later.’
Ferrante let go my hand. I made a little curtsy and said, ‘Your Majesty.’ I would have run full tilt had the Hall not been filled with adults who all would have turned and demanded decorum; as it was, I walked as swiftly as possible over to my waiting brother.
He took a single glimpse at my face and threw his arms about me. ‘Oh, Sancha! So it is true…I am so sorry you had to see. Were you frightened?’
My heart, which had grown so chilled in the presence of my two elders, thawed in Alfonso’s presence. He did not want to know the details of what I had witnessed; he wanted only to know how I had fared. I was a bit surprised that my little brother was not more shocked to learn that the rumour was true. Perhaps he understood the King better than I did.
I drew back, but kept my arms entwined with his. ‘It was not so bad,’ I lied.
‘Father looked angry; I fear he will punish you.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t. Ferrante didn’t care a whit.’ I paused, then added with childish bravado, ‘Besides, what will Father do? Make me stay in my room? Make me go without supper?’
‘If he does,’ Alfonso whispered, ‘I will come to you, and we can play quietly. If you’re hungry, I can bring you food.’
I smiled and laid a palm on his cheek. ‘The point is, you mustn’t worry. There’s nothing Father can do that will really hurt me.’
How very wrong I was.
Donna Esmeralda was waiting outside the Great Hall to lead us back to the nursery. Alfonso and I were in a jolly mood, especially as we moved past the classroom where, had this not been a holiday, we would have been studying Latin under the uninspired tutelage of Fra Giuseppe Maria. Fra Giuseppe was a sad-faced Dominican monk from the nearby monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, famed as the site where a crucifix had spoken to Thomas Aquinas two centuries earlier. Fra Giuseppe was so exceedingly corpulent that both Alfonso and I had christened him in Latin Fra Cena , Father Supper. As we passed by the classroom, I solemnly began the declension of our current favourite verb. ‘ Ceno ,’ I said. I dine.
Alfonso finished, sotto voce. ‘Cenare,’ he said. ‘ Cenavi. Cenatus .’
Donna Esmeralda rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
I giggled at the joke on Fra Giuseppe, but at the same time, I recalled a phrase he had used in our last lesson to teach us the dative case. Deo et homnibus peccavit .
He has sinned against God and men.
I thought of Robert’s marble eyes, staring at me. I wanted to know they were listening .
Once we were in the nursery, the chambermaid joined Esmeralda in carefully removing our dress clothes while we wriggled impatiently. We were then dressed in less restrictive clothing—a loose, drab gown for me, a plain tunic and breeches for Alfonso.
The door to the nursery opened, and we turned to see our mother, Madonna Trusia, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Donna Elena, a Spanish noblewoman. The latter had brought her son, our favourite playmate: Arturo, a bony, long-limbed hellion who excelled at chases and tree-climbing, both sports I enjoyed. My mother had changed from her formal black into a pale yellow gown; looking at her smiling face, I thought of the Neapolitan sun.
‘Little ones,’ she announced. ‘I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic.’
Alfonso and I whooped our approval. We each grasped one of Madonna Trusia’s soft hands. She led us from the nursery into the castle corridors, Donna Elena and Arturo in tow.
But before we reached freedom, we had an unfortunate encounter.
We passed my father. Beneath his blue-black moustache, his lips were grim with purpose, his brow furrowed. I surmised he was headed for the nursery to inflict my punishment. Given the current circumstances, I could also guess what it would be.
We came to an abrupt stop.
‘Your Highness,’ my mother said sweetly, and bowed. Donna Elena followed suit.
He acknowledged Trusia with a curt question. ‘Where are you
Ferrante let go my hand. I made a little curtsy and said, ‘Your Majesty.’ I would have run full tilt had the Hall not been filled with adults who all would have turned and demanded decorum; as it was, I walked as swiftly as possible over to my waiting brother.
He took a single glimpse at my face and threw his arms about me. ‘Oh, Sancha! So it is true…I am so sorry you had to see. Were you frightened?’
My heart, which had grown so chilled in the presence of my two elders, thawed in Alfonso’s presence. He did not want to know the details of what I had witnessed; he wanted only to know how I had fared. I was a bit surprised that my little brother was not more shocked to learn that the rumour was true. Perhaps he understood the King better than I did.
I drew back, but kept my arms entwined with his. ‘It was not so bad,’ I lied.
‘Father looked angry; I fear he will punish you.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t. Ferrante didn’t care a whit.’ I paused, then added with childish bravado, ‘Besides, what will Father do? Make me stay in my room? Make me go without supper?’
‘If he does,’ Alfonso whispered, ‘I will come to you, and we can play quietly. If you’re hungry, I can bring you food.’
I smiled and laid a palm on his cheek. ‘The point is, you mustn’t worry. There’s nothing Father can do that will really hurt me.’
How very wrong I was.
Donna Esmeralda was waiting outside the Great Hall to lead us back to the nursery. Alfonso and I were in a jolly mood, especially as we moved past the classroom where, had this not been a holiday, we would have been studying Latin under the uninspired tutelage of Fra Giuseppe Maria. Fra Giuseppe was a sad-faced Dominican monk from the nearby monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, famed as the site where a crucifix had spoken to Thomas Aquinas two centuries earlier. Fra Giuseppe was so exceedingly corpulent that both Alfonso and I had christened him in Latin Fra Cena , Father Supper. As we passed by the classroom, I solemnly began the declension of our current favourite verb. ‘ Ceno ,’ I said. I dine.
Alfonso finished, sotto voce. ‘Cenare,’ he said. ‘ Cenavi. Cenatus .’
Donna Esmeralda rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
I giggled at the joke on Fra Giuseppe, but at the same time, I recalled a phrase he had used in our last lesson to teach us the dative case. Deo et homnibus peccavit .
He has sinned against God and men.
I thought of Robert’s marble eyes, staring at me. I wanted to know they were listening .
Once we were in the nursery, the chambermaid joined Esmeralda in carefully removing our dress clothes while we wriggled impatiently. We were then dressed in less restrictive clothing—a loose, drab gown for me, a plain tunic and breeches for Alfonso.
The door to the nursery opened, and we turned to see our mother, Madonna Trusia, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Donna Elena, a Spanish noblewoman. The latter had brought her son, our favourite playmate: Arturo, a bony, long-limbed hellion who excelled at chases and tree-climbing, both sports I enjoyed. My mother had changed from her formal black into a pale yellow gown; looking at her smiling face, I thought of the Neapolitan sun.
‘Little ones,’ she announced. ‘I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic.’
Alfonso and I whooped our approval. We each grasped one of Madonna Trusia’s soft hands. She led us from the nursery into the castle corridors, Donna Elena and Arturo in tow.
But before we reached freedom, we had an unfortunate encounter.
We passed my father. Beneath his blue-black moustache, his lips were grim with purpose, his brow furrowed. I surmised he was headed for the nursery to inflict my punishment. Given the current circumstances, I could also guess what it would be.
We came to an abrupt stop.
‘Your Highness,’ my mother said sweetly, and bowed. Donna Elena followed suit.
He acknowledged Trusia with a curt question. ‘Where are you
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