The Blessed (23 page)

“And so the legends collide,” Vito mumbled in awe. “The story of our Lord's manger, and the story of the Gifted.”

They moved on, from one figure to the next. A small priest, obviously Piero. A girl child resembling Tessa. A large, broad-shouldered man with Gaspare's eyes and nose and chin. The tall, haunting African face of Hasani. And the last, a gentle, middle-aged woman. “Our prophetess, I assume,” Father Piero said, squinting his eyes as if to memorize her looks. “Just as Gaspare's mother's figures represented.”

“A woman as prophet? That'll go over well with the boys in Avignon,” Vito said.

Daria gave him a playful shove.

“What?” he asked, playing the fool.

Count Armand waited for them to come closer, his face a mask of serious intent. “My ancestors must have built the false chapel centuries before it was dismantled. Somehow, some way, they knew that this chamber had to be hidden away, preserved, with both the relic and the signs that the house of Les Baux and the house of d'Angelo would one day share much.” He studied each of them, the torch's flame lighting one side of his face, leaving the other side in deep shadow. “My father had somehow seen this place—there must be another secret entry. He knew you, recognized you. It had to be because he had seen the statues.”

A flicker of gold caught Gianni's eye behind the count, but then Armand's words drew his attention again.

“My friends, it was clear from the start that our paths were to intersect. With each day that passes, I know more of our Lord's intent. And his intent for me is this . . . to serve you, with all that I have, all that I can gain. I pledge again to you all my life, my resources, my men. I will do all that I am able to aid you, wherever it might lead. For you serve our one and true God, and your mission is blessed indeed.”

Gianni stared at Father Piero, seeing his own question reflected in the priest's eyes. But just where was this mission to end? He stood to take Count Armand's arm, accepting his pledge, but stilled.

The count, confused, paused and then turned to follow his gaze.

Gianni took the torch and raised it higher. “Quickly, Tessa, come here.”

The girl moved to him at once, and he handed her the torch, then lifted her to his shoulders. “Raise it high, as high as you can.”

The others gathered around them, able to see the gilt lettering reflected in the light of the torch. Around the bottom of each dome were words. In the first the words read,
Deus providet, Deus creat, Deus respicit, Deus ducit.
God provides, God creates, God watches, God leads.

In the second, the words read,
Christus salvat, Christus amat, Christus docet, Christus manet.
Christ saves, Christ loves, Christ teaches, Christ remains.

All were words they might expect to find in a chapel. But what followed was far from usual.
Praediti Dei, communicate dona vestra populis Dei.

Father Piero moved forward and read aloud what Gianni suddenly had no voice to cover, translating as he did so. “Gifted of God, share your gifts with the people of God.”

They all stood in silence for a moment.

Father Piero glanced at Cardinal Boeri, who nodded. The two churchmen shared a long, hard gaze.

“Another clue for you, the Gifted,” Cardinal Boeri said, still studying the priest. “It is all coming into line now, is it not? With the letter?”

They all stared hard at him, again rendered mute. Only Hasani seemed unsurprised.

“You . . . know of our letter?” Gianni asked. With measured action, he lowered Tessa to the floor. She stared up at him in concern, obviously feeling the sudden tension.

“I know it, my friend. Moreover, I have a missing portion.” He looked to Gianni, his expression a mix of confession and intrigue.

Gianni rushed across the room, looking as if he wanted to take the cardinal's robe in his hands and shake him. Bishop di Mino edged closer as if he meant to defend the cardinal from Gianni. “You have a portion of our letter?
Our
letter? You knew? You knew of our prophecy all along? All those years I served under you . . . you
knew
?”

The cardinal shook his head, lifting his hands to placate the large knight. “Nay, Gianni. I always understood you were special, that we were of one heart, with similar goals. But I had no idea, really never considered the possibility that the prophecy might unfold in my time . . . until I knew of the Sorcerer and . . .” He paused, paced, and lifted a hand to his skullcap, looking a bit faint in the face of his furious ex-captain's glare. “My letter contains only pictures of our priest, here, and of a woman who looks curiously like the lady atop that column,” he said, nodding at the prophetess. “It speaks of pursuing change, change within the Church. It speaks of leading the men back to the road of righteousness. To getting back to the Church that Christ intended. But most worrisome is the prophecy of how the Church will be infiltrated by the devil himself. It was what fueled my work for so many years in Roma, Gianni, the same work that drew you to my side. I did not wish for the evil one to enter the church's walls. I so desired Roma to be pure, a beacon . . .”

“The letter, does it sound Pauline?” Father Piero asked quietly.

“It echoes of Saint Paul, but I believe it is Apollos. I have read other works by him, in the Church archives of Ephesus. He was a learned man, well capable of authorship.” He looked about at each of them. “I have always meant to share my letter with you, but I had to be certain . . . utterly certain that you were the Gifted mentioned in the letter. Merely my possession of it places me at risk within the Church, let alone my assertion that it is prophecy worthy of Church canonization.”

Daria reached out to place a hand on Gianni's arm. He still looked furious, as if the cardinal had betrayed him. Slowly the knight straightened, and the cardinal ran a nervous hand down the front of his cassock. Gianni turned, gazing back up to the domes of the ancient chapel. “Perhaps . . . 'tis time to fetch the letter and share it with us, Cardinal Boeri.”

AMBROGIO walked down the massive hallways of the new wing of the palace, following Simone and their benefactor, Cardinal Stefani, rubbing his aching hands as they moved. When Daria had healed him, the bones had been straightened. The feeling had returned to each digit, as had full flexion. But after hours of work upon the frescoes of the pope's dining hall, the massive
tinel,
capable of seating more than three hundred souls, his hands ached, as if echoing complaint of an old, forgotten injury.

