Ferrandino was far different from the arrogant young man I had known as a girl. He was still handsome but exhausted and gaunt, humbled and aged by responsibility, war and disappointment. All he wants are pretty girls to admire him and a soft bed, old Ferrante had said years ago, but it was clear the prince had had neither for a very long time.
He entered the room. He had changed his tunic and washed away the dust of travel, but his face was brown from sun, his dark hair and beard unkempt, untrimmed. Ferrante’s daughter, Giovanna, then seventeen, dark-haired and voluptuous, threw her arms around him and they kissed with great passion. Despite the fact that she was his aunt, he had long ago fallen in love with her, and she with him; they were betrothed.
‘My boy.’ Federico was first of the brothers to embrace him warmly.
Ferrandino returned his and Francesco’s embraces and kisses a bit wearily, then scanned the assembled group. ‘Where is Father?’
‘Sit down, Your Highness,’ Federico said, his voice tinged with affection and sorrow.
Ferrandino glanced at him with alarm. ‘Do not tell me he is dead.’ Giovanna, standing on his other side, put a comforting hand upon his arm.
Federico’s lips pressed together tightly to form a thin, straight line. ‘No.’ And as the young prince sat, the older muttered, ‘Better though if he were.’
‘Tell me,’ Ferrandino commanded. He glanced at the rest of us, standing around the table, and said, ‘Everyone, sit. And Uncle Federico, you speak.’
With a great sigh, Federico lowered himself onto the chair next to his nephew. ‘Your father is gone, boy. Gone and sailed to Sicily, as best we can tell, and taken the Crown treasures with him.’
‘Gone?’ The prince stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. ‘What do you mean? For his safety?’ He looked round at our solemn-faced assembly, as if pleading for a word, a sign, to help him understand.
‘Gone as in deserted. He left in the middle of the night without telling anyone. And he has left the kingdom without funds.’
Ferrandino turned wooden; for a long moment, he did not speak, did not look at anyone. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch.
Federico broke the silence. ‘We told the people that King Alfonso decided to abdicate his throne in favour of you. It is the one way we can regain the trust of the barons.’
‘They showed no trust today,’ Ferrandino said tightly. ‘They fired on us, brought down some men and horses. A few fools with swords even charged our infantry.’ He paused. ‘My men need food and fresh supplies. They cannot fight on empty bellies. They have been through enough. When they learn—’
He broke off and covered his face with his hands, then bent forward until his brow touched the table. All was silent.
‘They will learn that you are the King,’ I said, surprising even myself with my sudden, vehement words. ‘And you will be a better King by far than my father ever was. You are a good man, Ferrandino. You will treat the people fairly.’
Ferrandino straightened and ran his hands over his face, forcing away his grief; Prince Federico directed a look of profound approval at me.
‘Sancha is right,’ Federico said, turning back to his nephew. ‘Perhaps the barons mistrust us now. But you are the one man who can win their confidence. They will see that you are just, unlike Alfonso.’
‘There is no time,’ Ferrandino said tiredly. ‘The French will soon be here, with an army more than thrice the size of ours. And now there is no money.’
‘The French will come,’ Federico agreed grimly. ‘And we can only do our best when they do. But Jofre Borgia has written to his father, the Pope; we will get you more troops, Your Highness. And if I have to swim to Sicily with these tired old arms’—he held them out dramatically—‘I will get you the money. That I swear. All we must do now is find a way to survive.’
Instinct propelled me to rise, to go to Ferrandino’s side and kneel. ‘Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I swear fealty to you, my sovereign lord and master. Whatever I have is yours; I am entirely at your command.’
‘Sweet sister,’ he whispered, and clutched my hand; he drew me to my feet, just as old Federico knelt and likewise pledged his loyalty. One by one, each family member followed suit. We were a small group, torn by fear and doubt over what would betide us in the coming days; our voices wavered slightly as we cried out:
Viva Re Ferrante!
But our hearts were never more earnest.
So it was that King Ferrante II of Naples came to power, without ceremony, a crown, or jewels.
VII
From the moment Ferrandino arrived, Naples was overrun by soldiers. The armoury lay just cast of the royal castle, along the shoreline, protected by the ancient Angevin walls and newer, sturdier walls erected by Ferrante and my father. From my bedchamber balcony, I had a direct view: never had I seen so much artillery, so many great heaps of iron balls the size of a man’s head. During my lifetime, the armoury had been a mostly deserted place, filled with silent cannons rusted by salt and spray: now it was bustling and noisy as soldiers worked on the equipment, practised drills, and shouted to one another.
Our palace, too, was surrounded by the military. On the winter days when it was not too cool and the sun shone, I liked to take my meals on the balcony—but now I stopped the practice, for it was disheartening to see the soldiers lined up around the castle walls below, their weapons at the ready.
Each morning, Ferrandino was visited by his commanders. He spent his days closeted in the office that had been his grandfather’s, then his father’s, discussing strategy along with his generals and the royal brothers. He was only twenty-six years of age, but the lines in his brow were those of a man much older.
Of our military plans, I had only the news which Alfonso, who often attended the meetings, shared with me: that Ferrandino had posted royal decrees lowering the taxes on the nobles, promising rewards and the return of lands for those who remained loyal to the Crown and fought with us against the French. Word was spread that our father had willingly abdicated in favour of his son and had left Naples for a monastery, in order to do penance for his many sins. Meanwhile, we waited to hear from the Pope and the Spanish King, hoping for promises of more troops; Ferrandino and the brothers hoped the barons might be swayed by the decrees and send a representative, promising support. What Alfonso did not say—but which was clear to me—was that such expectations were founded on the deepest desperation.
With each passing day, the young King’s expression grew more haunted.
In the meantime, Alfonso and Jofre engaged in swordplay as a method of easing the nerves that afflicted us all. Alfonso was the better swordsman, having been schooled in the Spanish fashion as well as being naturally more graceful than my little husband; Jofre was immediately impressed and made fast friends with him. Wishing always to please those in his company—which now included my brother—Jofre treated me with more respect and gave up visiting courtesans. The three of us—Alfonso, Jofre and I—became inseparable; I watched as the two men in my life parried with blunted swords, and cheered for them both.
I treasured those few pleasant days in the Castel Nuovo with a sense of poignancy, knowing they would not last long.
The end came at dawn, with a blast that shook the floor beneath my bed and jolted me awake. I threw off my covers, flung open the doors and ran out onto the balcony, vaguely aware that Donna Esmeralda was beside me.
A hole had been blown in the nearby armoury wall. In the greyish light, men lay half-buried in the rubble; others ran about shouting. A crowd—some of them soldiers, wearing our uniforms, others in commoner’s clothing—stormed into the armoury through the breach in the stone and began to hack at the startled victims with swords.
I glanced at once at the horizon, anticipating the French. But there were no invading armies here, no dark figures marching across the sloping hills towards the town, no horses.
‘Look!’ Donna Esmeralda clutched my arm, then pointed.
Just below us, at the
Castel Nuovo walls, the soldiers who had for so long guarded us now unsheathed their sabres. The streets outside the palace came alive with men, who emerged from every door, from behind every wall. They swarmed toward the soldiers, then engaged them; from beneath us came the sharp, high ring of steel against steel.
Worse, some of the soldiers joined with the commoners, and began to fight against their fellows.
‘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.’ 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 assassin’s sword clanged loudly against the marble; his arms gyrated wildly for an instant as he staggered backwards, my dagger s
till 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 incident, I knew, but rather from the most recent event he had just witnessed: my removing the stiletto from my victim’s 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. ‘I’m 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.