Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  Benedict squeezed her hand.

  “I was so upset that Cornelius and his wife could barely get me back inside the tower. Later I thought I could try again. If I could just master it… That week, I tried three more times to leave. But each time, I froze, or I began to weep. When I go out, I simply can’t move, and the world crushes me and I can’t do it. It’s hopeless. I can’t even name my fear. I know it’s unreasonable. But it’s always there.” She had to pause to take a deep breath again. “Sometimes I think I can leave. I feel fine in here, and so sometimes I almost believe that I can do it. But whenever I try—” she couldn’t go on, and her voice broke.

  Benedict embraced her again and she wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve.

  He released her and looked into her eyes. “What happened today, it is like what happened at your grandmother’s grave?”

  Nella shook her head, breaking eye contact. “No. Today was worse.”

  Benedict came back the next day. He knocked gently on the door. “Nella?” When he opened it, she saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Oh, Nell.” He embraced her and she cried against his shoulder. It still shocked him that she let him comfort her; they had grown close in spirit, but there was a heavy wall around her person that never let him get too close. The day that he’d helped her up and down the tower had been the first time she’d let him even touch her.

  Her crying lasted only a few moments. “I’m sorry,” she said, coming back to herself and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I just thought that I could do it. I thought I could do better. I was wrong.”

  Benedict had never felt so helpless. It was jarring to see Nella—who he’d always seen as stubbornly strong—so broken. All of the fight seemed to have seeped out of her. He hated himself for what he had, in his obliviousness and arrogance, convinced her to do. “It’s all right, Nella. I understand.” Persephone clawed at his leg, and he picked the cat up and led Nella deeper inside the room. “You sit down and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  She gave a weak but genuine laugh, and it warmed him. “You? Can our prince really cook?”

  “I can try.” He set Persi down on the couch and made his way into Nella’s kitchen. I can’t bring her back with me. The thought solidified in his mind, and he wished that it hadn’t. He would not press Nella to leave the tower again, not after what he’d seen. He didn’t know why the outside world affected her so much, but he wanted to help her. The physicians would say the episodes were the fault of imbalanced humours, perhaps. The churchmen might blame a demon. For his own part, he did not know, but after seeing the pain he had caused, he couldn’t make himself do it to her again.

  A few moments later he made his way back to Nella’s sitting room. He looked down at the cold meat and bread. “It’s not much. But at least I found where you keep your food.”

  She gave a careworn smile and took the plate from him. He picked at his own food and collected Nella’s plate when she was done. When he came back he found her curled up in a large chair, leaning against the side of it and staring at the fire. She’d wrapped herself with a blanket even though the spring air had grown warmer.

  He sat down by the chair in front of the fire.

  “There’s a book in the basket by the chair,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you could read it to me?”

  He picked it up. The Nibelungenlied. “I hope you shall not mind my German,” he said. “It is far from perfect.”

  “I don’t mind,” Nella said. “I read it much better than I speak it.”

  “I doubly hope you can understand me, then.” He smiled and began. “Uns ist in alten mæren wunders vil geseit…”

  It was comforting, sitting there and reading to Nella. They’d talked often, about everything under the sun. But not conversing, he realized, could be just as pleasant. He simply liked being in her presence. As he read, Nella’s eyes began to close. When her breathing had grown regular with the peace that comes from sleep, he gently stopped his reading, not wanting to disturb her. He set the book down and smiled at her as he passed by the chair, letting himself stroke the top of her head. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

  Benedict could only say that he was entranced. He moved closer to her, not even quite sure what he was planning to do until his hand touched her face.

  A moment before his lips touched hers, she pushed him away violently and sprang from the chair.

  “No!” she said. “No, I cannot. We cannot. It would not be right.”

  He looked at her in confusion and mortification. “Nella—”

  “No, Benedict. Your wife would not like it.”

  “My wife?” He exclaimed in horror. “I’m not married. How could you think I was married?”

  “No, I know you are not. Not now. But you will be, one day. You will have a wife. And I will not take what is rightfully hers.”

  “And why can you not be that woman?” He asked desperately, now knowing why it had been so important that Nella leave the tower. He knew now, of course. It was obvious. She was the woman he wanted to marry. Her and only her.

  “You know why not!” she said. “How can you even speak of such things? I am not right for you.”

  “Then I will not marry at all.”

  “Oh, Benedict,” she said and looked at him with such tenderness that he felt a physical pain in his chest. “We both know you will. I know the law as well as you do. You love your brother too much. You will marry for his sake, if not your own.”

  He looked down, knowing she was right.

  “I think,” she said, almost in a whisper, “that this was a mistake. All of it.”

  “We will not speak of this again, then.”

  “No.” she shook her head. “You misunderstand me. You should not come back.”

  He closed his eyes. “Nella—”

  “You know I am right.” She left his side, giving space between them.

  “I do not wish to leave you alone like this, Nella.”

  “I was alone for four years before you came, Ben. I will survive.”

