The Blessed (6 page)

“Along that road. There is a man? A man who is in need of healing from a cancer?”

Anette gasped and pulled a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes wide. “Why, yes. Lord Devenue.”

Daria studied her. The young woman's tone was odd. “Who is he to you, Anette?”

Anette glanced at Armand and then back to Daria. “Once . . . once he was to be my husband. But he has ailed these last years. The cancer, the tumors have distorted his face and head. The doctors believed he would die right away. But he lives on, cursed, mad with the pain. Waiting every hour of the day for the Lord to come and free him.”

“He believes, then.”

“Oh yes. It was the only thing that sustained him . . . for a time.”

Daria studied the girl, so delicate, so lovely. She was most likely widely sought as a bride, given her beauty, name, and wealth. And yet she was nearing the age of spinsterhood. “Anette, why did you not marry him? It is common enough for ailing nobles . . . to attempt to leave an heir. You obviously care for him.”

A slow, deep blush climbed Anette's neck and face. “He ended our fathers' agreement the day the doctors told him what he already knew to be true. He cast me out, refused me entry.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years and three months . . . past.”

The girl avoided the additional days that obviously loomed large in her mind. She knew exactly how long ago her love affair had ended. Daria, remembering Marco, felt something stir deep within her.

“She has refused all other suitors,” Armand said, wrapping an arm around his sister's shoulders. “I could force her to marry, but I must confess, I envy her devotion to the man. I cannot bear to end it.” Daria knew by now that Armand prized the idea of courtly love above everything else short of his faith in his Savior. He spent a good deal of every day encouraging others to pursue love, even going as far as to ask Gianni when he planned on marrying Daria, but then the next day extolling the virtues of unrequited love to him, and how it might be better to always pine in a heavenly manner for his lady rather than knowing the fleshly comforts of earthly love. He flirted and teased her, taunting Gianni, delighting in the game. No doubt the romantic, albeit tragic, elements of his sister's love affair with Lord Devenue appealed to him.

“We shall go to Lord Devenue. I believe I am to heal him.”

Anette gasped.

“Nay, Daria,” Gianni said. “Every step away from this castle puts us closer to the enemy at our gates.” He nodded to the eerie rocks. “It is not even in the direction of Avignon!”

“He shall not dare to come near,” Armand said, leaping upon the opportunity for an excursion. “Amidei travels with but ten men and two women. With your own men alongside my own, I shall ensure we outnumber them three to one.”

“Counting women and children,” Gianni ground out.

“Come now, Sir de Capezzana,” Armand said with a good-natured frown. “Your women and children are extraordinary, are they not? To a one, they exhibit valor and faith. Give me but the females and the small ones, and I shall take on any foe myself.” He waved his arm in the air as if waving a sword.

Gianni sighed. “If we go, God goes with us, that is true. But our Lord also asks us to be wise as well as faithful. We shall consult the priest. If he deems it wise, and only if he deems it so, we shall go. We must keep our eyes on the prize, Daria, our mission with the Church, our calling to Avignon.”

Daria's eyes went to the northern horizon. God had never called her to heal another and then failed to make a way. Piero would deem it wise, a part of their Lord's plan forward; Gianni would faithfully walk beside them, protecting them as best he could. Lord Devenue, once young Anette's betrothed, would find healing and hope again.

Her mind went to Marco Adimari, the man she had once loved, once believed she would stand beside forever. By now, his wife would be heavy with their child. Marco had been a part of her capture in Venezia, but Daria believed he had been an innocent pawn in it all. He had loved her still, mayhap might always love her. Amidei and Vincenzo had simply played upon his emotions for their best use, to aid their cause. She hadn't seen Marco after she had been squired away to Amidei's dark lair, making her confident that he was not culpable. Thoughts of Marco, as long and as lithe and elegant as Count Armand, made her mildly melancholy. But she was clearly free of the dull ache and sorrow that had plagued her. Her heart, more and more, belonged to the towering knight, Gianni, glowering in his concern for her. Regardless of whether he would confirm his declarations of love, she knew where her heart now belonged. With Gianni, with the Gifted, with God.

