Until the Gifted gained strength and threatened all they had built. Daria, Gianni, the priest, Piero. Hasani. The child. The fisherman. He and Abramo had nearly decimated them . . . tearing them apart in an effort to rule them. Taking them nigh unto death, to show them the true vitality of life. But had they seen the path to victory? Joined them in the quest for power? Strength?
Nay. Stubborn were they, doggedly traveling forward as if driven by the hounds of hell. Vincenzo laughed under his breath.
“You cannot sleep?” Abramo asked from across the room.
“Nay.”
“What amuses you?”
“Tell me, Abramo. Are we but the hounds of hell?”
“Better the hounds of hell than heaven’s henchmen.”
Vincenzo considered that a moment. “Do you not fear hell, Abramo?”
“I fear nothing.” He sat up and lit a candle on the table by his bed, then leaned against the wall, drawing one leg up to the bed and resting an arm across it. Shadows danced across his handsome, scarred face, a long dark furrow undercutting the patch over his left eye. “This is all there is, Vincenzo,” he said, gesturing around. “This. If we do not take it all now, here, we have nothing. And if we do not kill our enemies, we may well be glad to find ourselves in such humble surroundings, night after night. Gone will be our day of glory.”
“Mayhap there is still a way of vanquishing our enemies, turning them, utilizing their power.”
“The Gifted must be eradicated. They cannot be turned and therefore threaten everything we wish to accomplish. So they must die, every one of them. We will use the Church to kill them, or do it ourselves. But it ends here. The hounds of hell will seem like puppies in a pen beside us. The Gifted will know sorrow. Will know fear. Will know defeat.”
Vincenzo said nothing. After a while, Abramo blew out the candle, and in seconds his breathing was slow and sure.
Daria, Daria. Once a niece to him. Once a business partner, co-consul of the guild in Siena. Once beloved. And now she was to die.
Vincenzo stared to the dark ceiling, longing to give in to slumber as his master had. But it eluded him.
Avignon
CARDINAL Boeri hated this city. For all the political intrigue and dangers of Roma, it was far cleaner and well organized than this cesspool above the Rhône. Avignon was ill prepared for the growth that came with housing the pope and his minions. Moving the offices of the pope to Avignon brought more than a thousand people to the city of old. And the impact of those thousand people brought thousands upon thousands more: people to sell food and supplies, sew garments, clean and cook, herd in animals, and haul refuse away—not that the refuse haulers were doing well at their task—essentially, those who made life in a city comfortable. And the pope, for all his famous fortitude and strivings to rein in the abuses of the cardinals and lesser priests, still enjoyed his comfort.
As did Cardinal Boeri. It was with relief that he made it to the bishop’s mansion, ate, bathed, and then gratefully sank into the luxurious sheets in his quarters, a stone’s throw from the Palais de le Pape. Bitter gall rose in his throat, even as he drew the feather-stuffed coverlet over his shoulders and leaned deeper into a feather pillow. He would do well to bring a set of this bedding home to Roma, when he went. Yes, quality bedding and the papacy both where God deigned them to be—Roma. This was his call, this was his duty, to serve the Church by showing her the way home.
The Gifted were making their way to Avignon, just as he knew they would. They were following the clues in the letter, as well as the glass map of which the doge had spoken. It was all part of Providence’s plan, this, and Boeri would facilitate it. The Gifted would seek an audience with the pope; he would help them gain entry. The Gifted would want their own Hasani back among them; he would deliver the man to them. The Gifted would not fail to display their God-given glories, and he would be the one to showcase them. Through and through, he and the Gifted would become solidified in their partnership. This was why God had granted him a portion of their precious letter. Holy allies is what they were. Holy allies.
He sank a little deeper into the featherbed, closed his eyes, and smiled. The spies had told him they had docked in Marseilles, and even now traveled northward. Come, my friends, come. The hour is drawing near for God’s perfect plan to come together at last.