Stefani emerged in the
tinel
again, admiring and praising their work in depicting the heavenly realms with an undulating, cloudy blue fresco across the massive, barrel-vaulted ceiling. Bronze stars were already being formed by countless metalsmiths, which would later be inserted among the heavens' clouds.

Ambrogio coughed. Several fires, the remnants of the fresco firing, still spewed smoke into the great hall. His eyes, he knew, were much like Simone's, bloodshot and teary in protest. Their faces and necks were covered in soot. All he wanted was to take a bath, have a bite of bread and several swigs of wine, and lay his head down atop a pillow.

But Stefani insisted upon showing them an inner papal gallery, their next assignment. Pope Cornelius was reportedly very pleased with their work and had asked Simone and his new friend to review the gallery and suggest appropriate frescoes. But still they remained in the Grand Tinel, looking from one end to the other. Cardinal Stefani was suggesting to Simone that more could be made of the lower walls. Mayhap a forest scene? A pilgrimage? The famous wedding feast?

The far door opened again, and Ambrogio watched as two more cardinals entered, followed closely behind by a grand noble dressed in a fur-lined cape. Ambrogio's eyes narrowed as he noticed the way the man pushed back the edge of his winter cape over his shoulder and touched an eye patch.

Abramo Amidei.

Ambrogio ducked and turned. It was imperative that the man not yet know that he was present. He had had so little time to gather information, scant scraps here and there from the scaffolding as churchmen passed below in deep conversation or disagreement, or servants tossed gossip back and forth, impossible to discern truth from lie.

“
Permesso,
my lords,” he said lowly, glancing backward to see the cardinals and Abramo edging closer, their eyes thankfully drawn again and again to the ceiling. “I confess I suffer much from the day's smoke. I am in need of food and a bath. Might we see to the papal chambers now and return to this conversation on the morrow?”

Cardinal Stefani gazed at him in consternation and irritation. Ambrogio knew that only his reputation as one of the finest artists available kept the good cardinal from chastising his ill manners, regardless of his physical state. The cardinal forced a smile to his face and raised his hands, gesturing them forward through the door that led to the papal gallery.

Ambrogio was the first one through, and he turned to watch the cardinal and Simone follow, and the men beyond them, now halfway down the massive
tinel
hall.

Abramo Amidei stared straight at him.

 
“MY lord Cardinals,” Abramo said, still staring at the figures disappearing into the next hall, “who is responsible for this miracle upon the Holy Father's ceiling?”

“Why, it is Simone Martini, of course,” said Cardinal Rocher. Abramo had seen that many of his own mansion chambers bore the mark of the accomplished artist's work.

“Ah, I should have known that the pope would invite none but the best to decorate his inner sanctum,” Abramo said easily.

“It is Cardinal Stefani who is responsible for it,” said Cardinal Saucille, the biggest gossip among the cardinals. “The man will do anything to get into the good graces of Cornelius. He used his political pull in Siena with the Nine to move Martini from his next commission in a cathedral up here, to Avignon.” He grinned. “I can only admire his ingenuity, of course, and hope to emulate it myself.”

Abramo smiled. “How long will he remain?”

“As long as the pope has walls and he the pigment,” laughed the cardinal.

“Who is that that was with him?” pressed Abramo, still puzzling over something that niggled at him. Covered in soot as they were, it was difficult to make out the facial features, but there was something familiar about both of them. He dimly remembered meeting Martini through the years . . . but the other?

“An apprentice? I know not.”

“Nay, I had heard they had run across another artist from Siena,” said Cardinal Rocher. “They seem to produce fine artists in Toscana as fast as a rabbit spits out babes. What was his name?” He paused and gestured toward a man carrying two pails of ash and embers from the dying fresco fires. “You there, man. Who is Master Martini's new compatriot, the man helping orchestrate these magnificent frescoes?”

The man smiled, revealing missing teeth. “Why it is another master, from Siena. Master Rossellino.”

Abramo stilled. “Ambrogio Rossellino?”

The man nodded quickly and then abruptly slowed, seeing Abramo's expression. “
Oui
, that is the one. Now pardon me, m'lords. I must be about my task.”

Saucille stared from the workman to Abramo, his small eyes missing nothing.

“That's it!” said Cardinal Rocher. “Rossellino. I believe I will try to get him to do some work in my mansion as well, when his work here is done. Can you imagine the feasts we shall enjoy in this hall? Once the new kitchen tower is complete . . .”

The trio moved forward, and Abramo smiled. So it had begun. The Gifted thought to send a spy forward, a scout to examine the enemy in shadow. It would serve them well.

Let them come
, he thought.
Let them know I am here, lying in wait.
His own spies were already in place. He feared nothing. The day belonged to the master.

Here in Avignon, the Gifted would know death and defeat, and Abramo would know revenge and victory.

HELL'S KEEP

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JOSEPHINE Fontaine had spent her life as a blind woman. “It is well that you are blind,” her mother said of her, “true enough is your sight. If you had vision atop it, it would be too much for one person to bear.” She was the child of a misbegotten union between her mother—a servant in a bishop's mansion—and said bishop; her mother had alternated between blaming the shameful sin of her beginnings for the child's blindness and claiming that Josephine's keen insight was the Lord making things right.

The bishop had been a kindly man, whom Josephine remembered holding her in his lap and singing the Scriptures in Latin, whispering to her the translation into Provençal and talking about what the words meant. The Word unfolded in her young mind, exploding into multiple layers, lodged and continually building like a flood jam in a river.