The Blessed
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
BEYOND THE MOAT - Provence
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HELL’S KEEP - Avignon
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TOWER GUARD - Avignon
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
READERS GUIDE FOR The Blessed
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Titles by Lisa T. Bergren
Novels of the Gifted
THEBEGOTTEN
THEBETRAYED
THEBLESSED
THEBRIDGE
CHRISTMAS EVERY MORNING
THE CAPTAIN’S BRIDE
DEEP HARBOR
MIDNIGHT SUN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2008 by Lisa T. Bergren.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-0-425-22342-0
1. Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction. 2. France—History—14th century—Fiction. 3. Provence (France)—Fiction 4. Good and evil—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.E71938B55 2008
813’.54—dc22 2008023601
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Roy and Jane,
battered but not broken, beloved, blessed.
Keep watch in the night!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to my editor, Denise Silvestro, her assistant, Meredith Giordan, and the incomparable copyeditor, Amy Schneider, who kept track of me from start to finish on the Gifted series. Collectively, they saved me from making many grave errors; any that remain are my own. I’m in debt to Stephen Rice, who edited my Latin, provided some translation, and set me straight on a few other linguistic matters. Post tenebras, lux. Thanks also to Joel Fotinos, Leslie Gelbman, Lara Robbins, Craig Burke, Chris Mosley, as well as Norman Lidofsky, William Bauers, and the rest of the sales force, and everyone on the Berkley team.
BEYOND THE MOAT
Provence
CHAPTER ONE
February, the Year of Our Lord 1340
OUTNUMBERED and surrounded, they were lost before it began.
Daria d’Angelo, unable to sleep upon the wet, rocky ground that seeped its chill into her bones, heard their stealthy approach. She removed the twill covering—an attempt to ward off the constant rain—and found her knight, Gianni, already beside her, face taut with tension. Grimly she took his hand and rose, joining the group beside the fire, faces betraying weariness and worry.
Daria’s knights had only just drawn their swords and formed a line around the group when the intruders shoved Vito, bound and bleeding at the lip, into their circle. Gianni and Ugo narrowly swung their swords away, barely missing him. The knights held the line around their people, swords drawn. But for each man, three others were before him.
Ugo untied Vito and both brothers stared up in fury at their captors, itching for an order from Gianni to strike out.
“Be at peace,” said the opposition’s leader, from atop a fine Spanish mount. “We mean you no harm.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Vito said, wiping away the blood of his lip with the back of his hand.
“If you speak the truth, advise your men to sheathe their swords and stand down,” Ugo added.
Gianni edged forward, in front of the brothers. “I am Sir Gianni de Capezzana, and this is my lady, Daria d’Angelo. We seek safe passage to Avignon. We believed this to be a public road.”
The captain dismounted and neared the campfire light. He nodded, regally, at Gianni, but his eyes quickly moved on to Daria, who tried to calm her white falcon, Bormeo, screeching in alarm. “You are on a public road, but one we watch closely. I am Sir Lucien Gisserot,” he said with a nod and a courtly arm outstretched as he bowed in her direction. When he rose, he smiled at her and then turned his attention back to Gianni. His cape fell into place behind him, and Daria’s eyes widened.
“I know your coat of arms,” Daria said, studying the white sixteen-pointed star on a bed of red. “You are of Les Baux.”
“Just as Les Baux knows the peacock,” said the knight, tossing her a grin and turning to face her again. “Come, Duchess. Les Baux would very much like to welcome you and be your protectors while you abide in these lands. You are tr
acked by a group of men, not half a day’s ride from here. From what my lord knows, they intend to do you and yours harm.”
Gianni appraised her, confusion rife in his eyes.
She would have to explain later. She nodded at Gianni, telling him this was a good choice, trusting Les Baux, and her captain immediately turned and gave the order to pack and mount up. They were on the move within a few minutes, with six of the knights carrying lanterns to ward off the dark of night. All told, the Gifted were thirteen in number, including five knights, one lady, her maidservant, a priest, an artist, a fisherman, and three children.
Daria looked over her shoulder, beyond the last knights of Les Baux and into the dark forest, even more menacing since she knew who it was that tracked them. Why? Why track them here? And how could Les Baux know that other travelers upon this road—of which they were few of many—might be chasing them at all?
