Torrent

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “I thought we’d concluded our business the last time you visited,” Marcello said, frowning.

  The main dude, Signore Salvatori, glanced my way and clasped his hands nervously in front of him. “We have further word, m’lord, of your brother.”

  Marcello leaned forward. “What word?”

  “My sources tell me he fares much worse.” He swallowed so hard I could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “The Fiorentini took one of his eyes, and they threaten his other.” He glanced our way. “They have learned, already, that the Ladies Betarrini have returned.”

  Marcello’s frown deepened, as if their words were menacing swords.

  “That did not take long,” Luca said.

  “We knew it wouldn’t,” Marcello grumbled. He glanced toward me.

  Maybe that was why he was all agitated last night. He was worried there were already agents from Firenze within the city, out to get us. Well, you’re gonna love what’s comin’ next…

  “We have proposed, through our contacts, that we meet the Fiorentini in Sansicino. We are to bring the Ladies Betarrini, and they are to bring Lord Fortino.”

  Marcello rose so quietly, so slowly, but with such power in every inch of movement, a shiver of fear ran down my back. He stepped over to Salvatori, looking like he wanted to punch him out. “That was not your place,” he ground out. “Such negotiations are only for the Nine to make, and”—he shook his finger in the man’s face— “one we would never so foolishly dare. To say nothing of the fact that it would put the Ladies Betarrini in unprecedented danger, something I cannot condone.”

  “You might not, beloved,” I said gently, stepping forward. I looked back at Lia and then reached out to tentatively take Marcello’s hand. His face held a mixture of fury and fear. “But we would. Well we know the pain of a family divided,” I rushed on, “a treasured member lost. And Fortino—we love him as a brother too. We cannot stand idly by when there is something to be done.”

  Marcello’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze went from me to the men and back to me again. “You spoke with these men last night,” he guessed.

  “I did,” I said, willing myself to not back down as a ripple of pain shot through his eyes. “Forgive me, m’lord, for not telling you of it sooner. But when they told me they had further news of Fortino, I knew you’d at least wish to hear them out.”

  “Don’t you see?” said Signore Salvatori. “This is our opportunity. We’ve gone over plans, time and again, to steal into Firenze and try and free Lord Fortino. But there’s never a good way out again. Since your daring rescue of Lady Betarrini, our sources tell me that Firenze’s most prized prisoners are held behind several layers of protection. Our only chance is to draw them out, out to someplace where we have a fighting chance. And our only way to draw them out is to pretend to offer what they want most—the Ladies Betarrini.”

  “He has a point,” Luca said, lifting a hand in Marcello’s direction.

  Marcello sighed and shook his head, dropping my hand to put both on his head. He closed his eyes. “It is not what Fortino would want.” He looked at all of us. “Freeing Fortino would be a great honor for Siena. But what happens if we all die in the effort? Can you imagine what a blow that would be to our city?”

  We were silent for a moment, absorbing the idea.

  “No pain, no gain,” Lia muttered, so quietly only I heard her.

  “M’lord,” I said, facing him. “Siena is a fine, strong city. Cities like this find their footing even after sustaining massive blows.”

  Marcello studied me, his eyes peering into mine as if to see whether I was really ready to do this. “It may indeed be our last opportunity to save him. But if I were to rescue him and lose you…” He swallowed hard and took my hands in his.

  “And yet what if this is a door that God Himself has opened? A chance for you to bring home both a brother and a bride?” I said. If he needed to believe the Big Guy was in on it, I was up for it. And maybe He was. Maybe that was why I’d been brought here in the first place. Just for this. “Let us at least try to save him, Marcello.”

  Lia stepped to our side, and Luca to the other, so that we could confer in privacy. “If we don’t do this, Fortino will surely die,” Lia said, shaking her head. “And I cannot live with that, m’lord. To not try at all is a form of murder itself. If we are to die, let us do so trying to save your brother, trying to accomplish something honorable and true.”

