The Blessed
Page 14
“So you are here to capture the woman? Is it retribution you seek?”
“In part,” Abramo allowed. “But it is in our mutual interests to see the Gifted put down. Now.”
“Killed? Or imprisoned? Or merely chastened back into their proper roles?”
“One way or another, they each must die. If they are allowed to live, they will continue to do damage to my causes. And they will undermine your own office and that of the pope. You can be certain that they shall address any vice they see. They dare greatly. And they preach, m’lord Cardinal, in the common tongue. They baptize and commune anywhere they find themselves.”
It was the cardinal’s turn to sit forward. “You have failed to bring them down, curb their path. And so you look to the holy office of the pope to do your work for you? Do you not find that a bit ironic, Abramo?”
Abramo shrugged and leveled a gaze at Josue. “It matters not to me how it is accomplished. But it must be accomplished, one way or another. And immediately.”
“There has been a man in the court of late who I believe you know,” Josue said. “Cardinal Boeri de Roma.”
Abramo felt himself grow cold at such news. This was a man who knew him as a sorcerer. Who once worked with de Capezzana. He had been with the doge in Venezia. Had the cardinal told tales of his work in Roma? In Toscana? In Venezia?
Josue watched him with animated eyes, then slowly picked up his goblet for a sip. “Calm yourself. He spoke not of a noble practicing the dark arts, but of a curious group called the Gifted.”
Les Baux
AS soon as Daria heard the word healing leave Piero’s lips, her eyes had been drawn to Lady Blanchette, across the room from her. This was a woman who had suffered, who knew abdominal pain even now. The woman, pale and sallow, slowly looked about the room and met Daria’s eye. It was as it so often was for Daria . . . the Lord drew her attention to those he intended to heal, only at the time when it was right.
But there was a second yet in the room. A man, leaning in to hear Piero’s words. Duke Richardieu of Villeneuve-des-Avignon. Now she remembered him speaking too loudly through the evening, as if he were thirty years older, rather than the young man he was, no more aged than Count Armand. It was as if she could see into his inner ears, to the place where scar tissue grew atop scar tissue and blocked his hearing. God intended to clear the passages, to give him his hearing back.
She sent the boys off to light more candles about the room. Piero wanted no mistake made here, now. He would want these nobles to bespeak of the miracles about to take place to others, with awe, but no claims of magic. Daria caught Gaspare’s eye, and he gave her a smile of understanding, nodding. So he felt it too. Mayhap he would add his own gift to the evening, make it a night none would soon forget. Daria’s thoughts went to her lost knights, Rune and Basilio, of her longing still to reach out and heal them, bring them back from the funeral pyres that had taken them away forever, out of their own realm and into God’s. Although surrounded by people, with her new husband nearby, Daria felt the loss of their presence acutely.
Piero finished his preaching, reaching for Daria’s Bible and reading Paul’s words in Provençal. “ ‘Do you not know that in a race all runners run, but only one gets the prize?’ Many are your prizes, great is your wealth, my noble friends. But I speak of the prize.”
He grinned at them all, excitement building in his eyes. “We speak not of a perishable wreath, placed around your shoulders for a day, but an eternal crown—one that will truly make you a noble among the saints of heaven. Paul said, ‘Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.’ ”
Many of the nobles smiled in wonder and surprise at this funny little priest who demanded their attention with his words that seemed to grow and expand within their chests. Tessa squeezed her hand, but Daria could already feel it, the Holy drawing near. She smiled back at the little girl, who was grinning, eyes shining. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, not from fear, but from anticipation and joy.
She caught Dimitri’s eye and gave him a nod. Now was the time.
Lord Devenue stepped forward and lifted his hands out to the crowd as if in invitation. “All of you have asked how it is that I might have been so miraculously healed. Most of you saw me more than two years past, and could attest to the fact that I was nigh unto death. Rest assured that my plight became even more dire, my countenance no less than that of a monster. I had almost given in to death, wished for death every day, every hour, until the Gifted, these friends before you now, came to me. With them, they brought the Lord’s own healing.” He gestured toward Anette, and she came to his side. “The Count and Countess des Baux were present. They can attest to the fact that God entered my mansion; stole into the dark, dusty, forgotten halls; and reclaimed me.”
