flesh; a yelp from Juan and a darkening stain on the front of his tunic confirmed it.
I expected him to flee, as he had in war; indeed, he backed away for an instant, wearing an expression of dismay and tender self-concern as he touched fingers to the wound, then examined them for blood. The sight of it- though there was little-ignited a bright hatred in his eyes, and he called a name hoarsely.
‘Giuseppe!’
The boxwood rustled, and a servant emerged. Giuseppe was twice the width and half again the height of Juan. I panicked truly then. I pushed myself to sitting and swung wildly with my dagger. Giuseppe laughed, but his eyes were troubled.
Deftly, he pushed me down and clutched my wrists so hard the bones felt crushed to powder; I was forced to drop my weapon. I filled my lungs with air, and screamed pure fury into his face, praying that someone might be near the garden, staring out from the loggia-but the only response was the gurgling play of water from the cherub fountain.
Giuseppe crouched at my head and held my hands pinned fast as I kicked and thrashed with my legs; all the while, Juan loomed over me, triumphant, and unlaced his codpiece.
‘So,’ he joked with his henchman, ‘the mare is still unbroken? We shall ride her all the same.’
I did not make the act either easy or pleasant for him; he had to use his full weight to pin me down, and he was smaller in build than Cesare, so the task took a great deal of effort for him. But in the end, he was the stronger; I the weaker, and so he succeeded in violating me. He forced my legs apart, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of my thighs, bruising me. Then he thrust himself inside me with a brutality that made me bite my lip lest I give him the satisfaction of crying out in pain.
As Giuseppe gripped my arms, Juan pounded against me, grunting, swearing, calling me profane names no man would call the lowest whore, while the impact pressed the pebbles beneath me into my skin. The event seemed to last a mortifying eternity. During it, I forced myself to separate myself from the horror of what was happening, to distance myself from a rage that verged on madness:
The indignity Juan inflicted on me excited him overmuch; in reality, it was not long before he let go an explosive cry and reared against me, his eyelids fluttering.
With a deep sigh, he withdrew from me with intentional roughness; his warm fluid spilled out onto my legs. ‘There, bitch. Now you can say you have had a man.’ He pulled one of my hands from Giuseppe’s grip, and stared at my smallest finger, where I wore a small circlet of gold given me by my mother.
‘A keepsake,’ he said, smiling. ‘That it what I need from my new lover, so I shall always remember this moment.’ He stole it from rose, then rose, triumphant, swaggering. ‘Now, Donna Sancha, if you have any iota of sense in that feminine head of yours, you will leave Cesare and come begging to me for more.’
In answer, I spat at him. Unfortunately, Giuseppe still held me pinned, so my spittle never reached its target. Juan laughed as he refastened his leggings, then to his servant said, ‘Take her if you want. It is of no matter to me. One cunt is the same as another.’
And he strutted away, a peacock.
As for the servant: I lolled my head back, the better to see his eyes, and whispered, ‘Touch me, and I swear your life is forfeit.’
To my astonishment, he replied: ‘Forgive me, Madonna. To save my own life, I have aided this act-but I shall harm you no further, and shall pray each day to God for forgiveness-though I do not expect it from you.’
Then he was gone.
I rolled onto my side and at once took hold of my stiletto: throughout the brutal act, I had not allowed myself to lose the knowledge of where it rested in the gravel. Trembling, I replaced it in my dust-covered bodice. Fury, shame, and pain so overwhelmed me I scarce could stand; somehow, I managed not only to rise and collect myself so that my face was not a mask of terror, but to direct my shaking legs to walk.
I returned to my chambers and dismissed all my ladies-all save Donna Esmeralda. I allowed her to bathe me and put salve on the worst bruises, then dress me in a clean nightgown.
Afterwards, I began to shake with a violence so intense I feared it would split my body in two; then came a torrent of gasping, like a storm. But I would not weep because a man had hurt me; I would not weep, though in the end, I told her everything. Through it all, Esmeralda held me fast, as a mother would a child.
Spring-Summer 1497
XVIII
That evening, I sent a cryptic message via Esmeralda that only Cesare would understand: the black lady was ill. I was not of a mood to explain the events of the day to anyone, so I spent the night alone, save for good Esmeralda, with whom I shared the bed and whose quiet, stolid presence proved a great comfort. Out of respect for my misery, Esmeralda spoke only once-softly, but with a ferocity no less chilling: ‘Do not fear, my Sancha. God is witness to the crime against you, and in time, He will take His revenge.’
The following morning, I was not even sure that I should tell my lover of his brother’s crime. I worried Cesare might lose his head and react with violence-even though I dreamt of murdering Juan myself. But the Duke of Gandia was Alexander’s favourite-and I feared, after learning that Cesare’s own father had threatened him, that His Holiness would avenge any harm done Juan.
For two days, I feigned illness-turning Jofre away with the same excuse-and then Cesare sent a message back through Esmeralda, begging to see me at our usual place, if I was well enough.
I responded that I would meet him-for I missed him, but I had already concocted an excuse as to why we should not have sexual relations that night. The bruises left on my back-imprints of each accursed pebble on the path where Juan had taken me-had faded slightly, as had the marks on my thighs and wrists, but were visible enough to draw questions.
So, veiled in black, I went at the appointed hour to the appointed place and found myself, for the first time, alone there. Cesare did not await me, as he always had; Cesare, in fact, never appeared.
My first reaction, being of royal blood and by nature impatient, was one of anger. How dare he insult me so?
My second reaction was one of fear. What if he had learned of Juan’s crime, and had been injured or killed in his efforts to seek justice?
I lingered in the darkness, hoping Cesare would arrive with an explanation that would put my doubts to rest; but he did not come, and I returned to my bedchamber, troubled.
The next day, Cesare was immersed in Vatican business, and failed to appear at the family supper. I sent an even-toned letter asking whether there had been a misunderstanding, but a day passed, then two, and I received no reply.
My confusion grew. Even had Cesare miraculously learned of Juan’s crime against me, that would scarce be cause for his sudden silence. If anything, he would be rushing to comfort me, to vow revenge against Juan.
My opportunity finally came at one of the many parties Lucrezia had planned. The great loggia of the Palazzo Santa Maria was the chosen site, large enough to allow for a good deal of dancing. His Holiness sat on a throne and enjoyed dictating who should dance with whom.
At one point, he demanded that Cesare and I dance together.
Fortunately, the music was loud, and we were not the only dancers on the floor. This gave me the opportunity
