The Blessed (21 page)

Cardinal Morano entered the sitting room at last, and Abramo rose and bowed in deference, leaning forward to kiss the man's ruby ring. He was dressed in the common red hat with wide brim and tassels that his contemporaries wore, but Abramo noticed there was no white ermine liner to his red cape, only simple, white silk. He was a handsome man, not much older than himself.

“Your Eminence, God be praised that you would see me,” he said humbly, staring at the floor for a long moment, as if gathering his words. He did not look up nor rise. “I am a noble in need of a confessor and you, being a cleric of the highest standing, came to my mind as the perfect man for the task. Will you hear my confession?”

“I am well aware of you, my son, although I do not believe we have yet met in person. You are always welcome here. And I thank you for your generous donation to my own Santa Maria, last time you came through my beloved Madrid.” He spoke in an elegant, cultured tone, laced with a heavy Spanish accent.

“Each and every time I pass through, you may count on me to donate the same amount, as a sign of my faith and thankfulness.”

He did not look up, but he could feel the delicious waves of greed warring with the cardinal's desire for the holy.

“Your generosity takes my very breath,” said the cardinal. “The people of Santa Maria shall be most grateful, as will her priests.”

And their cardinal
, Abramo thought.

“Now, come, sit with me and tell me what plagues your mind.” He gestured to a seat beside him.

Abramo sat down and paused, as if mustering up the courage to confess. “I have sinned, your Eminence. I have sinned widely against our Lord and our God.” He bit out the words, willed devotion into the nouns that only stirred hate within him.

“Tell me of your sins and be rid of it, my son.”

“I have slept with many women, outside the marital bed.”

“I see. How many women?”

Abramo closed his eyes. “It is nearly beyond my count, your Eminence.”

The cardinal paused, studying Abramo's face. “Countless? Surely not—”

Abramo did his best to force misery and sorrow into his features. “Forgive me for troubling you with such sin, my lord Cardinal. I wish I could tell you a different story. But I speak the truth.”

“I see.” Gabriel paused, obviously wishing he could make absolution over this generous benefactor and church patron before him, but pulled by the enemy to do his sacred duty, to see the confession fully through. “What shall keep you from taking another abed?”

“I know not. 'Tis where I hope you shall aid me,” Abramo said. He rose and paced, as if highly agitated. “I am weak, so weak . . . if only there were a way you could be with me, every day, every hour, keeping me from falling.” He moved to Cardinal Morano and knelt before him again. “Here, now, I feel strong.”
Stronger than you know, Cardinal.
“You give me strength.”
And you shall give me more.

“A wife. You are handsome, even with your injury, my son, a danger to all good Christian women who have a weakness for carnal wanderings. Yes, you are in need of a good Christian woman to keep your mind on those things holy and appease your appetite. Through a union with her, you could take your ease and raise another generation of faithful sons and daughters of the Church.”

“Yes, yes,” Abramo agreed, as if he had never thought of it before. “It is wise counsel. Mayhap it is best I settle. Find a good woman.” He thought of Daria, of how delicious it would be if, somehow, she yet became his bride. But he fooled himself. She was lost to him. Destined for death and nothing else. “I travel widely and am rarely at home,” he said, letting a whine settle into his tone. “What am I to do before I find a wife? Or when I must leave her to attend to my business?”

The cardinal studied him with the dark, long-lashed eyes of his Spanish ancestors. There were crinkles at the corners, as if he laughed often. But he was unsmiling and serious now, making him foreboding and strong in stature. If Abramo could turn this one to his own aim, Gabriel would have his own pick of the women of the dark . . . how the master would revel in Abramo's accomplishments!

“There are ways to remind the flesh that it is but flesh, and that the Spirit is ever stronger,” the cardinal began.

“Indeed?” Abramo asked innocently, knowing full well where this would lead. His master had been right, so right.

The cardinal rang a bell, and a servant appeared immediately. “Fetch a spiked belt and a spiked chain, please.”

