Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  Follow Me.

  The words were not audible, nor especial strong. It was simply a thought, one that tenderly wound its way through Nella’s mind. Follow Me. Was it a theological plea? An instruction? I will follow You then, she thought. But that does not answer my question! She stopped and stared. Or does it? “Could it really be so simple?” She turned back to look at Benedict. “What if there isn’t a hidden message? What if our only directions are to follow the Christ himself?”

  “What?”

  “We are in the catacombs,” Nella said, almost laughing. “Where early Christians met in secret. Is it not logical to assume they would mark their way with the very One they followed?”

  The relief came over Benedict’s face in a wave. “Of course. They were followers of The Way. The Way.”

  Their decision now made for them, they used Nella’s theory in every winding passage way. Each passage had two pictures— and only one of each contained a portrayal of Jesus. Nella’s heart thumped the farther they went, as she hoped she was right and dreaded that she wasn’t. After several more turns and perhaps an hour more of walking, they ran out of passageways.

  “It’s a dead end,” Nella said in disbelief. “I was wrong. I thought—”

  Benedict held up a hand and touched the wall. “This isn’t stone.” He pressed his body against it, and it gave. “Come here!”

  Nella ran towards him and pressed with all her might. With the two of them working together, the door opened—in a matter of speaking. What used to be a wooden door fell down in front of them. Sunlight filled her eyes and she blinked. “Oh, I can’t see!”

  “Neither can I.” Both of them squinted into the sunlight until their eyes adjusted to the light. Benedict seemed aware a moment before Nella did that they were on the edge of a precipice. He pushed her back. Persi, not bothered by the steep edge, was cleaning herself on a rock.

  “We must be in the ravine. We passed it on our way to the camp,” Benedict said.

  “I don’t remember seeing it.”

  “It’s not by the road.” He pointed. “The battle was a mile or two that way.”

  “Which side of the border are we on?” Nella asked.

  “The Ruchartan side,” Benedict informed her, to her disappointment. He stepped out the small grassy ledge and looked up. The door had opened somewhere in the middle of the ravine. “We’re about twelve feet from the top of the ridge,” he told her. “But it’s far too open and risky to go up.”

  “It’s far longer to the bottom,” Nella said, looking down.

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  Nella nodded. “You’re right.” Benedict took her hand and led her down the side of the ravine. It appeared that there had been steps leading down at one time, but they had fallen to pieces from the elements. Climbing down was a tedious, time-consuming task, but they both knew it needed to be done before nightfall. The steps ended five feet before the ground. Benedict jumped down, while Nella pushed herself over the side so that her feet dangled and then dropped. Benedict caught her and helped her down. The sky was beginning to dim. “You don’t mind losing a bit of sleep?” he asked her. “It would be better to travel in the dark.”

  “I just want us to get back home safely. I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”

  “Father, I can do this,” Orlando pleaded. “Your days of warfare are over. You should rest.”

  “I am not in the grave yet, Orlando,” the king said in annoyance. “And I’ve already lost your brother.” Orlando knew they were both thinking about the dreaded law that had kept him unmarried. It had been an inconvenience before; now it could be disastrous. Had he and Silvana married three years ago, when she’d first come of age, perhaps they would have had a son of their own by now. As it was, the royal line now ended with Orlando. The Ruchartan army was advancing quickly, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. Lord Ludovico had gathered an army of condottieri and met the Ruchartans outside the borders of Ivly, where he had been soundly defeated. They were a breath away from losing the Bellarminian throne.

  “I am still king, my son,” Giancarlo placed his hands on his son’s shoulders.

  “I never doubt the strength of your heart, father. It is your strength in body that worries me.” He stared into his father’s eyes, seeing Benedict there. “We will fight this together.”

  King Giancarlo was silent for a moment. “I have one request.”

  “Anything, Father.”

  “Marry Silvie before you go. The two of you have waited long enough.”

  “But Benedict—”

  “Benedict is dead, Orlando. Go find Silvie.”

