Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  “A little girl, and a howler, too. Just like the rest of the family.” He gave a hearty laugh. “But they are both as fine as can be, and for that we’re grateful.”

  “Well, tell Nicoletta and Lorenzo that I give my congratulations. I have something for the baby, too. Wait a moment!” Nella ran back inside, still carrying the kitten, and fetched the small, delicately embroidered yellow blanket that she had been working on ever since she’d learned of Nicoletta’s pregnancy. She placed it in the carrying basket and lowered it to the ground.

  Cornelius smiled when he saw it. “Why, our Little Giovanna will look adorable snuggled up in this, Nella!” He fingered the designs before looking up. “Perhaps you should begin to sell your embroidery, too?” he teased, knowing full well Nella’s frustration with textiles.

  Nella laughed. “Medicines and beauty potions are enough for me, Cornelius. Only but my dearest friends can entice me to pull out a needle and thread.”

  Cornelius said his goodbyes, and Nella, cuddling the kitten, walked into the library. “The name Persephone is a little long for such a small thing,” she told the cat, scratching behind its ears. “Perhaps we should shorten it to Persi. What do you think of that?”

  The cat meowed.

  “Ah well, you didn’t choose your name any more than I chose mine. Petrosinella. It’s a form of Petrosine. Parsley. Frightful, isn’t it? I hate parsley. It’s the one thing I’ll never grow.”

  With that thought causing her a frown, she closed the balcony door and let the kitten loose on the floor so she could return to her work.

  Though her medicines were well received, Cornelius told her time and again that her beauty solutions were the most sought after, made all the more desirable by his refusal to share the name of its maker with his customers. Throwing her long blonde hair over her shoulder, Nella bent over the stove where she warmed a pot of rosewater. Her melted beeswax was already on the table and as soon as the rosewater was cooled to a lukewarm temperature, she poured it into the beeswax, beating it steadily until it was smooth and thick. She tested it with her finger.

  “Not bad.” She smelled it and smiled. “I think this one should sell just as well as ever. Cornelius said he needed more hair wash, though.” The kitten did not seem interested in conversation, and began batting at the fringe of a tapestry hanging on the wall. Nella’s workshop was one of her favorite places in the tower. There were heavy curtains on each of the massive windows that could be drawn if needed, but she liked the way the light shone through and illuminated everything in their path. Her glass jars and tubes that she used for extracting essential oils made her look like a madwoman, but Nella had a method to everything she did, just as Nonna had taught her.

  It was Nonna’s odd methods and endless experiments that had caused them so much trouble in the first place. If she hadn’t been so keen on trying to cure every disease, maybe the villagers wouldn’t have become so wary of her mixes and the strange smells and smoke that their cottage emitted. Maybe she never would have been labeled a witch.

  Nella bottled up her face cream and quickly wrote some labels, which she tied to the bottles with a piece of twine. She kept one for herself—this she put into her own bedchamber—and then stacked the rest in the empty wooden crate prepared for Cornelius’s next visit, just as she had done countless times. She sighed, surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. Normally finishing a batch gave her a feeling of satisfaction, but today her only emotion was weariness. Am I jealous? Jealous of Nicoletta, with her normal life and baby daughter? So much new life today. She looked at Persi and smiled, grateful for the presence of the little creature. What have I to be discontent about? I am safe and warm, and now I even have company. What more could I ask for?

  She undressed for bed and unbraided her long blonde hair. The sun had just set, and the stars twinkled in endless glory for her to see as she stood upon the second, tiny balcony outside of her bedroom. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to keep away the evening’s chill, and the breeze played with her hair. She closed her eyes and felt the wind on her face, its movements bringing her a wave of pleasure. She almost wished she could pray—though her grandmother had not been a religious woman, they’d attended mass and prayed by rote when they’d lived in the village. Since coming to the tower as a girl of twelve, however, Nella hadn’t thought about such things and she doubted God would wish to hear from a woman no better than a pagan. She sighed. Her life was secure now, but at that moment the future seemed threatening. What if, heaven forbid, Cornelius was right and something prevented him from coming to see her? She relied on him for nearly everything—food, clothing, and even water when they’d had a dry spell. She could survive, perhaps, from the vegetables she grew along with her herbs and flowers on the tower’s rooftop garden. But it would be a lonely, precarious existence indeed. It was not the first time he’d spoken a warning alluding to impending war, but she’d never taken him too seriously—until now. He had never looked so worried before. What would I do?

