by Maggi Petton
Before Father Tim said mass for the women, he always prepared for Confession. It was there that they made their secret plans to help the most recent victims of the interrogations. Father Tim sat in the confessional and opened the windows on both sides of his seat. There, Catherine was on one side and Bella on the other. In this way they were able to share the necessary information needed for the upcoming week.
Following the mass one Sunday, Catherine asked Bella if she would mind accompanying the entourage to dine. She wanted to visit with Father Tim alone.
Catherine and the priest sat near the front of the small church. The castle church was grand and quite well appointed, but Catherine found herself in love with this little chapel.
“I love this place,” she said as she looked around.
“There is a sweetness here I don’t find in other places where I have said Mass,” Tim responded. “I am glad you like it, Majesty.”
He waited, knowing she would begin when she was ready.
“I have been unsettled about something for some time,” she started. “And I believe I can speak to you about this.”
“You may speak to me about anything, Majesty. And even though this is not a confessional, please know that what you tell me is between you, me and God.”
She smiled and knew she was safe.
“Am I doomed to hell?” she asked abruptly.
“For what, Majesty?” He was startled by her question.
“I believe you know that Lady Isabella is more…is not…that her title of Lady in Waiting is a guise only.”
“Ah. I wondered if you struggled with yourself over this.”
“I know we sin in God’s eyes.”
“Has God told you this?” Father Tim asked.
“The scriptures and the teachings of the church are very clear on this, are they not?”
Tim sat quietly for a moment. He took a large breath and exhaled slowly. “Majesty, Catherine,” he started to reach for her hands, and then stopped, realizing his near breech of protocol. “It grieves me that you, of all people, think you are doomed to hell. And, no, I do not think the scriptures doom you.”
“What is meant, then, by ‘a man shall not lie with a man’?” she asked.
“Would you like my interpretation?” he smiled as he said this.
Catherine looked at him with mild puzzlement.
“You know the Bible was written many years after Christ died and rose again. The men who wrote the Gospels were far from the actual events they wrote about. They wrote from memory, they wrote from inspiration, yes, but they were men trying to remember for us, as best they could, what they learned from our Savior.”
“But they were with Him, they knew him, He taught them.”
“And they, like us, were tarnished by their own pasts, their own beliefs, their own prejudices and prides, their own jealousies. And, they were responding to their own times and situations, to specific problems that arose.”
She struggled to connect what he was saying to her feelings of guilt and fear.
He stood, walked over to the altar, and then back to where she was sitting. “Do you believe in what the church is doing to heretics?”
“You know I don’t,” she said, frowning.
“This is no different. This Inquisition is based on the fears of our Church leaders…and their interpretations of Christ’s teachings. Do you believe Christ wants His Church to execute people for questioning, for wondering, for healing, for interpreting?”
“No, of course that can’t be what Christ intended.”
“But the wise leaders of our Church have decided this is what’s best for us. How is it that you don’t believe in the Inquisition practices?”
“I understand your comparison,” the queen stood and wandered over to one of the stained glass windows. She remained standing with her back to him.
“But something still troubles you,” he said.
Catherine turned back and walked over to the altar. She looked up at the figure of Christ hanging from the cross. “I used to be able to feel the presence of God with me in such intimate ways. When I sat in church, or walked the flower fields or simply prayed in my quarters, I felt Divine energy fill and surround me. I have not felt God’s presence since…for over a year.”
“Since you interpreted your feelings to be something that God abhorred?” Tim asked.
“I have difficulty discerning how God sees me differently from our bishop,” she said, her back still to him.
Father Tim walked over to her. “Look at me. I am telling you that love is God’s greatest gift to us. Christ was love and He taught us that love is everything. There are many kinds of love, the love you have for your subjects, for your parents, for your family,” he paused, “for Bella. Love is love, it is kind, and it is good. What the Bishop engages in is not love, but a lust that hurts and destroys others. What you have with Lady Isabella is a true love. Sometimes, God loves us through others, and God loves others through us. Who are we to say it should be this one or that one. It is who it is, and if Bella is who God sent, then to fight it is to refuse God’s gift.”
“Is that your ‘interpretation’?” Catherine asked with a smile.
Father Tim laughed softly, “I suppose it is.” He paused briefly. “But I would ask you to try something the next time you pray. You may find that you agree with my ‘interpretation.’ Instead of approaching God feeling like a sinner who is damned to hell, perhaps you might thank God for bringing Lady Isabella into your life. Love can be a calling as much as the monastery or the convent. If God has called you to love her, then your struggle is only within yourself. If you believe that you are sinning by loving Bella, then you block your own communication with the divine. Perhaps if you can accept that Bella is God’s way of loving you, His presence will fill you once again.”
Catherine smiled, feeling more grateful for his presence in her life than she could express. “Is there any way we can make you Pope?”
“That is not an office to which I aspire, Your Majesty.” “Before we join the others, will you pray with me?” she asked.
