The Borgia Bride by Jeanne Kalogridis Page A

‘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