The Blessed (25 page)

“Agreed. He aids them with foreknowledge. How are we to battle that?”

Abramo looked to his friend. “Wit and strength, as always. The Gifted think themselves smart and prepared as they make way for Avignon. But they really have little idea what is ahead of them.”

“Yet they gain strength. And Daria . . . I have it on good word that she and de Capezzana wed, shortly before we departed.”

Amidei raised his chin, taking that information in like an unwelcome rain settling on his shoulders. So this was the root cause of Vincenzo's downtrodden demeanor. He had always had a tender heart toward the woman, the woman whom Amidei once had wanted for himself. And that she had spurned both Vincenzo and Amidei made him want to reach out and strangle her now . . .

He sighed. “It will be well. We shall use their union against them. Love shall make them weak.”

Vincenzo coughed. “Why not leave them behind, Abramo? Pursue our own course? This is a vast land. . . .”

Abramo pulled on the reins, and his horse pulled up short. Vincenzo's mare moved forward several steps and then pulled around to face him. Ciro and the other knight moved off several paces in either direction and then waited, respectfully keeping watch as their lords spoke.

“Lord Amidei, forgive me. I am weary . . .”

Abramo swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. “You are in need of succor, strength, my friend. I understand. You have been on the front of our battle for some time. And I have been away. . . .” He sighed. “You have forgotten that we must draw the line here, now, and drive our enemy backward. I met the last of them today, the last of the prophesied Gifted.”

“Here? In Avignon? Who is he?”

Abramo smiled and laughed without breath. “
He
is a blind woman, a beggar at the entrance of the Palais de le Pape. Honestly, I do not believe our enemy has any sense when it comes to choosing the people he wishes to lead others. Look at them! Other than the duchess and de Capezzana, who do they have? A homely priest, an African ghost, a child of Il Campo, an old fisherman, and now a blind beggar woman . . . Hardly the sort of group who might attract others.”

“And yet they do. The Count and Countess Les Baux have invited many powerful friends to their castle in the last week. I fear they may lend support to the Gifted.”

Abramo listened to his words, staring into his eyes as if he were in another place. He suddenly sat straighter in his saddle and snapped his fingers, waving Ciro over.

Ciro moved closer.

“Did you get a good look at the woman we spoke to earlier this evening, the one who addressed us and was taken away to the
palais
?”

“Yes, m'lord.”

“I want you to wait for her to emerge. The cardinal will have no stomach for detaining a blind old woman for more than a night or two. When she is released, you are to follow her into a dark corner of the city, kill her, and send her body to the bottom of the Rhône. Do you understand me?”

“It shall be done, m'lord.” The big knight set off at once.

Abramo returned his attention to Vincenzo. “So they gain in strength . . . and are finding support. We have cut them to the quick with their loss of those two knights. And we will keep them from their prophetess, who they believe will aid them.”

“If they find her.”

“If we do not vanquish them here, Baron del Buco, they shall haunt us forever. Our tasks cannot coexist in peace. This is war. They must be killed, every last one. And we shall use their own Church to take most of them down. If the Church fails us, we shall see the task through. Do you comprehend this? The import of this task?”

Vincenzo stared at him dolefully, unspeaking.

“Do you understand?” Abramo shouted.

His voice reverberated through the city streets. A window popped open above their heads, but when its owner saw the lords below, it immediately shut again.

At last, a nod from Vincenzo.

It was good he was here, with him. He had weakened without aid in Provence. Here, in Avignon, he and the master could bring him back in line.

“Good, good, my friend.” He moved his gelding forward, and Vincenzo moved beside him again. “As I said, I know the road has been long, that this has cost you much. But remember what you have learned, how vast your fortunes have become. There is a cave just outside Avignon. It is deep and long. I have met with the master there, counseled with him. In three nights, with the full moon, our faithful shall gather. After that, we shall be fully prepared for the Gifted to arrive . . . and to watch them fall.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

VITO awakened with a start, drawing his dagger and leaping to his feet as soon as he knew someone lingered beside his bed.

