by Maggi Petton
James wrapped his arms around her and just held her while she cried. He said nothing. Finally, when she had cried herself out, she lifted her head and looked at him questioningly.
He smiled at her, “Don’t worry, Sofi. Everything will be okay.”
He picked up the stick and walked her back inside.
The next Sunday after Mass and breakfast Sofia informed her mother that she would no longer accompany her to Castiglione d’ Orcia.
“I don’t like going. I will stay behind,” she announced.
“What don’t you like about it?” Catherine asked.
“I don’t like riding all that way. It’s too far. I would rather stay behind and study my lessons,” she said.
Catherine sensed that there was more to Sofia’s refusal. Part of her wanted to insist that Sofia come, but part of her knew that whatever her real reason, Sofia was growing up and she needed to let go.
“Very well.” Catherine stood to go. “I will miss you, but I understand if you feel that your studies must come first.” Catherine bent and kissed the top of Sofia’s head. As she did she felt the sadness that all mothers feel when they realize that giving birth to the adult will be longer and more painful than giving birth to the baby.
“I don’t feel well,” James told his mother. “I think I’ll stay behind today. Is that alright?”
Bella felt his face. He wasn’t warm, but did appear to be a bit pale.
“Are you certain you will be okay? Would you like me to ask Mary to sit with you?” Bella offered.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’ll just rest and maybe read while you’re gone,” he said.
And so, for the first time since they were born, neither James nor Sofia accompanied their mothers to Castiglione d’ Orcia.
Chapter Forty Seven
“Master Barone,” the note from Bishop Capshaw read. “Please meet me in the Chapel this afternoon after the midday meal. I have something I need to discuss with you.”
Sunday Mass had just ended. Mario Barone was having breakfast in the Great Hall. As he folded the note and placed it inside his robe his faced flushed. But no one noticed.
Mario Barone entered the deserted Chapel. “Your Grace?” he called out. There was no answer. He wandered around the Chapel exploring, wondering. His heart raced with anticipation of being with the bishop. He’d been secretly in love with him for months, but knew better than to admit his feelings. When he heard the doors to the Chapel open he turned to see the Bishop locking them.
“Your Grace,” he said, working to contain his excitement..
“Mario,” the Bishop approached him. “Thank you for coming.”
“Not at all,” the tutor responded. Then, almost shyly, “It is my pleasure.” Quickly, he looked down.
Bishop Capshaw smiled. “Please, come and sit with me.”
The Bishop led the tutor to the front of the Chapel, where he indicated a pew near the altar.
“Your correspondence sounded urgent,” Mario suggested.
“I suppose that’s because it is.” Thomas Capshaw leaned in toward the tutor and lowered his voice. Although they were clearly alone in the Chapel, he nearly whispered, “I need your assistance with regard to the Princess.”
“Anything, Your Grace.”
Thomas Capshaw placed his hand on Mario’s arm. He allowed it to rest there and paused before proceeding.
“As you know, I believe the Princess to be in danger,” he started. “I believe that danger to be escalating.” He closed his eyes, bowed his head and raised both his hands to his lips. After a moment he took a deep breath and dropped his hands. He strategically lowered his left hand so that it rested on Mario’s thigh.
“I believe that I am in danger, as well,” he proceeded. “I know too much.”
Mario looked at him, horrified. “What can I do to help? I will do anything.”
Thomas Capshaw searched the tutor’s eyes as he filled his own with tears. “You must encourage the Princess to trust me above everyone else. Her life and mine depend upon it. And I must ask that you never reveal, to anyone, my work with the princess.”
They held each others’ gaze for some time. “Promise me,” the Bishop pleaded.
“I” sputtered Mario, “I promise”. His breath quickened. “I… of course. You have my word.”
“Stay with me awhile,” Thomas whispered. He slid his hand up to Mario’s thigh as he looked soulfully into the tutor’s face. “Don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely, as his hand continued up Mario’s leg until it could go no farther.
The Bishop reached for Mario’s hand and pulled it to his own erection. The mutual masturbation continued only briefly until the Bishop stopped and pulled the teacher up, propelling him toward the altar. There he lifted Mario’s robe and shoved his undergarments out of the way. He turned Mario away from him and bent him over the altar. The Bishop spit into his hand to lubricate himself, then separated Mario’s buttocks and entered him. The thrusting was hard, angry, and almost vicious. Mario grasped the opposite side of the altar and held on. After Thomas climaxed inside Mario he moved to the altar where he lifted his own robes and separated himself for the man to slip inside. When both men had satisfied themselves, they sat on the floor in front of the altar.
“I have wanted that for so long,” Mario said. “I did not even hope that you might feel the same.”
“I needed to be certain you were someone I could trust,” the Bishop said. “As I began to know you, my feelings for you grew. I knew I was safe with you.”
Mario was delirious with joy and leaned to kiss Thomas.
Thomas stood, quickly, avoiding the tutor’s lips. “We should leave. We don’t want to arouse any suspicion. Someone may have seen us come into the Chapel.”
