“I am well aware of you, my son, although I do not believe we have yet met in person. You are always welcome here. And I thank you for your generous donation to my own Santa Maria, last time you came through my beloved Madrid.” He spoke in an elegant, cultured tone, laced with a heavy Spanish accent.
“Each and every time I pass through, you may count on me to donate the same amount, as a sign of my faith and thankfulness.”
He did not look up, but he could feel the delicious waves of greed warring with the cardinal’s desire for the holy.
“Your generosity takes my very breath,” said the cardinal. “The people of Santa Maria shall be most grateful, as will her priests.”
And their cardinal, Abramo thought.
“Now, come, sit with me and tell me what plagues your mind.” He gestured to a seat beside him.
Abramo sat down and paused, as if mustering up the courage to confess. “I have sinned, your Eminence. I have sinned widely against our Lord and our God.” He bit out the words, willed devotion into the nouns that only stirred hate within him.
“Tell me of your sins and be rid of it, my son.”
“I have slept with many women, outside the marital bed.”
“I see. How many women?”
Abramo closed his eyes. “It is nearly beyond my count, your Eminence.”
The cardinal paused, studying Abramo’s face. “Countless? Surely not—”
Abramo did his best to force misery and sorrow into his features. “Forgive me for troubling you with such sin, my lord Cardinal. I wish I could tell you a different story. But I speak the truth.”
“I see.” Gabriel paused, obviously wishing he could make absolution over this generous benefactor and church patron before him, but pulled by the enemy to do his sacred duty, to see the confession fully through. “What shall keep you from taking another abed?”
“I know not. ’Tis where I hope you shall aid me,” Abramo said. He rose and paced, as if highly agitated. “I am weak, so weak . . . if only there were a way you could be with me, every day, every hour, keeping me from falling.” He moved to Cardinal Morano and knelt before him again. “Here, now, I feel strong.” Stronger than you know, Cardinal. “You give me strength.” And you shall give me more.
“A wife. You are handsome, even with your injury, my son, a danger to all good Christian women who have a weakness for carnal wanderings. Yes, you are in need of a good Christian woman to keep your mind on those things holy and appease your appetite. Through a union with her, you could take your ease and raise another generation of faithful sons and daughters of the Church.”
“Yes, yes,” Abramo agreed, as if he had never thought of it before. “It is wise counsel. Mayhap it is best I settle. Find a good woman.” He thought of Daria, of how delicious it would be if, somehow, she yet became his bride. But he fooled himself. She was lost to him. Destined for death and nothing else. “I travel widely and am rarely at home,” he said, letting a whine settle into his tone. “What am I to do before I find a wife? Or when I must leave her to attend to my business?”
The cardinal studied him with the dark, long-lashed eyes of his Spanish ancestors. There were crinkles at the corners, as if he laughed often. But he was unsmiling and serious now, making him foreboding and strong in stature. If Abramo could turn this one to his own aim, Gabriel would have his own pick of the women of the dark . . . how the master would revel in Abramo’s accomplishments!
“There are ways to remind the flesh that it is but flesh, and that the Spirit is ever stronger,” the cardinal began.
“Indeed?” Abramo asked innocently, knowing full well where this would lead. His master had been right, so right.
The cardinal rang a bell, and a servant appeared immediately. “Fetch a spiked belt and a spiked chain, please.”
The male servant bowed and disappeared, and the cardinal again met Abramo’s eyes. “I, too, suffer from a draw toward the sins of the flesh,” he said. “I find it helpful to wear the belt of remembrance, forcing me to think of our Lord’s suffering, on days when I am weak or facing temptation.”
The servant appeared again and handed his master the leather belt, studded with tiny spikes, and a long chain, with quartets of spikes along its length. The cardinal lifted the belt. “Wrap this around your thigh. The spikes will pierce your flesh and not let you move without reminding you of their presence. Some wear it until their skin heals and fuses to the belt, so that it is always with them, one with them, counting it a blessing that any errant movement causes their flesh to rip and weep like our Christ’s own tears.”
