‘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 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 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.’
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