  After conferring with his fiancée, Orlando stepped quickly down the stairs to the chapel to find the priest. It was far from the type of wedding he had imagined for himself and Silvie, and the cost of their marriage overshadowed the joy he should have felt. I was never supposed to be king. It was Benedict, always Benedict.

  Travelling through the Ruchartan countryside was slow. Every moment Nella lived in fear that they would be discovered, although they kept close to forests and journeyed only at night. Nella didn’t think anyone would recognize her, so she had even crept back into Luzarche to buy Benedict a change of clothes. She had almost cried with relief when they made it over the border. Benedict remained grave.

  “They’ve been here,” he said with seriousness. “They’re moving towards the capital and the palace. Did you hear anything about it in the camp?”

  “I know that there was a battle led by King Michel’s cousin Lord Amyot against the duke of Vertolli. We lost,” she added quietly.

  “Ludovico,” Benedict said in recognition at the duke’s name. “The duke—did he survive?”

  “I never learned. I only know that Captain Duval was jealous of Amyot, and he complained about his own orders to stay in Luzarche. But I know nothing else. I was only in the camp two days.”

  “And they let you find me?” Benedict asked in surprise.

  Nella laughed. “I think they were desperate.” Her amusement dimmed. “They mentioned something of a woman in the camp. Who was she?”

  “Ah, my former betrothed, Lady Cécile.” He smiled at the look on Nella’s face. “Be not jealous, my dear. We were ill suited. The lady had plans to murder me for the sake of her uncle, King Michel. Lord Amyot was her accomplice. Her desire to speak to me led to my ability to escape. A foolish wish of hers, to be sure.”

  “For them. For my own part, I thank her for it.”

  Benedict had told her that they were taking a faster route, one that skirted around Ivly and Zaretta and cut straight to the capital. “I would take you home, Nella, but—”

  “I stay with you, Benedict. And I cannot hinder you in this. My own feelings cannot come before an entire country. And neither can yours.”

  The third day of their traveling, Nella watched the sun rise through the trees. She shivered for no reason, and wondered if it was because she was tired. Not long afterward, a shadow blocked the sun.

  “Something isn’t right.” Benedict stood still and Nella looked up at the sky, unsure if she was only sensing his unease or if it really had grown darker. There was something tingling in the air. A metallic taste. The smell of smoke. Benedict moved stealthily along the brook and crossed it swiftly. Nella lifted her skirts and did the same. As she moved away from the stream, she heard a faint yell and the clang of metal upon metal. A cannon boomed in the distance.

  Benedict ran to the top of the ridge and stood over the valley. Nella caught up with him and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh!”

  The smell of death and sweat permeated the air as they watched battle below. The bloody mess of confusion and violence threatened her and she clenched her stomach, hoping she could calm the anxious fluttering she felt there. “We’re losing,” Nella realized as she continued to stare at the clash below. Her revulsion at the sight of the violence faded into a specific dread. “We’re losing ground.” She noted that every muscle in Benedict’s b
ody was tense. She looked back to the crowd of men below, wondering if Cornelius’s sons were down there. She thought of Nicoletta and Giovanna, waiting for Lorenzo.

  A man in full armor raised his sword and yelled something indistinguishable from the rest of the noise.

  “Father,” Benedict whispered. “He’s leading them.” He turned to Nella, an apology on his face. “Nella…”

  “Go,” she said. “Do it.”

  Orlando knew he was losing. They all were. The battle had been long, stretching for more than four hours, since before the very first glimmer of sunlight had brightened the horizon. His arms hurt. His legs were sore. Blood dripped from various regions of his body and he didn’t even know whether or not it was his own. His lethargy was not singular. The men were wearied, worn down by their two previous defeats. A sword intent on parting Orlando’s head from his body bore down on him, and in a burst of strength he defeated the man. I can’t go on much longer, he thought. He felt weak, and for the first time realized it might have been from lack of blood. His arm was dribbling red at an alarming rate.

