If I can leave the tower, he can be alive.
For once in her life, she was more frightened of what would happen if she stayed in the tower than what would happen if she left it. So the next morning Nella did what she had never assumed she would ever do: she packed.
“We’re going on a journey, Persi.” She spoke to the cat as she took a sack and filled it with food and provisions. She locked all of the windows and doors and tidied the rooms. I will come back, she told herself. I will not be gone forever.
Her birds chirped at her, and she looked at them sadly. “I cannot take you with me.” She opened one of the cages and Calypso hopped on her finger. She stroked its feathers. “Perhaps I was wrong to cage you, my friend.” She opened her bedroom window and extended her arms. Calypso fluttered her feathers and flew away. Nella smiled wistfully and proceeded to release the rest of them.
She had shoved Benedict’s rope ladder in a large cabinet, hoping she’d never have to see it again. Now she dug it out and unrolled it. She took a deep breath. You can do this, Nella. Benedict would believe you could.
She fastened it to the side of the lowest balcony and carried Persephone under her arm. Don’t think, she told herself. Just do.
Her foot touched the ground and she closed her eyes.
Nella knew, vaguely, where Cornelius’s village was. She and her grandmother had looked forward to his visits back when they’d lived in Ivly, and she’d known the road that led to Cornelius’s. She followed it now, even though she hated that she had to pass her old village on the way. She wondered, briefly, about the people who’d lived there. Some she would have even considered friends once. But that was before the common sentiment had turned against Nonna. Those she’d once played with had ignored her, their snubs evolving into taunts and accusations that eventually turned to violence when sickness entered the village.
Creating a scapegoat seemed to be a human necessity to accepting calamity.
Nella’s merchandise had contributed to making Cornelius’s business a successful one, and when Nella inquired about his home, she found herself directed to a spacious villa on the edge of the village.
“Nella? Petrosinella?” Cornelius came towards her in joyous disbelief. “Why, what are you doing here?” He waved a servant forward and gave orders to have a room made up for their guest.
“Hello, Cornelius.” She let him embrace her before she explained the reason for her presence.
He looked more than skeptical; he looked disturbed. “Are you sure about this, Nella? It is an impossible task. He could be dead, and you—” he seemed unwilling to mention her hindrance.
“I got here all by myself.”
“Yes, but how many did you have on the way?” He asked gently.
Nella bit her lip and looked away. “Three.”
He gave a large sigh. “Do you want me to tell my family of your purpose?”
“No. You may tell Tosca after I’ve left, but I don’t think it would be wise to widely advertise my intentions.”
“I agree. I’ll tell them that you plan to accompany me on my trip to Zaretta tomorrow, to see the fruits of your labors firsthand.”
“You’re leaving for Zaretta tomorrow?” she asked in disbelief, wondering at the coincidence. The town was the last Bellarminian settlement before the border.
“I am now.”
“Cornelius—”
“Nella! I haven’t seen you in many a year!” Tosca was no sooner in sight than she enveloped Nella in a warm embrace. That had always been ingrained upon Nella’s memory: the Buonarroti family was affectionate. Greatly affectionate. “Welcome, my darling! Oh, you’ve grown so beautiful.” She didn’t question the reason for Nella’s presence, but she did throw a questioning glance her husband’s way. “It’s nearly time to eat. Come inside! I know Nicoletta will be glad to see you, as will the boys.”
Nella swallowed, unsure if she could handle so many people at once. Her stomach churned in anxiety, though she tried to remind herself that the Buonarrotis would never hurt her, would never judge her—they were friends. But Cornelius’s family was boisterous. His four sons—three of them married with families of their own—laughed and joked together, while his only daughter cradled her firstborn child. The baby seemed undisturbed by the noise and remained slumbering in her mother’s arms. Perhaps it was so used to the loudness of the family camaraderie that it seemed more a lullaby than a disturbance. For Nella, the atmosphere was foreign, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to find it unpleasant. Yet her head spun.
She was there, and yet she wasn’t. It was as if she had suddenly become detached from everything around her. She wasn’t real—or they weren’t. She felt lightheaded. I’m going to faint.
“Nella?” Cornelius called her name three times before she noticed. “Nella!”
“Hmm?” she jumped. “Oh, Cornelius.” She didn’t realize that she had been holding her breath. For some reason, the sight of his familiar face calmed her. She breathed heavily with relief.
“Nella, are you all right?” he asked discreetly.
Nella nodded. “It was just a small one. I’m fine now, Cornelius. I am.”
“All right.” He looked at her with concern. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I have to. I won’t feel peace unless I do.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You are a brave girl, Nella. No, not a girl. A woman now.”
“I was always a girl to you and Nonna, Cornelius,” she said smiling.
“I used to argue with her about you,” he admitted. “I thought you needed to be around other people. I even asked if you could stay with us for a little while. Nicoletta always wanted a sister.”
