Rome.

When I returned to my chambers, I tore the portrait of San Gennaro from its place of honour and hurled it against the opposite wall. As it clattered to the floor, Donna Esmeralda let go a shriek and crossed herself, then spun about and followed me out to the balcony, where I stood seething, transforming my grief into rage.

‘How dare you! There can be no excuse for such sacrilege!’ she scolded, stalwart and glowering.

‘You don’t understand!’ I snapped. ‘Jofre Borgia and I are to live in Squillace!’

Her expression softened at once. For a moment, she stood silently, then asked, ‘Do you think this will be any easier for Alfonso than for you? Will you force him again to comfort you when his own heart is breaking? You may be more likely to show your temper, Donna Sancha—but do not be fooled. He is the more sensitive soul.’

I turned and stared into Esmeralda’s wise, lined face. I wrapped my arms about my ribs, let go a shuddering breath, and forced my internal tempest to ease.

‘I must get hold of my emotions,’ I said, ‘before Alfonso learns of this.’

That evening, I took supper alone with my brother. He spoke animatedly of his training in swordsmanship, and of the fine horse my father had recently purchased for him. I smiled and listened, adding little to the conversation. Afterwards we took a stroll in the palace courtyard, watched by a lone, distant guard. It was the beginning of March, and the night air was brisk but not unpleasant.

Alfonso spoke first. ‘You are quiet tonight, Sancha. What troubles you?’

I hesitated before answering. ‘I was wondering whether you had heard the news…’

My brother gathered himself, and said, with feigned casualness, ‘You are to be married to Jofre Borgia, then.’ His tone at once turned soothing. ‘It won’t be bad, Sancha. As I said before, Jofre might be a decent young man. At least, you’ll live in Naples; we’ll be able to see each other…’

I stopped in mid-stride, turned toward him, and rested my fingertips gently on his lips. ‘Dear brother.’ I fought to keep my voice steady, my tone light. ‘Pope Alexander wants not just a princess for his son; he wants his son to be a prince. Jofre and I will go to Squillace to rule.’

Alfonso blinked once, startled. ‘But the contract…’ he began, then stopped. ‘But Father…’ He fell silent. For the first time, I focused not on my feelings, but on his. As I saw a wave of pain pass over his fair young features, I thought my heart would melt.

I wrapped an arm about him, and began once more to walk. ‘I can always come visit Naples. And you can visit Squillace.’

He was used to being the comforter, not the comforted. ‘I will miss you.’

‘And I you.’ I forced a smile. ‘You told me once that duty is not always pleasant. That is true, but we shall make the best of it with visits and letters.’

Alfonso stopped walking, and pressed me to him. ‘Sancha,’ he said. ‘Ah, Sancha…’ He was taller, and had to bow his head to rest his cheek against mine.

I stroked his hair. ‘It will be all right, little brother,’ I said. I held him tightly and did not permit myself to weep. Ferrante, I thought, would have been proud.

The month of May came all too soon, and with it, Jofre Borgia. He arrived in Naples with a large entourage, and was escorted into the Great Hall of the Castel Nuovo by my uncle, Prince Federico, and my brother Alfonso. Once the men had arrived, I made a grand entrance, coming down the staircase in a sea green brocade gown with an emerald choker round my neck.

I could see at once from my bridegroom’s slightly slack-jawed reaction that I had made a favourable impression; the reverse was certainly not true.

I had been told Jofre Borgia was ‘almost thirteen’—and I expected to encounter a youth resembling my brother. Even in the short span of time since I had told Alfonso of my engagement, his voice had deepened further, his shoulders broadened and become more muscular. He now surpassed me in height by the breadth of a hand.

But Jofre was a child. I had passed my sixteenth birthday since meeting the strega, and I was now a woman with full breasts and hips. I had known sexual ecstasy, known the touch of an experienced man’s hands.

As for the youngest Borgia, he stood a full head shorter than me. His face still had a babe’s chubbiness, his voice was pitched higher than mine, and his frame was so slight I could well have lifted him off his feet. To make matters worse, he wore his copper blond hair like a girl, in long ringlets that spilled onto his shoulders.

I had heard, as had everyone with ears in Italy, of Alexander’s uncontrollable passion for beautiful women. As a young cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia had scandalized his aged uncle, Pope Callixtus, by conducting a baptism, then escorting all the women in the entourage into the walled church courtyard and locking the gate, leaving the enraged men outside to listen to the sounds of giggling and lovemaking for some hours. Even now, Pope Alexander had brought his latest mistress, sixteen-year-old Giulia Orsini, to live with him in the Vatican—and was given to flagrant public displays of affection for her. It was reputed no woman was safe from his advances.

It was impossible to believe that Jofre was the same man’s son.

I thought of Onorato’s strong hands moving over my body; I thought of how he had mounted me, how I had grasped his powerful back as he rode me, then brought me to pleasure.

Then I looked upon this skinny child and secretly cringed with disgust at the thought of the marriage bed. Onorato had known my body better than I had myself; how could I possibly teach this effeminate young creature all a man should know about the art of love?

My heart despaired. I went through the next several days in stunned misery, performing as best I could the role of the happy bride. Jofre spent his time in the company of his entourage, and made no effort at courtship; he was no Onorato, concerned with my feelings. He had come to Naples for one reason: to gain a princely crown.

The civil ceremony came first, in the Castel Nuovo, presided by the Bishop of Tropea and witnessed by my father and Prince Federico. In his anxiety, little Jofre shouted out his hasty reply to the Bishop’s question well before the old man had finished asking, which caused a ripple of amusement to pass through the crowd. I could not smile.

There came afterwards the presentation of gifts from my new husband: rubies, pearls, diamonds, brocades woven with thread of real gold, silks and velvets, all to be made into adornments and gowns for me.

But our union had not yet been blessed by the Church, and so could not be physically consummated; I had a respite of four days before the Mass.

