The Blessed (2 page)

“My father established a good cloth trade here with the people of Les Baux when I was but a child. They weave a fine, strong, smooth cotton. Even now, I suppose that Baron del Buco still sees to the trade—he did when I left Siena.”

Vito considered her words. “Could it then be a trap? Might Les Baux be waylaying us, to allow del Buco and Amidei to catch us?”

“ 'Tis my greatest fear. But I saw little choice other than to accept a night's hospitality. Did you?”

Vito looked out from under his hood at the rain and the men-at-arms.

Father Piero rode up beside them, catching the last of their conversation. “Amidei and del Buco are bound to be holed up for the night, even if they are those who track us. We shall pray for an exit from Les Baux if it is not the protection we seek.”

He rode on to speak to Gianni, leaving Daria to her thoughts. When she was a child, there had been talk that she and the future count of Les Baux, Armand, might be a good match. Her father was in strong position to take the seat of one of the Nine, his wealth and properties growing, and he had but one heir, a daughter in need of a strong husband. She supposed it was why her mother had brought in a tutor to teach her French, with the twists that made it uniquely Provençal.

Armand was but three years her senior, the same age as Gianni, and handsome, even as a boy. But the thought of leaving Toscana for the foreign lands to the north had made both Daria and her parents ill at ease. And from an early age, her heart had been tied to Marco Adimari. It did not take long for Giulio d'Angelo to tell Count Rieu de Baux that his daughter would remain in Toscana.

It had not interrupted trade between the family and the people of Les Baux. And gradually the count's letters had become Armand's letters, always addressed to Daria d'Angelo, never Baron del Buco. It had irked Vincenzo, but he understood family ties. From their formal tone, Daria knew that Armand considered her still handfasted to Adimari. But there was always one line to his letters that was friendly, familial, words that spoke to her, reached out to her.

Daria sighed. What would happen when the lord of Les Baux and her newfound love, Gianni de Capezzana, met? She did not know if Armand was yet married himself. She had received no invitation nor announcement, which would have been customary among trade associates. She knew of his reputation; he loved courtly conduct, courtship, adopting the ways of the Franks in wholehearted fashion. Gianni struggled with jealousy, always present at her side. And yet nothing was declared, established between them. Aboard ship, she had made it clear how she felt about him. He had kissed her, made it clear he had deep feelings for her, but weeks later, nothing more had been said, nothing more had transpired.

She sighed. It would be what it would be. It was out of her hands. With one word, the count could be cut off, should he begin to pursue her.
Barren
. After all, he would be in as high a need of an heir as Marco Adimari had once been. She looked to Gianni again, able to see nothing but the outline of his form under a hooded cape, drawn close against the steadily beating rain. Two men at the front carried lanterns, holding them aloft to find the path and lead the way.

Did Gianni truly not care if he had a child of his own? He held no lands nor title beyond that of a knight. But did not every man wish to pass along his blood to the next generation? Was this what kept them apart? Why he had drawn away?

Gianni and Sir Lucien fell back, awaiting her, then rode alongside her. “You shall find,” Lucien said, “that Lord Armand Rieu is a good man, a valiant protector. He had gained word from Conte Morassi that you might be en route to Avignon through Provence.”

Daria lifted her head and shared a long look with Gianni. She turned her head back toward Lucien. “Conte Morassi de Venezia?”

“One and the same,” he said, his blue eyes clearly taking in her wonder. “Conte Morassi and Lord Armand have long been as close as brothers. Their forefathers served together in the wars against the infidels.”

Crusaders. So the ancestors of both Lord Rieu and Conte Morassi had been crusaders. She had saved the Morassis' twin children in Venezia, turning them in their mother's womb when many a midwife had bid them lost. It was one of many miraculous healing stories . . . and only part of the Gifted's journey together. Clearly God was leading them ever onward.

 
GIANNI turned in his saddle to eye Tessa, who was able to discern light from dark, good from evil, within others. The girl raised her eyebrows in response, giving her head a little shake as if to say she sensed no ill portents. His gaze moved on to the priest, Father Piero, gifted in wisdom, who lifted his small shoulders. He seemed to accept that they might already be in the company of friends.

