The Queen's Companion

by Maggi Petton

  His home, it turned out, was an ancient hermitage on the grounds of one of a multitude of sixteenth century Italian castles. This particular castle was situated in an area known as Vivo d’ Orcia. The hermitage, or rather the entire Vivo d’ Orcia, was given to Saint Romualdo by Emperor Arrigo in 1003. Saint Romualdo founded the hermitage for the Camoldolese monks, but in 1328 the hermitage was ransacked by the inhabitants of, believe it or not… Castiglione d’ Orcia.

  The hermitage sat in ruins by 1460, although a handful of monks still lived there. By 1534 there were no monks living there at all and Pope Paul III sold the property for next to nothing to one Cardinal Cervini for services he had rendered to the Church.

  Cardinal Cervini, it turns out, became Pope Marcellus II. No, I am not kidding.

  So, there I was in Italy, on the second day of a writer’s conference, poised to visit a place that may or may not turn out to be directly connected to my story. A year ago my life could not have looked more different. If anyone had suggested this might be my life a year ago, I would have thought them quite mad. But, there I was. And I can’t say if the anxiety I felt was more related to finding out if this place we were going was connected to my story, or concerned that there was no connection at all. One interesting note is that the moment I arrived in Italy every battery and electrical powered device I brought with me began to malfunction. These included; my brand new watch battery (replaced before I left the states and twice in Italy), my cell phone, my camera and my computer. None of the others in our group had any trouble with their electronics. They all wisely refused to allow me near their devices.

  I don’t remember much of the ride up to the Vivo d’ Orcia, but when we finally reached the little village surrounding the castle of the Countess Cervini, descendent of Cardinal Cervini/Pope Marcellus, I thought I might leap from my seat I was wound so tight.

  At first, the narrow road led us down an old cobblestone street. There were old buildings, lots of people there for a festival of some sort. The buildings disappeared and were replaced by tall trees. I didn’t know what kind of trees, but we were definitely surrounded by lush forest. Scant light filtered through the trees. I rolled down my window and inhaled the deep, dark smells. Scents of centuries, moistened earth and woodlands, poured into me, submerging me until I thought I might drown.

  There was no way to breathe without inhaling the past. There was no way to speak without voicing a cry. There was no way to see without facing the fear. Then, just in front of us, an old stone bridge, big enough for one small car.

  We crossed the bridge, and as we did I left my insignificant self on the other side, dropping my fears like breadcrumbs, hoping they might be gobbled up by the birds and animals inhabiting the woods. I gave myself over to whatever might happen without thought to how it might impact my life.

  When we reached the other side of the bridge we faced a stone wall and turned. The path veered left and before I could brace myself, there it was. I knew it as well as I knew my own home. It was Catherine’s castle.

  Two stone walls surrounded the palace. The inner of the two was identical to the very one I had tried to draw, unsuccessfully, several months ago. It, and the entire right front side of the castle, blazed in crimson vines. It was autumn and the hills were awash in a thousand tones of greens and golds.

  Jonathan, our speaker, awaited us in the front courtyard. He was tall and rugged-looking, but his bearded face softened when he smiled. He wore a hunting outfit and could have stepped right out of a Chaucer novel. When he spoke, his English accent completed the image.

  He connected, instantly, warmly and without pretense. He introduced us to Countess Cervini, current owner of the castle. Equally as warm and welcoming, she also exuded an air of comfort. She genuinely seemed happy for us to be in her home.

  I had never met a Countess and didn’t know what to expect. She was casual and charming. She wore tight, brown slacks with brown leather boots, a simple shirt and sweater. (I had clearly overdressed.) Her hair hung to her shoulders, straight, flat. I liked her face. It was rather no nonsense and classically Italian – beautifully Italian.

