The Blessed (51 page)

“As you wish, m'lord,” Vincenzo said with a tip of his head. He immediately moved toward his horse, calling to eight of the men, two of the archers to make ready. He tied his satchel and bedroll to the saddle, then swung upward, feeling the pain in his hips, and slid his sword into the saddle sheath. He stared at it. So the moment was at hand. Abramo, and the master, had made it clear that Daria and everyone dear to her was to die. He had killed her loved ones before. But could he truly kill her?

“Baron?” Abramo asked, suddenly beside his horse, looking up at him as if he could hear his thoughts as dialogue in a play.

Vincenzo started and sat straight up in his saddle. “Yes, m'lord?”

“This will soon be at an end. I understand it is taxing. See it through, and we shall avoid the trauma of a trial and regain what we are already losing. With the Gifted out of the way, we will experience new heights. There shall be nothing to stand in our way. All,
all
, Vincenzo, shall be ours. The master wishes it.”

“And we shall not disappoint him,” Vincenzo said, trying to give him a smile. But his heart was not in it, nor was his mind. He looked to the west, to the setting sun, and tried to think about the task at hand, his mission.

But all he could think of was his younger days with Ermanno Adimari and Giulio d'Angelo, when all three men had new marriages, none of them older than twenty-two. That year Daria and Marco had been born, and the fields produced an unseen bounty and business moved at a frenetic pace, coming nearly faster than any of them could manage. Food had tasted well in those days, and wine flowed. There had been feasts and celebrations. He had known clerics and nobles as friends. He hadn't been wealthy. But life had been rich.

Vincenzo sighed and turned down the road that would lead them along the Cecina River and the numerous mountain villages. It was so long ago. All so very long ago.

 
GIANNI glanced back at Daria, seeing what she had seen. The children were hunched over, falling asleep in their saddles, nearly falling from their horses. Dusk, so short this time of year, was soon gone, and they were miles yet from Massa Maritima. A recent flood had taken a high, narrow bridge, sending them on a circuitous route about a valley, costing them precious hours.

Her husband sighed and whistled using two fingers, bringing back the knights who were half a mile ahead of them, and bringing forward those who guarded their rear flank. When all had gathered, he said, “We shall make camp here.”

He turned to eight of the Sienese knights. “Go in groups of four, and make camp on either ridge, to our west and to our east. If you see anything”—he paused to look intently at each of them—“anything at all, even if it's a horse without a rider, I want one of you to come and tell me. Take turns at rest, never allowing yourselves to sleep when it is you who must guard our flank through the watches of the night. It is imperative you not fail us. Understood?”

They agreed and set off, bushwhacking their way up the hillsides, with the agreement to return at sunup. “Captain Ruggero, I respectfully ask that you and the remaining three set up camp a quarter mile behind us. It is up that valley that I most fear we shall be pursued. I'll send Vito and Ugo ahead, to guard our southern flank.”

“It shall be done.”

Gianni reached out and clasped the captain, arm to arm, then with Vito and Ugo. Suddenly the Gifted were alone.

Daria got down off the horse, her thighs aching with the effort. Was it bad for the babe within her to be riding so much? Were her mother alive and with her, she knew any horseback riding would be banned. But as Piero had said, God had seen this day before them, and knew of her pregnancy as well. She would have to trust the child's life in the hands of her God, just as she did her own.

 
THE guards to the east were strong and vigilant. Two nearly escaped them, undoubtedly intent on warning the others. Had it not been for a waxing moon and Abramo's deadly archers, they would have slipped into the dark forest and sounded the alarm, and the Gifted, slumbering below, might have been alerted. One had been crawling forward toward the edge of the cliff, as if he intended to hurl himself over the edge as a last, dire warning, when Vincenzo reached him and slit his throat.