Anette nodded. “Just as he has here, now.”
Armand nodded as well. “These are the Gifted, God’s own on his mission. And we all, every one in this room, are called to protect and aid them. To serve God by serving his servants. To learn from them what it means to run this race for God’s own glory, not our own. It is why we are here. It is the greatest call upon our lives.”
“God knew we would be here, on this day, with this before us,” Armand said. He rose and walked over to the tapestry on the wall and drew it to one side. “Long have our families been crusaders, fighting for what is right.”
Claude Richardieu jumped from his chair and strode over to the ancient fresco. “It is the fox, our family herald.”
“And our heraldic lion,” Lord Blanchette said. His eyes flicked from Armand to Claude to Piero, still not entirely convinced. He shrugged his shoulders a bit. “We have known for some time that the Blanchettes have long been friends with Les Baux.”
“But what of this? Daria’s heraldic peacock? And Amidei’s dragon?” Armand rushed to Lord Blanchette, face flushed, with the speed of someone bent on striking another. But he did not, only knelt on one knee, one hand gesticulating wildly. “This is no coincidence, m’lord. This is the Lord, speaking to us, calling to us. He knew the Gifted would need us, here, now. He knew it.” Armand waved back at the fresco. “That is but one reason we should believe.”
Daria walked across the room and took Lady Blanchette’s hand and drew her forward, to the center of their circle. Piero bowed his head and began praying, hands lifted to the ceiling, alternately in Provençal and then Italian and then Latin, and on a deeper level, with invitation and then Scripture. He went to his knees as he prayed, and each of the Gifted followed suit, forming a circle. The nobles about them, still standing, shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do. Some knelt out of deference to the nobles of Les Baux. Others reserved judgment, remaining where they were.
But Daria would lead them. She looked to Lady Blanchette and saw the yellow in her eyes and that of her skin, as if her body were poisoning itself. They stood together, Lady Blanchette’s hands in hers, amid the praying, kneeling Gifted and the others. “Lady Blanchette,” Daria said. “How long has your liver been ailing?”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. “For three years, now.” She tore her tearful eyes from Daria’s and glanced about the nobles. “Did someone here tell you of my ailment?”
Daria smiled. “Yes, m’lady. Your Lord and your God.”
Lord Blanchette slowly sank to his knees as if they had collapsed beneath him.
“M’lady, your God, the Lord of heaven and earth, intends to heal you, now. Do you believe?”
The noblewoman stared at Daria. “I have been to doctor after doctor. They said I shall die. That it is a cancer.”
Daria gave her another small smile. The woman wanted to believe, but was afraid to hope. “You must give in to hope, my friend. I know you have been fearful for some time. That you have hoped for a cure, a miracle, but have been disappointed. It is damaging, such experience. Well I know what the heart can endure
. . . or cannot. But I beg you, friend. Believe once more. Believe not in me, not in magic, but that the healing presence of the great Physician is now in the room. Believe that the God who healed Lord Devenue can now heal you as well. Do you believe?”
Lady Blanchette stared at her for a long moment. The tiniest glimmer of hope stole into her gray eyes. Slowly she sank to her knees, still holding Daria’s hands. “Lead me, holy woman. Heal me.”
Daria knelt as well. “I am holy only inasmuch that God chooses to dwell within me, as he chooses to dwell within you, too. This is of your Lord and your God, not of me. I am but his instrument.”
She urged the lady to lie down upon her back and waved Gaspare and Piero nearer. She found Lord Blanchette and invited him closer too. “I must ask your permission, m’lady, for us each to place a hand upon you.”
