The Blessed (15 page)

He neared the man and handed him the bundle. Hasani took it and then slowly unwrapped his long, curved sword and sheath. “You shall need that, ahead,” Cardinal Boeri said. “If the arrows are flying, the Duchess will need another defender.”

Hasani nodded once, in a gesture of appreciation, still wary, but becoming more open. Boeri could feel the door widen slightly.

 
WORD of Lord Devenue's healing spread quickly, as he knew it would, and the people came in waves, growing in number from ten to twenty to fifty to more than a hundred. Piero drew children to him, tender in his care and his wording. “Blessed are the children,” Daria translated into Provençal, “for they shall see the kingdom of the Lord.”

Together, they preached the gospel, calling for people to commit to Christ as their Savior or recommit their lives, to embrace faith as a calling, not so complicated that one had to learn Latin to understand, but requiring a simple step of faith, belief, to come truly as little children.

“ ‘Let the little children come to me,' ” Daria translated, moving toward a young blind boy and kneeling before him. “ ‘. . . and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.' ” It was this child that God called Daria to heal.

This was the one.

She searched his face, unable to keep herself from touching his shoulders, tears springing to her eyes. Did he know? Did he know what was about to take place?

“Leave him,” said one of the villagers. “He is a child of sin with no father to claim him. He bears the mark of their sin in his blindness.”

Tessa moved in front of him as if she meant to defend him, a child of Il Campo de Siena defending another orphaned child.

“Nay,” Daria said, drawing the boy closer with one arm and placing her second arm around Tessa. She smiled at the people around her. “This child has remained blind so that you would know the power of God is real. He does have a Father to claim him—our Father in heaven. And our Father wants us to do his work here in the world. Jesus said, ‘As long as it is day, we must do the work of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.' ”

She rose and led the child to the river, bent low, and scooped up some fine, silty mud. Daria packed it atop his eyes, and Gaspare, Piero, and Gianni came near to pray with her over him, asking for healing. “Amen and amen,” Daria said as they finished.

Daria took the boy by both shoulders. “Child of God, your Lord has delivered you. Your sight is but a sign of that deliverance.”

“But, m'lady,” the boy said. “I cannot see.”

“Of course you cannot,” she whispered with a smile. “There is mud all over them. Bend low here, at the river, and wash. When you are done, behold your Father's light. Believe.
Believe
. Your God has healed you.”

The slight child opened his eyes and where once an opaque, white film seemed to cover them, there were dark green irises and pure black pupils. He stared at her, utterly still for a moment. Then his pupils narrowed and he gasped. He fell back, crying, touching his face over and over as if he were in a dream and trying to wake, then touching her. “M'lady,” he whispered. “M'lady,” he said louder, finding his voice. “M'lady! M'lady!”

Daria laughed, tears streaming down her face. “Tell us, child. Tell us.”

“I can see! I can see! You are even lovelier than your voice!” He turned to his mother, weeping beside him. “Oh Mama, Mama! I can see! I can see you!”

A woman screamed beside his mother. Two men scrambled away, intent on sharing the news. Gaspare moved forward. “Wait!” he commanded.

The two men paused and looked back to the fisherman.

“Go and tell of this miracle,” he said, stumbling over a language he had barely picked up from other fishermen in Venezia. “Tell the people that your God is alive and well in the land. That Jesus longs to come and abide with us all. That he is your Savior and your guide. Tell them that we are but humble servants. Do you understand me? We are but humble servants of the Christ Jesus!”

The two men nodded, fear etched in their faces as if he might do them bodily harm.

“It is of the utmost importance that word of the miracle—the healings of this child and Lord Devenue—carry exactly as I have said,” Gaspare said to the crowd at large. “Please, do not embellish. I beg of you, my friends. If we are to carry on our ministry, if we are to heal others and do our work on the Lord's behalf, you must carry forth these stories as I have laid out. Tell your friends that it is God moving, not us. We are but servants. We are only here to serve the Christ. Understood?”

