The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Because it's a secret,” sighed Lia. “My husband knows, but we don't want Cesco to find out.”

  “Is it a surprise?”

  “More like unwelcome news,” said Lorenzo. “Come now, Romeo. Why don't I set you up with a blanket in the vestry. I promise, if Cesco comes, I'll wake you.”

  It was a promise Lorenzo never meant to keep. Nor would he have to. Even Lia sensed it now. Cesco was not coming.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE WATER WAS NOW at Buthayna's lips, and Cesco had only succeeded in creating a gap of perhaps half an inch in the joins of the metal collar. The bolts were two inches long, so he was just a quarter of the way towards freeing her. “The rest will go faster,” he assured her. “I can almost turn the blade sideways, and then I'll be able to lever it open.”

  Hands numb from the water, back aching from being hunched over, Cesco couldn't see. Smoke from the torch had nowhere to go but his eyes, which were watering. Just what we need, more water.

  Another source of water was her tears. She was terrified, and rightly so. But she had suffered so horribly in the last years, she knew how to weep in silence. Cesco was grateful for that, at least. If she were rocking or shaking, his hand would slip again, and then…

  There was a sharp crack, and Cesco swore loudly. The blade had snapped near the grip, rendering the implement all but useless.

  Turning her head, Buthayna saw the broken implement in his hand and closed her eyes. “Go, then. It is done. There is no way.”

  “Of course there's a way!” snapped Cesco. “I can prise up a stone, or maybe…” He looked about them, his mind fogged and unbalanced. I need a wafer. That disturbed him, but he set it aside. What he truly needed was another tool. But there was none to be had.

  The water continued to rise.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “I HOPE YOU remembered to bolt the door.”

  “Whoops,” said Benedick, and slipped at once out of the bed to do so. “Lucky.”

  “Twice lucky.” There was a smile in her eyes, but an anxiousness as well as he slid into the bed beside her.

  “I hope you are all right, Donna Beatrice.”

  “I most certainly am not,” she answered, rolling onto her side to look at him. “Didn't you hear my muffled shouts for help?”

  “Why did you think I was muffling them with my mouth?” He grew serious as his finger traced the line of her hip. “Lady – I cannot offer much…”

  “A fair start.”

  “…and my name isn't much yet…”

  “Lowering my expectations, good.”

  Benedick ran a distracted hand through his hair. “For God's sake, will you let me finish?”

  “If you start this poorly, you'll never make your purchase this way.”

  Benedick frowned. “Did I say-?”

  “You didn't, and at the rate you're going you'll never get there. I'm helping.”

  Benedick's laughter was tinged with scorn. “I'm sorry I don't live up to your expectations. I'm not as clever as these Scaligeri.”

  Beatrice snuggled close. “Comparisons are odious. Besides, I wouldn't like a man who is too clever. However could I maintain my dominance?”

  “You'll run circles around any man,” said Benedick.

  “If he's lucky,” said Beatrice.

  “He'd be lucky to link your name to his.”

  “How so?”

  Benedick frowned. “I just meant, you'll ennoble any husband you take.”

  “It will have to be by the nobility of my character,” said Beatrice.

  “But you have such a noble chest,” he teased.

  She laughed, though with a hint of unease. “It's not much of a secret, I'm afraid. My mother was unwed. There was a man she loved, but something happened before they could marry – I think he died. I never knew for certain. Anyway, I was born in secret and my grandfather sent us both away in shame.”

  “I see.” Benedick nodded, his expression merely interested. “And now?”

  “My mother's brother inherited the estate in Sicily a few years ago. He's been trying to bring her home ever since. But mother refused. She had her pride, you see. It was only just now, when my mother finally succumbed to illness, that I agreed. There is nothing left for me in Italy.”

  “Who is this uncle, a famous lord?”

  “Señor Leonato? No, he's a minor land-holder in Sicily – though I guess the king likes him. I've met him several times.”

  “The King of Aragon?”

  She poked him with a finger. “My uncle! He came to visit us, begging mother to return home. But she always refused. Yet I should like to see Messina. It feels like home.” She smiled at him. “That's my story.”

  “You're truly not noble?”