The lady nodded, fear and wonder in her eyes. Piero was at her head, anointing her with an oil and praying in a whisper. Gianni reached to take a hand. Lord Blanchette held the other. Gaspare laid a hand on the lady’s belly. Tessa leaned in to touch the lady’s shoulder. Daria placed one hand on her liver and lifted the other to the ceiling.
The others in the room seemed to hold their collective breath. It was utterly silent.
“Father God,” Daria prayed, closing her eyes, feeling the Holy Spirit cover every inch of her, sending a shiver down her back. “Thank you for drawing near. We praise you for being present, here. Now. You have called for this lady to know healing. Cover the cancer that invades her belly now. Hold it in your hand, Lord. Take it from her. Squeeze it into oblivion. Fill her belly with healing balm. We ask this of you now. Our King, our Savior. Please, heal this daughter. Let her know you are here, now, Father.”
A surge went through them all, like the force of a mighty wind, at once upon them and then gone, as it had been with Lord Devenue. Lady Blanchette cried out.
The nobles gasped. One woman gave a little shriek of fear. Then they waited.
After a moment, Lady Blanchette began to laugh. First a breathless chortle, then a longer laugh. Gianni helped pick Daria up from the floor, and Daria smiled at Gaspare and Piero, then at Lady Blanchette. The noblewoman gave in to another free, deep belly laugh.
Her husband went to her and studied her face and then began smiling as well. But Daria and Gaspare were already moving toward Duke Richardieu, who was on his knees and looking at them as if he knew what was to come. He accepted Daria placing her hands on each of his ears, Gaspare’s hands on each of his shoulders from behind.
Everyone was now on their knees.
Everyone felt his presence.
“Do you believe in the Lord God on High, my brother? Do you believe he cares about you and knows your plight?” Daria asked, intuitively knowing that this man had always believed, known God in an uncommon way, waited upon him in trust and faith. She could see it in his eyes. They were as clear, as knowing and open as his ears were blocked.
“With everything in me,” he said.
“Then be healed,” Gaspare said.
“Yes,” Daria said, “Today, now in the name of Jesus Christ, your scars shall fade away and you . . . shall . . . be . . . healed.”
Daria stumbled backward into Gianni’s waiting arms. But she was entirely focused upon Duke Richardieu.
Eyes wide, he slowly looked over to his wife. “Say something to me in a whisper,” he said, his tone no longer too loud.
She whispered something to him, eyes full of wonder and tears.
And then he laughed, laughed until tears crested his lids and tracked down his face, glittering in the glowing, flickering candlelight. He turned to Daria and said, “I can hear. I can hear everything. The Richardieus, m’lady, are in your service.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ABRAMO walked down the candlelit hallway to his quarters, confident that he had Cardinal Bordeau firmly in hand. He had agreed to bring his closest comrades among the cardinals to meet with Amidei on the morrow.
Abramo met two of his men walking in the opposite direction and paused to confer with them, handing each a bag of silver. They were to bring back the choicest flesh they could find to appease the cardinal’s carnal appetites. He paused in his own quarters only long enough to take a long, hooded cape from a chest and pull it about his shoulders. It was raining again outside. He could hear the steady drumbeat of the raindrops atop the ceramic tiles of the roof.
Abramo swept down the stairs, shaking his head when two men tried to accompany him as guards, and again when a beguiling woman, one of his archers, matched his steps. “No, cherie,” he said, turning to kiss her. He nipped at her lip, drawing blood, and she came after him more urgently. They stood in the hall, kissing hungrily, until he took her firmly by the arms and set her aside. “I shall be back in a few hours. Be waiting for me in my quarters.”
“As you wish,” said the woman, turning at once.
Amidei tore his eyes from her and continued down the stairs, wishing he had not left her sister behind to aid Vincenzo in his attack. How had they fared? Had they managed to divide the Gifted? To lay any of them low? Why had the man not sent a messenger with word of their progress?
He was in the stables, waiting for the boy to bring his saddled horse, when a messenger at last arrived, worn and wet from a long, hard ride. He moved toward the man, recognizing his cape. “You come with word from Baron del Buco?”