The next day was the Ascension and the Feast of the apparition of the Archangel Michael; it was also proclaimed a day of celebration for the Kingdom of Naples.

The black morning sky released a stinging downpour of rain and gusting winds. Despite the ominous weather, our family followed my father and his barons to the great cathedral of Santa Chiara, where Ferrante had lain in state only months before. There, the altar had been carefully prepared by Alexander’s Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, with all the symbols of Neapolitan rulership laid out in the order they would be presented to the new King: the crown, studded with gems and pearls; the royal sword, in a jewelled scabbard; the silver sceptre, topped with the gold Angevin lily; and the imperial globe.

My father led us into the church. He had never seemed more handsome, more regal than he did at that moment. He was dressed grandly in a tightly-fitted tunic and breeches of black satin, over which he wore a robe of shining crimson brocade lined with white ermine. Our family and the courtiers stopped at the designated place, but my father continued alone down the vast aisle.

I stood beside my brother and clutched his hand. Neither of us looked the other in the eye; I knew if I met Alfonso’s gaze, I would betray my unhappiness at an hour when I should have felt quite the opposite.

I had learned, shortly after my betrothal to Jofre was renewed, of the deal the new King had struck with Pope Alexander. Alfonso II would grant to Jofre Borgia the principality of Squillace; in return, His Holiness would send a papal legate (in this case, a powerful cardinal from his own family) to crown the King. Thus, Alexander gave his direct, irrevocable blessing and recognition to Alfonso’s reign.

The exchange had been the King’s idea—not the Pope’s, as my father had told me.

He had intentionally purchased his joy at the cost of my sorrow.

The man who would soon be known as Alfonso II stopped at the choir of the canons, where he was greeted by the Archbishop of Naples and the Patriarch of Antiochia. They led him to his seat before the altar, where he listened along with the rest of us as the Papal Bull declaring him undisputed ruler of Naples was read.

My father knelt on a cushion before Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, the papal legate, and carefully repeated the oath after him.

I listened at the same time I contemplated my fate.

Why did my father hate me so? He was indifferent to his other children, save the Crown Prince, Ferrandino—but he showed his eldest son attention only insofar as it was necessary to train him for his position in life. Was it because I had caused more trouble than the others?

Perhaps. But perhaps the answer also lay in old Ferrante’s words: Of all his children, you are most like your father.

But my father had shrieked when he saw the Angevin mummies; I had not.

You always were a coward, Alfonso.

Was it possible that my father’s cruelty sprang from fear? And did he despise me because I possessed the one attribute he did not—courage?

Near the altar, my father had finished swearing his oath. The cardinal handed him a piece of parchment, thus investing him as King, and said, ‘By virtue of Apostolic authority.’

Now a prince of the realm by virtue of marriage, Jofre Borgia stepped forward, small and solemn, with the crown. The cardinal took it from him, then placed it upon my father’s head. It was heavy and slid a bit; the prelate steadied it with one hand while he and the archbishop buttoned the strap beneath my father’s chin, to hold it fast.

The items of rulership were handed to the new King: the sword, the sceptre, the orb. Ceremony dictated that all the Pope’s prelates should now form a circle behind my father, but his brothers, sons, and loyal barons surged forward in an abrupt, impetuous show of support.

Laughing, my father sat down on his throne while the assembly cheered.

‘Viva Re Alfonso! Viva Re Alfonso!’

Despite my fury and resentment at being his pawn, I looked upon him, crowned and glorious, and was amazed by the sudden welling of loyalty and pride within me. I called out with the others, my voice breaking.

‘Viva Re Alfonso!’

The next three days I spent being fitted for a splendid wedding gown. The stomacher was made of the golden brocade my husband had given me, and the gown itself was of black velvet striped with satin, with a chemise of gold silk; both the gown and stomacher were seeded with Jofre’s pearls, and more of his diamonds and pearls were carefully woven into a headdress of the finest gold thread. The sleeves, which tied onto the bodice, were also of striped black velvet and satin, and so voluminous I could have fit my new husband into one. There was a time I would have taken great pride and interest in the gown, and in adorning myself to further enhance my beauty; this was not such a time. I looked upon that gown as a prisoner beholds his chains.

My wedding day dawned crimson, with the sun obscured by clouds. I stood on my balcony at the Castel Nuovo, unable to sleep the long night before, knowing that I was to surrender my home and all I knew to go and live in a strange city. I savoured the scent of the cool sea air and drew it deep into my lungs; would it smell as sweet in Squillace? I stared out at the leaden green bay, presided over by dark Vesuvio, knowing the memory of that moment would never be enough to sustain me. My life revolved around my brother, and his around mine; I conversed with him each morning, supped with him each night, spoke to him throughout the day. He knew and loved me better than my own mother. Jofre seemed a kindly lad, but he was a stranger. How could I cheerfully face life without Alfonso?

Only one thing troubled me more greatly: The knowledge that my little brother would suffer similar loneliness—perhaps worse, since Donna Esmeralda had said he was more sensitive than me. That was the hardest of all to endure.

At last I went inside to my ladies, to begin the preparations for the marriage ceremony, to be held mid-morning.

As the day progressed, the sky grew more dismal and overcast, a perfect reflection of my mood. For Alfonso’s sake, I hid my sorrow; I remained gracious, poised.

As a bride, I was magnificent in my gown; when I entered the castle’s Royal Chapel, a murmur of awe ran through the waiting assembly. I took no pleasure in such appreciation. I was too preoccupied with avoiding the gaze of my brother, allowing myself only a glimpse of him as I passed. He looked regal and adult in a tunic of dark blue, with a gold-hilted sword at his hip. His expression was taut, grave, without a trace of the radiance he had inherited from our mother. He stared carefully ahead at the altar.