  He sat down in one of Nella’s wooden chairs and rested his forehead on his clasped hands. His emotions warred with his intellect. In a practical view, she was right. Even if they had been able to marry and she stayed in the tower, it could not be kept secret. And as soon as Nella’s existence was learned of, her privacy and safety would be forever gone. If Benedict could find her, anyone could. They were wrong for each other for every practical and political reason. Yet every feeling in him rebelled. It was Orlando whose head always ruled over his heart—Benedict had always relied on his intuition and emotion for his decisions.

  “Marry quickly, Benedict. You will forget about me. I will be nothing but a vague memory. Maybe not even a pleasant one.”

  “Do not talk of yourself like that, Nella,” he implored. “How could I regret knowing you?” She didn’t answer, and his body shuddered with a sigh. “Is this truly what you want?”

  “Yes. I never—want—to see you—again.” She said it each word distinctly, and they hit him harder than a punch thrown to his jaw. He stood up abruptly and turned away. “I see.”

  “Go.” He turned to her, and he saw her eyes were glittering with anger. “Go, Benedict!”

  He didn’t move.

  “I said go!”

  And he did. He never saw her collapse onto the floor as he shut the door, leaving her alone with her tears.

  Benedict pushed his horse hard as he rode back home. He was angry and disgusted with himself. If he had never attempted to kiss her, it wouldn’t have happened.

  Yes, it would have.

  He knew that their conversation would have occurred eventually. They would have had to face the consequences of the relationship at some point. Maybe it would have come months later, perhaps even years. But it would have come nevertheless. He just wished it hadn’t been so soon. I am an idiot. This was one scrape he had no idea how to get out of. One problem he didn’t know how to fix. You were right, Signor,
he thought, remembering Cornelius’s words. But did you know I would get hurt just as much?

  As soon as he was within sight of the castle, a rider came galloping towards him. “Prince Benedict!”

  Benedict pulled up beside him. “Jerome? What is it?”

  “It’s the Ruchartans, sire. They’ve laid siege to the castle at Lantilde. We are at war.”

  VI.

  Benedict’s fingers touched the sabre at his side. Though his forces had come to the aid of Lantilde and had relieved the castle, the lull in fighting did not last long. Ruchartes was not willing to give up so easily. He exited his tent and stared at the expanse between their camp and the Ruchartans, where the battle would begin within the hour.

  He wanted to fight. Needed to.

  His aide, Piero, came up beside him. “The men are gathered, Sir.”

  “Of course.” Benedict adjusted his plated armor and followed him, carrying his helmet at his side. He’d killed men before, and he’d practiced battle. But the stakes had never been this high. Bellarmine was a small country, insignificant to Europe, and nothing more than a dot to the rest of the world. But it was his home, and he would fight for it.

  He mounted his horse and spurred the animal towards the men. His men. The responsibility of that leadership weighed far heavier than his armor. The men’s faces were taut, their eyes alert. He looked at the sea of faces. All so different, all so varied. Yet all the same. He pulled the reins in front of the mass of men. They were many, but fewer in number than the enemy. He sucked in his breath.

  “We are young!” He yelled, looking at one of the young men, no more than seventeen. He glanced at a man older than his father, and continued. “We are old! Some of us have never killed a man. Some of us wear the blood of our enemies as a trophy, or as a burden.” He looked into the eyes of every man he could see. “Some of us come from wealth, others from the poorest regions of our land. We are merchants, farmers, masons. We are artists and philosophers and scientists. But these differences do not matter today. Today, we fight as one. We think as one. For we are Bellarminian!”

  The men cheered, and he waited until the noise died down. “Today I implore you to fight. Not from hate, but from love. For love is much stronger.” His voice wavered from emotion. “We fight for our mothers and wives, our sons and daughters. We fight for our sweethearts and our friends. May their belief in us impel us onward to protect our land and our honor. As we see the enemy, may we remember the faces of those behind us! We will not cower in fear nor will we retreat in confusion. We will stride onward until we take our dying breaths! We will fight for victory and we will not fail! For we do not fight alone. We are accompanied by the spirit of our people, the love of our families, and the greatness of our Lord!” He voice rose and carried far beyond him, his emotions stirred as he heeded his own words. He saw his father and mother, his brother and Silvie. Nella. Every maid and servant in his castle; every child he’d seen playing in the streets.

  “Against such a force, who can stop us?” He yelled.

  “No one!” the men answered as one.

  He donned his helmet. “Then let us fight!”

  The first line of men, equipped with harquebuses on stands, fired. Their sightline was lost in a shroud of smoke, but the gunners were already reloading. The firearms were inaccurate, but they were many in number and a wall of bullets assaulted the enemy as the soldiers moved forward.

  The men fired again, and Benedict saw that the enemy line was close. He rubbed his horse. Any moment now. He heard the cries of battle on the other side of the smoke, and he raised his arm and gave a war cry of his own before his troops plunged into combat.

  The first moments were a blur. Benedict could not recall later what he did nor how he fared in the first hour. The memory was clouded, blocked by a mist in his mind. He knew he lost his horse, it having gone down from an enemy arrow. His hands and feet were constantly moving: hacking, pulling, pushing. At one moment his sword was propelled out of his hand, and he was saved only by the appearance of a gawky boy stabbing Benedict’s assailant through the heart.

