The Blessed (17 page)

“After the darkness, light,” Daria mused.

“
Oui.
” She gave Daria a curious look. “You have seen the inscription, then, above our chapel door?”

“
Post tenebras, lux
?”

“
Oui.
”

Daria gave her a small smile. “Nay. I have not. But apparently my men had.”

They arrived on the cliff face, and the winter wind took their very breath. Anette moved to Lord Devenue's side, also dressed in royal white finery, and Daria to Gianni. She clung to his elbow, feeling the muscle of his bicep as if it might lend her strength. His hand at the small of her back was a welcome, warm presence. Could it be that they had exchanged vows only three days prior? In many ways, Daria felt they had shared the bonds of marriage for months. But now it was real, a stance of love and hope . . . just as the bodies of her men took position as death and despair. She felt pulled apart inside by the extremes of joy and sorrow warring within her heart.

The others had already assembled, even those they had left behind to heal—Ambrogio, Ugo, and the boys. Many of the Les Baux villagers attended behind a ring of nobles that Daria did not recognize. She shared a look with Piero and Count Armand. Already, the nobles of Les Baux worked on their behalf to tie other powers to the Gifted.

Numbly, reluctantly, Daria listened to Father Piero go through the funerary rites and prayers. She let the words in Latin and Provençal wash through her, absorbing her. So tenuous, was this life. Only one heartbeat, one lungful of air away from death, the afterlife. But she wanted to live. To live and grow old with Gianni! To see her friends to safety and old age themselves.

What madness was this holy calling upon their lives? And yet, without it, where would she be? Making do with a solitary life at home, with her beloved Sciorias, but no man. Finding respect as co-consul of the guild, but not wholeness. Not the healing she had found in Christ. Not love, not love like this, even in the face of such sorrow. Not
life
. It was as if she could feel God sustaining them, holding them up, telling them to keep their eyes on him alone. All this would pass away.

“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. We live in this world,” he said, looking at each of them. “Embrace this world, as if it is everything. But it is simply a span of time, after all, one leg of our journey. The greater journey is ahead, in the afterlife. And because of the blood of Christ, we have entry to it. Saved, delivered, set free, as our friend Hasani has recently experienced. As our friends, our brothers, Basilio and Rune, have experienced as well. They now walk in the palace of the King of kings. Their trials are over, their sorrow erased. They are in glory. Something we can look forward to as well. Be at peace over them, friends. They are.”

He turned and resumed the rites in Latin, prayed, and then nodded to the knights carrying torches that flowed and flickered broad orange flames in the fading light of day. They laid the torches to the dry tinder beneath the knights' pyres, and instantly the fire grew and spread, arching in the wind, forcing the group to back away. Within an instant, the bodies, with hands gripped around their swords, were consumed, only a vague outline of human form amid the flames that grew white-hot with heat.

Slowly, silently, the mourners turned toward the castle, leaving six knights to tend to the bodies of their brothers. They all attended the funeral feast, forcing themselves to eat and speak with others. One by one, Armand and Anette and Dimitri introduced them to the nobles in attendance . . . the Lord and Lady Bonapart of Tarascon, the Duke and Duchess Richardieu of Villeneuve-des-Avignon, the Lord and Lady Blanchette of Uzes, the Count and Countess Duvin of Nimes. They had been summoned here for the official wedding of Countess Rieu des Baux to Lord Devenue, set to take place the following day. Conspicuously absent was Cardinal Saucille; Anette, ignoring convention, had asked Cardinal Boeri to perform the ceremony.

Ambrogio, Daria's old friend who had unwittingly been drawn into the intrigue and adventure of the Gifted, was speaking animatedly with another she believed she knew, from Siena. Where, how had they met? Gianni, noting her interest, steered her toward them.

The man, seeing her, bowed low in her direction. “Duchess d'Angelo,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “It is an honor to see you again.”

