“You think you and yours can best me?” he whispered, his breath still coming in a hot pant. “That the house of men purporting to be holy could protect you?” He took a step away and held the tip of his sword out toward her, tracing her shoulder, her breast, her arm, her back, up the nape of her neck, as he circled her, stopping behind her. With a quick slice he cut apart her hairnet and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, reaching her waist.
Daria whirled around to face him again, and he swore under his breath, shaking his head in naked admiration.
“By the stars, Daria de Capezzana, you are beautiful. Despite all, I confess to still desiring you. No woman has denied me. No woman has dared bring me bodily harm. But it builds inside me, this need for you. Fall, fall to your knees and I shall yet spare you. Walk beside me, and I shall raise your brat as my own.”
She laughed without mirth and shook her head. “Never.”
He sighed heavily and advanced upon her even as she backed away. “I shall bring your beloved Gifted in chains, so you can watch them die before you give in to death. I shall not leave a one of you alive.” He took another step. “And you shall suffer much before death relieves you.”
PIERO looked to the child, who yet lived but was blissfully unaware of what was transpiring about her. He looked for his short sword, now beyond Ciro and Gianni, who battled fiercely. The armory was similarily out of reach. He knew Daria had run outside, with Abramo in pursuit. He had to go to her and do what, fight off Abramo alone? Nay, better to try to distract Ciro so Gianni could save his wife.
His eyes moved about the sanctuary for a weapon. A brass torch? The chalice on the altar? His eyes moved over the saint’s sword in the stone and onward, then abruptly back. Could it be? He searched his heart as the urge overtook him. Nay. It was impossible. Had not many a man tried and come up short?
But then he felt that this was what he was called to do, and there was no time to argue with the Holy. He gently set Tessa to the ground, said a prayer of protection over her, and crossed around the rock. He eased over the ornate fence that circled the stone and climbed atop the smooth granite on all fours, until he was atop the boulder. Placing one foot on either side of the sword, sunk deep within the rock, he said a prayer. For blessing. For favor. For the same numinous power that allowed Galgano to sink the sword, to now allow him to release it.
He looked to Gianni. He had just suffered a torturous blow to the chin, sending him reeling. Ciro advanced upon him.
“Ciro!” he called, staring at the knight. “Ciro!”
Reluctantly the hulking knight turned, panting as he glanced his way.
But Piero had already reached for the sword.
Slowly it eased from the stone as simply as from a sheath. “Surely a sword that God took from Galgano and housed here for two hundred years was meant for you and no other,” Piero said, raising the heavy sword with both hands and jumping the four feet down from the rock.
Ciro smiled down at him. “Should such a small priest be carrying such a mighty sword?”
Piero returned the grin. “I am no priest.”
Ciro’s smile faded. “Here. Give it to a man who can handle such metal.” He lifted his chin, daring Piero near.
Behind him, Gianni rose and rammed the flat of his sword into the side of his head. Ciro fell heavily and then closed his eyes.
“If God chooses to spare him, I want to see him on trial before the Nine,” Gianni said.
Piero raised Galgano’s sword in victory. And then both remembered at once.
Daria.
DARIA backed up, aware that the light of day was quickly fading. Her eyes cast desperately left and right, seeking aid, weapon, escape. But there was nothing but towering juniper and cypress and Bormeo, sailing overhead, screeching in agitation.
Abramo lunged, and she narrowly avoided his grasp. He lunged again, and caught her hair this time. He wound it in his hand, pulling her toward him, even as she reached out to scratch him.
He took her right arm and pinned it against her side, reaching around for the other as well, easily holding both behind her. “Easy, kitten. Easy. I have but one eye left to scratch out.”
He let her struggle against him, seeming to enjoy it, so she ceased, motionless except for her breaths, which came in quick succession.
“Ahh, yes. ’Tis a pity you and yours must die. But there is nothing for it. Our battle ends here.”
“They shall find you. You shall stand trial before the Nine.”
“With whom to accuse us? My men and archers have certainly killed the others by now.”
“Marco had my letter,” she said.