Vincenzo edged forward on the cliff overlook to gaze down upon their quarry. A small fire sent smoke upward. Neither this group of guards, nor the one barely visible in the moonlight on the western ridge, had a fire, intending to blend into the landscape as all good scouts and guards should. But he had known they were there. Abramo had trained him how to smell them on the wind, close his eyes and sense the master's leading. The Gifted had been easy to find, their scent of oranges and cloves discernible. He had assumed they would have set up guards. He chastised himself for not expecting trained warriors.

On the far side, he thought he saw a knight pause and look their way.

“Walk back and forth, as if on guard,” he hissed to one of the men behind him.

Immediately the man did as he bid, and from the far side of the valley, mayhap an eighth of a mile, he thought the other knight resumed his own pacing watch.

Vincenzo eased back from the cliff overlook, confident now that their presence had not been detected, and moved among the dead knights. Sienese. Marco Adimari's men. Sent to guard Daria de Capezzana and the others, all in an effort to bring him down. Take away all he had worked so hard to attain.

Try as he might to use this to muster his courage, his desire to kill every last one of them, all Vincenzo felt stirring was a deep and profound sense of weariness. It was as if his heart had ceased beating within his chest, and yet he still moved. He could feel nothing . . . not rage, not joy, not greed, not peace. No hope. No love. Nothing. Hollow. The abyss.

A shiver ran through him, shaking him out of his dark reverie, just as one of the archers moved toward him. “Shall we take them now? We can reach them and escape back up here before any of their guards can reach us.”

Vincenzo turned away, as if to look downward again, but they were away from the edge, out of view.

“Baron? The master would be so pleased to arrive and find his task complete.”

Why not? he asked himself. He cared not whether he lived or died now. Why not carry through this task and hold on to honor, if nothing else?

“Yes,” he said. “We shall move in a few hours, when sleep calls most to them. But you leave the Duchess to me. I saw her the day she was born. I shall usher her into death myself.”

TESSA, who could only fall asleep directly beside Daria this night, stirred again and again, as if fighting someone in her dreams. As weary as Daria was, Tessa's constant movement finally awakened her, and she opened her eyes to study the girl, visible in the soft glow of the fire's embers. The child's eyebrows lifted high, as if she were staring at someone, then curved into a frown of terror. Tessa pushed back on the bedroll behind her head, as if she could sink into it, escape.

Daria knew that expression. Her heartbeat raced, and a wave of fear washed through her body, sending her upright.

She looked about madly.

Gianni glanced at her, sitting on a rock in the shadows, sword across his knees, and then nodded up the path.

Daria looked that way in confusion. That was where four guards lay in wait. All she could see was an inky nothingness, with the firelight behind them and the moon now gone. They were still an hour away from dawn.

Gianni motioned her away from the fire. Daria looked about. They had lain with their heads toward the fire, alternating men with women and children. But their warriors, other than Hasani and Gianni, were at their flanks. If a flank had been breached . . . how long would it take for aid to come? Hasani stood in the shadows at the far side of the fire, curved sword in hand. He returned her look. It would be a long hour before daybreak came.

Tessa groaned and then sat up screaming, eyes wide. Two arrows came through the forest, but Gianni had already rolled to his left and Hasani dodged right, barely avoiding its deadly track. Gianni whistled, high and shrill, calling in the knights at their flanks, hopefully in time. The sound blessedly echoed through the canyon walls, cresting even the river's rush.

Daria looked around madly for cover. She had seen, too often, how good these archers were. Surely they would not miss twice. She grabbed Tessa and pushed her to the ground, huddling over her as another arrow, intended for the girl, came whizzing over her shoulder blades. Piero's words of warning sang in her ears. These were not robbers or kidnappers. They were assassins.

She rolled over to Bormeo, freeing him from his leather hood and tie to the ground with a quick tug, urging him to take flight. She rose and pulled Tessa to a hunched-over standing position, hissing, “Follow me.” Gianni and Hasani came together to face their attackers, now crashing through the brush above them. They raised their shields, cutting off four more arrows that came in quick succession.

“Go with them!” Gianni shouted to Gaspare. The fisherman had little fighting experience, but he had a shield, a sword, and, Daria hoped, an urge from God to protect them using his gift.

