The Borgia Bride Read Free Page B

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