“You know the lord of Les Baux,” Vito said dryly, riding up beside her. He still dabbed blood from the corner of his lip. Gianni was up ahead, talking to Lucien. “You so enjoy a night of drizzling rain that you could not have mentioned a warm castle ahead?”
“My father established a good cloth trade here with the people of Les Baux when I was but a child. They weave a fine, strong, smooth cotton. Even now, I suppose that Baron del Buco still sees to the trade—he did when I left Siena.”
Vito considered her words. “Could it then be a trap? Might Les Baux be waylaying us, to allow del Buco and Amidei to catch us?”
“ ’Tis my greatest fear. But I saw little choice other than to accept a night’s hospitality. Did you?”
Vito looked out from under his hood at the rain and the men-at-arms.
Father Piero rode up beside them, catching the last of their conversation. “Amidei and del Buco are bound to be holed up for the night, even if they are those who track us. We shall pray for an exit from Les Baux if it is not the protection we seek.”
He rode on to speak to Gianni, leaving Daria to her thoughts. When she was a child, there had been talk that she and the future count of Les Baux, Armand, might be a good match. Her father was in strong position to take the seat of one of the Nine, his wealth and properties growing, and he had but one heir, a daughter in need of a strong husband. She supposed it was why her mother had brought in a tutor to teach her French, with the twists that made it uniquely Provençal.
Armand was but three years her senior, the same age as Gianni, and handsome, even as a boy. But the thought of leaving Toscana for the foreign lands to the north had made both Daria and her parents ill at ease. And from an early age, her heart had been tied to Marco Adimari. It did not take long for Giulio d’Angelo to tell Count Rieu de Baux that his daughter would remain in Toscana.
It had not interrupted trade between the family and the people of Les Baux. And gradually the count’s letters had become Armand’s letters, always addressed to Daria d’Angelo, never Baron del Buco. It had irked Vincenzo, but he understood family ties. From their formal tone, Daria knew that Armand considered her still handfasted to Adimari. But there was always one line to his letters that was friendly, familial, words that spoke to her, reached out to her.
Daria sighed. What would happen when the lord of Les Baux and her newfound love, Gianni de Capezzana, met? She did not know if Armand was yet married himself. She had received no invitation nor announcement, which would have been customary among trade associates. She knew of his reputation; he loved courtly conduct, courtship, adopting the ways of the Franks in wholehearted fashion. Gianni struggled with jealousy, always present at her side. And yet nothing was declared, established between them. Aboard ship, she had made it clear how she felt about him. He had kissed her, made it clear he had deep feelings for her, but weeks later, nothing more had been said, nothing more had transpired.
She sighed. It would be what it would be. It was out of her hands. With one word, the count could be cut off, should he begin to pursue her. Barren. After all, he would be in as high a need of an heir as Marco Adimari had once been. She looked to Gianni again, able to see nothing but the outline of his form under a hooded cape, drawn close against the steadily beating rain. Two men at the front carried lanterns, holding them aloft to find the path and lead the way.
Did Gianni truly not care if he had a child of his own? He held no lands nor title beyond that of a knight. But did not every man wish to pass along his blood to the next generation? Was this what kept them apart? Why he had drawn away?
Gianni and Sir Lucien fell back, awaiting her, then rode alongside her. “You shall find,” Lucien said, “that Lord Armand Rieu is a good man, a valiant protector. He had gained word from Conte Morassi that you might be en route to Avignon through Provence.”
Daria lifted her head and shared a long look with Gianni. She turned her head back toward Lucien. “Conte Morassi de Venezia?”
“One and the same,” he said, his blue eyes clearly taking in her wonder. “Conte Morassi and Lord Armand have long been as close as brothers. Their forefathers served together in the wars against the infidels.”
Crusaders. So the ancestors of both Lord Rieu and Conte Morassi had been crusaders. She had saved the Morassis’ twin children in Venezia, turning them in their mother’s womb when many a midwife had bid them lost. It was one of many miraculous healing stories . . . and only part of the Gifted’s journey together. Clearly God was leading them ever onward.
