The Borgia Bride

‘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 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.’