  Leaving the tower was completely out of the question. She had thought it an idea, once. But that had changed the day Nonna died. That was the day she discovered that she could never leave.

  II.

  Benedict Allesandro said that he had gone on his daily ride for exercise. That had been a lie. Truthfully, he was avoiding his fiancée.

  “She’s a very… beautiful girl,” his mother had reminded him that morning. As Bellarmine’s queen, he knew that his mother had long hoped for her eldest son to find a suitable bride, but even she had seemed to struggle at the thought of Lady Cécile Verdier for a daughter-in-law. Better a daughter-in-law than a wife, Benedict thought.

  The sun had begun to sink in the sky, and he knew he needed to turn back towards the castle. The thought did not please him. Though certainly a beauty and more than intelligent, there was something artificial and calculating about Cécile’s demeanor, giving Benedict a constant urge to escape her presence.

  “It’s time you returned,” his younger brother, Orlando, greeted him at the front hall. “I was wondering if you had escaped the country altogether.”

  “I certainly thought about it.”

  Orlando followed Benedict upstairs into Benedict’s chamber. “You cannot avoid the woman forever. You are to be married.”

  “Then I shall face her then. Let me savor my last few days of freedom!” Benedict quickly stripped himself of his riding clothes and changed for dinner. “Here, hold this.” He handed Orlando his royal pendant, straightening his giorna before letting his brother place the chain over his head.

  There was a knock upon the door and at Benedict’s permission, it opened. It was his mother, dressed for dinner but with a look of disappointment in her eyes.

  “Out riding again, Benedict?” she asked.

  “You know how the fresh air invigorates me.”

  “Please, Benedict,” her gaze was pleading. “Try. Please attempt to like her. I know she is not the easiest to love, but if you could simply set aside your first impression of her, perhaps the two of you could find happiness. You know this betrothal took ages to arrange.”

  He had tried to engage his fiancée in conversation, but Cecile had an off-putting tendency to answer his every question with vague disapproval in her eyes. “I will try, but that does not change the fact that currently I’d rather be thrown into the tombs of Sainct-Maurice.”

  “Benedict!” His mother scolded.

  “I apologize; no doubt the sentiment is ill-mannered and discourteous. But mother,” he smiled at her in the way that had won her over since his childhood, “how can I help but compare my future wife to you, a woman of incomparable virtue and beauty? No one else shall ever equal you.”

  “Cease your manipulative flattery, Benedict Allesandro,” his mother scolded. “I am no paragon, as your father well knows. Now, the food is ready, and they cannot begin without the three of us. You know how irritable I can be when meals are delayed. That’s only one of the many defects that belie yo
ur words about me.”

  The table was full that night. Though King Giancarlo was a man more practical than poetic, with little use for aimless popularity or pomp, his court was a glittering exhibition of the arts, driven by his wife and sons’ appreciation for such things. Food was plenty and the conversation good. Artists, eager for the patronage of the wealthy and powerful, kept their ears tuned for word of opportunities, while ladies let their wit sparkle in display, verbally jousting with men all too eager for a pretty wife or sweetheart. Normally, this scene of after-dinner entertainment would have lifted Benedict’s spirits, reminding him of his time spent in Florence and Milan, but tonight it brought him only discomfort. Lady Cécile had not seen him enter yet. She was seated near the fire, its light casting up onto her face a warming glow and illuminating the silver threads of embroidery shot through her blue high-waisted gown. Her gaze was fixed upon a young couple who were engaged in a game of chess.