GIANNI turned in his saddle to eye Tessa, who was able to discern light from dark, good from evil, within others. The girl raised her eyebrows in response, giving her head a little shake as if to say she sensed no ill portents. His gaze moved on to the priest, Father Piero, gifted in wisdom, who lifted his small shoulders. He seemed to accept that they might already be in the company of friends.
Gianni missed Hasani’s presence. The tall African had been abducted in Venezia, and one of the Gifted’s many goals was to find him again. He was their seer, the one who could envision what was to come, often drawing elaborate pictures that had been so vital in leading them forward on this mad course. Where was he? Had he drawn these men or the lord of Les Baux?
He had drawn Daria, chained in Amidei’s dungeon, and Piero, taking Amidei’s arrow to the chest, arms outstretched. Gianni’s jaw muscles worked as he studied the Provençal knight on the other side of Daria, still trying to decide if they should take their chances and try to break away.
Daria placed a reassuring hand on his forearm, sensing his unease.
He ignored Lucien’s curious glance and stared back into her wide, long-lashed olive eyes, so regal, his lady, with her dark brown hair coiling in ringlets along her neck in the damp, cold air. The bruises on her neck were long gone, but Gianni was more wary than ever when it came to safeguarding her. Unfortunately the Gifted’s call seemed to continually place them into the lair of their enemy. Mayhap Daria was right; Lord Armand’s castle would be a respite, a place to gain intelligence on the pope and his court, plan their entry into Avignon. Still, he hesitated.
“Sir de Capezzana,” said Lucien, “you knew of the knights that trail you?”
“Nay. We were not aware of it,” he allowed. “Simply another group of pilgrims?”
The knight smiled and glanced at Daria. “Come, now. It is plain that neither of you has a pilgrimage in mind.”
Gianni paused. “You are certain that they follow us?”
“Indeed. They have matched your pace since you departed Marseilles.”
“I take it that you, then, have as well.”
Lucien smiled again. “My lord, after receiving Count Morassi’s letter, was most insistent we find and protect you.”
Only one group would be following them into Provence. He could feel Tessa edge closer.
“They merely are as slow as we,” he tried tiredly.
“Not with the horseflesh and manpower they boast. They follow you. Be they friend or foe?”
“Foe,” Gianni grit out. “Lord Abramo Amidei, I’d wager. Baron Vincenzo del
Buco. And their entourage.”
Sir Lucien eyed one of his scouts. “Off with you, then. Go and see if it is Amidei or del Buco and report to us at Les Baux.” The man disappeared immediately into the shadows. They all could hear the beating of the horse’s hooves as the man and his mount departed into the night. “Come, my friends. You are road weary and plainly battle scarred. I can see it on your faces. Cease your ideas of fleeing, accept my lord’s favor and protection, and face your foe in the light of day.”
VINCENZO del Buco laid back tiredly on his cot. The straw tick was musty and the cloth that covered it rough, but at least they were in an inn, not out in the woods as the Gifted were this night. His shoulder ached and he felt a dull hunger in his belly, but no real desire to go and seek food. On the far side of the room was Abramo Amidei, his lord and master, who had elected to avoid women this night and rest. In fact, Vincenzo had not seen him partake of the women since that fatal night on the isle, when the Gifted had so narrowly escaped them.
Abramo’s hand covered his patched eye as if it hurt him. Only Vincenzo and a doctor had been allowed to see the deep and angry wound, where Daria had dared to slice him from brow to cheekbone. The doctor had removed the eviscerated and infected eyeball as Abramo screamed, screamed until he mercifully passed out. He slept then, through the doctor’s cleansing and stitching of the wound, through the night and through the next day. And when he woke, he had one thing on his mind—to track down the Gifted.
Vincenzo sighed and rolled over. He longed for his dry Siena, a crackling fire of Toscana oak in the hearth. He could almost smell it. Winter in these lands was harsh and cold, the damp entering his bones until he felt every year of his life. Memories of traveling with Tatiana in their hopeless search for a cure flooded through his mind. Tatiana . . . Daria . . . all the women he had loved and lost before them. Until Amidei, his grief over them had raged in his mind like an infection. Only his lord’s endless stream of female companionship had assuaged the illness of memory. And alongside Abramo, he had experienced wonders he had not dreamed possible. . . .