The crowd nodded as one, sober in their promises.

“Thank you,” Piero broke in. “It is wise to be cautious. We already have enemies. Please help us from gaining others. Now, I believe there must be some among you who wish to be baptized. Come now and say the words of promise and accept your ultimate healing and union with your God of grace.”

More than twenty men, women, and children moved down the banks of the river to where they stood. The first was the boy, who came without hesitation, rushing into the water to receive the gift of all gifts. One by one, the faithful followed and were baptized, immersed as sinners in the cool waters and brought upward cleansed and filled with the Holy Spirit.

Daria, Piero, Gaspare, and Gianni were all waist deep, holding one after another, embracing them as brothers and sisters as they emerged. The people ashore clapped after each baptism, seemingly aware that something larger than anything they had experienced was transpiring. Toward the end, all were wearying. Vito and Basilio went to Daria's side, seeing her knees buckle, and helped her out of the frigid waters. They felt weak but full, as if after the longest, hardest, but best of days, ready to fall into bed and enjoy the deepest slumber of all. Already, Dimitri and Anette and eight of the men had departed, too tired to continue and in dire need of rest.

Piero, a bit wan, looked up and gazed about the group. Wearily he made it to shore and spoke in love to the crowd. “We must depart, my friends. We are tired and must rest so we are prepared for what is ahead.”

“We want to come with you!” shouted a woman, mournful.

“Nay. We cannot feed or care for all of you. Please, go and serve our God. Be his light to the world. Share his word with your loved ones, anyone who will listen. There may come a time that he calls you as he is calling us now. Pay attention to how he speaks, here,” he said, patting his chest, “deep within. Listen. Pray. Follow. This is the call upon your lives now. You are children of the Light. Live your lives as such. Tell of the miracles you have experienced here, always giving glory to our God, and not to us.”

 
THEY were two miles away from the Pont du Gard with the sun setting in the west when Hasani kicked his mare into a full gallop. The man leaned down, as if to urge the horse faster. His body was too big for the small country horse, but the mare was strong and determined, moving forward with surprising speed.

The knights about him looked up in surprise, and then back to the cardinal.

“Go, eight of you,” Cardinal Boeri said, aware that he could not keep up that pace nor keep Hasani from his people any longer. That left him four knights, adequate guard for an aging man of the cloth from another land. Mayhap the men would get to the Gifted in time to keep what he feared was about to transpire from occurring.

 
THE Gifted were moving back across the Pont du Gard, absently admiring the golden streams of sunset cascading through the arches and the silhouette shadow cast upon the far hill, when the archers came into view. There were four on either side of the second tier of the bridge, directly above them, blocking an exit from either side. Like the bridge's shadow, they were little more than dark forms against the fading light of winter's day. But the Gifted knew them well. It was these same women and more who had attacked them in the grove, and again in the streets of Siena, and again off of Abramo's dark isle.

But this time, there were not two with uncommon skill and deadly aim. There were eight.

“Tess, under the arch, quickly,” Daria said, pushing the girl to the side, still staring upward, as if to offer herself over the child. Gianni, several paces before her, turned. “Take cover, Daria!” he shouted.

As one, the archers let the arrows fly, a pale blue sky seeming to propel them onward. The Gifted, the remaining Les Baux knights, and the few villagers who still clung to their path all scattered, taking cover behind the ancient bulwarks of the Pont du Gard.

Daria moved toward a pillar, saw it was too crowded and turned, too late, toward the other side. She looked up, even as she ran, seeming to smell the arrow before it came, as if the scent of poison were upon the wind.

She could not outrun it. It was too fast. She was too late.

Her eyes met Basilio's, already barreling toward her.

She shook her head. Nay. It could not be. But it was as if she had Hasani's foresight. She knew what was to come.

Basilio turned and leaped, bringing his brawny chest as wide as possible in shielding her, bringing her down beneath his dead weight.

