The Blessed (30 page)

Her trembling suddenly was so intense that she looked about to fall. Gaspare neared, holding her arm, then wrapping an arm around her as he gestured inward. He turned to Daria. “Let us get to know one another by the warmth of the fire, shall we, m'lady?”

“Of course. Josephine, are you ill?”

“No, m'lady. 'Tis difficult to describe. More weak with relief.”

“Please. Come inside. Nico, please go and see if the maids in the kitchen can bring us some tea and bread.” The boy set off as she bid.

Gaspare led Josephine into the manor, and Daria and Gianni shared a knowing look behind the couple's back. Was it merely age that brought them together? Father Piero, hands clasped behind his back, turned to lift an eyebrow at Daria and Gianni, obviously seeing the same thing.

There had been a similar tie between Agata and Gaspare at first, but they were plainly nothing more than dear friends, drawing together over the commonality of age. Gaspare led Josephine toward the hearth, set her upon a bench, and gently took her ragged shawl from her shoulders and wrapped a new, soft woolen blanket around her. The woman shivered, but Daria could see that it was not from fear. Deep wrinkles lined her forehead, as if she had fretted for decades, but her opaque, blind blue eyes had an unnerving sense of sight about them.

Daria forced a smile, even though the blue eyes reminded her of Rune.
And so you bring us another warrior with eyes of blue,
she said to her God. Josephine accepted the cup of tea from the maid, took a sip, and seemed to sense the two knights of Les Baux and the others approach.

She spoke in Provençal, and Daria quietly translated her words for the children. “How is it that you know me? How is it that you knew that I was in danger?”

“We have sought you for some time,” Father Piero returned in Provençal. “And there were many clues that you were both female and older.” He glanced at Count Armand, remembering the statue. The face upon that pillar was uncannily similar to the prophetess before them now. Count Armand's mouth was slightly agape.

“Clues? Such as?”

Gaspare returned from his room and held out a wooden box, one his mother had given him as a child, with the peacock carved into the top. “Hold this in your hands.”

Josephine set aside her cup of tea and took the box in both hands. Her fingers, with ragged, dirty nails, traced the carving in the top of the lid. “A bird?”

“A peacock. Our lady's family crest, visible in many clues left for us by saints that have gone before us,” Piero returned steadily. “By God himself.”

Josephine nodded and then slowly opened the lid. One at a time, she fingered each figurine, recognizing each shape before handing them to Gas pare. The figurines had been playthings for Gaspare, given to him fifty years before. An old fisherman, a small priest with long head, a tall African warrior with curved sword, a young girl, a lady, a knight. The Gifted.

One more figure remained within the box, but Josephine was weeping, her small shoulders shaking. Gaspare knelt beside her with head bowed, lending her comfort without touch, silently encouraging her to do what she must.

With a shaking hand, she pulled the final figure from the box: an old woman. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and her face was alight in wonder. “How is it that you know this is not coincidence?”

Father Piero let out a scoffing sound. “Come now, woman. I can hear that you do not believe that is so.”

“And as Piero said, it is but one of many, many clues that our God has given us,” Daria said, kneeling beside Gaspare. “You are a part of us. It is why Amidei wished to kill you and your God spared you.”

Josephine nodded, tears still slipping down her weathered cheeks. “Vito and Gaspare told me all about you, the Gifted. I am your prophetess. I know it as surely as I do my own fingers, that I belong with you. Do you know how long I have looked for you? All my life, my head has been filled with the Word, the truth. But all along, I've waited for this feeling.”

“And what is that?” Daria asked.

“Home. Family. Belonging.” Her last word cracked in her throat, and a sound of such heartbreak and loneliness escaped that it made all of them take a collective breath of sorrow.

“Well I know of your plight,” Gaspare said, taking the lady's hand. “I, too, was alone, wondering why God would give me a gift that set me apart, left me without kin or connection. But those days are over. Here, among us, you have come home. We are your new family.”