CHAPTER TWO
2 February Les Baux, Provence
THEY entered through the guarded castle gates in the dark watches of the night, but a feast was still keeping the castle alight. Piero searched his mind for holy holidays—in the chaos of their travels and days that became nights, he had fallen short of his priestly duties. It was February, the beginning of February. Candlemas. Terce and the candle vigil were long over, but Les Baux was still celebrating. Clearly, this Count des Baux enjoyed his feasts.
Piero’s people were weary, from Daria to little Tessa, Gianni to young Roberto, but still they kept their chins up, eyes aware. He was proud of this troop, God’s Gifted, heady in the knowledge that each one had been brought to them for God’s own purposes. They were not the heavenly army that some might have wished for, but they were his army. So like his God, to bring such a disparate group together for his own good purposes. And what was this? A powerful lord, friend of Conte Morassi, sent to them as if he were God’s own angel, protecting them from the dark? Swooping in to save them as Amidei’s own men prepared to pounce? Piero shivered and glanced up with a prayer of gratitude.
They were all shown to the guest quarters, walking long passages hewn from the gray limestone cliffs on which the castle had been built. They had climbed and climbed, their horses and donkeys laboring under their weight, and Piero knew that the castle was likely to be high atop a bluff. He could hardly wait for daybreak to view their surroundings. Music and the aroma of roast duck floated down the hallway, twining as if in a bell pull that drew them forward, out of their muddy travel cloaks and into clean robes that would make them presentable in a count’s court.
He was changed in moments and joined Sir Lucien in the hallway, who waited to show them the way, along with Gianni, Ambrogio, Gaspare, and the knights: Vito and Ugo, Basilio and Rune. They could have found their own way, given the promising aromas of feastings and a delicate, angelic singing now floating down the torch-lit hallway. The women and children were obviously still changing, and Lucien said he’d send back a servant to fetch them. They set off down the hallway, entranced by the song. It became louder the closer they came, and they emerged into a massive hall, with an arched roof and intersecting ribs high above them. They paused to take in their new surroundings.
Ambrogio whistled lowly and leaned toward Gianni. “This place could keep a painter employed for years.”
Beautifully dressed ladies hovered in groups about the edges of the room. Knights, equally dressed in finery, sat in other groups or cavorted with the women in courtly fashion. Elaborate fixtures—that would keep a chandler working all year above his cauldrons of tallow—lit the room with a warm glow. A woman, the songbird, stood on a dais before the lord, singing such a heavenly, sweet tune that her immediate audience closed their eyes in pleasure. Indeed, the singer also kept her eyes closed, her small chin raised as if toward God, her long, blond hair pinned in coils over the nape of her neck, above a royal blue dress with gold ribbons at the seam.
When she was finished, she slowly opened her eyes, as did the men before her. Slowly the young, handsome lord grinned and then began to clap in appreciation, as did the others around the room. Gianni and the knights applauded as well. Piero merely smiled in satisfaction. The singer gave a deep, regal curtsey and then sat down.
All attention moved to them, the group newly entered upon the hall. Sir Lucien led them forward and bowed before the lord, sitting in a center chair; the singer, who now sat beside him; and an older gentleman, mayhap the lord’s steward. “Lord Rieu, may I present these men of Siena, who have recently traveled from Venezia?”
The slender but strong man, as blon
d and as blue-eyed as the singer, plainly his sister, accepted them into his court with all the regal ceremony of a king. Gianni eyed Piero. They had heard that north of Provence, in France, and mayhap now in Provence, courtly conduct had been developed into an art form, which in turn had influenced the papacy itself. The Gifted would need to learn how to flow through such finery and fluff and use it to their advantage.
“You are welcome to abide here, fellows, for as long as you feel necessary. We have a great deal to discuss. But first, my sister and I must meet your lady.”
“She is weary from the road and may well have chosen a decent bed and coverlet over any feast,” Gianni said.