  “Right,” Luca said. “As is our normal practice.”

  He cocked a grin, and Marcello was drawn into a small smile himself. He shook his head. “Can we not settle into some semblance of peace for a while? Normalcy?” He eyed me, and I could almost read the question in his eyes. You know, settle down, get married, have a couple of kids?

  “Come, beloved,” I said. “Let us make plans to free your brother. As quickly as we can. Then we can see to your desire for peace and normalcy.”

  “Do you swear it? That you will settle into such things with me then?”

  “Easily sworn,” I said. “Because there’s nothing I’d rather do than to live life with you, Marcello.”

  Dimly I could feel Lia freeze at my words. But I ignored her. We’d deal with saving Marcello’s brother first. Then we’d figure out a way to convince my sis to sign away her forever to the republic of Siena.

  While we awaited word from the Fiorentini, expected in a few days, Marcello invited us to come along with him on his official journey to visit San Galgano. The city was about fifteen miles south and east of Siena—a pretty safe area for us to go on an outing—and a good way to break everyone in to the whole idea of meeting with the Fiorentini in an effort to free Fortino. Especially Dad.

  Maybe if Mom and Dad saw we could come and go and remain secure, they’d be down with our Supergirl plan to swoop in, scoop him up, and nurse him back to health in Siena.

  Or yeah, maybe not.

  Of course Marcello brought along a hundred of his nearest and dearest knights. You know, just to make sure we had company in case trouble came near.

  Mom and Dad were excited. In all our years of visiting Tuscany, we’d never taken a day to journey out to the old abbey, which in this era was fairly new, of course. The day was crisp and cold but clear, the sunrise a pale yellow and tangerine to the east.

  We rode together in a small group, the six of us—me, Marcello, Luca, Lia, Mom, and Dad—with the knights forming what amounted to protective groups on every side of us but twenty yards away. A group of servants traveled behind, hauling a mule train of supplies.

  Since it was the middle of winter, the fields were nothing but furrows of overturned dirt. Smoke tendrils rose to the sky from small cottages and larger villas alike. I imagined households awaking to the day, breaking their fasts in cozy, warm little kitchens.

  Dad was filling us in on the legend of San Galgano. “I have always wanted to see it for myself,” he said excitedly. “I believe it to be the true basis of the Arthurian legend of Excalibur. Medieval troubadours must have spread the legend to England, where they picked up on it and made it famous.”

  “Truly, a man sunk a sword in a stone?” I asked.

  “No way,” Lia said, lapsing into English.

  Mom raised a brow. “Stranger things have happened, no?” she asked, referring to our being here at all—all due to two hands on an ancient stone wall. I stared at her for a long moment. My mom had always been a facts-only kind of girl. I always had to make my case to get her to believe, and that case had to be full of provable facts. It was the scientist in her. But our leap through time appeared to be changing her. Changing all of us.

  “San Galgano performed many miracles afterward,” Marcello said, making the sign of the cross from forehead to chest and across again, a note of defense in his tone. Luca did the same. “Why is it that you doubt this story?” he asked, blinking at me with concern in his handsome eyes.

  I shifted, trying to get comfortable on my sidesaddle. Marcello had insisted we use them, gi
ven our official task in the visit. Then I shrugged. “I know not. In Normandy we are taught to suspect everything. Believe once proven. Don’t you find the tale rather…wondrous?”

  “That is exactly how I think of it. Wondrous. A miracle.” He smiled at me, and I admired him anew. He truly was the most handsome guy I’d ever met. Strong chin. Prominent cheekbones. Large, warm eyes. He was attractive all the time—but when he smiled, man, I was lost.

  “The Cistercian monks think of it as a miraculous land too,” he went on with a wry smile. When he glanced back and spotted Dad giving him a steady stare, he hastily dropped it and looked forward again as if caught doing something terrible.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to distract them both.

  “They own most of the valley ahead of us,” he said. “Every principal building. Most of the industry. The people work for them.”