Daria smiled and laughed a little, wiping away her own tears. “There is much more to tell you, Josephine. We shall spend the day together on the morrow, all of us, so that you shall know our story to date, and we shall know yours. You must know why we're here.”

Josephine nodded gravely, her smile fading. “You are called to the Palais de le Pape, just as I am.”

“Indeed,” Father Piero said. “We know not where our journey will end, or if we shall escape with our lives, only that we are to do this and no other. It shall have bearing on the course of the Church, indeed, upon all of humanity.”

“Not to lend any pressure,” Vito put in. He grinned at them all. “ 'Tis a grand adventure, if nothing more.”

Josephine smiled as Gaspare translated the knight's words. “Oh, 'tis much more.” She gazed around the room at them all. “You believe that this is where it all ends. I can feel it within you. But my friends, my new family, this is where it shall all begin.”

“THEY have arrived, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Bordeau to the pope, bowing low in front of his chair and leaning forward to kiss his ring. Morning light streamed through leaded glass windows at their right, in the private papal apartments.

“Oh?” said Cornelius absently, settling back into his thronelike chair, a bit tired after morning mass. “And who might that be?”

“Those Cardinal Boeri spoke of. Those I have warned you about,” said Cardinal Bordeau. The pope flicked his fingers toward him, and the cardinal stood and took a seat. “Those who believe their coming is foretold. They believe they are in possession of a lost letter of Saint Paul, or at the very least, Apollos, a letter that bespeaks of power within the people. Do you remember my speaking of this matter?”

“We do.”

“They arrived in the company of the Count Rieu des Baux, and have already collected quite the following among the Provençal nobility.”

“And how have they accomplished such a feat?”

“Apparently,” the cardinal said, sitting forward, eyes aglitter, “there is some truth to their prophecy. Word has it that the lady does indeed hold the power to heal; the priest, the gift of wisdom; the knight, the gift of faith. There is even one among them who can produce miraculous acts, and a child who can discern light from dark. What's more, there is one of our own city now among them . . . an old, blind woman who claims to be a prophetess.”

“It is bound to be nothing more than magic,” the pope said, scowling. “Such spiritual powers have not been seen since the days of the apostles. And never would our Lord God deign to gift feeble women as such. It is preposterous. And dangerous.”

“Agreed,” said the cardinal.

The pope settled his chin in his hand, thinking. “Did Cardinal Boeri intercept them? Is he with them?”

“He is.”

“They must know that this is not a safe place for them. Why not hide out among the people as the Cathars did? Why present themselves to us as sheep to the slaughter?”

Cardinal Bordeau gave him a rueful smile. “I believe they hope to persuade you to support them.”

Pope Cornelius laughed, his brow lifting. “Such audacity!”

“Not if one believes oneself holy and called,” said the cardinal.

The pope sat back in his chair, studying him. “They will end up in the Court of Apostolic Causes. Their judgment shall be final, might cost them their very lives.”

“You must tread carefully, Holiness,” said the cardinal, rising and pacing toward the window. “There is word of a miraculous healing for Lord Devenue. He has just entered Avignon.”

“Dimitri Devenue?” the pope said, mouth agape.

“Indeed,” nodded the cardinal. “Again, this is not all rumor. Their claims are not without merit. Lord Devenue was grotesque in the end, merely waiting in self exile, praying to die, these last two years.”

“Hideous was his deformity.”

“And now 'tis entirely gone. His head is as any other man's. He is thin, but handsome as ever. And he has wed the Countess Rieu des Baux.”

“They wed?” said the pope, a bit surprised. “We do not recall receiving an invitation. Not that we would have attended, but 'tis customary . . .”

“Indeed. It was rather sudden. Cardinal Boeri presided in Les Baux, much to the consternation of Cardinal Saucille.”

“Hmm. The good cardinal de Vaticana de Roma came to us, certain that he could guide this group, bring them into line. He believes they might be an asset to us, not heretics on the prowl.”