Gianni missed Hasani's presence. The tall African had been abducted in Venezia, and one of the Gifted's many goals was to find him again. He was their seer, the one who could envision what was to come, often drawing elaborate pictures that had been so vital in leading them forward on this mad course. Where was he? Had he drawn these men or the lord of Les Baux?

He had drawn Daria, chained in Amidei's dungeon, and Piero, taking Amidei's arrow to the chest, arms outstretched. Gianni's jaw muscles worked as he studied the Provençal knight on the other side of Daria, still trying to decide if they should take their chances and try to break away.

Daria placed a reassuring hand on his forearm, sensing his unease.

He ignored Lucien's curious glance and stared back into her wide, long-lashed olive eyes, so regal, his lady, with her dark brown hair coiling in ringlets along her neck in the damp, cold air. The bruises on her neck were long gone, but Gianni was more wary than ever when it came to safeguarding her. Unfortunately the Gifted's call seemed to continually place them into the lair of their enemy. Mayhap Daria was right; Lord Armand's castle would be a respite, a place to gain intelligence on the pope and his court, plan their entry into Avignon. Still, he hesitated.

“Sir de Capezzana,” said Lucien, “you knew of the knights that trail you?”

“Nay. We were not aware of it,” he allowed. “Simply another group of pilgrims?”

The knight smiled and glanced at Daria. “Come, now. It is plain that neither of you has a pilgrimage in mind.”

Gianni paused. “You are certain that they follow us?”

“Indeed. They have matched your pace since you departed Marseilles.”

“I take it that you, then, have as well.”

Lucien smiled again. “My lord, after receiving Count Morassi's letter, was most insistent we find and protect you.”

Only one group would be following them into Provence. He could feel Tessa edge closer.

“They merely are as slow as we,” he tried tiredly.

“Not with the horseflesh and manpower they boast. They follow you. Be they friend or foe?”

“Foe,” Gianni grit out. “Lord Abramo Amidei, I'd wager. Baron Vincenzo del Buco. And their entourage.”

Sir Lucien eyed one of his scouts. “Off with you, then. Go and see if it is Amidei or del Buco and report to us at Les Baux.” The man disappeared immediately into the shadows. They all could hear the beating of the horse's hooves as the man and his mount departed into the night. “Come, my friends. You are road weary and plainly battle scarred. I can see it on your faces. Cease your ideas of fleeing, accept my lord's favor and protection, and face your foe in the light of day.”

 
VINCENZO del Buco laid back tiredly on his cot. The straw tick was musty and the cloth that covered it rough, but at least they were in an inn, not out in the woods as the Gifted were this night. His shoulder ached and he felt a dull hunger in his belly, but no real desire to go and seek food. On the far side of the room was Abramo Amidei, his lord and master, who had elected to avoid women this night and rest. In fact, Vincenzo had not seen him partake of the women since that fatal night on the isle, when the Gifted had so narrowly escaped them.

Abramo's hand covered his patched eye as if it hurt him. Only Vincenzo and a doctor had been allowed to see the deep and angry wound, where Daria had dared to slice him from brow to cheekbone. The doctor had removed the eviscerated and infected eyeball as Abramo screamed, screamed until he mercifully passed out. He slept then, through the doctor's cleansing and stitching of the wound, through the night and through the next day. And when he woke, he had one thing on his mind—to track down the Gifted.

Vincenzo sighed and rolled over. He longed for his dry Siena, a crackling fire of Toscana oak in the hearth. He could almost smell it. Winter in these lands was harsh and cold, the damp entering his bones until he felt every year of his life. Memories of traveling with Tatiana in their hopeless search for a cure flooded through his mind. Tatiana . . . Daria . . . all the women he had loved and lost before them. Until Amidei, his grief over them had raged in his mind like an infection. Only his lord's endless stream of female companionship had assuaged the illness of memory. And alongside Abramo, he had experienced wonders he had not dreamed possible. . . .

