The Queen's Companion

by Maggi Petton

  Catherine was unable to understand or answer any of their questions because they all came at once. She raised her hand to silence them.

  “My Lords, Your Grace, your concerns are noted and appreciated, but I have decided to accept Prince Ambrose of Perugia. His father has already been contacted and he and his family are traveling here from Perugia as we speak. Prince Ambrose is someone with whom I believe you will find no objection. He is from a noble line and his credentials are excellent. Your Grace, he is devoutly Catholic and is very much looking forward to meeting you.

  Lord Carfaggi was the first to object. “Your Majesty, we know little about this man. Certainly you do not expect us to accept him without having knowledge about his politics or his personality?”

  “It amuses me, my Lords,” Catherine said, “that you had no such qualms when suggesting husbands for me about whom I had no prior knowledge.” Catherine attempted to sound amused, but her anger was evident as she responded. “I know more about this man with whom I plan to spend my life, than any of the parade of misfits you have brought before me.”

  “Your Majesty,” the Bishop said, “I believe I speak for the entire Council when I say that we have only your best interests at heart. We simply express our concern over whether this man will also have your interests at heart.”

  “Your Grace, let’s not pretend to cover the real business here. It is not, nor has it ever been, my heart with which you are concerned.” She allowed her gaze to circle the room and penetrate the eyes of every man present. Her detractors could not maintain eye contact. There was no doubt that she had made her point.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the Bishop interrogated the poor victims who were accused of heresy, he had two or three persons present. One was his secretary, who kept written record of the questions and answers. The others were one or two guards who kept watch over the prisoner and the proceedings.

  The interrogation room itself was tiny and unadorned, with a small fireplace for heat in the winter. A single, high window let in some sun, but even in the light of day torches and candles were necessary. A desk sat in front of the window in such a way that light from outside created a glare behind the bishop. In this way he could see every twitch and flicker of fear on the face of his victims, but his face remained unreadable to those he interrogated. There were several chairs; one for the bishop, one for the victim and two for witnesses. Very often Lord Carfaggi served in the role of witness.

  “What is your name?” asked the Bishop.

  “Mary DeMarco, Your Grace,” answered the woman.

  “You must take an oath to truthfully reveal everything you know,” the bishop continued. He proceeded to administer the oath, to which the woman readily agreed.

  “Do you understand why you are here?” he asked gently. He found that starting the questions in a friendly manner tended to impart a false sense of benevolence to the unsuspecting victim.

  “I am not quite certain, Your Grace, as to my knowledge, I have done nothing wrong,” answered the young woman sitting before him.

  “You have been accused of witchcraft,” the Bishop answered without malice. He looked up at the woman and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How do you respond to this accusation?”

  “Your Grace, it is not true.” She looked truly horrified. “I am a God fearing woman! I know nothing of witchcraft!”

  “How then,” the Bishop proceeded, “do you account for these items found on your person when you were arrested?” He produced a leather pouch which he opened. Dried herbs and a powder were the contents of the pouch.

  “Your Grace, they are herbs only….used for making tea to aid in digestion and sleep.”

  The Bishop knew that the powders were merely herbs. He almost wished he felt bad giving Mary DeMarco the impression that she had a prayer of saving herself, but he felt nothing. He was under pressure from Carfaggi to start making more examples, especially of the women in the village, to prove that he was sincere about his role as an interrogator.

  “Are you a physician, then?” he asked.

  “No, Your Grace, women are not able to become physicians. I am simply a woman who understands the use of herbs,” she replied.

  “I see. So you admit you are not a physician, but yet you take it upon yourself to mix potions for others,” the Bishop continued. “From where do you acquire your herbs?”

  “Some grow wild in the forest, Your Grace. Others I grow in my garden,” the woman answered honestly enough.

  “So, then, you admit to growing your own ‘herbs’ to create potions that you administer to others?” his questions began to take on an accusatory tone.

  “Your Grace…I, make teas only, to aid in digestion. I am not a witch!”

  “So say you!” he glared at her now. “You have been accused of using your potions to hold others in your power. What say you to that, witch?”

  Her face registered her panic. “I don’t know what you mean. I hold no power over anyone, Your Grace. I am a simple healer. Who has told you that I have power over them? It is not true. I am innocent!”

  “Perhaps,” the Bishop relaxed his tone again. “But your innocence is not supported by the evidence.” This was almost too easy.

  “Please, Your Grace, tell me what to say,” the young woman pleaded. “I have small children.”

  “You should have given thought to your children before you engaged in such sinful behavior,” the Bishop said sadly. But he did not feel sad, in fact, he felt nothing.

  “I swear, Your Grace, I will stop practicing healing…I will tear up my herb garden…I will never make tea again…please…” the woman was sobbing now.

  “So you freely admit that you have made potions for your neighbors…from herbs that you grew in your own secret garden?” Bishop Capshaw was on his feet now, looming over his prey.

  “Yes…no!” she cried. “I grew herbs, yes…my garden is no secret. I only tried to help my neighbors with minor ailments.” Mary DeMarco slid off her chair and onto her knees. She was weeping uncontrollably.