  “But it is a good valley, a prosperous valley,” Luca added. “Her people are content.”

  As we neared, I could see why. It was beautiful country, with a strong river and many creeks, soil that was dark and rich, and heavy forests, even though much had already been cleared to make way for more farmable acreage.

  “So why did San Galgano thrust his sword in the stone?” I asked.

  Dad smiled. “He forswore everything he hated—wealth and war. Violence and lust.” Did he glance at Marcello when he said that last word? Oh, you did NOT, Dad! C’mon… “An angel—”

  “Archangel,” Marcello gently corrected.

  “Archangel,” Dad repeated with a nod, “came to him and asked him to come here, to this place.”

  “The twelve apostles, too,” Marcello said.

  “Do you wish to tell this story, or may I, m’lord? Mayhap our version in Normandy is different than yours.”

  It was Marcello’s turn to nod in deference. But he was smiling, and he gestured for Dad to go on.

  “On Montesiepi he was told to build a church, and once there, he thrust his sword into the stone in an effort to create a rudimentary cross. He succeeded—only the end remained visible, which, indeed, looked like a cross.”

  “And then the pilgrims came,” I guessed, “and the monks after them.” I’d spent enough time in this country, in my own time, to know how it worked. If something holy happened, the people had to come check it out.

  “Indeed,” Dad said, clearly pleased with me.

  When Marcello and Luca started chatting about something else, I leaned back over the rump of my horse, toward Dad. “So…do you think it’s a hoax?” I asked.

  He pursed his lips. “I, like you, would like to see it myself. But many have tried over the years to pull it from the stone and failed.”

  “I read that they tested the alloys around 2000,” Mom whispered. “Completely consistent with an eleventh- or twelfth-century weapon.”

  Lia glanced at me with raised eyebrows. Her expression said, Impressive.

  I hoped I had the chance to give the old sword a pull. Mayhap I was the true queen of England, and Excalibur would show it was so. I giggled under my breath. Yeah, that’s just what you need, Gabs. A whole other gig drawing some serious attention…

  The abbey rose from a wide basin surrounded by hills that would become miles of crops—sprouting wheat and grapevines full of leaves and fruit—come summer. She was all the more inspiring sitting as she was, alone in a field, with a terra cotta brick monastery sprouting off one side. Montesiepi was the high hill beyond her, and on top of it, we could see the round church built around the sacred stone.

  The monks were already coming out to greet us.

  “Lord Forelli,” said a tall one—more handsome than most—standing in front of four others, “you have done us a great honor with your visit.” They were all barefoot and dressed in the brown robes with white rope belts. I shivered at the thought. Especially on the cold stone of the abbey or monastery…

  “It is our good pleasure,” Marcello said. He dismounted and helped me down, then introduced us all. “I have brought you gifts of indigo and gold leaf for your scriptorium, Father.”

  “It is most welcome, m’lord. And a fine meal will soon be available to you on top of the mount. In the meantime, would your guests care to see the abbey?”

  Marcello cast us a sly smile. “I think they would favor a visit, yes. And I know that they are quite intrigued with the sacred stone.”

  “Well then,” said the tall monk, “let us be about it.” He leaned down and whispered in another man’s ear, and that one set off toward the path that led upward. Probably needs to tell the kitchen staff to get on it, I decided.

  We moved into the grand abbey that reminded me of so many cathedrals we’d seen in France, with the pronounced ribbed arches and high, narrow domes. The columns were fluted, with elegantly carved capitals, and as we walked down the center aisle, I thought the setting would make for a fairy-tale kind of wedding. On either side of the main part of the church, high above, were small round windows, filled with the thinnest, creamiest stone that allowed filtered light to seep through swirls of brown. At the front, beyond the marble altar, was a large, carved crucifix backlit by a massive, round window and, below it, arched windows. On either side of the main area were long apses with arch after arch. It was lovely, really. Somehow light, in the midst of tons of stone. Ethereal. Holy.