  “Get down!” Benedict pushed the boy down and threw a knife into the chest of an oncoming Ruchartan soldier. Ben had lost his helmet and one of his gauntlets, and he pulled the boy up with his bare hand before retrieving his sword. In the mass of humanity, it was difficult to tell who was winning.

  It soon became clear it was not them.

  What if he did die? Would Nella grieve for him? Would she ever even know? He didn’t have time to think of such things. He dodged an arrow and plunged his sword past hard metal into solid flesh. He stumbled and fell next to a body. It was the young boy who’d saved his life earlier. He scrambled up and took down another two Ruchartans. Just go on. Don’t stop. An explosion ignited behind him and he flew forward, the blast leaving him in pain and darkness.

  When Orlando saw the messengers approached the palace that morning, he knew that news of the battle had come. I should have been there. He knew it was a pointless wish—it would have been unwise for both heirs to be put at risk—but he felt that his rightful place should have been beside Benedict, not inside a fortified castle.

  He met his father in the hall.

  “Your brother is missing,” the king said quietly as the two men walked quickly down the hall. Orlando closed his eyes. It was the news that he’d dreaded all his life—that of his brother leaving and never coming home. Only he’d always assumed that it would be on one of Benedict’s ill-advised excursions that misfortune would befall him, not in battle.

  “Did they take him prisoner?”

  “We don’t know.” His father’s face was tight with worry. “There’s been no news of ransom, no news of—” he stopped, unable to go on.

  Though Orlando had often disparaged and scolded his brother, in truth he had always admired his daring and easy-going charm. Nothing could touch Benedict; he was born under a lucky star. He’d been in enough predicaments to have died twenty times over, yet he somehow always escaped unscathed. Orlando had always shaken his head in bewildered amusement, half-proud, half-annoyed.

  “If anyone could survive, it would be Benedict,” he reminded their father.

  “I know. But the fighting was brutal, and an enemy desperate for power is not an enemy inclined towards mercy.”

  VII.

  Nella did not think about the war. It did not exist, not to her. And Benedict would not fight, surely. He was the crown prince, the heir to the throne. And though Bellarmine’s kings and princes had always led their troops into battle, Nella convinced herself that Benedict would not do so. It was foolish. If he died, what would happen to the country?

  She thought about Benedict much more than she would have liked. Sometimes she forgot that she had sent him away, and she’d find herself wondering when he was next going to visit. Then she would berate herself and focus on a medical text or practice her painting.

  A few weeks after Cornelius had shared his news about the war, he came again to send her supplies. She found herself gladder than usual to see him, and she wondered if Benedict had ruined her for absolute solitude.

  Cornelius took down her basket and then filled it up. She leaned over to pull up the basket, and got a good look as his expression. His face was grave.

  “What is it, Cornelius?”

  “I do not wish to grieve you, Petrosinella.”

  The use of Nella’s full name frightened her. She set the basket on the floor by her feet. “Tell me, Cornelius.”

  “It’s the prince. He went missing in battle.”

  “Oh.” The breath came out of Nella at once. Her hands gripped the railing. “They have—they have not found his body?”

  “No.”

  “Then he may be alive yet.” Her statement was more of a question, and he smiled sadly.

  “Yes, he may be alive.”

  Nella knew he did not believe it. “I—I feel tired, Cornelius.”

  “I understand. Do you need me for anything?”
>
  “No. No, I—” she turned away and stared as though she were in a fog.

  “Nella?”

  “I sent him away, Cornelius. I told him I never wanted to see him again.” She stared blindly ahead at the trees, not looking down. “I didn’t tell you that before.”

  “I’m coming back tomorrow, Nella.”

  She didn’t hear him.

  Nella stared at the stars. In the past few days, her fear had begun to seep through the walls, invading her safety. She had had an attack earlier that night, alone in the kitchen. It had never happened inside the tower before, and it frightened her. Would her world only continue to grow smaller and smaller, until she was trapped in her room? Would even then she find herself paralyzed by her fear until there was no place safe she could go? At the moment, the only thing she felt could comfort her was seeing Benedict. She shivered.

  He could still be alive.

  The small voice taunted her with its possibility. She’d quizzed Cornelius with everything he knew about the battle, despite his disapproval. He feared she was only torturing herself. But a small idea—and a small hope—had lit itself inside her heart, and she could not stomp it out.

  I could find him. It was foolish, she knew. But as a woman—and an insignificant woman at that—she would find it much easier to sneak into a Ruchartan camp than a Bellarminian soldier or noble would. If his body hadn’t been found, wasn’t that a sign that he might be held captive? There was but ten miles from the western edge of her forest to the Ruchartes border, near where the battle had taken place. She knew the language of the enemy. She could blend in.

  It was possible.

  Possible I can make it. But is it possible that he is there? She didn’t know. But she’d also thought it impossible to leave the tower. If she could prove herself wrong in that—if she could prove that anything could happen—then she felt sure she would find Benedict.