“Maybe you were right,” Nella said. “Nonna meant well, but she was far from perfect. Perhaps if I had been forced out of my isolation earlier, it wouldn’t be such a struggle now. I’m so used to my life, anything else seems dangerous.” She glanced at Nicoletta and the small infant. How could Nicoletta look at little Giovanna and smile, knowing all the pain and suffering that could descend upon her beloved child at a moment’s notice? Sickness, death. Wars and political intrigue. The judgment of others. Perhaps that was why her Nonna had shut her up in the tower, to protect her. And yet did that truly help me?
“They’re leaving tomorrow,” Cornelius said quietly. “All five of them.”
“Who?”
My sons and Lorenzo. They’re joining the army.”
For some reason it hadn’t occurred to Nella in personal terms what war meant for the people—for those besides her. “How can you smile?” Nella asked in amazement. “How can they? When they know what they are facing, and what they might lose?”
“Each day has enough trouble of its own, as the Scriptures say, Nella.” He nodded at his family. “This laughter, this family, this joy—that is what they are fighting for. The right to keep it. Sometimes we are required to risk everything we have for the sake of something more important, as the saints and martyrs of old have done. As you yourself are doing, my daughter.”
A single tear escaped Nella’s eye and she quickly wiped it away. “I’m no saint,” she said, surprised at her emotion.
“No,” he said with some amusement. “None of us think we are, and if we were to ask those we call so now, I doubt they would have thought themselves special or holy. They would have simply said they were doing their duty towards the One they loved. They were strengthened with the Holy One and with prayer. “
“Will you pray for me, then, Cornelius? I am afraid I no longer know how.” Another tear ran down her face, but this one she didn’t wipe away.
“I will pray for your journey, Nella. But most of all, I will pray that you will learn how to do so for yourself.”
VIII.
The days travelling with Cornelius were the easiest. He did not press her for conversation, and the sight of his familiar face helped to keep her attacks at bay. She let herself believe that he would not let anything happen to her; if she
told herself that enough, it became truth in her mind. She was able to hold her emotions steady when he, with concern written on every line of his face, had to leave her after they had reached Zaretta. What she never told anyone afterward was that only the greatest restraint kept her from running madly after him as she watched him leave. She never told him about the attack that occurred when she could no longer see him over the mountainous ridge, and how the metallic tang in her mouth had caused her stomach to heave and her head to pound.
She slowly learned not to think. She did all she could mindlessly. At first she had focused on her surroundings, on everything that could go wrong, so that she could plan for every situation. That idea had failed. It had become overwhelming. Her breath had become short, she had trembled.
She couldn’t breathe.
After minutes of huddling near on the grass, shaking, she had finally felt her body cease to quiver. She focused on the blade of grass in front of her. Take a deep breath. She picked a wildflower, admiring its beauty in an attempt to distract herself. The attack had left her as suddenly as it had come, and she closed her eyes. Her cheeks were wet, and she hadn’t realized she’d shed tears.
In that moment, she hated herself. She hated her weakness.
She learned that the more she thought about everything that could happen, the more tense she became. She also avoided people; her greatest fear was having an attack in front of others, who would have no idea what to do or what was happening. She had felt safe with Cornelius, and the people hadn’t been so difficult to face then. But here, by herself, she was terrified.
Unless she refused to think about it. Think of other things. The last book she’d read. The dozens of recipes she’d memorized. The way her lavender pillow at home smelled. Sing.
Most of the time she found that she was really quite all right, her emotions no different than when she’d been safe in her tower. But when the moments of panic came, they were debilitating.
As the days passed, she learned that practice helped.
She had smiled at a young girl she had passed on the road, and she had, without thinking of it, asked pardon of a woman she had bumped into in a crowded village street. All her years in the tower had given her ample time to learn other languages. The sounds of people speaking French became more and more common as she ventured along the border of Bellarmine and Ruchartes and the closer she got to the camp outside of Luzarche.
I’m almost there.
Benedict licked his lips, longing for more than the ration of questionable water he’d received that day from his captors. He’d been one of the enemy’s prisoners for over a week now, and he wondered how much longer it would be before he learned his fate. The Ruchartans usually sold their prisoners into slavery or some other form of servitude, but he still did not know what they planned to do with him. Ransom? He wasn’t sure.
His stomach growled, but he refrained from reaching for the damp chunk of bread in his pocket that he’d saved from that morning. The prisoners were fed twice a day—once in the morning, once in the evening—and he’d learned to save a bit of his breakfast for the middle of the day, when he felt the weakest from the heat of the sun.
The camp itself was within sight of the tombs of Sainct-Maurice, a labyrinth of catacombs that wound itself underneath the grounds of a ruined and ancient Roman city. The countryside rang with the legends of the men who had lost themselves within its twists and turns, thrust into a darkness black enough to terrify the most hardened of soldiers. They said the cries of the men below the ground could still be heard for days, echoing at night until the inmates starved or killed themselves from insane terror. It was a tale that had ventured far beyond the borders of Ruchartes and into threats of Bellarminian mothers to their children. Don’t make me throw you into the tombs of Sainct-Maurice!
The men—both Ruchartan and Bellarminian—were nervous just at the sight of it.
At noon, whispers rang through that there was a lady in the camp. There were always women around, of course—those who took care of the washing and cooking, and others for reasons Benedict didn’t dwell on. But this woman, they said, was a lady.
