The Blessed (38 page)

 
“WORD has it,” Ambrogio said, sitting down at the Richardieus' table with the others, “that the countess has demanded Gianni's release. Her lawyers have refused to leave the
palais
until it is done, claiming the pope had no jurisdiction when he took Gianni from Maximilien's home.”

“Go on,” Piero said.

“And since the countess refuses to press charges, supporting Gianni's claim that it was accidental, they are having difficulty finding the means to keep him imprisoned.

“So I would expect him to be released within a day or two,” he said. “But you all shall be brought before the pope again, soon. Are you prepared for that?”

Piero looked troubled. He paced, chin in hand, thinking. “The countess has departed just this morning, taking her brother's body home to Les Baux to see to his funeral. We do not know how long she shall be gone.”

“A week or two, she promised no longer than a fortnight,” Daria said.

“But without her,” Piero said, “what will become of our noble compatriots? We had thought we would venture into battle with them at our side.”

“We must be prepared to venture forth,” said Josephine, “without anyone beside us other than our Lord and Savior. If he has brought us this far, for this purpose, we can do nothing but carry onward. He shall see us through.”

“There is something very dark indeed among the halls of the
palais
,” Ambrogio said. “I have heard whisperings of foul happenings. The cardinals, they are unraveling; it is as if they are boats that have slipped their moorings and been cast upon the river.”

Piero stared at him. “Amidei.”

Ambrogio nodded. “I have seen him among them.”

“Not all of them.”

“Nay. He has not had time. But six of the most powerful are most firmly at his mercy. There is a wild look in their eyes. They barely make it through their duties before they slip away from the
palais
.”

“Is the pope aware of what is unfolding within his palace?”

“Nay. Not entirely. He is absorbed in the expansion work, the building of the new wing, the duties of seeing to all of Christendom.” He looked at them all. “Do you know that the
palais
receives more than three hundred missives a day? From as far away as the Orient? That more than five hundred people are employed by the
palais
on a daily basis? That four thousand directly report to the Holy Father?” He shook his head. “I have never seen a king so busy. He can hardly be blamed for not recognizing what is unfolding beneath his very nose.”

Piero studied him. “You have had opportunity to spend time with him, Ambrogio? See him talk with others, counsel others?”

Ambrogio nodded. “From afar. Be encouraged. I believe him to be a good man. Distracted, at the moment, by his countless duties and the constant building within the
palais
. He has made some misguided decisions over indulgences to raise funds.”

Piero let out a breathless laugh. “Indeed. Selling papers to get people into heaven,
bah
.” He sobered. “But deep within him . . . Brogi, do you think Amidei has reached him as well?”

“Nay,” Ambrogio said firmly. “But there are two cardinals who seem closest to him: Cardinals Morano and Corelli.” Ambrogio looked at the children and motioned for them to depart. “Just for a bit,” he said with a sorrowful smile. “This is not for young minds and hearts.” Reluctantly all three rose from the table and left the room as instructed. A knight shut the door firmly behind them.

“It pains me to tell you this. It may only be rumor, but it makes sense with the way Amidei works. Amidei has been seeking out Cardinal Morano—by all accounts, an exceedingly faithful man—for spiritual counsel. Amidei confessed a terrible appetite for women,” he said, eyeing Daria. She looked away to the window. “He confessed to bedding many. To desiring more. To experimentation . . . The cardinal absolved him of his sin, gave him a spiked belt to wear and a whip to use upon himself when the desires grew too great.”

“If only he would flay himself to death,” Vito said.

Piero lifted a hand to silence him, but the knight only bespoke what they all were feeling.

“For weeks this has been apparently unfolding. The cardinal has gone on to find a suitable bride for Amidei, thinking that if he eases his need with a Church-sanctioned wife, his carnal days are over.”

Vito laughed aloud.

“Amidei has accepted his recommendation—”

“We cannot allow that marriage to occur,” Daria interrupted, standing.