Abramo took the belt and gazed upon it. Such delicious agony. Pain. The very thought of it aroused him, made him hunger.
“The flagellant’s whip,” the cardinal said. “On days that even the belt is not enough, turn to this after fervent prayer and confession. Take it firmly in hand and let it fly over your shoulder, and again, around your rib cage.” He gestured, empty-handed now that he’d passed it to Abramo, showing him how to flick his wrist at the end. “As you do so, remember the wounds your Savior took to save you from your sins.”
“Oh, I shall remember,” Abramo said, bowing to cover his smile, nodding as if humbly accepting the direction. Could it really be as simple as this? If it was this easy to wheedle one’s way into the mind of the pope’s advisor, why not take the Holy Father himself? He remained where he was, swallowing his smile.
“You hesitate, my son. Do you wish for me to see you through this first exercise of pain? I shall hear your every confession and see you through the process. It is the first step toward freedom, absolution. I promise, you have never experienced such a feeling of cleansing until you have experienced this. You shall be restored. Restored.”
Abramo raised his face to the cardinal, hoping the tears of glory in his eyes now appeared as holy sorrow to the man. “Show me, my lord Cardinal. Forgive my sin and show me the way to dominating the flesh rather than succumbing to its wiles. Help me locate a suitable wife. I place my life in your hands.”
Les Baux
GIANNI awakened to find himself alone abed. He rose and rubbed his face, not remembering when he had slept as long and as deeply as this. By the bells, he knew that his comrades had long since broken their fast, and the castle was already hard at work.
He poured water into a basin and then splashed his face, neck, chest, and arms, toweled off, shivering in the chill of the room. He considered, briefly, lighting a fire in the hearth, but gave it up for the greater need to find his wife and see what the day had in store. Had the others already gathered, met and planned without him?
Dressed, he opened the door to find Vito lounging against the far wall, a sly grin on his face. “Marriage has made my captain slovenly,” he said, pushing off from the wall. “Might I ask you to accompany me to the knights’ quarters for a round of sparring, or will you wish to follow the Duchess?”
Gianni scowled at his friend and pushed out his chest as he patted it with a fist. “Gianni de Capezzana follows no woman about like a sick pup.”
“Except the former Duchess d’Angelo,” Vito said.
“Except her,” Gianni said without missing a beat. The two smiled at each other. “How fare the others?”
“Well enough,” Vito said with a shrug, his smile fading. “They feel Basilio and Rune’s absence.”
As do we all, thought Gianni. How he wished Basilio would round the corner, his big nose going before him, his tall German friend ducking beneath the low ceilings of the palace corridors to follow behind. He kept thinking that at any moment he would see them appear. It had been a long time since he had lost fellow knights, close to his heart. Not since the grove outside Roma, where Abramo’s archers had felled brothers of the soul . . . every man Gianni had counted upon in his last years as a knight de Vaticana de Roma.
He swallowed hard against the bitter bile that filled his throat and mouth, fought to concentrate on the words Father Piero had trained him to think upon. God’s justice, i
n his time. Grace. Mercy. Mission.
He followed behind Vito as the passageway narrowed, down two stair-cases and past the cold and drafty dovecote hall, where small caves had been dug out of the bedrock for two hundred birds that served as both messenger and meal. The entire castle had been dug out of a giant limestone cliff face, making one entire flank impenetrable, her towers atop the rock formed by the hand of God. They passed women and men carrying buckets of water, wood for fires, baskets of fresh food for the kitchens from the storehouses. Briefly they walked outside, now below and moving beyond the castle to the stables and training area for Les Baux knights, through yet another tunnel and down another set of stairs.
“The count has agreed to house and keep our people until we send for them. Roberto, Nico, and Agata will remain behind. And much to Daria’s disappointment, her bird, Bormeo.”