She remembered him now. Another artist, of course, but with a large, sloping nose and ears that stuck out. “Simone Martini,” she responded, “you have grown up since I saw you last, and your fame precedes you. You are the pride of Siena, with your work complete in Assisi.” Martini had indeed captured the attention of many, with his depiction of the life of Saint Martin in the Lower Church of St. Francis.

“You are overly kind, m'lady,” he said.

“Nay. I speak the truth. You and Ambrogio—together you shall change how the world sees our God. It is a great responsibility.”

“One I do not take lightly, Duchess.”

“I should hope not,” she said. “Please, may I introduce you to my new husband, Gianni de Capezzana?”

Simone, dressed in finery that bore witness to his new wealth, studied Gianni with new interest. The two shook hands. “I imagine you know that it has long been debated who might win the lady's heart.”

“For good reason,” Gianni returned, sliding a smile toward Daria. “I thank our God each day that I chanced upon her.”

“Who chanced upon whom?” Daria said with a grin.

“I thank God each day that we chanced upon each other,” Gianni amended. “But I thank God every hour that she agreed to take me as husband.”

“Well spoken,” Simone said. “You must meet my friend, a poet. He enjoys fine words. He is here, somewhere.”

“We shall look forward to it,” Gianni said.

“What brings you to Provence?” Daria asked. Father Piero joined their small group, along with Cardinal Boeri. Obviously the artists had already spoken with them, for they merely stepped aside to gain them room.

“Cardinal Stefani,” Simone said.
The Cardinal of Siena
, Daria thought. Rarely at home, the man preferred to abide with the pope, enjoying the palace and its accompanying pleasures, leaving the work of the Church to good men like Bishop Benedicto and the priests of Siena. She glanced at Boeri. How different was he? Were they of the same cloth? According to Gianni, his cardinal remained at home, saw to the needs of his people—and protected them from the dangers. Daria looked about the room, caught Tessa's eye, and subtly invited her to them.

“Cardinal Stefani's a patron of the arts,” Ambrogio said. “He brought Simone in to help paint new frescoes within the palace. Simone has asked if I might wish to come back with him to Avignon to assist.”

“Assist?” Simone said. “I shall give you an entire room of your own to paint. The cardinal shall be delighted.”

“As he should be,” Daria said. “Two of Siena's finest painters in one place!” She caught Ambrogio's eye. Ambrogio understood her silent warning. To paint within the papal palace was as dangerous as a rabbit hopping about a snare.

“But there is more you need know of us, Simone, before I take you up on your kind offer,” Ambrogio said.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“I believe the de Capezzanas and Father Piero plan to share more with you all in short order.” Every noble and person of influence in this room had been invited by Armand to be brought into the Gifted's fold. It was understood that this night, the Gifted would share their story and hopefully gain friendships that would sustain them even as they ventured into Avignon.

“Most intriguing. I shall look forward to it.”

Daria struggled to engage with the task at hand, continually drawn back into memories of Basilio and Rune, not wanting to plunge forward. And when she did dare to look ahead, visions of the dangers that might lie in wait for them terrified her.

Cardinal Boeri turned and greeted a thick-necked, middle-aged man warmly. Count Armand joined them, shaking the man's hand as well and turned to introduce him to the group. Tessa took Daria's hand and stood before her, smiling politely at the lords and ladies who complimented her on her dress, as if it were the only thing on the girl's mind. Only Daria could feel how her hand grew taut or relaxed around the others. But mostly the girl was at ease, warm, among them all. It comforted Daria to know it.

“May I introduce you all to my friend, a fine poet and noted critic of the papacy, Francesco Petrarch.”

Daria almost gasped. To meet a poet, and one as fine as Petrarch! How many of his poems had she mulled over, digested as if they were fine foods? How much had the poet shaped her mind? He had always been a critic of sorts, his poetry distributed and read for years now, but she had never read anything explicitly taking the papal court to task.