  Beatrice's lips wound together in a tight smile. “In every way but birth, I assure you, I'm a proper young lady,” laughed the naked woman.

  “So I've noticed,” said Benedick, smiling back. But his eyes were distant. “Well – it's getting late. You'll be missed.”

  Beatrice inched closer, angling for another kiss. “I won't tell if you won't.”

  “I'll never tell,” said Benedick, leaning to kiss her on the cheek. “But I think I should get you back. We don't want to start any rumours.”

  Clear-eyed, she looked at him. “There won't be any rumours if you ask me the question you meant to.”

  Benedick blinked. “What question is that?”

  Beatrice stared at him for a long moment. At last she said, “Nothing. Apparently you aren't as curious as I took you for.”

  “I'm as curious as the next man,” said Benedick with a defensive laugh.

  “Then perhaps I should wait for him,” said Beatrice.

  “Perhaps I should leave you to do it.”

  “Perhaps you should. Lord knows, I'd hate to stain your name. Mine, as you've heard, can bear it.”

  “Fine,” said Benedick, playing the injured party. “But mark me, lady – you'll never find a husband with that temper of yours.”

  “Who said anything about a husband? Certainly not you!”

  “Definitely not me,” agreed Benedick, hauling on his clothes at speed. “Farewell, Donna Beatrice!”

  “Go with God, Signor Benedick!”

  He unbolted the door, poked his head out, then slammed it shut behind him, leaving Beatrice feeling naked indeed.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  FRA LORENZO STAYED with Romeo to be sure the boy went to sleep. He had not cried again – the distraction of Lia had worked, insofar as the lad was no longer fretting about his parents. That it had opened a new danger – well, it was too late to be helped now. It could only be contained. “Romeo, we must keep Rosalia's secret.”

  “I won't tattle,” said Romeo, a little indignantly. “I'm not Benvolio.”

  “Of course you're not. But I wonder – do you understand the importance of secrets? Secrets are precious to the ones to whom they belong. They are shared out of love. Tonight you discovered a secret that was not meant for you. There's no danger, and you are not in any trouble. But Cesco will not be happy if he finds out Rosalia is with child.”

  “Because she's married to someone else, and the child will be his, not Cesco's.” Romeo had the understanding of youth, helped by a lifetime of poetry at his mother's knee.

  “Yes, the child will bear her husband's name,” agreed Lorenzo carefully. “But if Prince Francesco learns of the child, he will be sad.”

  “So Cesco loves Rosalia?”

  “I'm afraid he does.”

  Another boy might have pointed out that Cesco was already married, and so was Rosalia. But in Romeo's world there was nothing odd about being in love with one person and then finding true love in another. That's where most real love happened, he knew. His mother's poems said so.

  Content with such an orderly world, Romeo fell asleep. Lorenzo lingered, procrastinating once again. At last he mustered his courage and ventured back into the main basilica.

  If he'd been hoping to fin
d the girl deep in talk with the prince, he was disappointed. Nor had she fled into the night. She remained, quiet and patient, seated on a small pillow on the confessional bench, the door closed. “Hello daughter.”

  “I've enough fathers, thank you,” said Lia. Then her voice became amused. “Prefect?”

  “Yes,” blustered Lorenzo at once. “Of a small town – near Genoa, actually. They love their Roman influences, the Genoese—”

  “Fra Lorenzo, relax, I beg of you. I am in no state to spread anyone's gossip. That being the case, if you would care to unburden yourself of yours, I shall be happy to listen. I can do you no harm. The one person I might tell already knows, it seems. If it will ease your mind, I am here. I do not seem to be waiting for anything else.”

  It was not her sadness that moved him to do it. Rather, it was his own. He had never willingly revealed his past, not even in confession. But then, his father's last act before they parted had been to absolve Lorenzo. A final consolation.

  To his surprise, he began to speak.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO LEFT BUTHAYNA with the torch. It was foolish, as it made his work harder, but it was the only comfort he could offer. He owed her that.

  First he sought around the portal he had come through on his sanctioned visit here, hoping for a bit of loose metal. Finding none, he next tried to discover the blockage preventing the water from draining. If he could shift it, water would pour out and save her.