  The introductions made on the sun soaked terrace, we walked through the large double, wooden doors. I was struck by an impulse to stop and caress them, but resisted. The room we entered was large and covered with portraits—mostly of Marcellus II, the Pope who was not only the Countess’s ancestor, but was also responsible for the design and construction of the palace early in the 16 century.

  Jonathan suggested we walk down to the village where an ancient festival was being held. The “Funghi Festival” was in full swing, celebrating the porcini mushroom.

  The festival was fun. The food was good, the wine even better. I loved watching the villagers roast chestnuts over a fire in a huge, circular metal pan that hung from the top of a six foot tall tripod. Periodically, the chestnuts were shifted around with a long-handled hoe, and wine from an old jug was tossed on the fire to give them a unique smoky flavor. As a child I had not appreciated that the chestnut custom was Italian. I have long missed my grandfather’s role of cross cutting a bag full of chestnuts and roasting them on Christmas day. Now, of course, when it’s too late, I wish I could ask him about it.

  As delightful as the mushroom festival was, I was anxious to get back up to the castle. When, finally, we made our way back, I realized that every time I crossed the stone bridge I felt caressed by the smells, swaddled by the rich, textured gifts of the wood. It was odd, but I felt strangely at home.

  As we strolled back across the bridge, Jonathan talked about the trees in the surrounding forest. Some of them were rare, but most of them were chestnut trees. He talked about the critical importance of chestnuts to the survival of the village in ancient times.

  “Without chestnuts the inhabitants of this village would have died,” Jonathan explained. “They ground chestnuts to make breads and flours. Chestnuts were often the only form of protein available during the many harsh winters.” As he talked he had an interesting habit of placing his hand inside the breast of his jacket. It was a small gesture, and clearly he was adjusting his scarf, but I found it endearing. It reminded me of someone, or something.

  By the time we sat to listen to Jonathan speak in the large room inside the entrance, I found myself wishing he would be brief. I really wanted to get to the tour of the castle. Just sitting became an act of will power.

  Terry introduced Jonathan, and he gave a slight bow, adjusted his scarf again, or was it an ascot? Whatever it was, he began and it was not long before I welled up listening to this sensitive, quite attractive man, tell his story. Clearly he was a romantic, but more than that, he was drawn to the Palazzo and just knew he was supposed to be there. He believed his destiny was linked to the Palazzo. No sooner did he land in the hermitage than he found himself writing for the first time in his life. He is now the author of several books.

  When Jonathan finished, the Countess invited us to enjoy refreshments, and we did so, but she wanted to show us around before the light began to fade. Just as she started talking about the portraits in the room, a little girl came running in from outside. Her face startled me and I did a double take. She had dark hair, blue eyes and the most mischievous expression I’d ever seen. She laughed her way into the room, a bundle of what I guessed to be about seven year old energy. As she chattered away in Italian, oblivious to the fact that adults were engaged, the Countess admonished her, “Sofia!”

  Countess Cervini went on to say something to the child in Italian, but I was no longer listening. Terry had the same startled look on her face that I felt on my own. But all she had to do was chuckle and shake her head. I knew I wasn’t alone. It was a good thing, too. For this Sofia’s face so resembled the one of my story, the face I had been seeing all this time, that had I any artistic ability, I could have painted it months ago, before I ever knew this child existed.

  The Countess began the tour with an explanation of her ancestral uncle, Cardinal Cervini. “He w
as very humble and cared deeply about people.” The Countess struggled a little with the English language, but did a beautiful job telling us everything she could. “His progressive thinking and interest in a variety of subjects made him unique at a time when learning, and so many books, had been banned.

  “He became Pope Marcellus II in April of 1559,” she said. “He died little less than a month later.”

  I couldn’t help but ask, “Countess,” I interrupted, “the articles written about him all say that he died of a weak constitution. Is that true?”

  We had just entered a small sitting room on which hung a hand-painted detail of the family tree back to around 1063. She had just located “Pope Marcellus” on the tree. She stopped and looked at me. “You know about him?” She seemed surprised.