Of the religious ceremony, I can tell you only that it went on interminably, and that poor Jofre bore himself with all the regal grace he could summon. But when the time came for him to pass the Bishop’s kiss on to me, he was compelled to stand on tip-toe, and his lips trembled.

Afterwards came a concert, then a lunch that endured for hours, with much drinking of wine and salutes to the new bride and groom. When dusk came, Jofre retired to a nearby palazzo which had been prepared for us. Sunset was entirely hidden by the great, dark storm clouds that had gathered over the bay.

I arrived with the night and the first muted rolls of thunder, accompanied by my father the King, and the Cardinal of Monreale, Giovanni Borgia. The Cardinal was a homely, middle-aged man, with coarse lips and a demeanour to match. His head was shaved in the priest’s tonsure, and his bald crown covered with a red satin skullcap; his portly form was covered by a white satin cassock topped by purple velvet robes, and his thick fingers sparkled with diamonds and rubies.

I left the men in the corridor and entered the bedchamber, which my women had readied for us. Donna Esmeralda undressed me, carrying away not just the beautiful wedding gown, but even my silk chemise. Naked, I was led to the nuptial bed, where Jofre waited. At the sight of me, his eyes grew round; he stared with a naive lack of restraint as one of my ladies pulled back the sheet for me, waited for me to lie beside my new husband, then drew the covering up only so far as my waist. There I lay, my full breasts bared to the world.

Jofre was too shy and I too disheartened to make small talk during this embarrassing ritual—one of the more unpleasant requirements of nobility and power, and there was naught could rescue us from it.

When the King and Cardinal Borgia, whose office it was to witness the nuptial event, entered the chamber, Jofre greeted them with a gracious smile.

It was clear that Cardinal Borgia shared his cousin Rodrigo’s appreciation for younger women, for he stared quite pointedly at my bosom and sighed. ‘How beautiful they are. Like roses.’

I fought the impulse to cover myself. I seethed with resentment that this old man should be carnally entertained at my expense; nor was I at ease with the fact that my father had never seen me unclothed.

The King’s gaze flickered over my nakedness with a detachment that made me shudder; he gave a cold little smile. ‘Like all flowers, they will wither quickly enough.’ His eyes were no longer troubled; tonight, they were bright. He had achieved all he had ever wanted in this world—he was King, with the Pope’s blessing, and such was all the sweeter because he would also soon be rid of his troublesome daughter. This was the moment of his greatest triumph over me; this was the moment of my greatest defeat.

Never did my hatred for my father burn so brightly as it did at that moment; never had my humiliation been so complete. I turned my face away, lest Jofre and the cardinal see the loathing in my eyes. I wanted desperately to pull the sheets around me, to storm from the bed, but the intensity of my anger left me wooden, unable to move.

Jofre broke the brief silence with disarming honesty. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, Your Holiness, if I find myself at the mercy of nerves.’

The cardinal laughed lecherously. ‘You are young, my boy—at your age, all the nerves in Naples cannot impede your performance.’

‘’Tis not my age that gives me hope of success,’ Jofre countered, ‘but the dazzling beauty of my bride.’

From any other lips—save perhaps my Alfonso’s—such words would have been a pretty display of courtly wit. But Jofre uttered them with sincerity, and a shy sidewise glance.

Both men laughed—my father derisively, the cardinal appreciatively. The latter slapped his thigh. ‘Take her then, boy. Take her! I can see from the rise of the sheet that you are ready!’

Awkwardly, Jofre rolled toward me. At that point, his attention was on me: he could not see our two witnesses lean forward in their chairs, keenly watching his every move.

With my assistance, he managed to climb atop me; he was more slender than I and shorter, so when he pressed his pursed lips against mine, his male member poked hard into my belly. Again he trembled, but this time, not from nerves. Given his feminine appearance, I had earlier feared Jofre might be the sort who preferred boys to women, but such was clearly not the case.

Fighting to ignore the sheer misery of the situation, I steadied him and parted my legs as he slid downward toward his goal. Unfortunately, he began to thrust too soon, into my thigh. Unlike the elder Borgia, this youngest one was entirely uneducated as to the act of love. I reached for him, intending to guide him—but the instant I touched him, he let go a cry, and my hand was filled with his seed.

Instinctively, I pulled the evidence out from beneath the sheets and away, inadvertently revealing the mishap to our witnesses. Jofre let go another groan, this one of pure failure, and rolled onto his back.

My father was smiling as broadly as I had ever seen him. Hand extended, palm up, he turned to the chuckling cardinal and demanded: ‘Your purse, Holiness.’

With good humour, the cardinal shook his head, and withdrew from his satin cassock a small purple velvet bag, sagging with coin. This he dropped in the King’s hand. ‘Pure luck, Your Majesty. Pure luck, and nothing more.’

As one of my ladies hurried into the chamber and cleaned my hand with a damp cloth, Jofre propped himself up on his elbows and stared at the two men. His cheeks flushed bright scarlet at the realization that his performance had been the subject of a wager.

The cardinal registered his discomfort and laughed. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, boy. I lost because I didn’t believe you would get so far. You endured longer than most your age. Now we can all get to the real business at hand.’

But my husband’s eyes had filled with mortified tears; he moved away from me and huddled on his side of the bed.

His suffering allowed me to transcend my own shame. My actions did not spring from a desire to be done quickly with this sordid business, but from a desire to free Jofre from his unhappiness. He seemed a gentle soul; he did not deserve such cruelty.

I rolled toward him and whispered in his ear. ‘They mock us because they envy us, Jofre. Look at them: they are old. Their time is past. But we are young.’ I placed his palms upon my breasts. ‘There is no one else in the room. It is only you and I together, here in our marriage bed.’

For pity’s sake, I kissed him—softly, with tender passion, as Onorato had once kissed me. I closed my eyes, blotting out the sight of our tormentors, and imagined I was with my former lover. I ran my hands over Jofre’s narrow, bony back, then down between his thighs. He shivered, and moaned when I caressed his maleness, just as I had been taught; soon he was firm enough to be guided into me, this time successfully.

