by Maggi Petton
“I don’t intend to, no,” he said. “But because we are close, and the Queen seems intent on punishing me for our relationship, you and I must be more cautious.”
“You mean because my mother does not approve of you teaching me about the Church?” It was a statement rather than a question. “You know I don’t care what she thinks, Your Grace.”
He patted her hand and looked at the captain. “You see what I mean about her courage now, don’t you?”
Bello nodded, but did not even attempt a smile.
“Sofia.” Thomas Capshaw grew intensely serious. “If you should ever have questions or concerns about anyone, whether they are questions of heresy, or witchcraft, or even worry about your own personal safety, I want you to promise me that you will seek out Captain Bello.”
Sofia looked lovingly at Bishop Capshaw. “I will.”
“He has many contacts and can address your concerns without hesitation.”
“I am here to serve you, Princess. You and the Church,” Captain Bello added.
“Thank you, Captain,” Sofia said.
Chapter Fifty Two
May 1573
At seventeen James could not remember a time when the flower fields were not a significant part of his life. He never missed spring or summer playing among the blossoms. When they were small he and Sofia often sneaked away from their mothers to lie down in the midst of the flowers so that no one could find them. They stared up through the petals and watched the clouds roll by for hours. As they grew, some days found them in the lake, swimming until they were so exhausted they fell asleep in their mothers’ arms on the way back to the castle.
Some of their outings included others, but mostly it was just James, Sofia and their mothers. Those were the outings James remembered most fondly, the times when he and Sofia would just disappear for hours and play. When they returned to the blanket near the rocks where Catherine and Bella would invariably be waiting, his mother would sometimes play her harp. He loved her voice. It was sweet and soft and it comforted him to listen to her. He felt very blessed to have a mother whom he loved so much. He wished Sofia and Catherine had a better relationship. It hurt him to see Sofia at such odds with the queen.
Sofia confided often in James, and even shared that both she and the bishop thought her mother could easily be accused of heresy against the church. James knew there was animosity between the queen and the bishop. When he asked his mother about it, she had smiled sadly and shook her head. That was when she told him that the bishop had always disliked having a woman for queen and tried for years to convince others that Catherine was a heretic. That was when he learned that the Bishop tried to brand his own mother a witch. It was also when he felt his feelings for Sofia change. Nearly all their lives he was in love with Sofia. He always imagined them marrying, but the more she tried to convince him to turn against her mother…to believe in her bishop and his hatefulness, the more he felt himself drifting away from her.
When he began to defend Queen Catherine, Sofia stopped talking about her mother. He was relieved as the whole subject had become quite uncomfortable for him. He genuinely loved Catherine and he knew Sofia would have to work things out on her own. “At least,” he mused, “she has her father.”
Sometimes James thought about his own father. He knew his father was killed along with his mother’s parents. She told him stories about his father and their life together. He often imagined what his relationship with his father would be like if he were still alive. He liked to think that it would be as good as Gio’s was with Robert. James loved Robert, who was the closest thing he would ever know to having a father.
These were the things that James was thinking about as he wandered the field looking for the most perfect flowers for Teresa. He’d only met Teresa a few short months ago, but he was smitten. He found himself nearly always distracted when he thought of her, which, lately, was constantly.
Teresa was the sister of one of his best friends in the regiment. He first spotted her in the Great Hall during one of the meals. He’d asked around and when he found she was sister to his friend, Enzo, he pressed Enzo to introduce them. Since then they had taken several walks in the courtyards and he often saw her watching him at drills.
His thoughts turned on Teresa as he wandered. They held hands on a few occasions and he loved the feel of her hand in his, it was so small, so delicate, he was afraid he might crush it with his enthusiasm. He thought of her face, sweeter than any face he knew. Her eyes were sable brown and a perfect match to her long hair. Her lips made him smile. He loved to watch her mouth as she talked. Her bottom lip was slightly larger than the top one, and they turned down ever so slightly into a small pout. When she smiled she lit up everything around her. He wanted desperately to kiss her. He planned to tonight when he brought her the flowers.
The basket was nearly full. He looked up to see how far he’d wandered from his horse. That was when he saw the man approaching his horse, moving quickly from the tree line. He called a greeting, but the man did not answer, and started running for the horse. He was dirty. His hair was long and matted, his clothing worn, hanging like rags from his short, stocky body. He had a long, dirty beard.
James called out again, but the man had reached his horse and was untying the steed from a branch where James had left him.
James dropped the flower basket as he started running for his horse.
“Stop!” James yelled. “Stop!”
He was only about a hundred yards away and he was a fast runner. The man was short, so it was a slight struggle for him to mount, nevertheless, he managed to get onto the saddle and was turning to make his way for the open field.
James was upon him before he could make any headway. He grabbed the reins of the horse and reached for the thief’s leg. The man pounded James about his head and hands, trying to dislodge his grip. The fists landed with loud thuds on James’s head but he did not release his hold. The horse snorted and reared and the man, unable to hold on, was thrown off backwards. James leaped on him in an instant.
