The Blessed (31 page)

“Do you not remember what transpired the last time we attended a public dance?” Gianni asked, visibly paling. “Do you not
remember
?”

 
DARIA fingered the elegant invitation and carefully lettered font of the words, and stared over the small portico that looked out at the Rhône. She remembered the ball to which her husband referred in his fury last night—when she and Hasani were abducted and the Morassi mansion burned above the curving Grand Canal. She stared out at the river of Provence, high and sparkling in the winter sun, remembering the Venetian waters.

The seamstress took her hips in hand and forced her to straighten. It was her second fitting for her gown. Daria frowned down at her. No servant had dared to touch her so.

The seamstress caught her look of disapproval but ignored it, concentrating at the task at hand. Word had come down that all ladies were to wear the finest dress possible, with a bit of wild animal skin worked into the creation somewhere. Men were to do the same with their coats. Every seamstress in the city had been working deep into the night for weeks.

“It is as if we prepare for some vast drama,” Daria said. “Is the pope so bored with the work of the kingdom that he must turn to the exotic?”

Josephine stood beside her, her hands constantly running over the elegant fabric of her gown, still slightly aghast that she wore such finery at all. “ 'Tis not the pope, but those who influence him. Deep within him beats the heart of a true disciple, a man of God. But he is led astray, more and more, by the wealth and deceit of others.”

“It is encouraging that you believe he remains true, deep within. If I had whatever I wished at my fingertips, and the devil whispered in my ear, it would be difficult to defend myself.” Her thoughts went to Abramo, his whisperings. She closed her eyes, remembering how near she had come to falling, failing her Lord and giving in to the dark lord.

“The dark one is insidious,” said Josephine. “He uses any edge he can to get between us and our Savior. Sometimes, even truth.”

“Indeed.” Daria glanced at her. Could this one, too, read her thoughts? She had often wondered if Piero had the gift.

“You have come close to the dark,” Josephine said quietly, still staring blindly ahead of her. She picked up pauses in speech as Daria relied on expression to read what people chose
not
to say.

“Yes. The same man who sought to kill you in the streets was the same that hunted me. I was his prisoner for some time.”

“Until the Lord found a way to free you.”

Daria nodded, already tired of the conversation. She did not wish to remember those days. It made her fear what was ahead. Seeing Amidei again. Gianni had already warned her that they were likely to encounter him at the ball the next night. She laid a hand on her stomach, suddenly queasy.

“You are ill, m'lady?” asked the seamstress, looking up at her in alarm.

Daria tried to take a deep breath, then ran for the deck and vomited over the side. She returned, thinking back to how long it had been since she had had an appetite, how the very thought of food made her feel ill. Since they had set their course for Avignon, she thought, or soon thereafter. It was most likely the grief, the trauma of the last few months, the concern over what was ahead. Even in the midst of the joy of her union with Gianni.

“I do hope you did not muss your dress,” said the seamstress.

“I did not,” Daria said in irritation. “And I am well, thank you for your concern.”

The seamstress gave her a rueful smile and resumed her pinning of the hem when Daria again stood upon the small platform.

“You are well,” Josephine said with a small smile. “How long have you been our brave captain's bride?”

“Little more than a week now,” Daria said.

“And already carrying his child. Blessed are you.”

Daria whipped her head around and stared at the woman. “Carrying . . . nay. That is not possible.”

“Oh? Then it is normal for you to feel so ill?”

“It is the upheaval, the difficulties we have faced. I mourn two of our knights. They were killed by Amidei.”

“Oh,” Josephine said. But her opaque blue eyes rested on Daria, waiting.

Daria turned away from her, feeling the older woman's piercing gaze as suddenly too intimate. As if she were not blind, but rather could see in an extraordinary fashion. Slowly she lifted her eyes to the mirror before her. Her mind raced, thinking back to the last time her menses had passed, more than five weeks now. The stomach upset, the ache in her breasts when the seamstress pulled the bodice tight . . . And then she ran again, this time making it only as far as the chamber pot.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to look upon Josephine. “ 'Tis not possible. You see, I am . . . I am barren.” Her words emerged in little more than a whisper.