  “Your accusers say that you lay your hands on those you treat for these minor ailments. They say that your lips move, but they cannot hear what you are saying. Miraculously, your ‘patients’ fall asleep after your administrations.” He waited, and watched her crumble.

  “Your Grace, my lips move,” her reply was broken by great heaving sobs, “only because I…. pray for them…. sometimes they fall asleep…. but only because they are tired from whatever ailed them, and from the tea….nothing more.” She could hardly breathe for gulping for air. Her body was nearly prostrate before him. “It is only by God’s grace… that I know the herbs to use to help them. It is only God’s prayers that I murmur.” He could see that she was exhausted. “Please, Your Grace, I have had little to eat and no sleep. I am so afraid of the rats…” she cried. “I don’t know what happened to my children. I am so tired.” She looked up at him. “I have not ceased praying since I was arrested. Does that sound like something a witch would do?”

  “Return to your chair and compose yourself, woman.”

  She pulled herself back up to her seat. It seemed to take all of her effort. Once Mary DeMarco was back in her chair he said, “It is a shame that your prayers could not be heard by others. That may have helped you here. As it is, your home has been searched. Among your things were found several vials of unknown powders,” the bishop said sadly.

  “Ground herbs only, Your Grace. Please, I beg you, send me home to my children.”

  “I cannot. No less than fourteen witnesses have heard you murmuring what they believed to be incantations while laying your hands on your subjects. Those same fourteen have confessed, under oath, that those same subjects fell to sleep and woke up cured…and believing that you performed some kind of miracle. Are you a miracle worker then? Has God seen fit to endow you with the power of miraculous healing?”

  “Your Grace, please, how can simple herbs, made by God make me a worker of miracles?”

>   Bishop Capshaw was bored. It was time to end this charade of justice.

  “Your neighbors have also accused you of inciting the carnal lusts of their husbands. It is widely known that all witchcraft comes from carnal lust.”

  Her jaw dropped open at this accusation. “Your Grace, I do not know what to say. I have never intentionally incited lust in anyone. I try to be a good neighbor and a good mother. That is all. You must believe that I am no witch!”

  “You are fortunate, my child, that I do not plan to torture you for your confession. The implements of torture can be quite brutal. As to your denial, it is apparent that you do not intend to confess. The evidence against you is overwhelming. Therefore, you will be returned to your cell where you will await execution. You will be burned at the stake for witchcraft,” the bishop stated without emotion.

  Too tired and terrified to continue to protest in vain, she hung her head down and wept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Catherine could see, from the bedroom window, the flags of the King of Christopher as he, his queen, and their son, Prince Ambrose made their way toward the castle. Although they were still quite a distance away it was clear that their entourage was extensive. They meant to make a good impression.

  Her heart was heavy. It took all of her energy to feign happiness in front of the staff and residents of Montalcino Castle.

  It was afternoon when the party finally entered the Castle grounds. They were greeted by cheers and much excitement. There was no way to keep the enthusiasm of her staff and subjects from their excitement over the wedding. There was little to celebrate the past many years. The king’s illness and death, followed shortly by his wife’s death had left a pall over the kingdom. And the Inquisition dominating all of Europe for so long created an atmosphere of gloom even on the best of days. That there was something to look forward to celebrating gave people hope. Catherine could see and feel the hope…and it gave her comfort.

  A grand reception was planned for the guests, but Catherine wished a private audience with her future husband and in-laws. The reception was to take place on the day following their arrival so the party had time to settle and refresh after their long journey. The audience was scheduled for the morning meal in the private dining room of her quarters. Catherine was concerned there might be some discomfort to be overcome, given the circumstances of the king’s prior pursuit of Bella’s hand. She wanted to be able to handle any such discomfort with diplomacy…and privacy.

  King Christopher, Queen Edith and Prince Ambrose were announced. Catherine rose to greet them. The king and queen entered first. It was clear King Christopher had been quite good looking in his younger days. His face, now lined, still reflected a strong jaw, full lips, high cheekbones and dark, intense eyes. His hair was mostly white, but still threaded through with black. He was tall and thin. His regal bearing made him appear even taller than he was.

  Queen Edith was almost a comical opposite in looks. She was short, stout, with dingy gray hair and had the dullest eyes Catherine had ever seen. She could not even identify the eye color for the appearance was so washed out. The queen’s lips were non-existent, although there was a thin red line where her mouth ought to be. She had a very high forehead, a long hooked nose, and not a single redeeming quality to her face.

  “Oh dear God,” thought Catherine, “let Ambrose look like his father!”

  Catherine greeted the King and Queen, who then moved aside to introduce Prince Ambrose.

  “Prince Ambrose, I am delighted.” Catherine held out her hand. The Prince knelt before her, took her hand and kissed it.

  “Queen Catherine, the delight is mine, I assure you.” He looked up at her.

  As she looked down at the prince, Catherine’s smile was sincere and spontaneous, but no one was the wiser that it was from relief. The prince did not possess his father’s coloring, but he had the king’s looks. He was tall and lean. His face was more his father’s, leaning toward handsome, but his coloring was definitely his mother’s. His eyes were his best feature, a deep sea green that sparkled as he smiled.