“Happily, Majesty.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
On the morning that Mary DeMarco was slated to be burned at the stake, Catherine was irritable. She had been irritable for days. Sometimes, in spite of their best efforts to help innocent victims like Mary, it was impossible to save them. By the time they were brought before the Bishop for interrogation they were spent. The days, or weeks, they were forced to endure the cold, dark conditions of the castle keep were dismal. The cells were infested with lice and rats. Food was minimal. Prisoners were forced to defecate on the floors of their cells. Guards were often cruel and sadistic.
Physical torture to extract confessions from witches was supposed to have been banned years earlier. Prior to that, devices of torture kept the Inquisitors quite busy. The use of such implements as the rack caused accused witches to confess to almost anything. Under threat of torture by the iron maiden or the bastinado, a woman would not only confess to being a witch, but would denounce others as being witches as well. There were stories that told of women under torture who admitted that they and others turned themselves into horses and galloped through the skies. Some six hundred women in France admitted to copulating with demons.
Suspected witches were tortured in the cruelest of ways. Stripped naked, all their body hair shaved, they would be “pricked.” The Malleus Maleficarum, a treatise written in 1486 by Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, detailed how to deal with witches. The treatise advised that witches bore a “devil’s mark,” a numb spot on their bodies. Pricking with a sharp object would, apparently, divulge this numb spot. When the numb spot was not detected, some suffered red hot tongs on their nipples and genitalia. The torturers became aroused from their activities, and sometimes this alone was all the proof needed for identifying a witch. The women were forced to admit that they were causing the men to become aroused through their sinful powers. They said anything to
stop the pain and torture.
It was considered progress that these types of torture were no longer accepted by the Church. But that was little comfort to Catherine on the day of Mary DeMarco’s execution. Catherine suspected that Thomas Capshaw was using his position to show her he still held power over her.
Catherine went to her office early. Her thoughts swirled. Her heart was heavy. As she watched the smoke from Mary DeMarco’s pyre begin to rise she realized how very much she hated Thomas Capshaw. She silently declared war on him.
Catherine stood at her office window and forced her thoughts to turn from the bishop to Mary DeMarco. She threw herself into prayer for the woman and her family. She watched as the smoke from the pyre thickened and blackened. She could not see the fire itself.
She never attended the executions, preferring to focus on praying for the victims. When Catherine was ten years old her father took her to an execution. It, too, was the burning of a woman convicted of being a witch. The King and Catherine sat in an enclosed carriage.
The charges against the woman were read aloud and she was tied to a stake. King Edward sat across from Catherine. He reached out, held her chin and looked into her eyes with such sadness that Catherine thought he might cry.
“Catherine, my child, you need to witness what is about to happen because one day you will be queen. What you are about to see is horrible. I want you to be horrified so that you will take up my mantle and continue to fight against this kind of persecution. These poor people are being crucified for greed and political reasons. No one, not the priests, or the Pope, or even a king or a queen, has the right to do what you are about to see.” He paused and looked to see the torches being held to the dried kindling. “Watch, Catherine, and never forget what you see. Let the flames that burn this poor woman ignite a fire in your heart to carry you into battle against this travesty.”
Catherine’s heart raced as she watched the flames lick up around the feet of the sobbing woman. The woman started screaming for help. Her garment caught fire quickly, and the flames engulfed her, catching her hair on fire. The woman’s head twisted back and forth as she howled in pain. Catherine forced herself to watch when everything in her screamed to turn away. As the smell of burning flesh and hair reached her nostrils she could take no more and buried her head in her father’s neck. She begged him to take her away from here. “I promise I will never forget, Papa. Please take me home!”
When word reached Catherine that Mary DeMarco was dead, she nodded to the soldier who brought her the news. When the soldier left, Catherine dismissed her secretary and went to her quarters. Once there, she proceeded to vomit.
The queen was with child.
Chapter Twenty Eight
May 1555
Catherine’s pregnancy brought much happiness and relief. Ambrose strutted as if he had proved his virility beyond a doubt. Catherine understood that this child would solidify the unity of their two kingdoms against any enemies, and wondered if his father would be proud of Ambrose at long last.
Bella chatted excitedly.
“Think what this means! James will have a playmate, a brother or a sister! And now you can stay here. I don’t have to suffer the lack of you so often!”
Although Catherine knew that Bella had resigned herself to accepting their necessary separation for up to three nights per week, those nights were unbearable for them both.
“I ache for you more than know when you’re with him.” Bella said. “I didn’t realize how jealous I was. Now I feel like I can tell you how awful it was.”
Catherine was glad she would no longer have to endure Bella’s moods when she returned from the marital suite. Sometimes Bella was distant for hours afterward. The effort it took to reconnect with Bella after her time with Ambrose seemed harder and harder. She understood and sympathized with Bella’s feelings, but was glad all of that might soon be over.