  “A little, yes,” I replied.

  “He did not,” she said with some considerable pride, “have a weak constitution. He was physically active and,” she paused for emphasis, “watched what he ate very carefully. Nonetheless, my family is convinced that he was poisoned.”

  I found myself nodding, as I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Terry about this Pope. I wondered if she remembered my emphatic insistence that it just didn’t feel right to me that he “simply died”. I remember telling her about my strong feeling he was poisoned. When I looked at her this time she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she had turned a tad pale.

  I stayed behind in the little room with the family tree and hunted for Catherine on it, but the light in the room was sparse and the tree was in dark colors and difficult to read. I leaned heavily onto the small table in front of me trying to steady myself, I felt a little shaky. As much as I wanted to just sit and be alone for awhile, I gave up and followed the rest of the group.

  The Countess was pointing out details in yet another room. It was a small guest room, but with one important addition. Behind a bookcase was a small, undersized door that led to a secret passageway. As the Countess opened the door I found myself looking down a narrow, stairwell.

  “Where does the secret passage lead?” I asked.

  “To the kitchen,” she said. “I will take you there and show you where the passageway comes out.”

  A medieval kitchen is not a place I would want to learn to cook. It was dark and dusty. The ceilings were low, hanging with the tools of the times. A large step took you up to the great stone fireplace where pots of endless soups and stews were undoubtedly prepared. There were a few stuffed animals on a ledge near the only other door to the kitchen. The door appeared to go outside, but the Countess led us in the opposite direction, down a very narrow passageway on the other side of the kitchen.

  “This is where the secret passageway comes out.” She indicated a small circular stairway with an iron railing.

  With the Countess’s permission I climbed the stairs a short way up. I couldn’t even see where the passageway led because of the way it curved and disappeared into blackness. As I turned back to face the group I noticed that the passageway did not end at the kitchen, but took off in yet another direction.

  “Countess,” I called, for she was already leading us back to the kitchen, “where does this hall lead?”

  “Oh,” she stopped to explain, “It follows along and comes out near the church.”

  I didn’t even bother to look in Terry’s direction “Church?” I asked. “Can we see it?”

  “I am sorry, no,” she shook her head apologetically. “It is unsafe. We are planning to have it restored, but there is a large crack in the tower and it is not safe to enter.”

  My disappointment must have registered on my face because she quickly added, “We can go look at the outside, however.”

  As we made our way back to the kitchen I stole a look back at the secret passageway. I could almost see Robert following Mary and Sofia as they secretly went to meet the bishop.

  I hung back from the group, needing a little space from the chatter. I let them get a bit ahead of me, but following the voices, I moved through yet another small sitting room and into what I heard the Countess describing as the library. The room was dim. There were no windows, but that was the only surprise as I surveyed the environment I had practically been living in all year. Directly across from me loomed a great, wooden bookcase. It filled the wall, and although it did not sit adjacent to a pallet, there was a small lounging sofa where I had placed the pallet. The sofa, and two large chairs were arranged in front of a huge fireplace, the top of which held the Cervini coat of arms. As I drifted toward the sofa, I felt myself filled with such a sense of longing that it took everything I had to hold myself upright. I sat. It probably was not appropriate, but I couldn’t help myself. I guess I could have snapped more photos. Perhaps that would have been the wisest course of action, for in retrospect, I wish I could attach more details to the experience. But this was no tourist activity for me. This was a reality so anticipated and yet so unexpected, that I was content to just sit and take a few moments for myself. This place, this room, like Italy, knew me, and was glad to see me. This was the room where Catherine and Bella fell in love.