I kept my eyes closed. In my mind’s eye, there was nothing in the world save me, my new husband, and the approaching thunder.

Jofre was no Onorato. He was small, and I received little stimulation; had it not been for his violent thrusting and the fact I had helped him enter me, I would scarcely have known he penetrated me.

Still, I held on tightly; given the pressure against my chest, I could not help releasing gasps. I only hoped he interpreted them as sounds of pleasure.

After perhaps a minute, the muscles of his legs stiffened; with a howl, he reared his torso backwards. I opened my eyes and saw his own widen with astonishment, then roll upwards, at which point I knew we had met with success.

He collapsed atop me, panting. I felt the subtle sensation of his male organ shrinking inside me, then sliding out altogether; with it came liquid warmth.

I knew that this time, there would be no sexual pleasure for me. Onorato might have cared about satisfying my desire, but it was of no concern to the three men here tonight.

‘Well done, well done,’ the cardinal said, with a faint note of disappointment that his task was so swiftly completed. He blessed us and the bed.

Just behind him stood my father. With Jofre still lying atop me, I stared up at the man who had betrayed me, keeping my gaze cold, heartless. I did not want him to have the pleasure of seeing the unhappiness he had inflicted.

He wore a small, victorious smile; he did not care that I hated him. He was glad to be done with me, even gladder to have received something of value in exchange.

The two men left, and my new husband and I were finally alone. My ladies would not trouble us until morning, when the sheets would be collected as further evidence of our contract’s consummation.

For a long moment, Jofre lay atop me in silence. I did nothing, for after all, he was now my lord and master and it would be rude to interrupt him. And then he pushed my hair behind my ear, and whispered, ‘You are so beautiful. They described you to me, but words cannot do you justice. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

‘You are sweet, Jofre,’ I replied sincerely. A boy he might be, but a likeable one, utterly guileless, if lacking in intelligence. I could grow fond of him…but never love him. Not the way I had loved Onorato.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a sudden vehemence. ‘I’m so sorry…I—I—’ Quite abruptly, he burst into tears.

‘Oh, Jofre.’ I wrapped my arms about him. ‘I’m sorry they were horrible to you. What they did was unspeakable. And what you did was—it was perfectly normal.’

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not the bet. It was unkind of them, yes, but I am a terrible lover. I know nothing about pleasuring women. I knew I would disappoint you.’

‘Hush,’ I said. He tried to pull up and away, onto his elbows, but I pressed him down against me, against my breasts. ‘You are simply young. We all begin inexperienced…and then we learn.’

‘Then I will learn, Sancha,’ he promised. ‘For your sake, I will learn.’

‘Hush,’ I said, holding him to me like the child he was, and began to stroke his long, soft hair.

Outside, the storm had finally broken, and the rain came down in sheets.

Summer 1494—Winter 1495

## V

Early the next morning, Jofre and I left on the journey to our new home in the southernmost reaches of Calabria. I kept my private vow to be brave: I embraced my brother and mother and kissed them both good-bye without shedding a tear; we all repeated promises to visit, to write.

King Alfonso II, of course, could not be bothered to take his leave.

Squillace was a rock scalded by the sun. The town itself stood perched atop a steep promontory. Our palace, painfully rustic by Neapolitan standards, lay far from the sea, the view partially blocked by the ancient monastery founded by the scholar Cassiodorus. The coastline was stark and spare, lacking Naples’ full, graceful curve, and the faded leaves of scraggly, struggling olive orchards constituted the only greenery. The region’s greatest contribution to the arts, of which the populace was immensely proud, was its red-brown ceramics.

The palace was a disaster; furniture and shutters were broken, cushions and tapestries torn, walls and ceilings cracked. The temptation to yield to self-pity and to curse my father for sending me to such a dismal place was great. Instead, I occupied myself with making the palace into a suitable dwelling for royalty. I ordered fine velvet to replace the moth-eaten brocade on the aged thrones, had the worn wood refinished, and sent for fine marble to replace the uneven terra cotta floor of the throne room. The private chambers of the royal couple—the prince’s to the immediate right of the throne room, the princess’ to the left—were in even worse disrepair, and required me to order even more fabrics and hire more craftsmen to set things aright.

Jofre kept himself occupied in quite a different manner. He was young, and away from his domineering family for the first time; now that he was master of his own kingdom, he had no idea how to comport himself properly—and so he did not. Soon after our arrival in Squillace, we were descended upon by a group of Jofre’s male friends from Rome, all of them eager to celebrate the new prince’s good fortune.

In the first few days after our marriage—including the time spent in our comfortable carriage during our southward journey—Jofre half-heartedly tried to make good on his promise to become a better lover. But he tended towards ineptitude and impatience; his own desire soon overwhelmed him, and he usually fulfilled his own needs without addressing mine. After the tenderness and tears he had displayed on our wedding night, I had hoped that I had found someone as kind as my brother. I soon learned that Jofre’s pretty words sprang not so much from compassion as a desire to placate. There was a great difference between goodness and weakness, and Jofre’s agreeable nature was born of the latter.

This was made abundantly clear after the appearance of Jofre’s friends a week after our arrival in Squillace. All of them were young nobles, some married, most not, none of them older than me. There was a pair of his relatives as well, both recently descended upon Rome in order to make the most of their connections to His Holiness: a Count Ippolito Borja from Spain, who had not yet taken to Italicizing the spelling of his name, and a young cardinal of fifteen, Luis Borgia, whose air of smug self-importance immediately provoked my dislike. The palace was still in chaos—scaffolding was everywhere, and the floors were still cracked terra cotta; the marble had not yet been laid in the throne room. Don Luis did not miss an opportunity to comment on the pathetic nature of our dwelling and our principality, especially compared to the magnificence of Rome.