Gianni stared over at her as if he knew what she was thinking, remembering, but allowing it. He loved her but did not seek to control her as so many would. He simply wanted her safe. God knew what he was doing, entwining their two hearts. For Daria's presence undoubtedly demanded that Gianni search his heart daily for his gifting of faith, just as Gianni's presence encouraged her to go where God led, knowing she was never alone, never unguarded, and where he failed, her God stood in the gap.

 
“THEY prepare to go, master.”

“Where?”

“I know not. We are trying to gain word.”

“Leave me.” Abramo stood in the space between two oddly shaped rocks, a hand on each as if he was strong enough to push them apart. He stared out, across the valley at the impregnable castle, Les Baux, watching as a dull sunset changed her colors to a pale gold. Why did the Gifted delay here? Was not Avignon their goal? It mattered little. Given the chance, he would kill them outside the pope's gates. Whenever there was an opening, he would rush through. What had Vincenzo called them? The hounds of hell. Abramo smiled. He liked that very much.

Daria d'Angelo had dared to deny him, thwarting his every advance. That last night in Venezia, what had been meant to be the culmination of his work in the vast lagoon, had been devastating, casting doubt among many of his followers in the wake of the Gifted's escape. And his eye . . . she had dared to slice open his face and eye, leaving a long scar from cheek to brow, the eye broken and withered within its socket. He could still smell the stench of his rotting wound every hour of every day.

“Draw strength from it,” his dark lord said, from deep within the rock's shadows. He hovered, Abramo feeling the sheer force of him, his words. “The woman shall pay for her error in judgment. And it shall be a glorious day when it comes.”

“Yes, yes, m'lord.” He moaned, seeing it ahead of him, as if he could reach out and grab hold of it. Whatever the master told Abramo to do, he would do it. His lord had drawn closer these last weeks, even honoring his servant by taking form. “Delve into the depths of it; seek out the hatred and spite that lingers there, Abramo. It shall strengthen you.”

“They believe they can escape us,” Abramo said.

“They are fools on the edge of being vanquished. We trail them at every step, and our opportunity will come. We simply rest and wait upon them to take a misstep. And then we pounce.” He circled Abramo, and Abramo drew in his scent of power as if he were feeding upon it. “Yes, take me within you, brother. You shall know victory, soon. You shall take the woman upon our altar. You shall sacrifice them all to me, one at a time. You shall drink the priest's blood. Your women shall read the child's entrails and discover the next glorious chapter of your lives within them.”

“Yes, yes, master. It shall be as you say.”

“Yes,” said the dark lord, receding again into the shadows as Vincenzo approached, moving into the crevice of two great boulders.

And when Abramo looked the master's way again, he was gone.

 
TESSA stood at the castle window as the Gifted conferred about their journey on the morrow. Roberto and Nico stood on either side of her, staring at her with concern and fear. She trembled, her teeth chattering, until Vito came to stand behind her and stare out with her. The night was now fully upon them, but there was something much darker than the night's shadows, something much colder than the bitter north winds. “It's as if he can see us, even in the dark of night,” the girl whispered.

“Well, we've hardly been in hiding,” the knight said. “We're in the biggest castle within miles, the torches all about us.” He studied the child and then waved Piero over. “ ‘A city on a hill cannot be hidden.' ”

The small priest came and stared outward in silence. The others gathered at other windows, all looking across the valley to where they knew the odd caverns and rocks lay. “What is it you sense, Tessa?” the priest asked softly.

“It is Amidei, and Baron del Buco,” she said, trying to be brave, trying to still the quiver in her voice. “But there is more. There is greater evil among those rocks than any I have yet sensed.”

“Greater than the isle outside Venezia?” Piero asked lowly.

“Much greater.”

They all stood in silence for some time.

“Can the count's men not drive them out?” Tessa asked. Her voice held a tinge of hysteria.