Piero leaned towards him. “One of the men knows her. It’s the Lady Cécile. She’s come to confer with the captain.”
Benedict winced.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Piero asked. Benedict didn’t get a chance to answer before Piero quickly added, “She’s coming this way.”
Benedict averted his face, hoping that he wouldn’t be recognized. He had no desire to see her again.
“My uncle expects a full report of your progress,” she said as she adjusted her riding attire. She didn’t accept help, but mounted her horse herself. He moved his body as much as he could in his chains and looked away as he heard the sounds of the hooves of her horse as she began to make her way through the center of camp. Abruptly, the sound stopped.
“Jean, who is that man?” Her voice was sharp, and Benedict looked up in spite of himself. It was fatal. Her gaze connected with his, and the recognition was instant.
“I see. Jean, bring him here.”
Jean snapped his fingers, and a man unlocked the bonds at Benedict’s ankles and jerked him to his feet. He was pulled towards the princess. She laughed: a cold, self-satisfied laugh. “Jean, please tell the captain I wish to see him once more.” She turned to Benedict. “I must admit I thought our previous meeting would be our last. Benedict Allesandro, we meet again.” She extended her hand and he leaned forward to kiss it. As quickly as possible.
“Lady Cécile,” he greeted. “I see the matters of war still remain a matter of mutual interest to us.”
She laughed again. “Oh, Prince Benedict, you do amuse me. I think I should have made you a very good wife.”
“Perhaps, if you had not planned on murdering me in our bed, I would have made you a very good husband.”
“Don’t flatter yourself to think so.” She looked up as the captain approached.
“You wished to see me, m’lady?”
“Indeed. You did not tell me that it was you who captured the prince of Bellarmine, Captain Duval.”
“Your uncle has no use for the Bellarminian pretenders to the throne. You yourself delivered to me your uncle’s proclamation of his fate.”
“I am no pretender. Michel’s claims are nothing more than the desperate words of a greedy and power-hungry man,” Benedict said, unable to hold his tongue.
Cécile slapped him with a suddenness that threw him off guard. “You would do well not to insult my uncle.”
“As he refrains from insulting the honor of my own ancestors?” Benedict asked.
“We’re to send him to the king at first light,” the captain said to Lady Cécile before she could respond, as if to placate her. “He has plans for an execution.”
Benedict looked down, wondering how he had been so close to escaping death only to find himself staring it in the face yet again.
“A sad end for the heroic Prince Benedict, is it not?” Cécile’s voice was mocking. “The man who fights the dragon and revels in the glory of its defeat. To be cut down by an executioner’s ax like a common criminal!”
Benedict swallowed as an ominous dread shuddered through his spine. He stared stonily towards the ruins, refusing to look at Cécile.
“Take him back to the others, Jean,” Captain Duval commanded, pushing Benedict towards one of his officers.
Benedict allowed the man to take him back towards the other prisoners. He glanced around, reviewing his options. I can make it. Without his chains, it was his only chance. In one swift motion, he elbowed Jean and flipped him to the ground. Sprinting towards the ruins, he heard the sounds of an entire enemy camp rushing to their feet. Vicious French commands issued forth from the captain’s mouth as Benedict sought refuge in the remains of the Roman city barely more than a stone’s throw away. The shadowy ruins reflected the quickly fading sunlight, and he tripped over a root before regaining his balance. He turned a corner and
found himself facing two furious soldiers ten feet away. They saw him, and he dove into the first escape he saw: an opening slanted into the hillside, like a tilted well.
The catacombs.
Benedict stumbled and fell down the sloped entrance. The slope dropped off and he tumbled to the ground, struggling in the damp dirt to get to his knees. In the few moments of light he was granted before he ran deeper into the tombs all he could see was a wall and two cavernous halls on either side. He picked the left corridor and ran in without a backward glance.
“He’s gone into the tombs!” one of the soldiers yelled. Ben heard footsteps run down the first few steps of the tombs, and then stop.
“Go in, man!” the Captain yelled.
Benedict heard voices, but he had gone too far in to make out their words. When he realized no one was following him, he stepped closer to the opening and hid himself behind a corner. The voices echoed in the front chamber.
“It’s the tombs of Sainct-Maurice, sir. They mean certain death.”
“I don’t care!” The captain responded.
“But sir—”
He heard shuffling and mumbling and what seemed to be a rapid conversation before the captain yelled, “Jean! Bring men to seal the tomb! We shall set guards in front of it.”
“Are you sure this is wise, Captain?” another man asked. “He could escape. We may live to regret this decision.”
“In four hundred years no one has escaped the catacombs, Jean. I doubt our wearied prince will be the first.”
Minutes later, Benedict heard the groans and grunts of men as, from his vantage point in the darkness, he saw them close up the entrance with a giant stone. All light disappeared.
Benedict crept closer until he could touch the stone. It was far too heavy for one man to move, and it would kill him to even try. And if the weight didn’t kill him, then the guards outside would.
Benedict fumbled in the dark until he found the opposite wall, rough with pieces of bone cemented into it. There is a way out. All the legends say so… and legends always contain grains of truth somewhere within them. I only have to find it.
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