“Of course,” Mario uttered. His face reflected his disappointment.
“If anyone should ask, you requested that I hear your Confession.” The Bishop moved toward the doors and unlocked them. Mario left, but not without a backward glance filled with love. Thomas nodded. and closed the Chapel doors, shaking his head as he exited through the back. He smiled as he locked the door behind him.
Chapter Forty Eight
“James,” his mother called softly as she entered his quarters upon her return from Castiglione d’ Orcia.
“I’m here.” He was sitting in a chair turned toward the window. He stood as his mother approached him. His face was a mass of confusion and hurt. Bella could tell he had been crying.
“What is it, tell me.”
James sniffed and invited his mother to sit in the chair. He sat on the floor next to her and rested his head on her knee. Bella rested her hand on his head, gently stroking his golden waves. He favored her looks. She was so grateful for that. His body was growing tall and lean. His hair, wavy in golden locks, hung to his shoulders. He even had her blue eyes.
“Is Queen Catherine a heretic?” he asked without looking up.
Bella’s free hand flew to her breast, her eyes closed as she paled. She didn’t breathe for a moment, then asked, “What would make you think such a thing?”
He hesitated. “I’ve heard things about Father Timothy. It makes me worry.”
“Do you fear that Father Timothy is a heretic, as well?” she asked.
“Is he?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I like Father Tim,” he looked up at her. “And I love Queen Catherine.”
“James, my love,” she placed her hand on his cheek, “do you understand the meaning of heresy? Do you know what it means to be a heretic?”
“A heretic is someone who doesn’t follow or believe everything the Church teaches,” he answered simply enough.
“I believe you are old enough to know certain things,” Bella said as she slipped off the chair and onto the floor next to him. Her heart ached with the knowledge that he was so distraught. She knew she must tread carefully, but wanted to help him. She decided to tell him the truth. “Let me as
k you something.” She paused as she thought for a minute. “Am I a witch?”
He looked at her with horror. “What?”
She smiled. “Am I a witch?”
“No, of course not!”
She laughed at his response. “You needn’t worry. You are correct. I’m not. But,” she went on, “before you were born, while I was still carrying you, our bishop tried to portray me as one. He refused me Holy Communion to emphasize his point, intent to turn people against me.”
“Why?” James asked.
“He perceived me as a threat when Queen Catherine and I became close. He didn’t like the thought of anyone having influence over the Queen.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Of course it is. But in his desire to get rid of me, he spread rumors that I was a witch. Fortunately, Robert took care of that. That is why we go to Castiglione d’ Orcia to Mass.”
James got up and walked over to his window. “Do you trust Father Tim, then?”
“With my very life. Father Tim is a good and gentle soul. He has a pure heart and works to help others who have been falsely accused of heresy.” Bella stood and went over to the window to join him. “James, Queen Catherine, Father Tim and I try to make certain that people like the Bishop cannot make up lies about people and use those lies to hurt others. Do you think that makes us heretics?”
“No.”
“According to the bishop, it does. I don’t know how you came to your information, nor does it matter. What does matter,” Bella said with conviction, “is that you always try to discern the truth. That is what you just did with me. I hope you always do so.”
“I will,” he said.
“I know you will. Trust your heart and it will always lead you.” She reached out again and gently touched his face. “Your heart is much like Father Tim’s. You always see the good in others.”
“Was my father like that, too?” he asked.
Though not with as much frequency, James still asked about his father. Bella decided long ago that he would never know he was born of her rape. That one lie was one she justified as being in her son’s best interest. She didn’t want him to harbor any fear or judgment about himself regarding his origins. As far as James knew, and would ever know, his father was her husband, murdered by a fanatical believer’s group.
“Yes,” she said. “And he would be so proud of you.”
In the childlike way that he used to, he threw his arms around her neck, hugging her and whispered, “I love you.”
She kissed his cheek. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Forty Nine
January 1569
Robert went to Catherine’s quarters. She had sent him word that she was not feeling well and wanted his weekly report there. Bella let him in, and went in search of Marie to bring Catherine some hot broth and tea.
“You look a little pale, cousin,” he said. “Are you certain you are up to this?”
She looked up at him through puffy, watery eyes after she sneezed into her handkerchief. She was miserable, but she said, “As long as I can sit next to my warm fire, curled under my blanket I’m fine.” She managed a smile. “Please sit.”
“I thought you should know I received word from Cologero that Domenico Carfaggi was executed yesterday.”
“It is about time, I suppose. It’s been more than a year, hasn’t it?”
“A little more than two, actually.”
She sneezed. “He was the last to be dealt with, then?” Catherine asked as she dabbed her sore nose with a handkerchief.
“He was the last in Radicondoli after the Mayor and the Sheriff were executed. The rest of that brood will remain in prison for another year.”
Robert reached for the poker and stoked the fire.
“It sounded,” Catherine said, “from my last communication from Cologero, as if the new government is functioning well. How many men do we still have there?”
“Only two. The transition has been complete for some time, but you were wise to leave them to support Cologero.”