  At that moment, a triumphant, unmistakable cry rang through the valley. Orlando turned in disbelief.

  Benedict.

  For a moment Orlando didn’t know if his brother had come as an avenging spirit or a warrior angel, but he didn’t care. Benedict was bearing upon enemies fast, hacking his way through with no armor and a Ruchartan sword he had picked up from a fallen soldier.

  “All for Prince Benedict!” Orlando screamed, and with renewed energy found a well of untapped strength that drove him through the crowd. Benedict grabbed him for a quick but warm embrace before both of them turned back to the battle at hand.

  Orlando laughed. “You can’t even stay dead like a reasonable person!” he yelled, overjoyed at the sight of his brother.

  “What, you didn’t miss me?” Benedict asked with a grin.

  “I think you just wanted to make an entrance as always, Ben!”

  “Father is fighting over by the brush,” Benedict said. “We should join him.”

  “Juan!” Orlando yelled. When Orlando caught the officer’s gaze, he jerked his head toward the brush where the king was fighting. Juan nodded and Orlando turned back to Benedict. “It is good to see you, Ben.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Orlando.”

  “I have so many questions—”

  “Then the both of us better survive this so that I can answer them.”

  As Benedict fought his way to his father, a new inner fire had been lit inside of him. He had the drive of a man of unfinished business ahead. For one mad, glorious moment upon his rescue in the catacombs, Benedict had imagined following Nella back to her tower, where they could live quietly together. Everyone already thought him dead, and Orlando would easily fill in the role of heir. But such a thought had lasted no longer than a butterfly resting a moment on a branch. It had been nothing more than a selfish escape from the life he’d been born to, the one he’d been avoiding all his life. In many ways, his fear was just as strong as Nella’s. How could he, for all his faults, handle the responsibility of ruling a country? A careless move by him could destroy countless lives.

  Then maybe, his inner voice scolded, you should not be careless. His fear stemmed more from what he didn’t want to do more than what he couldn’t do. His avoidance tactics could not maneuver around his destiny, he supposed. It was time he embraced his role, not ran from it. God help me. He moved north, towards the fray where his father had been surrounded. When he got there, surrounded and distracted by a thousand sounds and sights of combat, he looked to Orlando in dreaded confusion. The king’s guards were facedown, lifeless and bleeding on the ground before them.

  And their father was nowhere to be seen.

  Nella was choking. The attack had come out of nowhere. She should have expected it. She could hear the sounds of battle, the sounds of a battle threatening the very life of the man whose life she had tried so hard to save. She gasped for breath. Oh God, save me. This was the very reason she had locked herself in her tower—to escape this horrendous uncertainty and danger. She felt like screaming, but no sound passed through her lips, which was almost worse. Her stomach heaved and her mouth felt dry. She fell against a tree and leaned her forehead against it. The bark was cool and soothing. Her breathing slowly returned to normal, and she felt peace invade her. Finally. She tried to block the sounds of the fighting that echoed through her mind. How can something sound both so faint and so loud?

  She quietly crawled to the base of the tree and pulled her knees to her forehead, attempting to block out the noise. Something rustled in the bushes and her head shot up. The noise was louder and more distinct, and she heard swords touch, far closer to her than any other sounds of the battle. Her instinct for self preservation took over, and she ran deeper into the woods to crouch behind a mulberry bush. A man appeared and stumbled over the hill, his armor clanging as he hit the earth. Another man, younger, stronger, and leaner appeared. He scrambled over the hill and jumped the older man. The older man blocked his thrust at the last moment. Nella winced at the sound of the metal scraping against metal. The older man turned, and Nella got a closer look at his face. Her brows furrowed with tentative recognition. She’d seen paintings of King Giancarlo, but a man in the heat of battle looked far different than he did dressed in regalia and seated for a royal portrait. The younger man kicked the king, who fell down. The king’s sword flew. Nella’s vision fixed upon it as King Giancarlo blocked the other soldier’s hit with his shield and tried to roll closer to his fallen weapon. It was within his arm’s length.