  After a brief turn through the public rooms of the monastery and scriptorium, we exited and began our climb up the hill. It felt good to be off my horse and stretching my legs. I fought to stay on Marcello’s arm, as was expected, rather than dash ahead. At the top the tall monk led us into the small, round chapel.

  “Such a strange shape for a church of this time period,” I heard Mom whisper.

  “Maybe the Pantheon served as inspiration,” Dad returned.

  “Or the Etruscan tombs all about,” she said, smiling.

  They were quiet then, knowing the monks would want silence. I went directly to the top of the boulder, which was raw and open, like it had exploded through the perfect travertine floor, and neared the oxidized, dark metal sword that emerged from it. I circled it, noting its rough texture—and the ancient form of it.

  Marcello was kneeling on a small bench before an altar, praying. After a moment he rose, crossed himself, and backed away several steps before he turned and offered his arm to me. He gestured to the frescoes about the room. “Ambrogio,” he said in my ear.

  The freaky thing was, I knew the artist. Ambrogio Lorenzetti. I’d met him once, if not twice, at the parties in Siena. Out of the Sienese school of art, which I knew would generate some of the most famous paintings in all of Italia. I’d been dragged through the Uffizi—a dizzyingly full museum in Firenze—enough to know that much. But it wasn’t until now, here, that I put two and two together. When I was staring at his frescoes, recently laid down on the wall.

  Wait until Mom and Dad heard that—that I’d met Mr. Fresco. They’d freak.

  We admired the domed roof, which was formed out of alternating layers of terra-cotta and white travertine, giving it a sort of muted candy-cane look, and then took turns saying a prayer at the small altar, which showcased an elaborately framed, gold-leafed, iconic painting of the warrior, relinquishing his sword to an archangel with massive wings. When I knelt, I didn’t know what to say. Was I to pray to Galgano? The angel?

  God, I silently said instead. Thank You for bringing us here safely. Get us back to Siena without any trouble. And help me to figure out how to get Mom and Dad to buy in to our whole hairy plan. Amen.

  I rose, awkwardly making the sign of the cross, wondering if God was tugging at my heart to relinquish my sword, but I laughed it off. That was impossible. Not with what we had ahead of us.

  As we exited, Marcello said quietly, “I have never seen you pray before.” His eyes were full of hope, admiration. He took my arm, and we moved toward a small portico, where the monks had set out a table full of rustic, simple, but tons of food.

  “Yes, well, it is different in Nor
mandy.”

  “Prayer is prayer, regardless of where you are,” he said. “No?”

  “In some measure,” I said.

  As the group assembled, he led me to the corner of the portico, and for a moment we were hidden behind a large pillar. He wrapped his arms around me, standing behind me as we stared out over the valley. It felt good to be held by him. Warm. We could get married down in the abbey and honeymoon someplace like this, I mused. But, of course, without all the monks about. That wasn’t exactly romantic.

  He kissed the side of my head and then turned me, tucking a stray coil of hair over my ear as he liked to do. “Prayer is prayer, regardless of where you are. Is it that you feel need a priest to help show you the way?” He tucked another strand. “No woman has as many independent thoughts as my Gabriella. Tell me what you need, beloved, and I shall see you have it.”

  I laughed under my breath at his gentle jibe, even as I considered his offer. Maybe it’d help me to sort things out, to have a priest around. There was so much about faith I didn’t know. So much I felt like I ought to know, but I felt like an idiot asking. I smiled. “You are kind to think of it. I believe I would like that—if he was the right sort of priest.” My smile faded when I thought of the horrid little priest that had been at Castello Forelli when I arrived. That dude had had serious issues and clearly disliked me from the start. But I’d met others since then, others that seemed friendly and open.

  “Then you shall help me find the right one. Castello Forelli needs a new chaplain.”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to notice what he said.

  “I mean, Palazzo Forelli,” he amended.

  I looked to his hands and then up into his face again. “You miss it terribly, do you not?”