“And Morano is so pleased at Amidei's progress, he has reportedly begun to confess his own sins to Amidei.”

“What?” Piero asked, flushing red at the neck.

“Such is the way our enemy works,” Gaspare said.

“They spend a great deal of time together. Amidei and Vincenzo have resided in the cardinal's mansion for a week now. An eavesdropping maid, my source, told me the cardinal confessed carnal sins committed long ago, before he took his vows. But he said the desires remain.”

“Such is the way
flesh
works,” Piero said. “Only God can fill our minds with the holy. But we must ask it of him.”

Ambrogio paused.

“There is more,” Piero said flatly.

“Five nights past, after the masquerade, Amidei and the others had one of their ceremonies. It was widely attended. By maid and cardinal alike.”

Daria closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cool plaster wall like a cold cloth against a fever. Not wanting to know what he was about to say, yet aware she must hear it.

“My young friend, the maid, was horrified, properly rushing back for confession and a declaration never to enter any room that Lord Amidei is in again. She has left the cardinal's employ.”

“Take care, friend,” Piero warned. “Fill our minds only with the barest of facts.”

Ambrogio grimaced. “Well I know of what you speak. Wide is Amidei's reach, and spreading,” he said to all of them. “He must, must be stopped. If he infiltrates every cardinal's mind, every cardinal's heart, it will not be long until he controls the pope himself. All of Christendom is in danger.”

“It was so bad?” Daria asked, daring to look at her old friend.

“No eyes have seen the depravity of that ceremony. And what is worse, Amidei turned it in their heads. In their eyes, in their memories, they believe it a holy venture, an enlightening ceremony where they saw at last how things ought to be. God must have had his angels around that girl.”

Daria's eyes met Piero's, then Gaspare's and Hasani's, even Josephine's blank eyes that so strangely seemed as if she could see.

It was time to get to the
palais
. Even before the pope demanded their presence, they must demand his.

“I must confess something else,” Ambrogio said.

“Speak,” Piero said, tensing.

But Ambrogio smiled. “The Chapel of Saint John was fully prepared for frescoes. It merely needed the right artist to lay pigment upon the plaster. While you were away, Simone and I, working long into the night, completed them.”

Daria let out a curious laugh through her nostrils, seeing the mischief in his eyes. “So you wish to confess that your weariness produced . . . unworthy results?”

“Nay, the results are grand, as usual,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But the executioner who took John the Baptist's head? The face of Satan, hovering in the corner at Golgotha? The face of Judas, at our Lord's table? All three bear a striking resemblance to men we know.”

Daria let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “You did not.”

“I did,” Ambrogio said, nodding. “It shall not be long until one of the cardinals ushers our friend into the new chapel for a look.”

Vito clapped him on the back and began laughing, and they all joined in, laughing so hard they cried.

 
IT took everything in him to bear the entrance into the chapel, to pretend admiration for Simone Martini's work. But he dearly wanted to make his way into Cardinal Stefani's mind and life as he had so easily with the others. This one was difficult, resistant to him.

And while Stefani oversaw all the pope's endeavors to make the
palais
something of world renown, he was also the keeper to the keys of the cells far beneath the
palais
floor. If he could befriend the cardinal, he might gain access to the prison and kill Gianni before the man was released.

Vincenzo trailed behind, obediently admiring the new frescoes that had been added in the past week, the vast array of bronze stars set into the vast, barrel-vaulted ceiling of the Grand Tinel, the first of the pope's private compartments—done by apprentices of Martini—and then up to the Chapel of Saint John.

“It was just completed yesterday,” Stefani said, opening the doors and ushering them inward. “You are of the first honored guests to lay eyes upon it.” He looked up. “Is it not magnificent?”

“Magnificent,” muttered Amidei, feeling physically ill. What kind of prayers had already been uttered here? He had not felt such presence since he had been beaten back by the Gifted and their God on the isle, and before that in Il Campo de Siena . . .

