Ferrandinos 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 dellOvo. 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 Kings bidding.
As he did, Federico lifted the scimitar and pointed it accusingly at his nephew; I had never seen the old prince so red-faced 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 weapons 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 assassins 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 soldiers 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 victims 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. Im 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.
I reached out then, and placed my palm gently upon his cheek, where my stiletto had left its mark. His skin was soft still, and very warm.
Alfonso and the King armed themselves with swords from Ferrandinos chambers, then escorted me back to my rooms, though I had proven my ability to protect myself.
When Donna Esmeralda saw me-drenched from head to skirt with thickening blood-she screamed, and would have fallen had Alfonso not caught her. Once she learned I had not been harmed, she recovered remarkably. Jofre was there, too, having come searching for me, and he cried out my name with such fear and alarm I was quite gratified. Even after he learned I was well, he clasped my hand-undeterred by its sticky coating-and would not leave my side until the King gave the order.
Once the men had left-promising to return with instructions-Donna Esmeralda brought a basin of water and set to work bathing me.
As she dipped a cloth in the water, rosy and clouded from my victims blood, she whispered, You are so brave, Madonna! His Majesty should give you a medal. What was it like, to kill a man?
It was I paused, searching for the right words to describe my feelings. Necessary. Just something you do because it is necessary. In truth, it had been remarkably simple. I began to tremble, not because I had taken a mans life, but because I had done so with ease.
Here, here. Donna Esmeralda draped a shawl around my naked shoulders; I had thrown the damp gown on the floor, leaving it for an Angevin traitor or a Frenchman to find later and puzzle over. I know you are bold, but it has still been a great shock.
I had no patience for coddling, however. I dressed again quickly, then rinsed my blade in the bloodied water, wiped it carefully, and resheathed it beneath my clean bodice. Only then did I help Esmeralda gather up our most vital belongings in a trunk. The costliest jewels I hid on my person, wrapping them tightly against my hips, beneath my skirts. Many beautiful things-fine fur coverlets, carpets, silk tapestries and brocade hangings, as well as heavy candelabra of silver and gold, paintings by old masters-had to be left behind for our enemies.
After that, there was nothing more to be done than wait, and calm ourselves each time the cannons roared.
Shortly before noonday, Jofre appeared with servants to carry our trunk, and a pair of armed guards. Out of a habit acquired before appearing in public, I smoothed my hair-only to discover it was stiff from remnants of dried blood.
Once again, I moved swiftly through the corridors of the Castel Nuovo: this time I did not allow myself the luxury of studying the walls and furnishings, of indulging in grief over what I was leaving behind. I kept my mind divorced from my emotions, with the former ascendant. We may have been in the midst of defeat-but I believed that Ferrandino was right, that it was only temporary. I did my best to bear myself with dignity and assurance, for the House of Aragon had never needed it more. Jofre, to his credit, walked beside me, his manner grave and intense, but revealing no fear.