  Standing utterly still, he felt for movement, any at all. There was none. The blockage was truly complete. As it would have to be, for the level to be rising this way.

  Growing frantic, Cesco returned to the Teaching Room and called upwards. “The rain is causing the water to rise too fast! Whatever your mistress had in mind, she did not intend us to die so swiftly! Throw down my sword, that I might free her from her bonds! That way we'll drown together!”

  Silence. Cesco hoped he had at least offered his guardian amusement.

  Returning to Buthayna, he hunched down at her side, taking the torch as he uttered the hardest words he'd ever spoken. “I don't know what to do.”

  “It's all right,” she gasped, holding her head back to keep her lips above the waterline. “You tried.”

  “I wish it were me chained here.”

  “I don't. I'm glad you're here. It allows me to say I love you one last time.”

  His voice was constricted. “Don't.”

  “I love you, my dancer. Hayet albi enta. You are the life of my heart.”

  “Hush, Arabia. Save your breath.”

  “For what?” she asked as the water finally covered her face. It was the thinnest layer, but it sent water up her nose and she began to sputter.

  Cesco quickly leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, putting air into her lungs with a kiss.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “IT BEGINS WITH A NAME. Le Bon Guilhem, they called him. Handsome, bright, and good – at least that's what was said of him. He was the son of Pierre Authié, a man we now call heretic. Pierre was the head of a family which was a major force in the city of Ax in the Sebartès. It is odd, in fact, that the prince of Aragon should be here. The Authié family became famous in their defence of the Count of Foix, who was a vassal of both Aragon and France. While he was forced to submit to France in the end, the Authiés preserved his lands and title. Because of this, their reputation flourished. But, like most who excel through innovation, they were unorthodox. The family had long been a member of the heretic sect called Albigensians, or Cathars.

  “I imagine you've heard of the Cathars. Few, however, understand them. They believe Christ was not born of woman, but appeared like Diana, fully formed, the Word of God made flesh. They are very literal in their interpretation of texts, and so eschew transubstantiation, as that would mean the flesh and blood of Christ would be digested by men's bowels. They admit to only one sacrament, that of the Consolamentum, the final blessing before death that absolves all sin. If a man dies without the Consolamentum, his soul is reborn into a new body, and will continue this cycle until he receives this final blessing. It is for this reason that Cathars believe the taking of any life, man or animal, is wrong – they may be cutting off a soul in search of grace.

  “But then, Cathars are against all violence, all shedding of blood. They seek to emulate Christ's meekness. They eat no meat, though they do eat fish, as fish do not copulate as beasts do, and so are not sinful. Their view of sin itself is different than ours. Copulation of any kind is sinful, and, forgive me, pregnant women are abhorred. Yet Cathars view sex within marriage as just as sinful as that without it. Moreso, since those who engage in it are convinced they are not sinning. The Cathars would have excused your situation, my child, saying that there is nothing more sinful in a brother and a sister having sex than in any other couple.”

  For the first time, Lorenzo smiled, if wryly. “Pierre Authié was a man unafraid of sin. He had seven children by his wife, and two more by a mistress, the sister of a fellow notary in Ax. Her name was Monète Rouzy, and she was mother to le Bon Guilhem.

  “Six years before the Papal Jubilee, Pierre voyaged with his youngest brother Guillaume to Cuneo here in Lombardy. There they were ordained Cathar priests, called Perfects. Le Bon Guilhem was with them, and three years later he returned, still a very young man, to Sebartès as their herald. They meant nothing less than to wage war against the Church. Contemptus Mundi.

  “For ten years Pierre Authié, his brother, and his natural son lived as fugitives. You would hardly have known it, so beloved they were by the locals. Those were heady years for le Bon Guilhem – both a celebrity and a criminal. Handsome and genial, he was much admired by the ladies of the Cathar faith. He sinned much, I'm afraid. He even loved, and was loved in return. But he could never remain long in any one place. The Church was aware of Authié's preaching, and determined to end it. The heretics had become so influential, you see, so very persuasive in their proclamations of their outlawed faith, that the Inquisitor Bernardo Gui declared he had no higher goal than arresting Pierre Authié.