When the crowd arrived, I played my role of hostess in as decent a fashion as possible, given our rural surroundings. I put on a feast and poured for them our best Lachrima Christi, brought from Naples, since the local wine was unpalatable. I dressed modestly in black, as a good wife ought, and at the feast, Jofre showed me off proudly; the men flattered me with countless toasts to my beauty.

I smiled; I was bright and charming, attentive to the men who wanted to impress me with tales of their valour and their wealth. When the hour grew late and everyone else was inebriated, I retired to my chambers and left my husband and his guests to do as they pleased.

I was awakened in the hours before dawn by the muffled screams of a child. Donna Esmeralda, who slept beside me, heard them too: alarmed, we regarded each other only an instant, then snatched our wrappers and hurried toward the source of the sound. No one of conscience could have ignored anything so heart-rending and pitiful.

We had not far to go. The instant I threw open the door that led from my outer chamber to the throne room, I was greeted by a scene Bacchanalian beyond my imagination.

The unfinished floor was covered with tangled bodies, some writhing in drunken passion, others motionless, snoring from a surfeit of wine. Jofre’s friends and whores, I realized with disgust, though as a woman, it was not my place to comment on the peccadilloes of my husband’s guests.

But when I glanced at the two thrones, a fury rose in me which would not be ignored.

In the prince’s throne sat Jofre, somewhat askew; he was entirely naked from the waist down, and his slippers, stockings and breeches lay in a heap upon the step leading to his throne. His pale, bare legs were wrapped tightly about those of a woman who sat upon his lap. No courtesan of noble blood, she was the coarsest, commonest sort of local whore, perhaps twice Jofre’s age, with lips stained an unnatural lurid red and eyes lined heavily with kohl; she was gaunt, poor, unlovely. Her cheap red satin gown had been pulled up to her waist, revealing no undergarment beneath, and her small, sagging breasts had been lifted up from their bodice so that my young husband could clutch them with his hands.

So drunk was he that he failed to notice my entrance and continued to ride his mount, she releasing exaggerated cries with each thrust.

Dalliances were expected of royal men; I had no right to complain, save for the disrespect Jofre now showed the symbol of rulership. Although I had tried to prepare myself for the inevitability of Jofre’s unfaithfulness, I still felt the sting of jealousy.

But it was the sacrilege occurring beside my husband that I would not endure.

Cardinal Luis Borgia, he who so worshiped all things Roman, sat upon my throne—entirely unclothed, his red robe and cardinal’s hat lost somewhere amidst the carnal assembly. Upon his lap was balanced one of our kitchen servants, a boy of perhaps nine years, Matteo, whose breeches had been carelessly pulled down to his knees. Tears streamed down Matteo’s cheeks; it was he who had screamed, he whose cries had now turned to moans of pain as the young cardinal entered him vigorously, brutally, clutching him fast by the midsection so that the child would not be thrown to the floor. The boy himself fought the forward momentum by gripping the recently refinished wooden arms of the throne.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. Incensed by the cardinal’s cruelty and irreverence, I forgot all modesty and let go my wrapper; it dropped to the floor. Clad only in my undergarment, I strode directly to Matteo and tried to pull him away.

His face contorted with inebriated fury, the cardinal held onto the child. ‘Let him scream! I paid the little bastard!’

I cared not; the boy was too young to know better. I pulled again, harder; sobriety conferred on me a determination Luis lacked. His grip weakened and I led the sobbing boy over to an outraged Donna Esmeralda. She took him away to be looked after.

Indignant, Luis Borgia rose—too swiftly, given his drunkenness. He collapsed, and sat quickly down on the stair leading up to my throne, then rested an arm and his head upon the new velvet cushion covering the seat, stained now by Matteo’s blood.

‘How dare you,’ I said, my voice quavering with anger. ‘How dare you harm a child, paid or not, and how dare you disrespect me by performing such an act upon my throne! You are no longer welcome as a guest in this palace. Come morning, you will leave.’

‘I am your husband’s guest,’ he slurred, ‘not yours, and you would do well to remember that he rules here.’ He turned toward my husband; Jofre’s eyes were still closed fast, his lips still parted, as he slapped his body against the whore’s. ‘Jofre! Your Highness, pay attention! Your new wife is a keening virago!’

Jofre blinked; his thrusting ceased. ‘Sancha?’ He regarded me uncertainly; he was far too intoxicated to register the implications of the situation, to feel shame.

‘These men must leave,’ I said, in a clear, strong voice to make sure he heard. ‘All of them, in the morning, and the whores must go straightaway.’

‘Bitch,’ 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. She and the rest of France were devoutly Catholic and deeply loyal to the Pope, who would be outraged by an intrusion into Italy.

Concerned, I wrote to my brother Alfonso to learn the truth of the matter. It took weeks to receive a reply which gave little comfort.

Have no fear, dearest sister,

True, King Charles is hungry for conquest—but at this very moment, our father is meeting with His Holiness Alexander in Vicovaro. They have forged a military alliance, and have carefully planned their strategy; once Charles hears of this, he will be filled with doubts, and will give up his foolish notion of invasion. Besides, with the Pope so strongly on our side, the French people will never support an attack on Naples.

Alfonso could not help trying to couch everything he told me in the most positive terms, but I understood his letter all too well. The French threat was real—so real that my father and the Pope were drawing up battle plans at a retreat outside Rome.

I read the text aloud to Donna Esmeralda. ‘It is just as the priest Savonarola predicted,’ she stated darkly. ‘It is the end of the world.’

I scoffed. I had no patience for the Florentine fool who fancied himself anointed by God, nor for the masses who flocked to hear his Apocalyptic message. Girolama Savonarola railed against Alexander from the safety of his pulpit in the north and lambasted the ruling family of his own city, the Medicis. The Dominican priest had actually presented himself to Charles of France and claimed that he, Savonarola, was God’s own messenger, chosen by Him to reform the church, to cast out the pleasure-loving pagans who had overrun her. ‘Savonarola is a raving madman,’ I said. ‘He thinks that King Charles is a judgment sent by God. He thinks Saint John predicted the invasion of Italy in the Apocalypse.’

