The Blessed

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “My father always wore his beard long.”

  Daria turned to the count and ran her fingers across his forehead. “But it no longer looks well upon his face. Let us shave it closer to his cheeks, and cut his hair, so that we might easily wash and dry it. It is not seemly for him to be in such disarray.”

  Armand nodded. “It shall be so.”

  Vito arrived, out of breath after his run through the rabbit warren of halls to fetch Daria’s trunk. She went to him and set to work, pulling out small boxes and her mortar and pestle, to create a poultice that might ease the count’s breathing.

  “THE count has roused,” said the servant excitedly, the following day at noon meal.

  Armand and Anette both leapt to their feet. “He has spoken?”

  “In a whisper, but yes,” she said, nodding repeatedly, a grin across her face. “He knew my name! After all this time!” Her eyes moved to Daria. “He has asked to see you both . . . and Lady d’Angelo.”

  They rushed toward the door, but Daria drew them up short. “My friends,” she warned, “it is common for the old and infirm to rally, but then soon give in to death. It is as if God gives them one last window upon this world. Make the most of this time. Say what you must as if it is the last you shall share with your father.”

  Armand frowned, and Anette’s wide eyes filled with tears. And then they disappeared into the dark hallway, Daria directly behind them. Gianni caught up with them, silently echoing her steps. He paused outside the door, standing guard, she supposed. Looking in, but not intruding.

  The count’s room was so different than when she had first arrived. The fire still crackled in the hearth, but it had been built up to produce a constant and maximum heat, to counterbalance the open window, which allowed fresh, cold air from the valley floor. The room had been scrubbed from top to bottom with lime, and Daria could smell the acidic clean scent of it still in the room.

  The count had been bathed as well, prepared for his new bedding, and shaved. His beard was now but an inch from his withered cheeks, and his hair in back was no longer than his shoulders. Armand and Anette went immediately to him, sitting on either side of him, each taking a hand. Daria smiled over the scene. These were children who had been loved by their parents, and who loved them as well. It made her miss her own father and mother, now gone for years.

  “Father?” Armand asked.

  The count’s eyes moved beneath blue-tingend, paper-thin lids and then fluttered open. He stared at the wooden ceiling a moment, as if trying to focus, and then turned his head to smile upon his son. “Armand. Where is thy sister?” he asked, voice cracking.

  “Right here, Father,” Anette said, and the count turned to give her a weak smile as well.

  Daria went to a pitcher and poured the count some water. “Please, friends, help your father to rise a bit, so we might give him some water.”

  They helped him rise, and the count studied her over the rim of his goblet as he drank. They eased him back to the pillows.

  “You, m’lady,” he said, raising a finger to Daria, “are the mirror image of your mother. Even more beautiful, if it is possible.”

  Daria smiled. “I see how your son has come by his gift of flattery.”

  “Bah. Flattery is false. I speak the truth.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.”

  The count eyed Armand and then looked back to Daria. “You know, your father and I once spoke of arranging a marriage between you and my son.”

  “Yes, m’lord. Armand and I have already addressed it.”

  His face fell a bit. “Ah. Then you have been promised to another.”

  “She may as well be,” Armand put in. “Her heart, alas, can never be mine because she loves another.”

  “Phh. Love is one thing. A good union even better.”

  Daria shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Gianni. He smiled back at her with a soft look in his eyes.

  “Who is there?” asked the count, following her gaze out the door.

  Armand waved Gianni inward. “This is Captain Gianni de Capezzana, Father, the lady’s knight.”

  The count sank back into his pillows and stared at Gianni as if he were a vision. His mouth fell open as his eyes flitted back and forth between them in the slow manner of the aged.

  “M’lord?” Daria asked in concern.

  He lifted a hand to stop her from nearing him and then rested his hand on his chest. “The old prophecies are true . . .”

  Gianni frowned and leaned forward. “My lord. Tell us what you must. You plainly recognize us.”

  “I thought . . . I thought the resemblance to Daria’s mother was coincidence. But I see that . . . it was Lady Daria all along. And you . . .”