Josephine's eyebrows shot up and she gave her a small smile. “Not any longer, m'lady.”

It was too soon after their wedding night. Too soon to be sensing the first signs of pregnancy. Wasn't it? Daria lifted a hand to her brow and stared at the wall, at delicate paintings of flowers and vines that filled false architectural panels. Was it even possible? Might God have blessed her at last with a child? And how could she forfeit her life if it meant forfeiting a babe as well?

She turned back to Josephine and eyed the seamstress, who had turned to Josephine's hem in her absence, ignoring them as if this were naught but idle talk. “It is imperative you not tell anyone of this. Yet.”

Josephine remained facing forward. “I cannot tell a lie, m'lady. It is not in me.”

“I am not asking you to lie. I am asking you not to share word of this . . . possibility.”

“Until?”

Daria stared back at the wall. Until she knew for sure? Until this was over? Hadn't she just searched for a time to see to Roberto's surgery and recovery and come up empty-handed? When would be the right time to tell Gianni? The others?

She shook her head and sighed. Nay. They would all become impossible if they knew the truth. Gianni was nearly impossible now, when it came to her protection. If he knew she carried his child . . . if the others knew . . . God had not brought them this far for a babe to get in the way of his plans. She owed it to them all to see it through. When they were on the other side of the battle, safe, she would tell them.

Her hand went to her belly and she shook her head again in wonder, looking up to the ceiling, thinking of how long she and Marco had waited, wanted a baby. An heir. It would have made their handfast a betrothal. The vows would have been exchanged. She would be at home in Siena, married to one of the Nine, enjoying life as she once knew it with the Sciorias and Hasani, spending half her year in the bustling city she loved, and half in the rolling green hills that she loved even more. Ambrogio would just be completing his task for the Nine, in the Palazzo Publico on Il Campo, and Vincenzo . . .

The thought of her lost dreams did not bring her the hollow ache of old, the grief that had once sent her to the convent where she met Piero. All of that was gone. In its place was this new life. If she had been granted that most fervent of wishes, if God had smiled upon her prayers for a babe, she might never have known what it was to heal in the Father's name. She might never have met Piero or Gianni or Tessa or Roberto or Gaspare or any of her knights. She might never have known the vast power of the Holy and his war for his own, against those of the dark. She might not have seen life for all it was—this portion, here on earth, a mere itch on the vast horizon.

She smiled. How good it was to know she was where she was supposed to be. With Gianni, Piero, and the others. And on the track God wished her to take. Her homes had been burned behind her. Many of the people she had loved had been taken or killed. Vincenzo was lost to her. But here, now, she knew love again, and a pervading sense of peace.

Daria finally turned to Josephine. “Until it is right.”

Josephine paused. “You know you are asking a prophetess to keep her tongue. That is nigh unto impossible.”

“Please, Josephine. It is important.”

“I shall do my best, m'lady,” she said with a nod. “It is all I can promise.”

“YOU are certain?” Abramo said to the young woman at his side.

“Heard it from her own lips, a day past. She believes she carries a babe,” said the young seamstress. “But she swore the old woman to secrecy.”

Abramo laughed and turned, picking the young woman up in his arms and twirling her around. “Great shall be your reward,” he said, smiling up into her eyes. He set her down on the ground and kissed her until he felt her ease beneath him, bending to follow every curve of his body.

“You are certain that the knight does not know? Nor the priest?”

“The lady forswore the old woman to silence.”

“Excellent. Most excellent.”

“What is that?” Vincenzo asked, entering the stables in his own finery.

“Our Daria de Capezzana. I have received the most intriguing information.”

“And that is?” The baron came closer and pulled on his gloves. He was all in a fine brown silk, other than a hem of leopard spots, just as Abramo was all in black, with a hem of zebra at the edge of his overcoat.