  “With a price on his head, it was only a matter of time before Pierre was betrayed. It came at the hands of one he had trusted, known since he was a lad. Perhaps it was because he had known the fellow's mother carnally. But I think it was greed. The money was just too good. Besides, the fellow had been arrested, and was saving his own hide.”

  Lorenzo paused for a time, clearly reliving ugly memories. “Pierre Authié was arrested in 1309, and burned at the stake the following year in Toulouse. It was a Thursday, the 9th of April. Before they lit the pyre, he announced that, were he given opportunity to preach, he would convert the entire mob come to see him burn. Truth be told, he was not wrong. His tongue could woo fish from a river.”

  Another pause, during which Lia was silent while Lorenzo composed himself.

  “On the very eve of his arrest, to save his son's life, Pierre told le Bon Guilhem to run. Guilhem's sister came to spirit him away, and he returned to Lombardy, which he remembered from when he was a boy. He took the cowl, and hid among those who had persecuted his family. He took a name for himself, one that seemed apropos. You know the story of San Lorenzo?”

  Lia's voice was soft. “When asked to hand over the Church's treasure, he presented the sick and the poor.”

  “For which he was burned to death on a grid-iron,” concluded Lorenzo, lest that fact escape her. “It seemed appropriate to le Bon Guilhem.”

  This whole time Lorenzo had spoken as if the story belonged to someone else. Lia honoured that choice as she framed a question. “Why did he choose Verona?”

  “Lightning,” answered Lorenzo. “They say if you stand in the place where lightning has struck, you will be unharmed. The Scaliger's father—” here he paused, almost saying 'your grandfather' “—Alberto della Scala, he burned two hundred Cathars in the Arena. The whole region was deemed cleansed. What better place for a Cathar to go to ground? Since then, he has strived to be a good son of
the Church, while keeping faith with the commandment 'honour thy father'. He eats fish, but no meat. He tends to plants, as they are sinless, holding the potential for both good and evil in their roots. Just as man does.”

  After an awkward silence, Lia spoke. “Thank you, Fra Lorenzo. It is good to be reminded that all men have troubles. I hope le Bon Guilhem has found peace.”

  “If he has not,” sighed Lorenzo, “it is through no one's fault but his own.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE GUEST PALACE, Don Pedro ached all over. The race had been a wonderful trial, but the aftermath made him regret his impulsivity. In a robe, he opened his door and asked a servant for water and bread.

  About to shut the door again, he noticed a light coming from beneath another door, the one leading to Beatrice's sitting room. He knocked, and her maid answered. “Is she awake? I don't mean to disturb her.”

  From inside, Beatrice said something and the maid admitted him. The lady was seated, still dressed in her finery from the evening, though a little bedraggled from the rain – it had certainly been at her hair, which was fallen from its caul. “I went to escort you home, lady, but could not find you.”

  “A pity, as I was all alone,” said Beatrice tartly, wiping her eye. “My partner had gone to find a finer conversationalist. I'm afraid I didn't come up to his standards.”

  Frowning, Don Pedro sat beside her. “Lady – have you been crying?”

  Beatrice removed her hands from her face as if scalded. “No, lord! Crying – me? The day I shed tears for any man is the day I shed my name! Especially a man such as Signor Benedick. He's as good as a trick horse that can canter sideways – there's no harness that can catch him but a golden one!” She brushed her skirts irritably. “A boor, one of these duelists without a kill to his name, all talk, no steel. Why, he talks as if he were the Scaliger's own right hand, rather than a limp hair cut from his head. Don't mention his name again!”

  She had risen and exited to her bedchamber before Pedro could point out that he hadn't mentioned Benedick at all.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  LEANING CLOSE TO DETTO, Tiberio said, “It will be dawn soon. If my wife is absent at daybreak, it will be spoken of. Would that help your friend? If they planned to run off, they will have done so by now. If he did not go to her, then she is alone and frightened – of me, of her father, of discovery. I will not harm her. I knew we should not have come. The fault is mine. I will not blame her, Bailardetto. But I must see her safe. Please.”