“Letters are lost at times.” He pretended to grimace. “Even poor Vincenzo, who is most culpable for the acts accused, is now dead behind us. And Marco may come to an unfortunate end as well, should he not see the error of his ways.”
“You shall spend eternity in hell,” Daria said, aghast to again face such utter depravity. She panted now, not in fear, but at the harrowing chasm she sensed between them. She closed her eyes, wanting to block the utter terror, the sheer sense of void that was Abramo’s future. “The abyss, Abramo. The devil lays no claim other than upon those who are willing.”
It was then she saw it, the hovering shadow, just behind him. Cold, so cold.
Tessa would be screaming in terror by now. The enemy! The enemy of old! Her heart screamed at her to be away.
Abramo saw her take note of his master and smiled. “Ah. But m’lady, you continue to think I am a begrudging servant.” He looked over his shoulder and let her go. But before she took a step, he pinched her throat in his right hand and lifted her up off the ground. “I serve the dark and no other. Your light, m’lady,” he said through clenched teeth, as he lifted her higher, “is about to be . . . extinguished.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
GIANNI ran down the hill, watching as Abramo lifted Daria to her tiptoes and then into the air. He let out a roar, intending to distract his enemy, but Abramo did not so much as turn, so focused was he upon Daria.
A sting ran through the back of Gianni’s knee, and he stumbled, wondering what had torn into him. As he rolled to the ground, Piero rumbled past him, grunting Ciro’s name even as he ran toward Daria and Abramo.
Gianni rolled and with each turn, took excruciating note of the cause of the tearing within his knee. An arrow. He had taken yet another of Amidei’s archer’s arrows.
He moved to try to rise, had to get to Daria, to cut away Amidei’s arm, when what felt like a boulder ran over him, driving him to the ground.
Ciro. Impossible.
But the man was above him, atop him, cruelly twisting the arrow at his knee, making him scream in pain.
Unable to reach the man’s neck nor kick him from his torso, Gianni reached for one of the daggers at his belt, digging through the dirt and grass beneath him, even as Ciro again moved the arrow at his knee, laughing as Gianni cried out.
“JESUS,” Daria said, fighting for breath, pulling at his fingers.
Bormeo screeched and swooped past, narrowly missing Abramo with his talons.
“What did you say?” Abramo asked, lifting her higher.
He was distracted, by her bird and her words.
“Je-sus!” she cried. “Christ! Liv-ing! Lord!”
With a cry of fury, he cast her down to the side.
His master moved behind him, and gasping for breath, Daria tried to keep her vision from swimming. Bormeo swooped by again.
“Behind me?” Abramo muttered, as if the master had warned him.
And so it was that he was perfectly in place.
Piero, charging down the hillside with the sword of San Galgano, roared as he struck the Sorcerer, driving the sword through his belly with such momentum that he fell atop Abramo Amidei, even as the man at last toppled to the ground.
GIANNI reached the dagger and swung it upward, driving it into Ciro’s head, just above his temple. But it was at an awkward angle and glanced off th
e bone, so it did nothing more than enrage him. He stood up and kicked at the arrow shaft, broken now but still lodged through Gianni’s leg, making Gianni roll away, swallowing a scream. Ciro lifted his sword and straddled the knight, holding it with both hands with the clear intent to drive it into Gianni’s neck.
ABRAMO, sitting halfway up on account of the sword through his belly, touched the blood that spread up his jerkin and lifted his fingers, as if seeing odd paint atop the tips.
“Killing a man,” he said to Piero, “shall land you with me in hell.”
“Killing you,” Piero said, pushing harder on the shaft of the ancient sword, panting, “shall save other souls from the abyss. I shall leave my fate to God’s judgment.”
Abramo looked down as if in odd amusement at the sword and the priest, and then paused, as if struggling for breath.
Daria moved to her knees, still struggling for breath of her own.
Hasani raced past them, leaping over a boulder as he moved toward Ciro, just then pulling his sword in a downward thrust. Ambrogio was right behind him.
Daria turned and screamed, but little sound came out of her wounded throat.