“Perhaps it’s time to bring them home.”
Marie entered with broth and tea. She drizzled honey in the tea for Catherine, and offered Robert a cup.
“No, thank you, Marie. I am nearly done and will allow the Queen to resume her rest.”
When Marie left, he turned back to Catherine. “I think it time to send our own Lord Carfaggi back to Radicondoli for his trial.”
“I suppose it is. Does he know about his brother’s execution?”
“Not yet,” Robert answered. He lifted the bowl of broth and handed it to Catherine as he took the cup of tea from her. “I will tell him as soon as you order it.”
“Make arrangements to transport him to Radicondoli at your convenience. Tell him or not. He will know soon enough. I leave it to you.”
Robert stood to take his leave. “Feel better, cousin. You look like hell.”
She sneezed in response and closed her eyes with a groan.
April 1569
Catherine was in her office examining the quality of the latest batch of papers from the mill. Ambrose made improvements to decrease the amount of impurities able to enter during the pressing process. She was thinking of Ambrose, and of how much he enjoyed his role in the paper production. He did quite well, and, he’d become quite the artist. His oil portraits developed beautifully as his confidence increased. She had just stopped to admire his very first portrait of Sofia when her secretary knocked and entered.
“Majesty?” he said quietly.
“What is it, Antonio?” she asked without looking up.
“The Captain of the Guard would like a word with you.”
“Thank you. Send him in.” Catherine rubbed her eyes and looked up to see Robert enter the room. They had not met for several days, at his request.
“Majesty,” he said formally as he bowed slightly at the waist.
Catherine stood. “Come in, Robert. Sit.” She moved around her desk to join him in the small sitting area by the fireplace.
“Something has been taking up your time,” she smiled. “Am I finally to learn what it is?”
His look was solemn. “You will not be pleased,” he said.
“Go on.” She leaned forward to give him her full attention.
“Two days ago, sometime shortly after Mass, I happened to be crossing the small servant hallway behind the kitchens, the one that connects to the secret passageway from the library. As I entered, I saw Sofia and Mary making their way down the passage.”
“Why would Sofia be there at that time? She is with her tutor immediately after Mass.”
“That, of course, was my question, as well,” Robert said. “So, I followed them.” He paused. “They went directly to the Chapel. They both went in, but Mary came out again shortly thereafter.” Catherine felt her jaw clench and her face flush almost instantly. “What is that bastard doing with my daughter?” she demanded as she sat up, fear and anger both filling her.
“Don’t panic. He has no interest in women in that way. As far as I can determine he has never touched her.”
Catherine relaxed a bit, but still found the information unsettling. “Go on,” she said as her eyes narrowed.
Robert shifted in his seat, crossed his legs. “I went around to the back entrance of the chapel. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they talked only. Once I determined Sofia was not being molested by him, I went in search of Mary and interrogated her.” He hesitated before continuing. “She has been delivering Sofia to the Bishop for ‘religious training’.
Catherine leapt to her feet, the veins in her forehead stood out. “On whose authority?” she demanded.
“On yours apparently,” Robert said solemnly. “At least that is what she has been led to believe.”
“By Thomas Capshaw, no doubt.” Catherine was livid.
“No doubt. Obviously, however, there is also someone else participating in this charade,” he continued. “I went to see Master Barone, who clai
ms he saw no reason to deny the Bishop access to the Princess. And since the Princess had obviously formed a close attachment with the bishop long before he arrived, he saw no reason to be concerned.”
Catherine collapsed back into her chair. “How long?”
“Some years, apparently.”
“Under our very noses!” Catherine was appalled. “Do you believe Mary?”
“I believe Mary was duped. I am not convinced about Barone. He seems to be covering up something, but I’m not sure what. He was very nervous under questioning and seems to be protecting the bishop. He won’t implicate Capshaw, not even to save himself.”
“Where is he now?”
“With Sofia and James, but I have a guard posted outside the door so that he cannot warn the bishop. As of today Mary will cease delivering Sofia to the Chapel. He is waiting for her now.”
“I think we should pay our Bishop a visit.” Catherine stood.
“I thought you might like to surprise him.” Robert followed her out the door and to the Chapel.
The Bishop was kneeling in prayer at the altar when Catherine and Robert entered the Chapel. He didn’t indicate that he knew, or cared, that anyone had entered.
Robert and Catherine moved to the front of the Chapel and sat, waiting to see how long he might keep them waiting, thinking it was Sofia. After many minutes the Bishop finally stood, crossed himself and turned around.
When he saw the Queen and Captain sitting in the front pew he blanched.
“Why, Your Grace,” Catherine smiled, “that may be the first honest reaction I have ever observed from you. Is all well?”
In spite of the absence of color in his face the Bishop responded, “Why, of course, Majesty.” But his eyes darted nervously at the doors of the Chapel.
“Are you expecting someone, your Grace?” Catherine asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes, Your Majesty,” he replied somewhat shakily. “If you need to speak with me I would be happy to come by your office later.”
