Free The Borgia Bride by Jeanne Kalogridis Page A

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