And the arrow entered, making a sickening, sucking sound as it did so.

Basilio grunted, instinctively rolling into it, as if to give the shaft more room, to take away the pain slicing his belly. He rolled off Daria and toward the edge of the bridge, blind in his pain. Five other knights, all Armand's, were down as well.

“Basilio!” Daria screamed. She moved toward him, but Gianni reached her then, pulling her back beneath the protective arch. More arrows rained down about them, two more striking Basilio in the side. In his agony he inched even closer to the bridge's edge.

Rune shouted and wrenched himself free of the two knights who held him back, running to Basilio's aid. Three arrows immediately pierced his back.

“Nay!” Daria screamed, wincing as if they had pierced between her shoulder blades instead. “Nay!”

Rune staggered at the impact, then turned and aimed his longbow, letting one arrow fly and then another and then another until he sank to his knees in exhaustion, beside Basilio. Two of the female archers fell to the river, but the others were moving closer. Daria could see by the angle of the arrows that they were driving the knights backward, to their deaths. Rune took another arrow in the shoulder; Basilio, another to his arm. The archers steadily moved in closer to the rest of them, huddled beneath the arches of the ancient bridge below.

Basilio opened his eyes and whispered something toward Daria.

“Come, come to us!” Gianni shouted to his men. “You must move over here.” They were only ten feet away, but it might have been a Roman mile. Tessa was weeping, hysterical in her fear. She yanked away from Daria as if she meant to go and pull the men to safety.

Rune staggered to his knees after a fifth arrow pierced his chest. His lips parted and his eyes closed in breathless agony, and then he looked over to Basilio, defeat etched in every line of his face.

Basilio returned his look and whispered the same words, eyes wide, already fading.

Rune tried to grab his friend, help him, but took another arrow to the shoulder, almost sending him backward, over the edge himself. Rune looked to Daria, to Gianni, to Piero. Daria sank to her knees, weeping with Tessa, wanting to look away from her friends, but finding it impossible. Her fingers moved to her shoulder, expecting a hot, seeping wound there. But there was nothing. What was Rune saying? He was desperately trying to say something!

“
Post tenebras, lux.
Believe . . . you helped me . . .”

Basilio fell to his side.

Gianni knelt down then, hand to his shoulder, feeling Rune's piercings as his own. “Please, my friends. I have no shield. It is but a few feet. Please. Come to us. We will help you. But we cannot come to you.”

More arrows rained down. They were getting closer. Soon, the Gifted would have no choice but to stand and take on their aggressors. And surely it was not merely the six archers who attacked them.

A shout went up from the end of the bridge. A cry of rage came from the man in front, a hulking black man with a shield over his head and a long, curving sword in the same hand that held his horse's reins. “Ha-Hasani?” Daria asked, rising in wonder. Hope surged within her. Could it be?

Eight other knights charged behind him, similarly armed. Armand's knights, given the distraction, immediately moved out in pairs, one shielding, one letting fly an arrow. Arrows passed back and forth in the air.

Two struck Basilio and Rune, a final wave of impact, sending each backward. They hovered on the edge—Basilio on his side and rolling away, Rune slipping over the edge, catching himself, hauling himself up but for a moment—each seeming to wordlessly say good-bye.

Daria screamed. The sound seemed to hang in the air.

And then they were both gone at once.

Daria wrenched forward, out of Gianni's arms, crawling toward the bridge's edge as fighting went on all about her. Horses clattered to hurried stops. Men shouted. Swords clanged. More arrows cascaded about them. Dimly she knew that their attackers now began to recede back into the shadows whence they came.

But all Daria could see was the backs of her two knights, her dear friends, her brothers, as they floated to the surface of the Gardon, facedown, side by side down a pale blue river lined with white cliffs.

She moved as if to jump after them, weeping hysterically as the phantom pain of the arrow piercings receded, telling her the men were dead.