She was relieved for other reasons, as well. At last, she felt she could put an end to the charade her life had become. Ambrose would still be her husband, but now she could dispense the marital bed. If all went well with the birth of this child, she hoped to never have to sleep with him again. There was still the matter of informing him of her intention, but now that she could, she was happier than she had been in some time.
While Bella was anxious for Catherine to return to her private quarters soon, and for good, she was prudent enough to realize that to wait until this baby was born would be the wisest course of action.
“At least,” Catherine said, “I have reason enough to decline Ambrose’s amorous advances for a time. And, I can claim need of my own quarters more often.”
The truth of her own words fell hard on her as the pregnancy exhausted Catherine in ways that made her question how women desired to give birth more than once. Her discomfort as the baby grew made her irritable. She slept much, and once her sickness passed she was ravenous much of the time.
Ambrose was solicitous of her. His concern seemed heartfelt, but she had difficulty when he attempted to be close, and she bristled under his touch more and more.
Bella laughed at her. “You have a short memory, my love. It wasn’t so long ago that you raved about how my pregnancy made me more beautiful! How beautiful do you feel?”
Catherine groaned and turned her back on Bella. Sleep and food were the only things she tolerated with any good humor.
Sofia Catherine was born on February 20, 1556. The birth was without complications, quick and easy. Bella was present, along with Marie and the midwife. Catherine’s water broke shortly after the midday meal and Sofia slipped into the world before dark. It was as if the little princess fully intended to command her world. She arrived without difficulty and with a cry that demanded attention. The kingdom rejoiced at the arrival of an heir, celebrating the birth of the princess. If Ambrose was disappointed the child was not a son, he didn’t show it. He actually seemed delighted at the birth of his daughter.
The presence of two babies now living in the queen’s quarters increased the need for more servants to attend to the needs of all involved. Catherine and Bella needed to exercise more caution in their relationship. It had been a fairly simple task for Bella to appear to have spent the night on her pallet near the cradle with James. In reality, she only stayed until he fell asleep, then put him in his cradle and moved to the queen’s bed. Bella was an early riser, so she was always up with James before Marie arrived to assist the queen. With the arrival of Princess Sofia, however, new arrangements needed to be made.
They discussed various scenarios. Bella suggested that perhaps the time had arrived for her to have her own quarters. Catherine thought about having the wall to the adjacent room torn down to create a nursery for the children with ample space for the nursemaid.
“Damn it, why are we required to do this?” said Catherine suddenly. “Let’s cease with the facade and require my servants to attend to both of us without question.”
“Don’t even entertain the thought of telling them!” Bella was adamant. “Just because you are queen does not put you above the Church’s laws, or,” she emphasized, “your bishop’s intent to burn you at the stake!”
Catherine could be quite headstrong, however, and it was never easy to change her mind once she determined to act. But Bella’s fear and anger worked to her advantage. Catherine abandoned the idea.
And so a small room across the hall from the queen’s chamber was made into a nursery for both the children. Mary, the oldest daughter of a soldier in the Queen’s Guard, became the caretaker for Princess Sofia. It didn’t take long to determine that Mary was quite capable and was given charge of James, as well. The arrangement shifted the focus from the queen’s quarters, alleviating the need for the continual presence of servants to attend to the children.
Mary was a sweet girl of thirteen. She loved children and could not have been happier at her assignment of the Princess. The care of the babies was easy for her, given her own family. As the oldest of seven children, she wa
s responsible for a great deal in her own family’s household. Although she still possessed the face of a little girl, her abilities were commendable, and appreciated by all who saw her with the children.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Shortly after the birth of Sofia, Catherine and Robert were meeting in her office. The weather was unusually cold, even for early March. They sat near the blazing fire. Ambrose’s sexual exploits were the focus of their attention.
“How often does he engage in this behavior?” Catherine stood and moved closer to the fire.
“Fairly regularly. At first he limited himself to the castle. That was at the beginning of your pregnancy. But I started a few rumors about how the queen would not tolerate disloyalty among her subjects and I believe Ambrose found his supply of castle women dwindling. That was when he began cavorting in town. There are several taverns he frequents.”
“Does he have any idea that he is being watched? I cannot imagine he doesn’t know.”
Robert was unable to hide his smile. “Actually, I believe he thinks he has fooled us. On several occasions he attempted to disguise himself.”
“No! As what?” Catherine laughed.
“Once as a soldier.” Robert got up to add another log on the fire. “Another time he dressed in common clothes.”
“Do the townspeople recognize him?”
“I believe some of them do,” he said. “Most are oblivious.”
The newly added log caught and flamed. Catherine sat again and watched the flames dance in the hearth. She was quiet for a bit, thinking.
“Thank you, Robert.” She stood.
Robert started toward the door. “One more thing.” he said as he turned back toward her. “Do you remember my telling you about the young soldier I suspected of releasing Lady Isabella’s rapist?”