ABRAMO Amidei was not stupid enough to demand an audience with the pope himself. From long experience, he knew that it was best to manage the Holy Father the way it was best to manage any king or count or doge—through his underlings.
Own the men who answer to the man in power, and you eventually own the man in power.
So it was that he entered Avignon and headed directly toward Cardinal Josue Bordeau's mansion.

He gasped for air as he and his men moved deeper into the winding streets of the city. The town was crowded with people, but there was no sewer system in place. Animal carcasses and garbage lined the street. Only a papal edict kept the citizens of the city from throwing their excrement and urine to the streets. Every day, each household was expected to haul its chamber pots to dump them outside the city. Ditches were dug into the center of the cobblestone streets in an attempt to facilitate some drainage.

Abramo shook out a handkerchief and held it over his nose, thankful that the city had recently seen its share of winter rains. Never would he enter these city gates in the heat of summer. Still, he drew a perverse sense of pleasure from the horror. This was a city that was ripe for disease, damp like peat. Here he could sow seeds of the dark down deep, and they would take root and grow. A clean city was more difficult to woo, infiltrate. A dirty city was always looking for a new leader, new hope, new vision. He could fulfill that role.

His men led the way up one street and down another until they reached the highest part of town, near the Rocher des Doms, the ancient cliff that rose above the Rhône river. He closed his eyes and could almost hear the ancient songs of those who had known the dark and worshipped upon the rock, the screams of the innocents and the enemy as they were killed by Moors and Romans as the region was conquered and taken, again and again.

Abramo smiled. It was here that the Templar knights had once had their headquarters—and it was here that the master had seen their foundation begin to crumble, watched their very own protectors and supporters bring them down. He let out a laugh. How fitting that the Gifted would come here. Here his master had known sweet victory more than once. Here they would know bitter defeat.

One of Abramo's men bent to talk to a merchant and obtained directions to Cardinal Bordeau's palace. The cardinal was one of six key men who helped guide the pope. While Clement V and John XXII had handed out red cardinal hats as if they were candy, Cornelius II had been more restrained, choosing to rely upon men he had known for years as a cardinal himself. Two years into his papacy, he had built a new papal palace, but had named only twelve new cardinals. Most in his court were trusted members, personal friends. Only a few were placed as political necessities. This made him a more difficult target. But not impossible.

They arrived at Cardinal Bordeau's palace, and his men dismounted and knocked at the door. Once it was clear that the cardinal was at home, Abramo dismounted and waited with his men, pulling off one glove and then another as he entered the courtyard. His horse was led off to the stables. Only three of his men and one of his archers remained at his side.

Cardinal Bordeau de Orange, a dark, handsome man who would have made a good womanizer but instead had a taste for young things of all shapes and sizes, emerged from the dining hall, his napkin still in hand. His eyes widened a bit at the sight of Abramo's eye patch and the long, ugly scar that extended beyond it. He managed to cover his surprise, however, reaching for Abramo's arm and then pulling him into an embrace.

THE poet bowed deeply, turning to greet each in the circle of nobles. Father Piero studied each of them, their reactions. Some Petrarch clearly knew; a few were new to him. “It was not my desire to become a critic of the court,” Petrarch said. “But if a body deserves criticism and I do not speak, it is as if I experience strangulation. Words are my medium, my lifeblood. To not speak would be akin to a stoppage of my heart.”

“And what is it you see?” Cardinal Boeri asked.

“May I speak plainly, Cardinal? You yourself were just in Avignon, were you not?”

“I was. And yes, you may.”

Petrarch studied the man, dressed in the most subtle of cardinal robes, and then turned back to the group. “Our pope, a Cistercian monk by training, has done many fine things. He has squelched some outward sins and abuses by his court, and even among the priests who abused their power farther out in the papal realm. Many, many wrongs were righted in his first two years as pope. I applauded his efforts. But in the last year, Pope Cornelius has been swayed. He has tripled the taxes, and his churches demand more and more of the poor, while his coffers grow thick with wealth. He has just completed a new palace, and while I understand the need for a regal place to house the heir of Peter, that place is already established in Roma, not Avignon.”