But Piero’s attention remained on Lord Abramo Amidei, who at that moment took the last breath he would ever take.
HASANI cried out and whipped his arm across, driving his curved sword down toward Ciro even as Gianni sank yet another dagger into his leg. Hasani’s blow abruptly stopped Ciro’s downward momentum and Gianni pushed the sword, hovering just inches from his chest, away. Ambrogio struck next, plunging his sword into Ciro’s chest.
The hulking knight wavered above Gianni, still looking down upon the wound at his chest as if in wonder, then down to his leg, gushing blood as Gianni pulled the dagger back out.
Vito and Ugo arrived then, soot-covered but alive, with five remaining Sienese knights behind them. Vito leaned forward and pushed with the tip of his sword at Ciro. The man toppled off Gianni, to the side, dead.
Daria stumbled over to them, reaching for Gianni.
Vito eyed Abramo, clearly dead beside Daria and Piero, and then looked back to the dead, hulking form of Ciro. “Well then,” he said. “My work here is done.” He sheathed his sword, feigning self-satisfaction.
Gianni laughed, still trying to gain his breath, comfort his wife, and battle the pain. He rose to a sitting position and took Daria in his arms, holding her close. “We made it, Daria. God has seen us through.”
Piero came, dragging the heavy sword of Saint Galgano that now seemed impossible to lift. Agata, Ambrogio, Gaspare, and the children ran down the hill toward them, the monks filtering out behind them, apparently having waylaid or vanquished any remaining knights inside.
A fierce, cold wind, sudden and strong, ran across the fields and forest, blowing past them, lifting their hair and causing them to shield their faces. And then it was gone, leaving naught but a quiet heat of the early spring sun, setting on the horizon.
Piero rose, dragging Galgano’s sword above his head, up to the skies, praising their God for deliverance. Then he looked to each of them. “Steep has been the cost. Great has been the battle. But greater still, God’s victory.”
EPILOGUE
Nine months later
HASANI and Ambrogio worked side by side in the magnificent Santo Paulo Chapel of the fortified mansion de Capezzana, just outside Siena and north of San Galgano.
They stood back and silently looked upon faces from their past, of their future. At the chapel entrance were images of Scripture, of Saint Paul’s conversion, of him speaking to the masses and in small rooms, as dark storm forces raged outside, and others of him alongside his scribe, dictating missives to the faithful far from him.
Farther into the chapel were knights and ladies, images of Basilio and Rune, Vito and Ugo, Hasani and Gianni. Of ladies in finery, of Daria and Tessa and Josephine. The others were there as well . . . Count Armand, Anette and Dimitri, Ambrogio, Lucan, Agata, Beata, Aldo, Nico, Roberto, even some of the Sienese knights whose faces they could still well remember. They bathed the walls in memory, of people lost and people healed, from the farmer’s wife nearby to the lepers of Venezia to the pope in Avignon.
But in the front of the chapel, on either side of the nave and behind the cross, the walls were reserved solely for Christ and his men, those who had begun what the Gifted had merely hoped to continue.
Daria entered, her baby boy in her arms, with Gianni right behind her. The others followed, never far from their mistress and their lord. Father Piero entered at the rear, still their priest and leading them in ministry among the villagers and people of the hills, regardless of whether the Vaticana approved or not. Of late, people were traveling as far as from the city to listen to them preach and move among them on Sundays.
Daria paused over the images of Basilio, Rune, and Armand, a hand going to her nose as quick tears rose in her eyes. Ambrogio moved aside as she caressed the men’s images, remembering, and on to the others they had lost, remembering, remembering.
The rest exclaimed with delight and dismay, doing the same behind their lady, moving forward, touching, praying, making the chapel fully theirs. At last they made it to the cross, embedded into the plaster. A Christ figure seemed to alight from it, half hanging, half rising, so lively that it was as if they witnessed the resurrection. They stood in silence.
Daria picked up her chin and glanced over her left shoulder, as if sensing a call from far off.
Gianni shook his head. “I know that look . . .”