A small gasp made him blink, trying to break through the fog of deep slumber and early-morning light. “Tess? What are you doing here?” he whispered.

Seven other men slept on, some snoring. One, in the corner, would waken the entire castle if he didn't turn over. Tessa was wringing her hands, pacing back and forth. Suddenly Hasani arrived as well, his eyes wide, sweat running down his face even in the cold of a winter's morn. Ugo, aware now that they were not alone, sat up on his cot, staring over at them in concern. He immediately reached for an overcoat and joined them.

Vito frowned, pulled on a shirt, and led all three outside the knights' hall. “All right, out with it, both of you. What has transpired? Why have you come to us?”

“I know not,” Tessa said in a high-pitched voice, still wringing her hands. “I only have a terrible sense of foreboding. I was so eager to set off for Avignon on the morrow. I was certain we were to meet another of our Gifted. There are good people ahead of us, Vito, not just bad. We shall not be alone. Surely we shall not be alone . . .” She paced back and forth. “Mayhap it is only that I know that Lord Amidei and Baron del Buco will be there as well . . .”

Hasani grunted and shook his head. He gestured to them and led them down the hall, to where the torch still burned. There, he knelt and pulled a scroll from his robe, spreading it flat on the floor before them.

It was an older woman, once pretty. And she was clearly the same woman depicted in the Les Baux chapel statue and Gaspare's tiny figurine. But her expression was a mask of terror. She reached out to the wall, as if it steadied her. Her head was bent, as if she were listening, seeking.

Tessa's hand went to her mouth and Vito put his arm around her, comforting her.

Behind the woman was Ciro, a sword drawn, closing in.

Beyond Ciro stood Abramo Amidei, cape flowing, barely discernible from the deep shadow.

Gaspare arrived, his hair disheveled. He knelt down, looked at Hasani's drawing, and looked up at each of them. “Our prophetess. She is in Avignon, and Amidei knows she is there. We must get to her now if we are to save her.”

“I'll go and fetch the others,” Ugo said, setting off for the other side of the castle, where Gianni, Daria, and Father Piero lodged.

JOSEPHINE huddled in a corner, shivering in the predawn light. Blind since birth, she could make out bright light and deep shadow, but little else. The other women in her cell had descended upon her as soon as the guards had gone away, taking her overdress and woolen stockings from her, leaving her bruised and wearing nothing but a thin chemise for the long, hard night.

It was not the first time that others had preyed upon her weakness of sight. Long ago, she had learned that it was easier to give the thieves what they wished. Capitalizing upon her blindness, they thought themselves strong, and Josephine a victim who could not later identify them. But eight out of nine times, she had been able to find her attackers again, haunting them with truth until they confessed. In the light of day, Josephine felt less vulnerable, and the thieves more open to conviction and repentance.

The words formed in her head and heart. She waited for the women to stir, rise from their sleep, knowing they were apt to feel as cramped and sore as she herself felt, even though she was likely twice their age.

She heard the scratch of movement that could not belong to a rat, and then a low moan and yawn as another stretched. Josephine rose and walked three steps forward to the center of the floor, and then knelt down. She positioned her face to hopefully bespeak kindness and love.

“My daughters, good morning,” she said softly. “Good morning, good morning. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us be glad in it.”

One of the young women laughed without humor. “We are not your daughters. And we see no joy in this day. Go back to your corner, old woman.”

“I shall go, but first I must say what I must,” Josephine said. “One, I know that both of you were deeply loved, mayhap are still deeply loved, by a mother or grandmother. You knew what it was to be touched. To be held. To be taken care of. These women fed you. Washed you, mended your clothes. They bespoke love, and in them, you caught a glimpse of what life was supposed to be like, even though you are far from that life now.”

Neither of the young women said a word or moved.