  God, I can’t do this. She tried to steady her breathing. You found Benedict. She swallowed. You journeyed to Ruchartes. Her fear began to drain. You infiltrated an enemy camp. That thought almost made her smile at its pure improbability. I can do this. She crawled behind the skirmishing men, both of whom were too focused to notice her quiet movements. Breathing heavily, she took up a large rock and moved a step closer. She felt one last tremor of anxiety before she threw it all away and acted. Using every element of force in her body, she threw the rock at the soldier’s head. It hit him right below the neck and he stumbled.

  The split second of distraction gave the king enough time to grab the sword next to him and plunge it in between the pieces of the soldier’s breastplate. Nella’s breath caught as the soldier toppled over with a shocked gaze. The king stood and stared at her, as though he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Nella did the same.

  Then he smiled, and she saw Benedict in his upturned lips, setting to rest any uncertainty about his identity. “Thank you—” His knees gave way and he fell. Nella noticed the blood seeping through his armor and dripping onto the metal of his cuisse. She ran to him and propped him up. “Where are you hurt?”

  He gasped for breath and clutched his side. Nella moved aside his breastplate and examined the cloth underneath. The gash was serious, but she could not yet tell if it would prove fatal. She smiled with more optimism than she felt. “You’ll be fine.” She looked around, feeling frustrated at her lack of medical supplies. If she’d been back in her tower—

  Don’t be ridiculous. If you were in the tower, you wouldn’t be able to help him at all. She tore the bottom of her gown into a bandage to help staunch the bleeding. He held it to himself and gave a gasping breath before trying to stand.

  Nella realized that he meant to return to the fighting. “You can’t go back,” she said in astonishment. “You’re hurt!”

  “I am not the only one, Signorina.” He gave her an exhausted smile and clumsily patted her arm. “Thank you for your kindness.” He winced once and then straightened his back. Her arms momentarily fluttered at her sides and she restrained herself from helping him as he turned back towards the hill. His steps grew steadier and stronger as he walked, until he was running. She watched him until he disappeared over the ridge.

  Benedict could not let his father’s absence distract him. The tide of the ba
ttle had turned in their favor, and neither he nor Orlando could let their worry distract them from the fighting at hand. Almighty God, protect my father.

  The entire army seemed reenergized by Benedict’s appearance, and it frightened him by the power it held. Men were not only willing to fight with him, they were willing to fight for him.

  “Up towards the hill!” He shouted, pointing with his sword to the direction of the Ruchartan camp. He engaged in a vicious swordfight with a young Ruchartan and then was hit with another assailant on his right. He dove towards the ground just as the swordsman made a thrust. Ben shoved the other soldier towards him so he bore the full brunt of the blade. Using an abandoned arrow, he shoved it like a knife into the swordsman’s back. He paused for a fraction of a moment before spying Lord Amyot giving orders to his men. His eyes narrowed.

  Benedict spat blood and wiped the excess of a shallow face wound from his chin. He fought his way through four men on his way to the captain. Amyot’s face hardened when he saw Benedict and he barked something to a soldier before making his way forwards. Benedict gritted his teeth. He wants to kill me himself. Let him try.

  Their swords met on the field. Benedict knew that without his armor, every movement was a risk. But he was also far faster without the pounds of metal weighing him down. Even so, Amyot was by far the best fighter Benedict had thus encountered that day, and Benedict had to keep constantly alert.

  “You’re dead,” Amyot said, bearing down upon Benedict.

  Benedict flashed an exhausted grin. “I don’t think Death likes me,” he said breathlessly. “We keep running in to each other before deciding to go our separate ways.”

  He moved out of the way just in time to miss Amyot’s blade, but fell to the ground in the process. He blocked the next attempt with his sword, but the blade moved closer to his neck, and he struggled to breath. Panic threatened as the sharp edge nicked his neck.