“They have tried, but that valley is riddled with tunnels and caves. They disappear as soon as they see the count's men approach, and then resume their watch as soon as the men return to the castle.”

Gianni shook his head. “Like the catacombs. They favor the places of bats and other vermin, places deep in shadow and damp chill. Places that resonate with death.”

“Like it or not, they shall follow our every step until our battle is over,” Piero said. “And with every step we take that draws us closer to the Lord's desires for us, greater will our opposition be. We may as well accept them as our shadow, only escapable when the Light is directly above us. We must concentrate on staying on his path, following his lead. Rest assured, he shall keep his enemy at bay.” He gave Tessa's shoulder a squeeze.

He turned away from the window and beckoned them away as well, into a circle. “Although we cannot see them, our Lord's warriors are all about us. We must don our own spiritual armor and trust our God to see us through. He has not brought us this far to see us die here, as pleasant as Les Baux might be.” He gave them a wry grin. It had been a long while since they all had eaten and slept as well as they had in these last days at the castle.

“If God has called our lady to heal another noble, there will be a harvest gained from following his call. We shall go on the morn, as planned, and we shall go under the protection of God and his angel armies.
We shall not submit to fear.
Our enemy trades in fear. We shall only submit to love, to light, to hope. Understood?”

He eyed each of the twelve, and each one nodded back. “If God is for us . . .” he said, reaching a hand into the center of their circle.

“Who can be against us?” the rest returned.

“IT is our most fervent hope that you arrive on an errand of good faith rather than your old quest to return the papacy to Roma,” said Cardinal Saucille of Avignon, walking beside Cardinal Boeri.

Cardinal Boeri pursed his lips and tucked his hands behind him as they walked. He studiously ignored the flirtatious glances of several women as they passed by. Was it as bad as he had heard, with cardinals housing mistresses and children within the palace? Surely it could not be. “My dear friend, I have come to a place of peace about the matter,” he said. “Although I confess that I will always believe the papacy deserves to reside in Saint Peter's city, I understand that the dangers at hand keep us from even considering it.”

“Ahh. Good, very good. So what brings you to travel such a far distance, Your Grace? We did not expect you until summer.”

“I have come on urgent court business. After discussing it at length with the doge de Venezia, we decided I must come at once. There is a group that will approach the pope in due time, an uncommon group.”

“Are they a menace to His Holiness?”

“Nay. Not to his person. But I believe they threaten the Church at large.”

Cardinal Saucille stopped and reached out a hand to stay Cardinal Boeri. “Speak plainly. Be they Cathars?”

“Nay, not Cathars. But similar in that their convictions are far from our own. They preach about the need to love, God and man.”

“That is nothing outside the Gospel.”

“It is as you say,” Cardinal Boeri said, walking again, drawing the other beside him, completely captivated by his story by now. “But I have it on good authority that they baptize and commune and confess as they so desire.”

The other cardinal gaped at him. “Without a priest?”

“There is a priest among them. But he is the worst, leading them in unholy ways.”

“Which priest? Do I know of him?”

“I doubt it. He is Father Piero de Roma, and crossed paths with a woman who had come on pilgrimage.” He paused, drawing the other to an abrupt stop like a duck seeking a portion of bread. “There is more, m'lord Cardinal. We could easily set them straight by calling in the Lord's Commissioner, were it not for . . .”

“Please. Rest assured that I will not share anything about our discussion.”

He lied. Cardinal Boeri had known him for twenty years; never had he been able to keep a confidence. It was precisely for this reason that he had gone to the man first. He nodded as if in appreciation of the confidence, and drew him to one side of the hall. “This group would be best corralled and utilized by us. We can harness their momentum, their strength, for His Holiness's own gain.”

Cardinal Saucille's eyes sparked with interest. “How so?”

“You see, I already am in good stead with them. They have obtained an ancient letter, a letter that appears to prophesy their arrival. So they believe that God himself has brought them together. But you see, Your Grace, I have a portion of that letter they seek.”