The struggle was short. James had the clear advantage. He was young and strong. The man continued to struggle, grunting as he tried to maneuver out from under the boy, but James held him down easily. As James fought to turn the man over onto his belly he heard a loud crack. The sound was similar to the ice on the lake cracking as it contracted after a change in temperature. But it was summer, and the lake was not frozen.
James stopped. He wasn’t sure what happened. He was confused. The man stopped struggling and looked up at James with an evil grin. It was then that James smelled the sulfur from the burning gun powder. Pain shot through him. His face contorted in agony as he reached down and felt the heat of his own blood pouring out of his chest.
“No,” James whispered hoarsely just before he collapsed on top of his killer.
With a grunt the man pushed James’s body off of him. His gun was still smoking. The thief had difficulty standing because he had fallen hard on his backside when he was thrown from the horse. His breath came in short, raspy bursts. He looked down at the boy who lay dead. With a snort he knelt to feel around the boy for anything of value. As he rifled through his clothing, he failed to notice two soldiers arrive at the top of the rise. They were on him before he had time to reload his pistol. He dropped it and drew a dagger.
“Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your back,” ordered one of the soldiers. They already had their swords drawn. The man glared at them for a few seconds, then dropped the dagger and put his hands behind him, where they were bound.
“I am a friend of the bishop!” the murderer said quickly. “I demand to speak with Capshaw!”
“Shut up!” said the soldier whose sword still lay on the murderer’s neck.
The other soldier, who happened to be Enzo, ran to James’ body.
“James. James.” Enzo knelt beside the boys’ body and shook it. There was so much blood. It didn’t take long to determine that James was dead. He got up
and ran back toward the prisoner with his sword drawn.
“I am known to your bishop! Don’t kill me!” the man pleaded. “I must speak to the Bishop Capshaw!”
Enzo stopped just short of running the prisoner through with his sword. His compatriot held him back. Enzo’s whole body quivered with rage. This beast had just killed James, but at the mention of the bishop he knew he had best wait and let his captain handle things.
Enzo lowered his sword and returned to James’ s body.
“James,” he wept as he gently draped James’ body across his horse. The prisoner was tied to the pommel of the saddle with a short rope. They made their way back to the castle.
Robert was admitted to the queen’s office by her secretary.
“Robert, what a lovely surprise!” But she instantly knew something was wrong.
“What is it?” she went to him.
“Catherine…” he rarely used her name, still generally preferring her title as a form of respect. “Please sit. I have…I must tell you something. Please sit.”
She sat in the nearest chair. Robert knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.
“I am so sorry,” he began. His face was filled with anguish. His voice broke as he said, “It…it’s James.”
“What is James?” she demanded. She felt her body responding in panic to what she had not yet heard. It started as a roar in her ears and quickly flooded her entire body, culminating in an implosion in her gut. “What is James,” she whispered through gritted teeth as her body started to tremble.
“James is dead, Catherine.” He looked up at her. He did not want to have to say it again.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, still whispering in an attempt to control the blast threatening to tear her apart. “I just had breakfast with him. He is fine!” She pulled her hands out of his and stood up.
Robert stood with her and waited.
She wheeled on him. “Tell me it is not true! Tell me you have made a grave mistake!”
His eyes filled with tears. He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I am so sorry, Catherine. I am so sorry!”
Catherine stared at him, her insides ricocheted with horror, disbelief, fear and sorrow. Nonetheless, she knew she must forge on. Her glare subsided and was replaced by a look of resignation mixed with fear.
“Tell me everything,” she said quietly as she collapsed back into the chair and slumped back.
Robert told her, about the flowers, and the horse thief, the pistol shot and the soldiers who heard the shot and found the murderer searching James’ body.
She didn’t move. When he finished she said, “Take me to him.”
He did not question her, only nodded. Together they went to the infirmary where James’s body lay.
As Catherine looked upon the body of her son, for he was her son, too, she could not help but feel that she had failed him. She had been protecting him since before he was born. And once he pushed into the world, she embraced his tiny being and loved him with all of her might. He was so precious, so good and kind. How could the boy who helped everyone feel better be gone? How could she have failed to protect him when he needed it most? And how, dear God, how would she tell Bella?
She reached out to caress James’s face, the face she fell in love with seventeen years ago when she first laid eyes upon it. Of all of the deaths she had been forced to accept, she knew this one would stay rejected in her for the rest of her days. She felt her insides tearing apart, organ by organ. She felt pieces of her soul drifting away from her. She knew they would never return, but she let them go just the same. Part of her, the part that held joy and hope, simply transferred itself to the lifeless form before her. And she made no attempt to retrieve them before she left.
As Robert walked her back toward her private quarters she asked, “Do you have the murderer in custody?”
“Yes.”
“Hang him.”
“He claims to be a friend of the bishop’s.”
“I don’t care if he is the pope, himself.” Her tone was cold, detached. “Hang him.”
“I will take care of it.” Robert’s highest need, however, was to protect Catherine. “But you must trust me to deal with it. I want to know what his relationship to the bishop is.”