  The only other noticeable difference between this room and the one in my Catherine’s quarters was that there was no dining table. I always saw a large dining table, separated from everything. I didn’t have a real chance to examine the room before the Countess led us into an adjoining room. I followed the group through the door to the next room…a private dining room, with its own fireplace. The coved ceiling, of the dining room, was ornately carved and painted with light green, frescoes. The whole of the ceiling was made of carved wood separated into sections. Every other section contained a small oval into which was painted, or perhaps carved, a scene. Along the edge of each section was a smaller carving of a creature…a swan, a spider, a lion, a snail. It was quite the most intricate ceiling I had ever seen. (Of course I had not yet been to the map room in the Vatican!)

  The dining table was long, rectangular and seated twelve. The table I envisioned for Catherine was large and round, reflecting my feminist nature, but that seemed a petty detail. We went back into the ‘library’.

  I wanted everyone else to go away. I willed them away. As if on command, the Countess led them through another of the many doors out of the library.

  I stayed behind and walked over to the two chairs in front of a massive fireplace, a small table between them. How many days and nights did I sit in those chairs hearing their conversations, feeling the sexual tension grow and bloom between Catherine and Bella? I could almost hear them whispering, “Here we are.”

  I don’t know how long I sat before I heard the voices of the group again. They emerged from the room they entered, what, ten minutes ago? My sense of time, and even space, seemed to be warping. When they all left the library to head off through yet another door, I went into the room they just left.

  Sunlight poured in through a single, large window directly across from the door and I was temporarily blinded. I looked down, away from the window, allowing my eyes to adjust. When I looked up Terry was standing, leaning on the broad windowsill, looking out. The double windows were swung fully opened to the inside of the room.

  I swore Terry left with the others. I was wrong. She stood silhouetted against the window, and didn’t hear me enter. As I stood watching, she pulled the clip from her hair and bent to shake it loose, briskly rubbing her scalp. When she straightened again she ran her fingers through her soft waves to fluff it up, and then leaned against the open windowsill again, resting her chin in her hand. Almost dreamily, she looked out. I walked over to the window. It did not surprise me to see that even though we hadn’t left the first floor, the view from the window was high up, three stories up, in fact, and overlooked a garden. Beyond the garden was a view of the entire valley surrounding the palazzo.

  “This is it, you know,” I whispered as I stepped up to the window and looked out over the scene before us.

  “I know,” she said softly. Only Terry had read my manuscript and kne
w the details of the castle, the name of Catherine’s daughter, and the suspicions I expressed about the pope who had been poisoned. I wasn’t crazy. It was all here.

  I turned and looked back into the room. To my left was a magnificent bed. Catherine’s bed. The canopy was pulled back, but the draperies were the rich, velvet green I had always seen. I resisted the urge to climb up and lay on the bed. I knew that would cross a boundary, even if I could explain everything away by simply handing over a copy of my manuscript.

  I turned back to Terry. She was staring at me with a look I did not, at first, understand. We stood silently for a few moments as understanding burrowed its way into my heart.

  Her hair shimmered, and the words, “all the colors of the sunlight” rushed at me. They were the words Catherine said to Bella. I was instantly filled with so many emotions I didn’t know who I was or what to do. Longing, relief, sadness, joy and surrender engulfed me. I fought the urge to pull her into my arms, but I wasn’t sure who she was anymore. I didn’t trust myself with everything I felt; didn’t know what was real, so I forced myself to turn from her. I leaned on the windowsill and looked out at the valley, the church steeple, the gardens, and waited for the intense ache in my chest to subside.

  When I felt Terry’s hand on my shoulder, I pulled myself together. We caught up with the group and made our way outdoors to wander around the grounds. At the front of the church I was seized by a force of incomprehensible power. It took all of my strength not to fall to my knees as they threatened to buckle beneath me. I took several long, slow breaths and attempted to act normally. Again, I pulled out my camera. Again, it refused to function.

  The sun was settling toward the horizon and the colors in the valley glowed. I moved toward a low, ancient rock wall and leaned against it. As I watched, the last sunlight set the castle shimmering above me. The trees, the hermitage and the church descended into shadows.