“Nonsense. I must meet her, this night. We have been awaiting your arrival for nigh unto a week, now. After Conte Morassi’s letter reached me, I’ve thought of little else.” He rubbed his hands together with glee. A ruddy blush was at his jawline. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. Gianni swallowed hard, weighing the words in his mouth. They needed allies in this land. But was this lord of Les Baux simply another danger to Daria? To them all?
“I will see what is keeping her,” Father Piero said. He met Gianni’s glance with a reassuring look and set off down the dark hallway. Fortunately he met up with Daria, Agata and the children in tow, partway to the guest quarters and merely had to turn and escort them back.
Lord Armand Rieu of Les Baux stopped midsentence when he saw Daria and stepped down off the dais to meet her halfway across the room, Gianni right behind him. Armand paused before her and bowed regally, taking her hand and kissing it for an unconscionably long moment. Her eyes met Gianni’s, searching for reassurance, but the lord was already on the move, studying Daria with the intensity of a painter, slowly circling her. A quick bath and clean gown had done wonders. “M’lady, at last you have returned. Welcome to my humble castle. I feel as if an old friend has been regained. And look at you! As lovely as they say!”
Gianni stepped beside Daria, so the lord of Les Baux was forced to go around them both as he completed his turn. His eyes crinkled at the corners in glee, and he clapped his hands together. “Ahh, a worthy knight for his lady, protecting her. You will find, Sir Gianni, that we of Les Baux prize nothing more than courtly love. But beware,” he said, leaning closer to the taller knight, “there is something within our limestone that seems to sow love deeper and higher and wider than anything else you have ever experienced. Right, Anette?” He turned to eye his sister.
The young woman flushed prettily at the neck and gave her brother a small nod. But was there an air of sorrow in her expression?
“Lady Daria, you see from my sister and many of the fine women in this room that you will be one of many lovely females to grace my castle. Undoubtedly you are well used to being the only beauty in the room, given your uncommon countenance.” He eyed Gianni knowingly and then looked again to Daria. “But when it comes to Les Baux, beautiful women and their entourage are always welcome. And when they are friends of our family and arrive on the recommendation of a favored friend . . . well, there is no higher pleasure in my life.” He bowed again, a hand splayed to his right.
“Please, m’lord,” Daria said. “There is no need for such ceremony on our—”
“No need? No need!” He scoffed, but it was delight that shone through his eyes. He gesticulated with exuberance, lending weight and drama to every phrase. “This is what we are known for, m’lady. Pomp. Ceremony. Here in Les Baux, we are teaching the world how to properly conduct courtly life in a castle. Do you not remember us?”
Daria smiled. “It has been some time, m’lord.”
He grinned back at her. “Come now. It has only been a couple of decades. I do not pardon ignorance because of youth.”
“I was no older than two.”
“And I was five. Surely you recall our time together.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his chest, smiling mischievously at Gianni. “I believe it involved mud.”
Daria pulled her hand gently from his, and Armand’s grin faded. He was at once sober, responsible, and inquisitive. “My father often spoke of your family with reverence. He considered Giulio d’Angelo a fine and honorable man.”
“What of your father, m’lord? M’lady?” Daria asked. “Is he well?”
“The count has been abed for some time,” Armand said, clearly not wishing to speak of it. “I enjoyed our occasional letter exchange. Trade between Les Baux and your woolen guild has not been . . . the same since you left your position as co-consul.”
“Yes. But please know I had little choice in the matter.” She frowned, thinking of all she had lost, and what might be happening to her beloved guild. “I am sorry to hear that things are not well . . .”
“Armand,” Anette said.
Armand glanced back her and then frowned as well. “M’lady, I forget myself,” he said with a slight bow. “Speaking of business when it is time for feastings and frivolity. We shall speak further of the fabled Duchess d’Angelo, mysteriously the former co-consul of Siena’s woolen guild, now intriguing healer of the masses . . . and deliverer of children. But not until after we dine.” He waggled his eyebrows, blue eyes twinkling, and then gestured toward a table and chairs for them to sit, off the side of the dais. The others around the room, taking the lord’s cue, resumed their conversations, affording them some privacy. But what had been shared already? Piero thought. The lord’s knowledge already ran deep. Were they well past any semblance of secrecy? What was left to protect?