“Indeed, m’lord,” the man panted. He dismounted and fished a letter from his side satchel. He grinned as he handed it to him. “M’lord, permit me to tell you the best of it.”
“Be about it, then,” Abramo groused. There was little light to read a letter anyway. He would read it later. “How does the baron fare?”
“Very well, m’lord.”
“And?”
“And your orders were carried out,” the messenger said lowly. “We were able to take down two of the Duchess’s knights.”
“Killed them?”
“They are dead.”
“Well done,” Abramo said, clapping him on the shoulder as if he were del Buco himself.
“We would have taken more had not the cardinal come to their aid,” the man said.
“Cardinal?” Abramo asked, feeling the pain of his empty eye socket when he narrowed his eyes with a frown. “Which cardinal?”
“A Boeri. De Vaticana de Roma.”
Abramo rocked back on his heels. This was poor news. He had been here and told the pope of the Gifted. Now he went to their aid?
“He had with him the slave, the man captured in Venezia.”
Abramo’s consternation and confusion grew. “The slave? Daria d’Angelo’s Hasani? How is that possible? I sent him off with Turkish slavers.” He paced back and forth, his mind racing.
“Mayhap they were intercepted.”
“Mayhap.” The doge’s men, most likely. Abramo stifled a growing need in his belly to growl out his frustration. Hasani was a direct threat, with his gift of visions. He should have killed him, before Daria’s eyes, flayed the flesh from his bones until none was left.
What had Hasani seen ahead that he himself could not see? Would he keep the Gifted from falling into his trap, here in Avignon?
He stuffed Vincenzo’s letter into a pocket of his cape and mounted his stallion. He must get to the woods outside Avignon, deep inside the cave, and find communion with his master. His master would know what to do, give him guidance and direction, as he always did. And once he had his orders, he would return to the palace to ease his fury in the woman who awaited him even now.
Les Baux
“THEY will lay waste to you and yours,” said a grim Duke Richardieu. Healed, whole, he was their patron, fully in their service, but he grew more and more agitated when he knew it was their aim to go to Avignon to address the pope himself. “Why not continue your ministry in secret? Why not continue to travel and heal and preach and minister to those about the country? Why must you march through the gates of a city that is destined to bring you down?”
“You do not believe the Holy Father thinks his God is alive and well?”
“Alive and well,” Piero said, pacing, his small hands clenched together behind his back. “But I fear he sees God as his instrument in the heavens, rather than himself as God’s instrument on earth. We are but poor vessels, able to do only what God deems best. But the papacy . . . it is an office fraught with difficulty.”
“Cornelius is widely known as a wise and prudent man. His Cistercian roots serve him well.”
“Indeed. But already he has built a new palace where the old would no longer apparently do.”
“Ignoring the vast buildings at his disposal already, in Roma,” Cardinal Boeri put in.
“In his stead,” Piero continued, “any man might be swayed by the power, the prestige. You must know the perils yourself, my lord. A simple man knows his place. With a surfeit of money, success . . . one begins to think himself a rival of God.”
“ ‘A rival of God,’ ” Petrarch remarked, chin in hand. “Mind if I borrow that, Father?”
Gianni watched as Daria leaned farther into the corner of her chair and raised a tired hand to her brow. The healings had sapped her energy. He caught her eye and gently nodded toward the door with a smile, urging her to take her leave.
He looked about the room. “Gentlemen, ladies,” Gianni said, “mayhap we might continue this conversation come daybreak. The night is deep and much has transpired. Let us take our rest and return to our discussions with sharper wit and mind come morn.”
“Well said,” Piero agreed. He rose, and one by one, the Gifted and the nobles filtered out of the room. Only Gianni, Piero, and Hasani, standing as if a sentry in the corner, remained.
“All in all, an inspiring day,” Piero said to Gianni, reaching up to pat the large knight on the shoulder. They turned toward the door and looked back to see if Hasani was following. “It will be—”