  “Father?” Anette asked, seeing him pale.

  “The . . . chapel. An . . . entrance . . .” His breathing was becoming labored again.

  “Quickly, lay some more horehound upon the fire,” Daria said to Gianni, motioning to the stack beside the hearth.

  The count reached for his daughter’s hand and his son’s with the other, pulling both to his chest as he fought for breath. “I have loved you . . . both. Remember that. Serve our people. And my children . . .” He pulled them closer. “Serve these two with us . . . with your very lives. It is . . . important . . . for reasons I cannot . . . begin to share.”

  “We shall, Father,” Armand pledged, seeing the urgency in his face.

  “We shall,” repeated Anette.

  The old man’s face eased into relief.

  When Daria turned back from her medicinal chest she saw the still death mask upon the count. Anette leaned down to place her face on his chest, her shoulders shaking with sorrow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAYS later, they had seen the wondrous castle of Les Baux in the golden light of sunset, the lavender light of dusk, and the russet tones of sunrise. Whatever light God cast upon his earth, the castle’s stones seemed to absorb, giving Daria the protective feeling of a cloak, as if she might be invisible to the naked eye. But that was a falsehood, of course.

  Vigil had been observed over the last few days for the count of Les Baux, and a sennight after their arrival, against a dim and gray winter sky, they burned his body in the manner of ancient kings, a Les Baux tradition. Afterward, they processed toward the castle, all eager to escape the cold northern winds that now nipped at the bluff.

  Daria, Gianni, Armand, and Anette exchanged solemn condolences. Piero neared and talked of their hope in heaven, of freedom from pain, of unspeakable joy ahead. “It is for this reason we wish to speak to the people, wherever we go,” he said. “To tell them the hope we have in heaven, and the hope we have here, on earth. But there are many who wish to dissuade us.”

  “He is there, your enemy, among those rocks you see in the distance,” Armand said, pulling the group to a stop and pointing across the valley. He seemed eager to switch the subject from his father to the new battle at hand.

  Daria shivered. Whereas the rocks of Les Baux were mostly weather-worn and rounded, the rocks the count pointed to looked as if they had been hewn from the earth that morning and set at precarious angles.

  “Hell’s Keep,” Anette mused.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “From Dante’s Divine Comedy? The poet rested here for a fortnight, and it is said that he took that valley there as his inspiration for his vision of hell.”

  “Then it is apropos that Amidei shelters there,” Gianni said.

  “Rest assured, my men will keep him from crossing the valley floor between us.”

  “You shall make an enemy of him,” Daria warned.

  “I believe I became his enemy the moment my men brought you here to shelter for the night,” Armand said with a rakish grin, a bit of himself coming back, away from grief’s covering. “It matters not. Your enemy is mine as well.”

  “I fervently hope we shall not bring your castle down behind us. They will stop at nothing, Armand,” she said, turning to lay a hand upon his ar
m in forewarning. “Nothing. They murdered my servants, captured my friends, burned my mansions to the ground, ousted me from the Mercanzia, even managed to disassociate me from my bank accounts. It is all gone, save my friends and my faith.” Her eyes shifted to Gianni, and she abruptly dropped her hand from the count’s arm. “Do you understand what this may cost you?”

  Armand looked her in the eye, his admiration for her obviously growing by the day. “Daria, I understand. Les Baux stands beside you. It is clear that the Lord is moving among you. That we are to walk this path with you, as your protectors in a foreign land. We shall not fail you, no matter the cost.”

  His eyes wandered over her shoulder, where his father’s remains now were mere smoldering ashes. “It was Father’s dying wish.” His blue eyes returned to search her own. “No matter the cost,” he said resolutely.

  Daria shook her head a little. The cost. The cost had already been dear. Nearly everything, she thought. It was one thing to cast herself into such a chasm of loss. Was it fair to ask this man to endanger everything he had as well? His loved ones? His livelihood?