“I hope the people of Les Baux do not consider a white falcon the supreme luxury for feasting,” Gianni said.
“Do not let the Duchess hear such a jest!”
Gianni laughed. He highly doubted the bird would actually remain in Les Baux. Daria seldom went anywhere without him anymore. “Ambrogio took his leave?”
“He is undoubtedly already at work within the new papal palace. He will serve us well, with an inner knowledge of the palais and her pope.”
“Indeed,” Gianni said. “I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak to him before he left.”
“Father Piero did. They arranged to meet when we arrive in Avignon. We shall send a message to him.”
“Good,” Gianni said. Had he lost command while he slumbered with his new wife?
“The count insists we take twelve of his men when we go. I have located the strongest—both in flesh and in faith,” Vito said.
“Well done. I bid you thanks for taking up the task. I have been distracted of late—”
“Say no more, Captain,” Vito said, smiling over his shoulder. “I understand. You are the envy of more than one kingdom, taking Lady Daria as your bride. I believe our own Count Armand would have been first in line, had she dismissed your begging.”
Gianni laughed and shook his head. “ ’Tis not only my new wife that distracts me. Speaking of my wife, where has she gone?”
“Left you aslumber, did she?” Vito said, throwing another wry grin over his shoulder as at last the passageway widened and they could walk abreast. “She’s on a ride with the countess, and well guarded.”
“You sent out scouts to make sure our enemy is not about?”
“As well as Ugo, Gaspare, Dimitri, and Hasani as armed companions,” Vito said. “They’ll stay near the castle.”
Gianni shoved down his fears, only possible because he knew Hasani rode beside Daria. Only he, among them, knew the vision and the full threat of Daria’s inevitable capture. He must trust the safety of his bride to his Lord at times, as much as it chafed, and concentrate on other matters. “I take it you wish to introduce me to the men who shall accompany us into Avignon.”
“Indeed. They are fine men, all.”
“Do you not think we shall gain unwanted attention, arriving in the city with such a grand retinue?”
“I think we can hardly risk any less of a security force,” Vito said, deadly serious now. “Our arrival will come as no surprise to the pope. And as we have seen, the enemy has gained strength, either in number or by those he has hired. We faced a good number of professional mercenaries atop the Pont du Gard. Had not Cardinal Boeri arrived with his knights de Vaticana . . .”
Gianni nodded. Vito did not need to say more. They might have all been in the river, every last one.
“We are to meet the priest, the count, and Hasani in the chapel after our noon meal. They have uncovered yet another clue for us there.”
“Indeed?” Gianni asked, raising his eyebrows. And then he was startled that he was unsettled by such information. Had not the Lord brought them signs and wonders all along their path? He smiled at Vito. “Have you arranged the rest of my day as well?”
“Nay, m’lord,” Vito said with a grin. “As much as I enjoy the role of steward on occasion, I remain your knight more than your secretario.”
“Good,” Gianni said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Well satisfied am I, that you and your brother still serve our Lord and our cause. Thank you for your faithfulness, Vito.”
Vito blushed at the neck and briefly bowed his head. “We would wish to be nowhere else, m’lord.”
Gianni offered his arm and the two gripped to the elbow, eyeing each other. Gianni studied Vito, a man he had come to love and trust as a brother. Would he lose this man as well to the fight? Had Hasani envisioned his death as well?
And could he say the same words that Vito had uttered? That he wished to be nowhere else? Had he not wished for another time, another place, just last night?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CARDINAL Boeri, Gaspare, and Daria accompanied Gianni when he went to the chapel. He had taken his noon meal with the knights and approved of Vito’s recommendations. Between Boeri’s men and these men on loan from Count Armand, they would create quite the stir upon arrival in Avignon. But it was wise counsel, on both a safety and a stature front, he believed. With Amidei about, they might suffer an attack at any moment. And arriving with so many knights-at-arms would force the pope to address them as the nobles they were, regardless of their lack of lands or formal position. They had earned the high regard of many, thanks to the nobles of Les Baux and their friends who still held lands and position. And those new friends would join them soon in the center of Christendom, to help them with their cause. What all would transpire between now and then? Gianni mused. He frowned. Just where might they encounter Amidei and those of the dark? A sense of urgency set his heart tripping into a fast beat. What if they could not counteract the damage Amidei was already undoubtedly inflicting? They must not tarry much longer . . . they must be on their way to see through this holy mission, vague as it might be.