“She apparently is with child.”

Vincenzo stilled. “That is not possible. She is barren.”

Abramo pursed his lips. “Apparently not any longer. Mayhap when she was healed in my prison cell, the enemy cleared the way for a babe as well. It is his way—to promote life. But he is foolish, here. I shall use her pregnancy to my own advantage. It weakens Daria, and therefore, weakens them all.”

He stepped into a stirrup and mounted his horse, then gestured back at two servants to bring the caged creatures they were bringing to the ball, set atop a broad wagon, pulled by two oxen. The horses had been too skittish with their cargo to be of any use, constantly threatening to bolt. The cage came into view, and inside, a pair of magnificent Bengal tigers paced back and forth.

Another servant handed him a mask covered in zebra skin, and then handed Vincenzo his mask of leopard skin. “Come, baron, let us be off,” Abramo said in irritation.

Vincenzo stared up at him. “What is it that you intend to do with the babe? Daria's child?”

Abramo stared back at him, puzzled by his sudden hesitation. Could he still care for the woman? After all this time? After she had denied them? Taken Abramo's eye? “I know not. We shall consult the master this night at our ceremony. No doubt he shall have the best plan. Tonight, we shall but taunt them, play with them, remind them of their enemy's strength.”

Vincenzo still looked a bit ashen, but he mounted up and was soon beside Abramo. They joined Ciro and three other knights outside, as well as his two finest archers, dressed in seductive dresses that made Abramo anxious to be done with the ball and on to their ceremony. Yes, tonight would be the finest of all. The battle was at hand. And soon, the Gifted would be vanquished.

 
DARIA released Bormeo to the sky and strode up to Hasani, who had stood outside the gazelles' cage ever since they had arrived an hour past. He was dressed for the ball in a long, elegant coat of black, but had only agreed to deer skin at its edge. The sacrifice of animals for such human foolishness plainly grieved him. Daria shifted uneasily, hesitating, since at the neckline of her own cream-colored silk bodice was a delicate white fur—that of an arctic hare, said the seamstress. In her hair, elaborately tied and pinned behind her head by Tessa, was a matching white fur half-moon cap from which descended an ivory net, which held her heavy hair as if in a hammock. While Contessa Morassi would have positively gleamed over her appearance, Hasani held no such notions of keeping up with fashions.

Hasani, sensing her presence, turned and glanced at her in brotherly fashion from head to toe, then turned back to the gazelles. He looked magnificent in his own new white shirt and black silk overcoat, like that of an African noble. Still, his curved sword, in its old and worn fringed sheath, was at his side, just beneath the new coat.

She ventured near and stared at the gazelles, trembling and huddling together on the far side of the cage. “What is it, Hasani?”

His dark eyes slid to meet hers and then miserably turned back to the animals.

“Do you remember . . . do you remember animals such as these from your childhood?”

He paused, and then nodded.

“And it brings you pain? To see them caged?”

He thought about that for a moment, then shrugged.

Daria lifted her hands and rested them on a crossbar of the cage. “It is almost as if we are building Noah his own menagerie. The children beg to come with us so that they might see them all.”

He eyed her and made a sound that meant,
Why not?

“We shall face Amidei and Vincenzo there, as well as the pope. We need not endanger the children as well.”

“ 'E-ahh, he said. He wanted to bring Tessa at least.

“Because you think we need her?”

He nodded, staring back at the gazelles.

“Nay, we shall keep the children safe as long as possible. They are all in dire need of rest.” She turned to go, but Hasani reached out and grabbed her arm. She looked back to him.

He was staring into her eyes and slowly let them slip to her belly, then back to her eyes. He knew. He had seen it.

Daria swallowed hard. “You must keep it to yourself, Hasani. For now.”

He gave her a long, searching look, and then nodded once.

She turned to go and then glanced back at him. “Have you seen . . . do you know . . .” She lifted a hand to her brow, suddenly sweaty even in the winter chill. “Will I hold this babe in my arms?”