As the young lord and lady, Armand’s steward, Daria, Gianni, and Piero sat down, servants set heaping trenchers of food before them and poured goblets full of wine. Vito and Basilio stood guard nearby, ready to come to their aid if necessary. The others moved off to gain a plate of food themselves.
“Please, you must be famished,” Armand said. “You eat and I will talk. Given your status, I am certain you are eager to know what I know. Rest assured, I will demand to know more.” His sister walked up behind him and rested a delicate hand on his shoulder. He put a hand atop hers. “Anette fears I will pry too deeply. But my friends, please know that while I was born with a curious mind, I was also born with a loyal heart. You have nothing to fear in my keep.”
AS he talked, Daria bit into a tender slice of duck, roasted to perfection with a delicate plum sauce on its crust. He was a charmer, this young lord, clearly used to having exactly what he wanted. His tendency toward courtly romance, chivalry, seemed silly to her, but harmless enough. And yet she battled against memories of Abramo Amidei, how he ruled his own court and had once tried to rule her. She and the Gifted had narrowly escaped his clutches. All men who wielded power were dangerous, in some measure. They would need to tread carefully.
But Father Piero had said that Armand Rieu of Les Baux might well be God’s own provision, an ally in a foreign land, desperately needed, highly coveted. And her father had known his father, been in this place with her. . . . They intended to enter Avignon and take on the papacy itself. This was where their letter, the clues, the glass map all led. Avignon. And if they were to address the pope himself, any noble support they could garner would be a blessing.
She watched him as he spoke. Three years her senior, but not yet married. He met her bold gaze and studied her, then looked in deference to Gianni. There was clearly no secret that he could not decipher. Within moments upon her entry, it was plain to him that she and Gianni were in love. He was a student of human nature, the best of a nobleman’s skills. For if a lord could decipher how people thought, moved, acted, loved, made decisions, then he could most effectively rule.
Daria shivered. Once again, it reminded her of Abramo Amidei, how he wormed his way through any crack—
“M’lady, have you caught a chill?” Armand asked, narrowing his eyes in her direction, while waving a servant to fetch a blanket.
“Nay, m’lord,” she said, trying to shake off his attentions. “I am merely weary.”
“M’lady,” he said,
leaning forward. “By the end of this night, I trust every one of you will call me friend. Therefore, let us begin by using my Christian name.”
“Very well, Armand.”
“We shall speak further of the guild on the morrow. But tell me what you must this night, Daria, about you.” He waved toward the others. “And your troop. Conte Morassi was dreadfully sketchy in his details of you. He’s obviously protecting you. But you are in need of aid. I am able to provide that.”
Daria hesitated. Armand coughed and turned languid eyes back to her. He gentled his tone. “It does not take a great intellect to put the stories of Siena’s healer and the healer of lepers in Venezia together with you. She is one and the same?”
Daria eyed Piero and Gianni. Piero gave her a slight nod. Tessa had given her a squeeze to the hand when they entered, telling her she sensed no danger in the man. Mayhap Piero was right; mayhap the lords of Les Baux were exactly the allies they needed. “I am the healer,” she said, looking to Armand. “Once a lady of some wealth, now but a humble servant of my Lord.”
“As are we all,” said Piero, leaning forward. “You must know you harbor the hunted, m’lord.”
“Hunted?” He waved a hand dismissively. “By Lord Amidei? The baron? They boast nothing Les Baux cannot ward off.”
“By them, and soon by the Church, I’d wager.”
“You are a priest who wagers?”
“Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Do you speak of the Inquisition? Papal auditors? Because of your lady?”
Piero pursed his lips and sat forward. “Because of all of us. Because of an ancient prophecy. Because it has been known for some time that we would gather, and our goal would be change.”
The Blessed Page 2