She crossed herself at my lack of reverence. ‘How can you be sure he is wrong, Madonna?’ She lowered her voice, as if concerned that Jofre, on the other side of the palace, might hear. ‘It is the wickedness of Pope Alexander and the corruption of his cardinals that has brought this upon us. Unless they repent, we have no hope…’

‘Why would God punish Naples for Alexander’s sins?’ I demanded.

For that, she had no reply.

Even so, Donna Esmeralda took to praying to San Gennaro; I took to fretting. It was not just that the family throne was threatened; my little brother was no longer considered too young to fight. He was trained in the art of the sword. If the need arose, he would be called upon to wield one.

Life continued for the remainder of the summer in Squillace. I was kind to Jofre, though given his weak character, I could not bring myself to love him. In public we were affectionate with one another, even though he visited my bedchamber less often and spent more nights in the company of local whores. I did my best to show no sign of hurt or jealousy.

September arrived, and brought with it evil news.

Dearest sister, Alfonso wrote,

perhaps you have already heard: King Charles has led his troops through the Alps. The feet of French soldiers are planted on Italian soil. The Venetians have struck a bargain with them, and thus caused their city to be spared, but Charles’ eye is now on Florence.

You must not worry. We have amassed a sizable army under the command of Crown Prince Ferrandino, who will lead his men northward to stop the enemy before it ever arrives in Naples. I am remaining here with Father, so you need have no concern over me. Our army, once joined by papal forces, will be invincible. There is no call for fear, for His Holiness Alexander has publicly stated, ‘We would lose our mitre, our lands and our life, rather than fail King Alfonso in his need.’

I could no longer hide my distress. Jofre tried his best to comfort me. ‘They will get no further than Rome,’ he promised. ‘My father’s army will stop them.’

Meanwhile, the French made good time. They sacked Florence, that centre of culture and artistry, then pushed their way relentlessly southward.

Our troops are making progress, Alfonso wrote. They will soon join up with the papal army and stop Charles’ men.

On the last day of December in the year 1494, my brother’s prediction was put to the test. Laden heavily with priceless, stolen goods, the French entered Rome.

Jofre received word of the invasion via a hastily-written letter from his older sister, Lucrezia. It was my turn to comfort him, as we both imagined bloody battles raging in the great piazzas of the Holy City. For days we suffered without word.

One fateful afternoon, as I sat on my balcony composing a long epistle to my brother—the only satisfactory way I could settle my nerves—I heard the thunder of hooves. I ran to the ledge and watched a lone horseman ride up to the castle entrance and dismount.

The style of his dress was Neapolitan; I dropped my quill and ran down the stairs, calling as I did for Donna Esmeralda to summon Jofre.

I hastened into the Great Hall, where the rider already waited. He was young, with black hair, beard and eyes, and dressed in a noble’s finery of rich brown colour; he was covered in dust, and exhausted from a hard journey. He carried no letter, as I had hoped; the message he bore was too critical to commit to writing.

I called for wine and food, and he drank and ate greedily while I impatiently awaited my husband. At last, Jofre entered; we gave the poor man leave to sit, and settled ourselves while we listened to his tale.

‘I come at the request of your uncle, Prince Federico,’ the rider told me. ‘He has received direct word from Crown Prince Ferrandino himself, who as you know was in Rome in command of our forces.’

The word was immediately provoked my alarm.

‘What news of Rome?’ Jofre asked, unable to restrain himself. ‘My father—His Holiness, Alexander, my sister and brother—are they well?’

‘They are,’ said the messenger, and Jofre leaned back with a sigh. ‘So far as I know, they are safe behind the walls of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. It is the situation of Naples itself which is now dire.’

‘Speak,’ I commanded.

‘Prince Federico has bid me to relay the following: Crown Prince Ferrandino’s army entered Rome and engaged the French army there. However, King Charles’ forces outnumber those of Naples, and Ferrandino therefore was relying on the promised assistance of His Holiness.

‘Unbeknownst to the Pope, the Orsini family earlier engaged in a conspiracy with the French and captured Giulia, she who is known as La Bella, Alexander’s favourite. When His Holiness heard that Madonna Giulia was in danger, he ordered his own army to stand down and commanded Prince Ferrandino to withdraw from the city.

‘Prince Ferrandino, facing certain loss, was forced to obey. He now marches homeward, where he will prepare to engage the French army once again.

‘His Holiness, in the meantime, received King Charles in the Vatican, and there negotiated with him. In return for Madonna Giulia, he offered up his son Don Cesare—your brother, Prince Jofre—as a hostage to ride with the French. In this way, he has guaranteed Re Petito safe passage to Naples.’

I stared at the messenger for a long moment before whispering, ‘He has betrayed us. For the sake of a woman, he has betrayed us…’ I felt such outrage that I could not move, could only sit and stare in disbelief at the young noble. Despite his speech about first giving up his mitre, lands, and life, Alexander had deserted King Alfonso, without surrendering a whit.

The tired nobleman took a long drink of wine before continuing. ‘All is not well in Rome, either, Your Highness. The French have plundered the city.’ He turned toward Jofre. ‘Your mother, Vannozza Cattanei—her palace was ransacked, and it is said…’ He lowered his eyes modestly. ‘Forgive me, Highness. It is said they committed unseemly acts upon her person.’

Jofre pressed a hand to his lips.

The rider continued. ‘Madonna Sancha, your uncle, Prince Federico, sends this urgent message: Naples needs the help of all her citizens. It is feared that the approach of the French will encourage an uprising amongst the Angevin barons. The prince has requested that you and your husband bring whatever 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 Majesty,’ my brother explained.