  “Cease your fretting,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm, strolling along the castle guard walk. He cast an eye back at Gianni to make sure he was not overly agitating the knight. Gianni clumsily offered his arm to the countess, seconds too late. “You forget I am now a count of this region, held in high regard by many. My reach is long and strong.”

  They strolled for a while in silence, lost to their own thoughts. Daria paused as they neared the northeast corner, turned, and pulled her hand from Armand’s arm to stare back toward the mountains. Gianni came to her other side, rested a hand at her lower back, and leaned close. “What is it?”

  “What is up in that direction?” she asked.

  “Why, that is the road that leads to the Pont du Gard,” Anette said, her voice soft.

  Gianni was already shaking his head. “No, Daria. We must not tarry. We do not have time for this.” He could read it, then, from the look on her face. He did not say the words that came next, but Daria could feel every syllable. Amidei is right here. He watches our every move.

  “Along that road. There is a man? A man who is in need of healing from a cancer?”

  Anette gasped and pulled a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes wide. “Why, yes. Lord Devenue.”

  Daria studied her. The young woman’s tone was odd. “Who is he to you, Anette?”

  Anette glanced at Armand and then back to Daria. “Once . . . once he was to be my husband. But he has ailed these last years. The cancer, the tumors have distorted his face and head. The doctors believed he would die right away. But he lives on, cursed, mad with the pain. Waiting every hour of the day for the Lord to come and free him.”

  “He believes, then.”

  “Oh yes. It was the only thing that sustained him . . . for a time.”

  Daria studied the girl, so delicate, so lovely. She was most likely widely sought as a bride, given her beauty, name, and wealth. And yet she was nearing the age of spinsterhood. “Anette, why did you not marry him? It is common enough for ailing nobles . . . to attempt to leave an heir. You obviously care for him.”

  A slow, deep blush climbed Anette’s neck and face. “He ended our fathers’ agreement the day the doctors told him what he already knew to be true. He cast me out, refused me entry.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two years and three months . . . past.”

  The girl avoided the additional days that obviously loomed large in her mind. She knew exactly how long ago her love affair had ended. Daria, remembering Marco, felt something stir deep within her.

  “She has refused all other suitors,” Armand said, wrapping an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “I could force her to marry, but I must confess, I envy her devotion to the man. I cannot bear to end it.” Daria knew by now that Armand prized the idea of courtly love above everything else short of his faith in his Savior. He spent a good deal of every day encouraging others to pursue love, even going as far as to ask Gianni when he planned on marrying Daria, but then the next day extolling the virtues of unrequited love to him, and how it might be better to always pine in a heavenly manner for his lady rather than knowing the fleshly comforts of earthly love. He flirted and teased her, taunting Gianni, delighting in the game. No doubt the romantic, albeit tragic, elements of his sister’s love affair with Lord Devenue appealed to him.

  “We shall go to Lord Devenue. I believe I am to heal him.”

  Anette gasped.

  “Nay, Daria,” Gianni said. “Every step away from this castle puts us closer to the enemy at our gates.” He nodded to the eerie rocks. “It is not even in the direction of Avignon!”

  “He shall not dare to come near,” Armand said, leaping upon the opportunity for an excursion. “Amidei travels with but ten men and two women. With your own men alongside my own, I shall ensure we outnumber them three to one.”

  “Counting women and children,” Gianni ground out.

  “Come now, Sir de Capezzana,” Armand said with a good-natured frown. “Your women and children are extraordinary, are they not? To a one, they exhibit valor and faith. Give me but the females and the small ones, and I shall take on any foe myself.” He waved his arm in the air as if waving a sword.

  Gianni sighed. “If we go, God goes with us, that is true. But our Lord also asks us to be wise as well as faithful. We shall consult the priest. If he deems it wise, and only if he deems it so, we shall go. We must keep our eyes on the prize, Daria, our mission with the Church, our calling to Avignon.”

  Daria’s eyes went to the northern horizon. God had never called her to heal another and then failed to make a way. Piero would deem it wise, a part of their Lord’s plan forward; Gianni would faithfully walk beside them, protecting them as best he could. Lord Devenue, once young Anette’s betrothed, would find healing and hope again.