“See to it as you will.” Haltingly, he brought his fist to his chest and bowed. She did not see him do so as she slowly, hesitatingly, opened her door.
When Catherine entered her quarters she asked Marie to leave. Bella was on the balcony strumming her harp. When she turned and saw Catherine was back early, she put down her harp and went to the sitting room.
Catherine turned to Bella after Marie closed the door. Bella saw Catherine’s face and moved quickly to her and pulled her into a loving embrace. “What is it, my love? I have never seen you so stricken. Come, sit, before you collapse.”
They sat on the couch. Catherine took Bella’s hands in hers and held them between her own. Her head hung down, she could not look at Bella.
“My love,” she started. Tears fell from her eyes. They splashed onto the hands in her lap. “I would rather face a thousand enemies with swords, than do what I must do now.”
“Catherine, stop it. You’re frightening me.”
Catherine finally looked up, directly into Bella’s eyes. She attempted to take a breath, but a strangulated sob escaped instead. “James,” she said so softly that Bella did not hear her.
“What?” Bella asked.
“James is dead,” she whispered. As the words left her mouth she waited for them to register with Bella. She was prepared for any number of responses, any of which would have been understandable. Tears, screaming, tearing of her clothes; Catherine was even prepared for Bella to strike her. She could have dealt with Bella’s anger, her outrage, or her tears. But she was totally unprepared for Bella’s calm.
Bella stiffened. Her eyes glazed over. Her breathing slowed. It was as if her body slowly absorbed the news. Gradually, her body softened and as it did it diminished, lessened as she sat, almost stoically, without moving.
There is a grief so profound that no words can describe it; no pouring of tears will cleanse it from the soul; no heartrending sob can shake it loose from life’s endless breath; no anger filled scream will silence the deafening beast.
James was dead.
If Catherine’s heart was broken by James’ death, Bella’s was shattered. Catherine made sure that James was cleaned and the bloodstained clothes removed before she took Bella to the infirmary.
She held Bella close as they as they walked toward the bed where James’s body lay covered to his chin, Catherine was prepared to catch Bella should she collapse. She did not. She walked steadily, slowly toward her son’s body. When she arrived at the bedside she stood, eyes unblinking. She stared down at him for the longest time. Catherine continued to hold her at the waist, waiting for her to say something, do something. But she stood staring, almost impassively.
Finally Catherine whispered, “Bella.” Then again, closer into her ear, “Bella.”
Bella blinked and moved forward. She placed her hand on James’s cheek, then bent over touching her forehead to his. Before she stood again she kissed his forehead.
“Bring me a chair,” Bella demanded. Catherine brought a straight-backed, cushioned chair from the corner of the room.
“Leave me,” she said as she sat by her son’s dead body.
The room was cool, silent. Catherine found a coverlet and placed it around Bella’s shoulders and bent to kiss the top of her head. She left.
When Catherine returned, Bella was still sitting. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were dry. She still sat immobile, staring.
“Bella, come. You cannot stay here forever. We must leave. We must talk about what you want to do.”
“I am not ready to leave.”
“I know, my love, but we must. His body needs to be prepared for burial. Arrangements need to be made. I have already sent word to Father Tim.”
“I
am not ready.”
“Very well, then. I will stay with you.”
Catherine pulled up another chair and sat next to Bella. She wept softly. Bella stared.
Finally, Bella rose. She wrapped her arms around James and lifted his torso pulling it to her closely. To be taken in such a senseless act, and when he had so much for which to live, was the cruelest blow God could force a mother to endure. She broke and Catherine heard her shatter. Bella released a cry that sounded more like a howl. As she released James’s body her knees gave out and she started to slide down the side of the bed. Catherine caught her and they slid to the floor where they sat until Catherine finally pulled Bella to her feet and guided her back to their quarters.
Bella refused to eat. She sat on her old pallet by the window for the remainder of the day. She did not cry again once they left the infirmary. She was incapable of thought or speech or even breathing. Periodically, as if her body’s need for air was suddenly recognized by some remote mechanism, Bella would inhale fully and her exhale would be an unending sigh. Catherine did not leave her, but kept watch.
James’ body was prepared for burial. Catherine ordered a coffin specially built of rosewood and lined with silk. When all was prepared she brought Bella to the church where his coffin sat open in front of the altar. It was the evening of the day after James was killed.
Castle residents came to pray and offer their condolences. Catherine greeted them all and thanked them for coming. Bella greeted no one. She sat, a statue, unmoving in the front pew nearest the coffin.
Father Tim arrived. He prayed at length, silently. He and Catherine talked in low whispers.
“She has not moved,” Catherine said in hushed tones. “She has only stared, sighing occasionally. She has been like this since I told her.”
Father Tim placed his hand reassuringly on Catherine’s shoulder. “We have both,” he whispered, “seen enough to know that we need to watch closely, and give her time. All we can do now is be with her. And pray.”
He approached Bella, who hadn’t moved or indicated she even knew he was there. He sat beside her in silence for a very long time. Finally, he reached for her hand. She did not resist.