Until the Gifted gained strength and threatened all they had built. Daria, Gianni, the priest, Piero. Hasani. The child. The fisherman. He and Abramo had nearly decimated them . . . tearing them apart in an effort to rule them. Taking them nigh unto death, to show them the true vitality of life. But had they seen the path to victory? Joined them in the quest for power? Strength?

Nay. Stubborn were they, doggedly traveling forward as if driven by the hounds of hell. Vincenzo laughed under his breath.

“You cannot sleep?” Abramo asked from across the room.

“Nay.”

“What amuses you?”

“Tell me, Abramo. Are we but the hounds of hell?”

“Better the hounds of hell than heaven's henchmen.”

Vincenzo considered that a moment. “Do you not fear hell, Abramo?”

“I fear nothing.” He sat up and lit a candle on the table by his bed, then leaned against the wall, drawing one leg up to the bed and resting an arm across it. Shadows danced across his handsome, scarred face, a long dark furrow undercutting the patch over his left eye. “This is all there is, Vincenzo,” he said, gesturing around. “This. If we do not take it all now, here, we have nothing. And if we do not kill our enemies, we may well be glad to find ourselves in such humble surroundings, night after night. Gone will be our day of glory.”

“Mayhap there is still a way of vanquishing our enemies, turning them, utilizing their power.”

“The Gifted must be eradicated. They cannot be turned and therefore threaten everything we wish to accomplish. So they must die, every one of them. We will use the Church to kill them, or do it ourselves. But it ends here. The hounds of hell will seem like puppies in a pen beside us. The Gifted will know sorrow. Will know fear. Will know defeat.”

Vincenzo said nothing. After a while, Abramo blew out the candle, and in seconds his breathing was slow and sure.

Daria, Daria. Once a niece to him. Once a business partner, co-consul of the guild in Siena. Once beloved. And now she was to die.

Vincenzo stared to the dark ceiling, longing to give in to slumber as his master had. But it eluded him.

CARDINAL Boeri hated this city. For all the political intrigue and dangers of Roma, it was far cleaner and well organized than this cesspool above the Rhône. Avignon was ill prepared for the growth that came with housing the pope and his minions. Moving the offices of the pope to Avignon brought more than a thousand people to the city of old. And the impact of those thousand people brought thousands upon thousands more: people to sell food and supplies, sew garments, clean and cook, herd in animals, and haul refuse away—not that the refuse haulers were doing well at their task—essentially, those who made life in a city comfortable. And the pope, for all his famous fortitude and strivings to rein in the abuses of the cardinals and lesser priests, still enjoyed his comfort.

As did Cardinal Boeri. It was with relief that he made it to the bishop's mansion, ate, bathed, and then gratefully sank into the luxurious sheets in his quarters, a stone's throw from the Palais de le Pape. Bitter gall rose in his throat, even as he drew the feather-stuffed coverlet over his shoulders and leaned deeper into a feather pillow. He would do well to bring a set of this bedding home to Roma, when he went. Yes, quality bedding and the papacy both where God deigned them to be—Roma. This was his call, this was his duty, to serve the Church by showing her the way home.

The Gifted were making their way to Avignon, just as he knew they would. They were following the clues in the letter, as well as the glass map of which the doge had spoken. It was all part of Providence's plan, this, and Boeri would facilitate it. The Gifted would seek an audience with the pope; he would help them gain entry. The Gifted would want their own Hasani back among them; he would deliver the man to them. The Gifted would not fail to display their God-given glories, and he would be the one to showcase them. Through and through, he and the Gifted would become solidified in their partnership. This was why God had granted him a portion of their precious letter. Holy allies is what they were. Holy allies.

He sank a little deeper into the featherbed, closed his eyes, and smiled. The spies had told him they had docked in Marseilles, and even now traveled northward.
Come, my friends, come. The hour is drawing near for God's perfect plan to come together at last.

THEY entered through the guarded castle gates in the dark watches of the night, but a feast was still keeping the castle alight. Piero searched his mind for holy holidays—in the chaos of their travels and days that became nights, he had fallen short of his priestly duties. It was February, the beginning of February.
Candlemas
. Terce and the candle vigil were long over, but Les Baux was still celebrating. Clearly, this Count des Baux enjoyed his feasts.