  Perhaps I can try, he thought as he watched her. At least our marriage does not require me to move to an unfamiliar and foreign land, as it does for her. She deserves my compassion for that, if nothing else.

  The betrothal, of course, was purely political. Relations with the neighboring kingdom of Ruchartes had always been tense, and bad blood had remained between the two royal families for generations. Ruchartes’s continued claim as rightful rulers of Bellarmine was heightened by the fact that Bellarminian land contained a highly desirable mountain pass and access to the rest of Italy. Twice in the past century Ruchartes had attempted invasion, and though they had failed, rumors had lately begun to swirl about King Michel’s plans to resurrect the old Ruchartan dream of conquest. With such delicate and easily toppled foreign relations, Benedict’s parents had thought a marriage treaty would afford them some stability. Unfortunately, King Michel was childless, and the closest female relative of marriageable age was his niece, Lady Cécile.

  “Admiring your betrothed?” a familiar voice asked at his side, and he turned to see his brother’s fiancée, Silvana, beside him.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Do you like her?” he asked.

  Silvana opened her mouth and then closed it again before finally saying, “She does not seem unkind. But we don’t talk very much. She doesn’t seem interested in my company, I am afraid.”

  Benedict sighed. “I shall see if I can interest her in mine.” He gave Silvie a hopeful smile and was about to move across the room when a hand grasped his arm.

  “May I have a moment of your time, m’lord?” It was one of his most trusted servants, Jerome.

  “Of course.” The two moved towards the hallway.

  “This was in the lady’s bedchamber,” he whispered discreetly, nodding towards Lady Cécile and handing Benedict a letter.

  “What were you doing in there?” Benedict asked as they both moved further down the hall. “I must say I disapprove of your entering a ladies’ room in such a manner.”

  “I was suspicious. I had seen her more than once with a man of her people—Lord Amyot—and I feared…”

  “For my honor? I see our betrothal means little to her. I must say, I was little pleased with our marriage arrangement, but I had at least planned on remaining faithful to our vows.”

  “If this letter is any indication, it was no lover’s tryst, my lord. ‘tis much worse.”

  Benedict opened the letter and read it quickly. “Who else knows of this, Jerome?” he asked, all traces of jesting gone from his voice as his heart fell. He had no wish to marry the woman, but neither did he rejoice in the news the missive contained.

  “No one.”

  “Please tell Orlando I wish to see him in my father’s chambers. I think I should speak to both of them.” He stared at Jerome’s back and let out a shaky breath when he was out of sight. The news had shaken him more than he wished to reveal. He preferred to face his threats straight-on rather than through the maze of court intrigue and espionage.

  When Benedict arrived in his father’s study, he found that he was not alone; two of his father’s advisors, Lord Ludovico and his cousin, Cardinal Marchisetti, were both conversing with the king. Benedict stood to the side of the room.

  “Yes, Benedict?” his father inquired, as Orlando entered.

  Benedict looked to Marchestti and Ludovico, and, deciding to rely on their trustworthiness, handed his father the letter.

  “Jerome found this in the chamber of Lady Cécile Verdier. The letter is signed with initials—vague, but suggestive—and they reference a plot against the Bellarminian crown.”

  “More specifically, against you,” his father said gravely, as he read the missive. His face grew more and concerned as he read, until finally he stood up in agitation and crumpled the letter in his hand. “I should have known that their agreement to the treaty was too good to be true. Does anyone else know of this?”

  “Aside from Jerome, only those in this room.”

  Orlando took the letter and straightened it before reading. “She means to kill you, Benedict,” he said in disbelief. “Or at least participate in orchestrating your death.”

  Benedict kept his voice steady. “So it would seem.”

  “Are you certain that this is what the letter truly means?” Cardinal Marchisetti asked. “Without this treaty, our relations with Ruchartes are just as tenuous as they were before. You could always go through with the betrothal anyway—”

  “Are you mad? Do you truly wish to bring this viper into the bosom of the court?” Benedict asked, letting his emotions get the best of him. “Do not forget, I was there when Giuliano de’Medici was murdered by the Pazzi family. I have no wish to find myself likewise deposed.”