Piero grinned and gazed into each of their faces. “Let us be about it, then. The letter was clear. We have witnessed just the beginning of this grand adventure. There is much ahead of us, brothers and sisters. Much.” He placed his hand in the center of their circle, and the others moved in to add their own hand. “With God ever before us and beside us, my friends. We shall never be alone. And in the darkness we shall sow . . .”
“Light,” they said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
MANY in the Church did lobby to bring the papacy home to Roma and away from Frankish influence. They came close with Pope Benedict XII, but then never again, through the reigns of five more popes. Roma was considered unstable, and in fact, was rather scary in this era, with constant shifts of power and the very real threat of murder in order to usurp papal authority.
I fused aspects of the more austere and restrained Pope Benedict XII, who actually imposed a firm rule against wayward priests and bishops and cardinals abusing their power, with aspects of his more flamboyant and off-base successor, Clement VI, as well as their palaces (Clement added on yet three other grand wings to the imposing palace), for creative effect. Obviously my characterization of Benedict/Clement, who became the fictionally named Cornelius II, is a figment of my imagination, only loosely based on fact, but meant to represent an eighteen-year span of papal authority and impact.
If you are a language scholar, you probably noticed I translated the Latin Vulgate into NIV; as gifted as these people are, it would have been miraculous indeed for them to be reading a modern translation in 1340. However, for the sake of readability, clarity, and flow—and to avoid making any inadvertent errors with Scripture—I elected to use a modern translation for modern readers.
Bernard of Clairvaux predated the Gifted and espoused many Protestant-leaning beliefs. Soon after the years of our fabled Gifted, a man in England (John Wycliffe) and another in Prague (John Hus) and still another in Germany (Martin Luther) would see the Reformation become a growing reality. God moved through the world, calling his people forth and into real, vital relationship with him. And no force of the dark could stop it.
Petrarch, Dante, Simone Martini, and Cardinal Stefani were historical figures but are largely a figment of my imagination in terms of characterization, dialogue, etc. Petrarch was a vociferous critic of the papal court and spent quite a bit of time away from his native Italia and in and around the pope. Martini and Stefani were Sienese, like our fictional Daria d’Angelo, and
truly resided in Avignon at this time. As you undoubtedly know, Dante wrote the famous Inferno, and rumor has it that he based the caves of hell on the eerie cliffs that face the real Les Baux of Provence. Burning deceased nobles upon funerary pyres was a fictional device of my own, not fact.
The Cathars had been defined as heretics and stamped out of existence by the Church, a precursor to the Spanish Inquisition by a couple of centuries. The Cathars’ widespread influence and the threat of a resurgence—or something similar—would have set the papacy against our Gifted had they actually appeared in this era.
In 1252, the antiheretical movement came to a head with Innocent IV’s papal bull Ad extirpanda. Two years later the pope formed districts in which the Dominican or Franciscan inquisitors could be active. Most punishments involved pilgrimages or imprisonment. Those unwilling to recant might have been transferred to a secular court and executed, but this was rarely done until later. Still, it did occur on occasion, and the desire to rout out heretical groups was even backed by military engagements at times, for instance with the Cathars of Sirmione near Verona (1277) and the Apostles (1307). Since heretical thought seemed to gain a toehold in southern France, it follows that our fictional Cornelius and his cardinals would have indeed been on the watch for prowling heretics. And the Court of the Rota beneath the Palais de le Pape, as described, was very real. But it was in 1478, with the backing of the Spanish monarchy, that the Inquisition became most fearsome and powerful.
San Galgano truly houses the sword of the saint, reportedly encased in stone, and Galgano, a crusader, truly did relinquish his sword after returning home from battle, in order to serve his God. The abbey arose around the stone and became a powerful force in the region, supplying Siena with her clergy. This legend of the sword in the stone may have served as inspiration for the Arthurian legend of Excalibur. Alas, when I went to tour the ancient abbey, now roofless but still standing, much of it was closed, so I could only walk the sanctuary itself, never laying eyes on the sword and the stone. As I type this, a few new videos have appeared on YouTube. Just type in “San Galgano” to see them for yourself.
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