The male servant bowed and disappeared, and the cardinal again met Abramo's eyes. “I, too, suffer from a draw toward the sins of the flesh,” he said. “I find it helpful to wear the belt of remembrance, forcing me to think of our Lord's suffering, on days when I am weak or facing temptation.”

The servant appeared again and handed his master the leather belt, studded with tiny spikes, and a long chain, with quartets of spikes along its length. The cardinal lifted the belt. “Wrap this around your thigh. The spikes will pierce your flesh and not let you move without reminding you of their presence. Some wear it until their skin heals and fuses to the belt, so that it is always with them, one with them, counting it a blessing that any errant movement causes their flesh to rip and weep like our Christ's own tears.”

Abramo took the belt and gazed upon it. Such delicious agony. Pain. The very thought of it aroused him, made him hunger.

“The flagellant's whip,” the cardinal said. “On days that even the belt is not enough, turn to this after fervent prayer and confession. Take it firmly in hand and let it fly over your shoulder, and again, around your rib cage.” He gestured, empty-handed now that he'd passed it to Abramo, showing him how to flick his wrist at the end. “As you do so, remember the wounds your Savior took to save you from your sins.”

“Oh, I shall remember,” Abramo said, bowing to cover his smile, nodding as if humbly accepting the direction. Could it really be as simple as this? If it was this easy to wheedle one's way into the mind of the pope's advisor, why not take the Holy Father himself? He remained where he was, swallowing his smile.

“You hesitate, my son. Do you wish for me to see you through this first exercise of pain? I shall hear your every confession and see you through the process. It is the first step toward freedom, absolution. I promise, you have never experienced such a feeling of cleansing until you have experienced this. You shall be restored.
Restored
.”

Abramo raised his face to the cardinal, hoping the tears of glory in his eyes now appeared as holy sorrow to the man. “Show me, my lord Cardinal. Forgive my sin and show me the way to dominating the flesh rather than succumbing to its wiles. Help me locate a suitable wife. I place my life in your hands.”

GIANNI awakened to find himself alone abed. He rose and rubbed his face, not remembering when he had slept as long and as deeply as this. By the bells, he knew that his comrades had long since broken their fast, and the castle was already hard at work.

He poured water into a basin and then splashed his face, neck, chest, and arms, toweled off, shivering in the chill of the room. He considered, briefly, lighting a fire in the hearth, but gave it up for the greater need to find his wife and see what the day had in store. Had the others already gathered, met and planned without him?

Dressed, he opened the door to find Vito lounging against the far wall, a sly grin on his face. “Marriage has made my captain slovenly,” he said, pushing off from the wall. “Might I ask you to accompany me to the knights' quarters for a round of sparring, or will you wish to follow the Duchess?”

Gianni scowled at his friend and pushed out his chest as he patted it with a fist. “Gianni de Capezzana follows no woman about like a sick pup.”

“Except the former Duchess d'Angelo,” Vito said.

“Except her,” Gianni said without missing a beat. The two smiled at each other. “How fare the others?”

“Well enough,” Vito said with a shrug, his smile fading. “They feel Basilio and Rune's absence.”

As do we all,
thought Gianni. How he wished Basilio would round the corner, his big nose going before him, his tall German friend ducking beneath the low ceilings of the palace corridors to follow behind. He kept thinking that at any moment he would see them appear. It had been a long time since he had lost fellow knights, close to his heart. Not since the grove outside Roma, where Abramo's archers had felled brothers of the soul . . . every man Gianni had counted upon in his last years as a knight de Vaticana de Roma.

He swallowed hard against the bitter bile that filled his throat and mouth, fought to concentrate on the words Father Piero had trained him to think upon. God's justice, in his time. Grace. Mercy. Mission.