Federico nodded. ‘I won’t soften the truth. Naples is threatened as never before. The barons are in revolt—frankly, with good reason. Against all advice, the King taxed them beyond conscience, appropriated lands unfairly for his own use, then publicly tortured and executed those who dared protest. Now that they know the French are on their way, the barons are heartened. They will fight with Charles to defeat us.’

‘But Ferrandino is coming, with our army,’ I said.

Prince Federico eyed me wearily. ‘Yes, Ferrandino is coming…with the French on his heels. Charles has four times the men we have; without the papal army, we are doomed.’ This he said without apology, despite the fact that Jofre shifted uneasily at the words. ‘That is one reason I sent for you, Jofre. We need your assistance as never before; you must make good on your ties to our kingdom, and convince His Holiness to send military aid as quickly as possible. I realize the safety of your brother Cesare is compromised, but perhaps a solution can be found.’ He paused. ‘We have sent for help from Spain—but there is no way such assistance, even if it is granted, can arrive in time.’ He let go a gusting sigh. ‘And now we are without a king.’

‘You have a king,’ my brother countered swiftly. ‘Alfonso II has clearly abdicated his throne in favour of his son, Ferrandino. That is what the barons and the people must be told.’

Federico gazed at him with admiration. ‘Shrewd. Very shrewd. They have no cause to hate Ferrandino. He is far more liked than your father ever was.’ He began to nod with the first stirrings of enthusiasm. ‘The hell with Alfonso. You’re right, we should consider this disappearance an abdication. Of course, it will be difficult. The barons don’t trust us…they might still fight if they believe this is political manoeuvring on our part. But with Ferrandino, we have a better chance of winning popular support.’

My Uncle Francesco spoke at last. ‘Ferrandino, and mercenaries. We simply have no choice but to hire help, and quickly, before the French arrive. It’s all very well for Prince Jofre to convince Alexander to send papal troops, but we don’t have time for such diplomacy. Besides, they’re too far north to get here in time.’

Federico scowled. ‘Our finances are strained as it is. We can scarcely support our own army, after all of Alfonso’s spending on rebuilding the palaces, and commissioning all of that unnecessary artwork…’

‘We have no choice,’ Francesco argued. ‘It’s that, or lose to the French. We can always borrow money from Spain after the war.’

Federico was still frowning; he opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again at the sound of urgent knocking. ‘Come,’ he commanded.

I recognized the white-haired, hawk-nosed man whose face appeared in the doorway; it was the seneschal, the man in charge of the royal household—which included the royal jewels and financial matters. His expression was stricken; Federico took one glimpse at it, then forgot all royal protocol and hurried over, bending his head down so that the old man could whisper in his ear.

As Federico listened, his eyes widened, then grew dazed. Finally, the seneschal retreated and the door closed once again. My uncle took a few unsteady steps, then sat heavily upon his chair, lowered his head, and put his hand to his heart. He let go a strangled sound.

I thought, for a terrifying instant, that he was dying.

Uncle Francesco rose at once and went to his brother’s side. He knelt and put a hand upon the suffering man’s arm. ‘Federico! Federico, what is it?’

‘He has taken it,’ Federico gasped. ‘The Crown treasures. He has taken it all…’ The Crown treasures constituted the majority of Naples’ wealth.

It took a moment before I realized the word he referred to my father.

I had always imagined that my return home to visit my brother would be one of the happier moments in my life, but the next few days in the Castel Nuovo found us all caught in a special sort of misery. My husband and I spent time in Alfonso’s company, but it was scarcely happy; the harm our father had inflicted upon the kingdom left us stunned and sombre. We could do nothing but wait and hope for Ferrandino and his troops to reach Naples ahead of the French.

Even more painful was the discovery that my mother had disappeared as well. This was a hard fact to accept: you have your mother’s loyal heart, Uncle Federico had said, but I could not accept that Trusia’s loyalty to her lover outweighed that to Naples and her own children. The notion was so ghastly that my brother and I could not bear to discuss it; and so my mother’s betrayal went unmentioned.

The morning after our arrival at the castle, Donna Esmeralda admitted Alfonso into my chambers. I smiled, faintly, in greeting—but my brother did not. He held a wooden box slightly longer than my hand and half as wide; he proffered it to me as a gift.

‘For your protection,’ he said, his tone infinitely serious. ‘We cannot predict what might happen, and I will not rest until I know that you are capable of defending yourself.’

I laughed, partly from a desire to dismiss such a topic.

‘Do not scoff,’ Alfonso urged. ‘It is no joke: The French are on their way to Naples. Open it.’

Reluctantly, I did as instructed. Inside the box, nestled against black velvet, was a small, long dagger with a narrow silver hilt.

‘A stiletto,’ my brother explained, as I drew it from its little scabbard. The hilt was quite short; most of the weapon consisted of the triangular blade, of fine, polished steel terminating in a wickedly sharp point. I dared not even touch the tip with my finger to test its keenness; I knew it would draw blood at once.

‘I chose this for you because it can be easily concealed in your gown,’ Alfonso said. ‘We have seamstresses who can set to work immediately. I came this morning because we have no time to waste. I shall instruct you in its use now.’

I let go a clicking sound of scepticism. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, brother, but this can hardly do battle against a sword.’

‘No,’ Alfonso agreed, ‘and therein lies its beauty. Any soldier will presume you are unarmed, and will therefore approach you without fear. When your enemy draws close, that is when you surprise him. Here.’ He took the weapon from me, and showed me how to hold it properly. ‘With a dagger like this, the best method of doing damage is underhanded, thrusting upward.’ He demonstrated, slitting an imaginary opponent from belly to throat, then handed the little blade to me. ‘Take it. You try.’

I copied his movements precisely.

‘Good, good,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘You are a natural fighter.’

‘I am a daughter of the House of Aragon.’

He at last smiled faintly, which had been my intent.