“That would be ideal,” Cardinal Bordeau allowed, rising to pace, chin in hand. “Ideal. But from what I know of them, there would be much work for the cardinal to do. This group does not seem like those who wish to conform. There is a rumor that the countess and Lord Devenue married without sanction or blessing—that Cardinal Boeri conducted rites already spoken by their common priest.”

The pope's eyes widened with displeasure.

“And we've seen before what religious fervor can do for heretics . . . and how the masses gravitate toward them.”

“Much has transpired of late, it seems, at Les Baux. Yes, much has transpired. How is it that you know such intimacies?”

The cardinal smiled. “It is my aim never to fail you, Holy Father. My network of people loyal to the papacy has grown quite vast. Well beyond Provence.”

“Hmm. As evidenced by the handsome sum that goes to pay for it.”

“Well worth it, to be prepared, no? Lord and Lady Devenue entered the city last night, and are now at the Richardieu manor on the river with her brother—and this intriguing group we have spoken of. Word has also reached us that the doge intends to arrive on the morrow, along with Conte and Contessa Morassi de Venezia.”

“For Prince Maximilien's menagerie ball?” the pope asked. “That is a long way to travel for the festivities.”

“There are others. The Bonaparts of Tarascon, the Blanchettes of Uzes, the Duvins of Nimes.”

“And all of these nobles have ties to this group?”

“Indeed.”

The pope rested the back of his head against his high, carved chair and stared upward. His light brown eyes flitted across the ceiling, searching the massive wooden beams as if they could give him guidance. “It is unsettling,” he mused. “They have amassed enough power that we cannot quietly deal with them.”

“Exactly their intention, Holiness.”

“And so we are forced to catch them in some outright act of heresy that no noble would dare defend.”

“Indeed.”

Pope Cornelius steepled his fingers and sat in silence a moment longer. “They shall be at the menagerie ball?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“Be certain that we are seated near one another, will you?”

“Consider it done, Your Holiness.”

The man turned to go, and Cornelius waved away his secretary and guard, eager to be alone. Seeing the pope's face, the last guard turned and closed the double doors behind him. Cornelius stared at the wooden doors, remembering copies of a forbidden letter . . . hidden deep within his own library. Could it all possibly be true? Prophecy unfolding before him? He grimaced. This would become quite a mess before it was over. He could feel it in his bones. Wearily he rose, went to the window, and lowered to his knees to pray.

 
“ABSOLUTELY not,” Gianni said, pacing in front of Count Armand. “We shall not attend a masked ball. We shall not be able to know who is friend and who is foe!”

“We really have no choice,” Armand said. “I have already sent my men to Marseilles to retrieve two suitable animals for the pope's new menagerie. You must sit immediately, along with the others, and be fitted for new clothing. What you wear is hardly suitable for a ball.”

“We shall not attend,” Gianni said.

Armand rose and leaned closer to him, pointing a finger. “You shall.”

“Nay,” Gianni said, leaning a little closer.

Piero, roused by the raised voices, entered the room and edged between the men. “What are we not attending?” he asked quietly.

Gianni held Armand's gaze a moment longer, seething, and then turned away with a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair and then pointed toward Armand. “The count wants us all to attend Prince Maximilien's menagerie ball. For the pope.”

Piero studied Armand, who was plainly having difficulty holding his tongue, and then looked to Gianni. “Is it not what we are here for? To reach the pope with the good news? To help enlighten him? Bring him into the new era of the Church?”

Gianni laughed without mirth. “And this is the way, Father? We engage him at a dance? To say nothing of the danger of such a show. Think of it! We enter, all in mask and finery. Who else do you think shall attend?”

“Abramo Amidei,” Piero said evenly.

“And his minions. They will seize every opportunity to get to us.”

“But we shall be surrounded by nobles,” Piero said.

Gianni paused. “You are not considering attending . . .”

“At some point we must engage the pope, Gianni. Why not come bearing gifts?” Piero looked over his shoulder at Count Armand, who was visibly relaxing with the priest's support. “It will be an affront to the pope if all honored guests within the Richardieu manor do not attend the festivities. Count Armand is right—we cannot do anything but attend. So we may as well make the most of it.”