He followed behind Vito as the passageway narrowed, down two stair-cases and past the cold and drafty dovecote hall, where small caves had been dug out of the bedrock for two hundred birds that served as both messenger and meal. The entire castle had been dug out of a giant limestone cliff face, making one entire flank impenetrable, her towers atop the rock formed by the hand of God. They passed women and men carrying buckets of water, wood for fires, baskets of fresh food for the kitchens from the storehouses. Briefly they walked outside, now below and moving beyond the castle to the stables and training area for Les Baux knights, through yet another tunnel and down another set of stairs.

“The count has agreed to house and keep our people until we send for them. Roberto, Nico, and Agata will remain behind. And much to Daria's disappointment, her bird, Bormeo.”

“I hope the people of Les Baux do not consider a white falcon the supreme luxury for feasting,” Gianni said.

“Do not let the Duchess hear such a jest!”

Gianni laughed. He highly doubted the bird would actually remain in Les Baux. Daria seldom went anywhere without him anymore. “Ambrogio took his leave?”

“He is undoubtedly already at work within the new papal palace. He will serve us well, with an inner knowledge of the
palais
and her pope.”

“Indeed,” Gianni said. “I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak to him before he left.”

“Father Piero did. They arranged to meet when we arrive in Avignon. We shall send a message to him.”

“Good,” Gianni said. Had he lost command while he slumbered with his new wife?

“The count insists we take twelve of his men when we go. I have located the strongest—both in flesh and in faith,” Vito said.

“Well done. I bid you thanks for taking up the task. I have been distracted of late—”

“Say no more, Captain,” Vito said, smiling over his shoulder. “I understand. You are the envy of more than one kingdom, taking Lady Daria as your bride. I believe our own Count Armand would have been first in line, had she dismissed your begging.”

Gianni laughed and shook his head. “ 'Tis not only my new wife that distracts me. Speaking of my wife, where has she gone?”

“Left you aslumber, did she?” Vito said, throwing another wry grin over his shoulder as at last the passageway widened and they could walk abreast. “She's on a ride with the countess, and well guarded.”

“You sent out scouts to make sure our enemy is not about?”

“As well as Ugo, Gaspare, Dimitri, and Hasani as armed companions,” Vito said. “They'll stay near the castle.”

Gianni shoved down his fears, only possible because he knew Hasani rode beside Daria. Only he, among them, knew the vision and the full threat of Daria's inevitable capture. He must trust the safety of his bride to his Lord at times, as much as it chafed, and concentrate on other matters. “I take it you wish to introduce me to the men who shall accompany us into Avignon.”

“Indeed. They are fine men, all.”

“Do you not think we shall gain unwanted attention, arriving in the city with such a grand retinue?”

“I think we can hardly risk any less of a security force,” Vito said, deadly serious now. “Our arrival will come as no surprise to the pope. And as we have seen, the enemy has gained strength, either in number or by those he has hired. We faced a good number of professional mercenaries atop the Pont du Gard. Had not Cardinal Boeri arrived with his knights de Vaticana . . .”

Gianni nodded. Vito did not need to say more. They might have all been in the river, every last one.

“We are to meet the priest, the count, and Hasani in the chapel after our noon meal. They have uncovered yet another clue for us there.”

“Indeed?” Gianni asked, raising his eyebrows. And then he was startled that he was unsettled by such information. Had not the Lord brought them signs and wonders all along their path? He smiled at Vito. “Have you arranged the rest of my day as well?”

“Nay, m'lord,” Vito said with a grin. “As much as I enjoy the role of steward on occasion, I remain your knight more than your
secretario
.”

“Good,” Gianni said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Well satisfied am I, that you and your brother still serve our Lord and our cause. Thank you for your faithfulness, Vito.”

Vito blushed at the neck and briefly bowed his head. “We would wish to be nowhere else, m'lord.”

Gianni offered his arm and the two gripped to the elbow, eyeing each other. Gianni studied Vito, a man he had come to love and trust as a brother. Would he lose this man as well to the fight? Had Hasani envisioned his death as well?

And could he say the same words that Vito had uttered? That he wished to be nowhere else? Had he not wished for another time, another place, just last night?