I scrutinized the steel in my hand. ‘This might be suitable against an Angevin,’ I remarked, ‘but hardly deadly against an armoured Frenchman.’

‘Ah, Sancha, therein lies its power. It is slender enough to pierce chain mail, to slip between spaces in armour—and keen and strong enough, if wielded with sufficient enthusiasm, to penetrate light metal. I know; it was mine.’ He paused. ‘I only pray you never have to use it.’

For his sake, I pretended not to share his fear. ‘It is pretty,’ I said, holding it to the sunlight. ‘Like jewellery. I shall wear it always, as a keepsake.’

But in the days that followed, after small pockets had been added to my bodice, just above the folds of my skirts, I practised alone: withdrawing the stiletto swiftly, surreptitiously, wielding it underhanded, over and over, slaying invisible foes.

Two more days passed, during which time the royal brothers met constantly to formalize their strategy. An edict was announced in the streets, that King Alfonso II had abdicated in favour of his son, Ferrandino. We hoped this would mollify the barons, and keep them from fighting with the French against the Crown. In the meantime, Jofre wrote an impassioned letter to his father, Alexander, giving the official explanation of the abdication and begging for papal support; Prince Federico edited it heavily, then sent it to Rome via secret courier.

One sun-filled February morning, shortly before noonday, I was dining with Jofre and Alfonso when our quiet, listless 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

From the moment Ferrandino arrived, Naples was overrun by soldiers. The armoury lay just 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 turned to Alfonso and me. ‘Spread the word to the rest of the family. Take what is of value, but do not tarry.’

I bowed from the shoulders. As I did, the guard closest to me drew his sword and, too swiftly for any of us to impede him, plunged it into the gut of his fellow.

The wounded young soldier was too startled even to reach for his own weapon. He gazed wide-eyed at his attacker, then down at the blade that pierced him through, protruding from his backside, beneath his ribs.

Just as abruptly, the attacker withdrew the weapon; the dying man sank to the ground with a long sigh, and rolled onto his side. Blood rushed crimson onto the white marble.

Alfonso reacted at once. He seized Ferrandino and pushed the King away with great force, using his own body to block the assassin. Unfortunately, the guard had positioned us to his advantage: both Ferrandino and Alfonso were now backed into the alcove, without the opportunity for flight.

I shot a glance at the King, at my brother, and realized with panic that neither was armed. Only the soldier bore a sword—and he had no doubt been waiting for Don Inaco and Federico and his scimitar to leave.

The guard—a blond, scraggly-bearded youth with determination and terror in his eyes—took another step closer to my brother. I moved between them, to add another layer of protection, and faced the murderer directly.

‘Leave now,’ the guard said. He raised the blade threateningly and tried to affect a harsh tone, but his voice wavered. ‘I have no desire to harm a woman.’

‘You must,’ I replied, ‘or I will kill you.’ He is a boy, I thought, and afraid. That realization caused a strange and sudden detachment to arise in me. My fear departed; I felt only a sense of disgust that we should be in this desperate situation, where one of us should have to live and one of us die, all for the sake of politics. At the same time, I was determined in my loyalty to the Crown. I would give my life for Ferrandino if need demanded it.

At my statement, he laughed, albeit nervously; I was a small female, and he a tall lad. I seemed an unlikely threat. He took yet another step, lowering his sword slightly, and reached out for me, thinking to pull me to him and fling me aside.

Something arose in me: something cold and hard, born of instinct rather than will. I moved towards him as if to embrace him—too close for him to strike at me with his long blade, too close for him to see me free the stiletto.

His body was almost pressed to mine, preventing me from launching a proper, underhanded blow. Instead, I raised the stiletto and struck over-handed, downward, slicing across his eye, his cheek, just grazing his chest.

‘Run!’ I shrieked at the men behind me.

The soldier in front of me roared in pain as he pressed a hand to his eye; blood trickled from between his fingers. Half-blinded, he lifted his sword and reared back, intending to bring it down upon my head, as if to split me in two.

I used the distance between us to find his throat. This was no time for delicacy: I stood on tiptoe and reached up, using my full strength to sink the dagger into the side of his neck. I pushed hard until I reached the centre, only to be stopped by bone and gristle.

Warm blood rained down onto my hair, my face, my breasts; I ran the back of my hand across my eyes in order to see. The young assassin’s sword clanged loudly against the marble; his arms gyrated wildly for an instant as he staggered backwards, my dagger still protruding from his throat. The noises he emitted—the desperate wheezing, the frantic suction of flesh against flesh, mixed with bubbling blood, the effort yet inability to release a scream—were the most horrible I had ever heard.

At last he fell hard onto his back, hands clutching at the weapon lodged in his neck. The heels of his boots kicked against the floor, then slid up and down against it, as if he were trying to run. Finally, he let go a retching sound, accompanied by the regurgitation of much blood which spilled from the sides of his gaping mouth, and grew still.

I knelt beside him. His expression was contorted in the most terrifying way, his eyes—one punctured, red and welling with blood—wide and bulging. With difficulty, I pulled the weapon from his torn throat and wiped it on the hem of my gown, then replaced it in my bodice.

‘You have saved my life,’ Ferrandino said; I looked over to see him kneeling across from me, on the opposite side of the soldier’s body, his face revealing both shock and admiration. ‘I shall never forget this, Sancha.’

Beside him crouched my brother—pale and silent. That pallor and reticence came not from terror over the incident, I knew, but rather from the most recent event he had just witnessed: my removing the stiletto from my victim’s throat, then casually wiping the blood on my gown.

It had been such an easy thing for me, to kill.

I shared a long look with my brother—what a ghastly sight I must have been, head and cheeks and breast soaked crimson—then glanced back down at the failed assassin, who stared up blindly at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, even though I knew he could not hear me—but Ferrante had been right; it did help when the eyes were open. ‘I had to protect the King.’