They moved through the narrow passageways to the castle’s chapel, near the count’s quarters. The front of the chapel was fairly new, with a giant rose window of colored glass, set high in the entry apse. Gianni loved to see the light come through at the end of the day as the sun set in the west and sent golden light streaming through, casting it upon the altar as if in benediction.
They had worshipped here together, observed the Hours with Father Piero, prayed before the altar. As was custom in private chapels, the sanctuary was small and narrow, capable of holding no more than thirty people. The tombs of four lords of old had been placed in cruciform fashion, beneath purple marble slabs, the Latin words noting their names and dates of life. Gianni frowned, seeing Piero, Hasani, and the count at the front, with the altar moved to one side. What had transpired?
Hasani saw they had arrived, and excitedly gestured them forward. They formed a circle. On the floor was a curious indentation in the limestone, as if a slab had been cut out, at an angle.
Count Armand looked to Gianni and Daria. “Your priest told me of your glass map, and I asked to see it.”
Gianni raised a brow. “You have more of it?”
“Mayhap. Or something related.” He moved out of the circle and gestured upward to the domed ceilings above. “Castle Les Baux was conquered and destroyed two hundred years ago. It took my ancestors twenty years to gain permission to rebuild, and another fifteen to do so. When they did, they commissioned an architect from Paris to design this chapel, presumably atop the old footings.”
“It is beautiful,” Daria said, obviously aware that the count pointed out the architecture for some deeper reason. They all studied formidable oak beams, hand-painted frescoes of stars in the domes that were to denote the heavenly realms. And newer arches and ribs that met in the Frankish Gothic style.
“Indeed. However, the old servants used to tell my sister and me stories, tales of the older, original chapel that was once hewn deeper and lower into the cliff. And Father, before he died, mentioned th
e chapel.”
Gianni’s hair stood out on the back of his neck. Another hidden chamber?
“When the castle was razed, our family assumed that our sacred relic, a piece of our Lord Jesus’ manger, brought back from Palestine by Balthazar, had been stolen. The invaders took everything, allowing my people to take nothing but the clothes upon their backs. But curiously, the holy relic has never reemerged. It is a relic worthy of a grand basilica. So one would assume that it would have emerged ages ago as the pride of some city within Christendom.”
“Even as a stolen article?” Gaspare asked.
“Was not the body of Santo Marco stolen from Alexandria and brought to Venezia?” Piero returned.
“But it has not emerged,” Cardinal Boeri said, stepping forward. “You believe it remains here? Beneath your altar?”
“We shall see,” Count Armand said, waggling his eyebrows. “Beneath our altar has always been a most curious indentation, one that was original to the first chapel, and remains here today.” He moved aside so they might all clearly see it. The indentation was set at a forty-five-degree slope. “Some thought it might be natural to the rock, but see here? It bears a stone mason’s mark.” He looked up at them. “When I saw your glass map, I recognized the similar form.”
Count Armand gestured to Hasani, who bent to open the chest that held the glass pieces. Together the men pulled it out, piece by piece, and set it within the indentation.
It was a perfect match, except for one piece at the bottom center. Cardinal Boeri gasped and knelt beside it, crossing himself. “A portion of a vast map formed in antiquity . . .” the cardinal whispered. “Fitting a form hewn centuries later . . .”
“Among my father’s things, at the bottom of his trunk,” Armand said, “I found this.” He unwrapped a bundle in the now-familiar waxed fabric they had found the others in.
The Blessed Page 16