  Her mind went to Marco Adimari, the man she had once loved, once believed she would stand beside forever. By now, his wife would be heavy with their child. Marco had been a part of her capture in Venezia, but Daria believed he had been an innocent pawn in it all. He had loved her still, mayhap might always love her. Amidei and Vincenzo had simply played upon his emotions for their best use, to aid their cause. She hadn’t seen Marco after she had been squired away to Amidei’s dark lair, making her confident that he was not culpable. Thoughts of Marco, as long and as lithe and elegant as Count Armand, made her mildly melancholy. But she was clearly free of the dull ache and sorrow that had plagued her. Her heart, more and more, belonged to the towering knight, Gianni, glowering in his concern for her. Regardless of whether he would confirm his declarations of love, she knew where her heart now belonged. With Gianni, with the Gifted, with God.

  Gianni stared over at her as if he knew what she was thinking, remembering, but allowing it. He loved her but did not seek to control her as so many would. He simply wanted her safe. God knew what he was doing, entwining their two hearts. For Daria’s presence undoubtedly demanded that Gianni search his heart daily for his gifting of faith, just as Gianni’s presence encouraged her to go where God led, knowing she was never alone, never unguarded, and where he failed, her God stood in the gap.

  “THEY prepare to go, master.”

  “Where?”

  “I know not. We are trying to gain word.”

  “Leave me.” Abramo stood in the space between two oddly shaped rocks, a hand on each as if he was strong enough to push them apart. He stared out, across the valley at the impregnable castle, Les Baux, watching as a dull sunset changed her colors to a pale gold. Why did the Gifted delay here? Was not Avignon their goal? It mattered little. Given the chance, he would kill them outside the pope’s gates. Whenever there was an opening, he would rush through. What had Vincenzo called them? The hounds of hell. Abramo smiled. He liked that very much.

  Daria d’Angelo had dared to deny him, thwarting his every advance. That last night in Venezia, what had been m
eant to be the culmination of his work in the vast lagoon, had been devastating, casting doubt among many of his followers in the wake of the Gifted’s escape. And his eye . . . she had dared to slice open his face and eye, leaving a long scar from cheek to brow, the eye broken and withered within its socket. He could still smell the stench of his rotting wound every hour of every day.

  “Draw strength from it,” his dark lord said, from deep within the rock’s shadows. He hovered, Abramo feeling the sheer force of him, his words. “The woman shall pay for her error in judgment. And it shall be a glorious day when it comes.”

  “Yes, yes, m’lord.” He moaned, seeing it ahead of him, as if he could reach out and grab hold of it. Whatever the master told Abramo to do, he would do it. His lord had drawn closer these last weeks, even honoring his servant by taking form. “Delve into the depths of it; seek out the hatred and spite that lingers there, Abramo. It shall strengthen you.”

  “They believe they can escape us,” Abramo said.

  “They are fools on the edge of being vanquished. We trail them at every step, and our opportunity will come. We simply rest and wait upon them to take a misstep. And then we pounce.” He circled Abramo, and Abramo drew in his scent of power as if he were feeding upon it. “Yes, take me within you, brother. You shall know victory, soon. You shall take the woman upon our altar. You shall sacrifice them all to me, one at a time. You shall drink the priest’s blood. Your women shall read the child’s entrails and discover the next glorious chapter of your lives within them.”

  “Yes, yes, master. It shall be as you say.”

  “Yes,” said the dark lord, receding again into the shadows as Vincenzo approached, moving into the crevice of two great boulders.

  And when Abramo looked the master’s way again, he was gone.

  TESSA stood at the castle window as the Gifted conferred about their journey on the morrow. Roberto and Nico stood on either side of her, staring at her with concern and fear. She trembled, her teeth chattering, until Vito came to stand behind her and stare out with her. The night was now fully upon them, but there was something much darker than the night’s shadows, something much colder than the bitter north winds. “It’s as if he can see us, even in the dark of night,” the girl whispered.