His eyes stilled on the scene of Golgotha, relishing the Lord Jesus upon the cross, running across his dying body as if it gave him sustenance. But as his gaze traveled over the faces of the mourning, glorious in their defeat, he stopped on the ghouls and the face of Satan, painted in blue in the corner. His face. Abramo Amidei's.

His head whipped to Simone Martini's, the artist now visibly shaken as he looked from Amidei to the face of Satan. “It is not I who painted that, m'lord,” he whispered. He swallowed hard.

“Lord Amidei,” Vincenzo whispered, nodding up to another panel above them, this scene depicting the beheading of Saint John the Baptist. The executioner, with axe in hand, was again clearly Abramo. “You are not alone,” Vincenzo whispered, nodding to the upper right panel, a scene of the Last Supper. Judas, with Vincenzo's face.

Abramo Amidei seethed, searching his mind. He whipped his head back to Simone, ignoring Stefani, who stood, mouth agape, seeing what they had already discovered. It would take only hours for word of this to spread throughout the
palais
, for all to come and see it with their own eyes. What traction would be lost if the cardinals saw this?

“Who assisted you in this chapel?” he asked, striding over to the small man, already knowing the answer.

“Ambrogio Rossellino,” said the artist, trembling before him. “I swear, m'lord, I had no idea it was your visage. No idea—”

“I want it destroyed,” he said to the cardinal, over Simone's shoulder. “Now. Destroy it this instant and repaint it. Close off these doors and allow no entrance.”

“Nay, m'lord,” Cardinal Stefani said, looking at him as if he were half mad. “I can understand your embarrassment at the apparent likeness—”

“I want it destroyed!” he screamed.

Two knights came running, swords drawn at the uncustomary shouting so near the sacred chambers. Behind them were a bishop and Cardinal Saucille. All rushed in.

Amidei turned and walked out and down the stairs. He had to get to the men who could see his task done. Immediately. He paused in the Grand Tinel, feeling Vincenzo pause beside him, closed his eyes, and pinched his temples with middle finger and thumb.

“Lord Amidei,” said a small voice.

He opened his eyes to see the pope, Cardinal Corelli, two bishops, and four secretaries trailing behind him.

Amidei went to his knee, reaching forward to kiss the pope's proffered ring, feeling the bile of hatred rise in his throat even as he forced a proper expression to his face.

“We take it you have seen our new chapel, Lord Amidei,” said the man, not giving him permission to rise. Vincenzo still was kneeling, just behind Abramo, but was ignored.

“I have, Holiness,” Abramo said evenly.

The pope smiled, staring down at him without blinking. “The artists took some creative license with their interpretations. By and large, we are well pleased.”

Could he have missed the resemblance? Might it all be in Abramo's imagination?

“We all would do well to pay attention that Satan still lingers at the foot of the cross,” the pope said.

Abramo could feel his smile fall. This man missed nothing. “The enemy is always about, Holiness,” he ground out.

“Always,” said the pope, still staring down at him. “Vast is our holy realm, Lord Amidei, but do not underestimate our power to closely watch those things that are of the greatest importance.” He brushed past him, leaving him on his knees.

Abramo frowned and met Vincenzo's gaze over his shoulder.

“I understand you wished to pay a visit to Sir Gianni de Capezzana,” the pope said from behind him.

Shoving down his anger, Abramo shifted around to face him, still on his knees. The man toyed with him. “An old friend from Toscana. I thought I might bring him a word of encouragement.”

“Hmm. We highly doubt that. But you needn't seek him out. Upon Countess des Baux's urging, we thought it appropriate to release him an hour past. He shall return with the rest of the fabled Gifted in three days' time, in a private audience with me.” He strode forward. “Lord Amidei?”

“Yes, Holiness?” Abramo ground out.

“See that no harm comes to Sir de Capezzana nor any of the others between now and our private audience. If anything dire does transpire, you shall be the first we come to. Deep is the division between you and them. We have seen it. Do not cross the divide. Is that understood?”