Daria grabbed Josephine's hand and pulled, making their way forward off the path and down over the bulky river rock in an agonizingly slow manner, hearing every sound of battle above and behind them as if they were inches away. But she could see nothing! Nothing! Only the sound of the river kept her moving in the right direction. If she knew they all could swim, she would drag them into the river's current to escape the archers. But she knew she might well be the only one.

“Here, m'lady, allow me,” Josephine said, pulling her back. She put Tessa's hand in hers, and Daria felt back to find the boys and Agata, a donkey train of blind refugees. And then Josephine took her free hand again and led the way. Of course, Daria thought, feeling the first semblance of hope. The best way out was to allow the woman accustomed to darkness to lead the way.

Behind them, over the din of sword-to-sword battle, above his breathing coming in short, labored breaths, Daria could hear Gaspare whispering a prayer of covering, protection, escape.

They continued to move over the rocks, and again found the trail, moving faster now that the road was more smooth. Daria looked up, hearing someone coming their way, her heart in her throat, but it was Vito and Ugo. Relief washed through her as she saw the dim outline of their forms and knew the sun was coming. Ugo ran past them, never pausing, intent on aiding Hasani and Gianni.

Vito paused. “Keep moving,” he whispered between pants, “up around the bend, move up into the trees. They will think you have continued on. But you cannot outrun them. You must hide and allow the trees to give you some cover. We shall come to your aid as soon as possible.” Then he was off, not waiting for their response.

She could hear men making their way down the path across the river, having heard Tessa's scream and Gianni's whistle. Hopefully the other Sienese knights behind them were closing in as well.

A crack of a branch in the forest just above and behind them brought them all up short, deadly still. “Down. Flat on your bellies,” Gaspare whispered. “Cover yourselves with your capes.”

They all did as they were told. Gaspare prayed then, asking for the cover of night's remaining darkness to now cloud their enemies' eyes, to blind them to their presence, to save them. Piero looked at Daria and she thought she could detect a bit of a grin.
“Post tenebras, tenebras,”
he quipped.

After darkness, darkness.
She smiled, trying not to wonder what it would feel like to have an arrow pierce her back or throat. She prayed for faith, to believe the impossible—that God would once again shield them from their enemy, so close, so very close! Light footfalls in the gravel were perilously near, running toward them.

She held her breath.

Then past them! They were running past them, as if their bodies were naught but river boulders, pushed from the trail's path. When they turned the corner and they could no longer hear them, only the battle ensuing behind them, now with more swords than ever, Gaspare rose and whispered, “Move! Move now!”

They ran forward, hunched over, still holding one another's hands to stay together, and as Vito had instructed, when they were past the bend, moved up into the trees. “Hide yourselves!” Gaspare whispered, his face turned toward the path ahead, as if he expected the archers to see their folly and turn back any moment. Light was coming now, fast.

“Here, under here,” she said to Josephine. “Lie down upon your belly and move to your left. It is a large rock with a good overhang. If you can squeeze through, you will be fully hidden.”

The woman moved quickly, as if she were half her age. There were other boulders about, and Daria urged the children to find good hiding places, fully out of sight. Gaspare and Agata moved around a thick stand of trees and over a small hill. Daria's heart pounded at the sudden stillness. She was alone.

But not quite. Above her, at the mouth of the rift of this valley, a figure appeared, cape waving as he stopped to look downward.

Vincenzo del Buco. The baron. Her enemy.

But the first word that came to her mind, her heart, was one:
Uncle
.

Two knights ran up behind Vincenzo, but he dispatched them, sending them on to find the others. He moved down the small valley, sword in hand, directly toward her. With what intent? To kill her?

She glanced left and right, but there was no escape. Either direction might betray the children, or Gaspare and Agata. She would not lead the dragon's minion to the peacock's beloved. She would not. If it was to end here, now, so be it. But her eyes dragged upward to meet Vincenzo with dread. Was it truly ending here?