  After inquiring about the comfort of their quarters and rest, she turned to introduce Bella, who was standing nearby.

  “May I present my lady in waiting, the Lady Isabella, originally of Acquapendente.” Bella curtsied and raised her eyes to meet theirs. “It is my understanding that at one time it could well have been possible that Prince Ambrose was presented as a possible suitor to Lady Isabella. Is this true, Your Majesty?”

  “It is indeed, Queen Catherine.” The king’s discomfort was evident, but did not appear extreme.

  Catherine smiled. “Lady Isabella confided in me that she thought her father may have declined Prince Ambrose as a suitor.” Catherine thought it best to present the refusal as something out of Bella’s hands. “It would appear,” Catherine continued, “that Lady Isabella’s loss is a tremendous blessing for me and my kingdom.” Catherine smiled winningly at Prince Ambrose who bowed and smiled.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Catherine noted the tenor of his voice, which was very pleasant. Prince Ambrose presented as charming and good looking, but Catherine detected something else…a reticence, a resignation perhaps. She made note of it.

  She continued, wishing to put the last of the discomfort behind them, “I am sure you heard that Lady Isabella lost her husband and parents in an attack by a fanatical group claiming to be acting on behalf of the Pope.”

  The King, to his benefit, moved to Bella and took her hands, “Lady, we did hear of the attack and were very grieved. Your father was a respected Noble. Please accept our most sincere sympathy.”

  Bella smiled. “You are very kind, Your Majesty. My father spoke kindly of you, as well. I am glad to meet you at long last.”

  The discomfort was replaced by a comfortable cordiality. The group enjoyed a pleasant visit.

  Prince Ambrose was actually a pleasant enough fellow. It was easy to imagine him as a lady’s man. He was twenty four years of age, older than any of his siblings when they married, and Catherine sensed that his father was more relieved than happy about the marriage. Under any other circumstances Catherine would have found this prospect appalling. Given the true intention of this marriage, she was inclined toward relief, as well. The prince may be more amenable to the arrangement she intended than she had hoped.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The evening of the Banquet to honor the future King seemed like the perfect opportunity for Robert to address the matter with the bishop. Robert watched him closely as the evening was drawing to a close. Before Thomas Capshaw left the banquet, Robert was gone.

  Robert waited inside Bishop Capshaw’s private quarters. He did not have to wait long. He heard footsteps, but when he heard the bishop speaking with someone he quickly slipped behind the heavy draperies that hung along one full wall of the bishop’s quarters. A split between two of the panels allowed him to see a good part of the room, but not all of it. At first he could not see them, until they made their way to the sitting area. Robert had a good view of them there, and he recognized the young boy with the bishop as the son of one of his soldiers.

  “I am delighted, young man, that you are considering a religious life for yourself. There is no higher calling than one in which God, Himself, calls you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said the boy.

  “Don’t be shy. The room is grand, but don’t let that frighten you. We are both the same in God’s eyes.”

  The boy could not have been more than eleven or twelve years of age. He often served mass with the bishop.

  The bishop led the boy over to a small sitting area, “There are some matters of importance we need to discuss in order for you to dedicate your life to God, my son.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The bishop poured two cups of wine and gave one to the boy. “You have made a manly decision. Let us toast your life of devotion.”

  The boy held his cup nervously in both hands. The bis
hop sat down next to the boy and lifted the boy’s cup to his lips. “Priests need to become accustomed to the taste of wine; the sacrament of communion demands it. You may as well begin now.”

  The boy drank the sweet wine.

  “Tell me,” the bishop continued, “how long have you thought about the holy life of a priest?”

  “Since I was very young, Your Grace. “ The boy was obviously nervous.

  “I must admit that I have noticed when you serve Mass with me. You seem very devoted to God and the church. “

  “Thank you, your Grace,” the wine seemed to be helping the boy relax just a bit. He did not sound quite as nervous.

  “Drink up,” the Bishop encouraged. “What do you know of how the church deals with heretics?”

  “I know that they are to be imprisoned and may be put to death for crimes against the Church,” said the boy.

  Thomas Capshaw raised a single eyebrow at the boy. “Do you know of any heretics?”

  “None, your Grace,” answered the boy

  “And if you did?”

  “I would report them to you, your Grace.”

  “You are wise beyond your years,” cooed the bishop. He poured the boy more wine and indicated that he should drink some more. “And do you realize that the same punishment applies to those who do not report heretics?”

  “I did not know that, Your Grace. “

  “You are quite certain that you know of no one who might question the tenets of our sacred religion?”

  The boy thought for a moment and answered that he was aware of no one like that. He assured the bishop that if he did he would report the person.

  “Very good answer. I’m glad you’re on our side. We must stick together on matters of Church importance.” He stood, walked to his bookshelf, then back, where he stood over the boy in an intimidating manner. He looked down and said, quite sternly, “We understand each other in this matter, then, do we not?”

  “Y..yes, Your Grace,” the boy was clearly frightened by this turn of events. Robert wondered where this was going. He did not have to wait long.