  “He was not royalty,” his father reminded him. “No one would dare raise a hand against you. You are no merchant or banker’s son. You are a prince!”

  “Treachery bears no respect for nobility. It only masks itself well enough to pass undetected,” Orlando replied. “We have Jerome to thank that this plot was uncovered, or else Benedict would have found himself in an early grave and the rest of us none the wiser.” He emitted a sound of resigned frustration. “Besides, you know the Ruchartans consider us pretenders to the throne. They are loathe to recognize us as rightful rulers, and always have been.”

  Benedict’s jaw clenched in anger. A long-past Bellarminian king had caused much trouble between the two countries for centuries, ever since gossip had begun to swirl about the legitimacy of his eldest son by his first wife. This groundless rumor only served the purpose of another of his descendants: the current ruler of Ruchartes.

  “Perhaps we could simply keep the woman under guard,” Lord Ludovico suggested.

  “We would have to explain to her uncle why. We cannot imprison a member of foreign nobility without cause—and this cause King Michel will surely deny, and accuse us of treachery,” Marchisetti reminded him.

  “Let us simply send her back,” Benedict said. “We shall merely say that the lady and I did not suit—which is true. King Michel can surmise the rest. My own feelings aside, she was never fond of me, either. And who knows but that she had little choice in the matter? If she was forced into this plot by her uncle, then I have only sympathy for her.”

  “This is a change from your earlier sentiments, Benedict,” his father reminded him. “You called her a viper not a moment ago.”

  “I may have been overhasty in that regard. I have seen far too many people being used as pawns in a political game of chess than I care to remember. If Lady Cécile is one of them, I do not want to judge her unkindly.”

  “We will prepare, then, to send her back.” King Giancarlo sighed. “It seems our every effort for peace with Ruchartes is thwarted.”

  “Who shall tell the lady?” Ludovico asked.

  “I will,” Benedict said. “I believe it is my duty, and no one else’s.”

  “Lady Cécile, might I have a word?”

  She turned to him, and Benedict real
ized anew how beautiful she was—and how cold her eyes were. “I believe you dropped this.” He held out the letter, and her face paled. Though she attempted to compose herself, he saw her swallow as she took it. Had he not been used to reading the expressions of others, he might have missed it. Her fear softened him slightly; it was the first time he had seen her show human emotion.

  “I see. And did you—that is, I trust you are a gentleman?”

  Meaning, of course, to ask if he had read her letter.

  “I am always a gentleman, m’lady. But I am also a prince, who knows how to watch his back. I trust you understand this.” His face was impassive.

  Her eyes hardened. “Indeed.”

  “I do not think ourselves well-suited to marriage, Lady Cécile. At least, not to each other. You will forgive me, I hope, for the inconvenience.”

  She raised her chin. “Of course.”

  He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. “When will I be leaving?”

  “In three days.”

  “So soon?”

  “I thought you should be eager to return to your home,” he said.

  “That place is no home to me,” she said, moving closer to him. She blinked back tears and glanced towards the letter. “I had no choice. My every move is his. How can one disobey a king? If I can stay—you can protect me, can’t you?”

  Benedict was unmoved. Her startled fright moments before had been real. Her appeal now, so far removed from her former manner, was not.

  “I suggest you task your handmaiden with packing your things at once, m’lady,” was all he said.

  Her eyes speared him with sudden hatred, revealing that his supposition about her had not been wrong. “I will be ready, then, Your Highness.” Scorn dripped from her voice. “I should be eager to leave before your father’s mockery of a reign ends. As it will.”

  “I wouldn’t count on such a thing, Cécile.” He dropped the lady from her name, finding the title inappropriate. “I destroy injustice and treachery wherever I find it. Perhaps you could tell your uncle so, when you next see him. Since it seems that such things are pet diversions of his.”