“Those women looked at your faces, deep into your eyes, and they knew you as a prize, a gift from God. They thanked him for you. They prayed for you, for your future, that you would find hope, and peace, and love. They wanted more for you than they had themselves, did they not?”

Again, neither young woman moved.

“I understand you are imprisoned. I know not your transgression, nor how long you must remain here. But I am here to tell you, as a messenger of the God your mothers and grandmothers knew, that this is not the end of your life. This is but the beginning. In Christ, we can begin again, at any time. We simply must confess our sins and endeavor to try better this time. To act and speak in ways our mothers and grandmothers would be proud of. To act and speak in ways our Lord would be proud of.”

“Who are you?” dared one at last. “A nun?”

“Nay. I am but a blind beggar woman.”

“Why are you here?”

“For speaking words to a cardinal he did not wish to hear.”

The two young women giggled over that and then were silent.

“Do your mothers still live?”

“Hers does. Mine wishes she didn't. If she cared for me once, she cares not any longer.”

Josephine listened, absorbing the full weight of the girl's words. Judging from her thin, girlish voice, she could not be older than thirteen or fourteen. “Our loved ones will always fail us. Even the most true. Only God is perfect, unfailing. Only he can be ever-present for us.” She rose and waved about the room, smiling. “He is here, now. There is nowhere we can go where he does not go with us.”

The second girl guffawed. “God is in prison?”

“In prison. On the Rocher des Doms. In the
palais
. In the corner pub. He is everywhere. All-seeing All-knowing. Ever-loving.” She took a step closer to the young women, reaching for the words. “ ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son.' Jesus came for us, died for us. He left his Holy Spirit here, with us, so that we would never feel alone. He is our Counselor, our Friend, our Guide. Our Comforter. Trust in the Holy One, daughters, and he shall lead us out and onto a better road. I promise it.”

A cough at the cell door made Josephine turn. By the intonation alone, she knew who it was. Cardinal DuPree. By the sound of boots upon the stones, she knew he was accompanied by two guards. “I see that a night in the cell has not changed your ways,” the cardinal said dryly.

“Nay,” returned Josephine, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Cardinal DuPree, although it may be a rule of man not to utter the Word in the common tongue, it is not what Jesus Christ himself did. Did he not speak to his followers, his disciples, the crowds, in Aramaic? Did he not wish for them to understand exactly what he was saying?”

“Jesus Christ left the keys to the Church in Peter's hands. Those who were blessed enough to be in the Lord's presence were uncommon, hand chosen and worthy.”

“Indeed they were. But never can I imagine that our Lord Jesus would have hoped that the keys he placed in Peter's hands would become this.” She raised her arms and looked above her. “What must he think, right now? Seeing a daughter imprisoned beneath the palace for saying nothing but Scripture to his cardinal?”

Josephine could feel his anger, prayed for the right words to reach him. “Your Eminence,” she said, going to her knees. “I beg your forgiveness for any insolence you have felt from me. But I do not regret using holy words given to me from on high. Can you not believe that God can use a blind woman as surely as he might a small shepherd boy or fisherman? Are we not all his creations, with a song that is bursting from our breast?”

The cardinal stepped closer. “I absolve you of your sins,” he said. “I do not wish to keep you here any longer, woman. But I will detain you for the day, to fast and pray. Before you leave, I ask only that you consider one thing—might our Lord Jesus be calling you into his service? Might you be able to sing your song as a blessed sister of the Church? Trained and blessed, you could move forth and minister to others in your world, and know when to speak, and when to be silent. Will you agree to pray over that question?”

Josephine stilled. People in the streets playfully called her “Sister Jo,” but never had a man of power within the Church suggested she truly study and take the vows. Nuns were typically women from families that had a dowry to give, but no husband to take. “I—I have no money to give,” she said.

“If you decide to take the vows, I shall cover the gift myself,” the cardinal said. “Pray over it. If you decide to move forward, come to me upon your release at dusk. If you do not, go in peace and sin no more.”