The Blessed (33 page)

The crying stopped. “Who is there?”

“It is a friend. We have come to help you.” She looked at Father Piero, who was frowning and rubbing his chest, where he had once been wounded. Gaspare glowered behind him.

“Go away. I am in no need of assistance.” The creaking resumed as the woman continued her pacing.

“Ready?” she whispered to Gianni, not pausing for an answer. Inward she went, Piero and Gianni right on her heels.

The woman was slight, mayhap sixteen years of age. Her hair was long and stringy, unkempt. Her gown was simple but of the highest quality. A noble? In such a state on a feast day?

“What ails you, m'lady?” Daria asked.

“Who are you? How do you know I am unwell?” Her eyes were wide, and even in the bright torchlight they were strangely dilated, making them look almost entirely black.

“We are friends,” Daria said smoothly. She stepped forward easily, as if invited. But the room was oddly cold, much colder than the rest of the castle. She looked to the windows, but the shutters were lodged in place. Daria frowned and glanced back to Piero, who still rubbed his chest as if to massage away the pain there. His wounds . . . from Amidei's arrows. This cold . . . so like that of the dark isle.

“You have been touched by the dark,” she said to the girl, trying to cover the alarm in her voice, only halfway succeeding. Gaspare was edging near, from the other side. She could see from his face that he had understood what lodged here from the start.

The girl recoiled. “I know not of what you speak. My father says I am unwell. Unfit for the festival. But I have been visited by a healer. I feel better than I have in months.”

Daria took another step closer. “Your healer. Who was he?”

“A woman. From the north.”

She took another step, advancing upon her. Piero and Gianni were behind her now, understanding at last what was before them. “What is your name?”

“Ariana.”

“Ariana. What did the healer do to ease your pain?”

The girl's eyes went wide with wonder, and an eerie smile spread across her face. “I had been in such pain. Terrible stomach trouble. I had lost so much weight . . . could not eat. And then I heard of this healer, a woman. She reminds me a bit of you . . . Forgive me. What is your name?”

“I am Lady Daria de Capezzana. I, too, am a healer. Tell me, I am always looking to learn more about my craft. What did this woman do to heal you?”

“She spoke in a different language, like that of the Ottomans, I believe. She was magnificent, m'lady. You would have been enraptured, being that you yourself are a healer. Undoubtedly you could learn much from this one.”

“Undoubtedly. What did she do?”

Ariana paced. “I don't remember it well. It is almost as if it were a dream. She snapped her fingers and covered my belly with a blessed fabric from the east, and whispered a beautiful prayer. Almost instantly, I was better. And it was she who sent me to the master, to continue my healing.” She turned away, rubbing her hair in agitation. “But my father has cut me off from the master. He will no longer let me out of his sight, and refuses to come and see what the ceremonies are about. If he would only come, he would see . . .”

“Does your father not see you are healed?” Daria asked quietly.

Ariana's smile was gone, her eyes again wary. “My stomach is not right again. It is always better when I go to the ceremonies, take part in the mysteries. But my father says I am not myself. That I am somehow changed.” She shook her head and splayed her fingers in agitation. “He does not know what to do with me now that I have seen God.”

Daria, Gianni, Gaspare, and Piero stilled. “What does that mean, that you have seen God?” Piero asked.

The girl scoffed at him. “What would you know of her, priest? You are but a babe, lost in the woods!” She leaned close to him, her words coming with spittle in her haste. “God is a woman. A beautiful, white-winged woman who comes to us in the forest, in the deep of night. She leads me forth, to the cave. There have I understood what it means to
live
, to have
power
over myself, over another.”

“Long have you lived in this castle,” Daria said, edging between the priest and the girl as Piero wiped his face and rubbed his chest, his face ashen.

“All my life. Though they keep me chained here more as a prisoner than a princess,” she groused.

Piero neared again. The girl's eyes followed his movement on his chest, seemed to linger there hungrily, as if she could see his scars. She licked her lips, as if she could taste the blood that was once upon it. Piero forced himself to pull his hand away and sighed. “This girl has been touched by the hand of our enemy. He has taken a crack in the door and made it a wide passageway into her heart.”

The girl laughed. “What do you know of my heart?”

It was Piero's turn to laugh. “Too much, child.” He stepped forward, reaching for her.

“Do not touch me,” she sneered, backing away. “You are unclean. You are
enemy
.”

Piero ignored her and grabbed her arm. “Lord Jesus Christ, we ask you to enter this house, this room, and lay claim back upon this child, Ariana.”

The girl writhed and bent to bite the priest, but Gianni grabbed her and pulled her head back just before she clamped down on his forearm. Gaspare laid hold of her from the other side. Daria ran to close the door, then rushed back to them.

“Father God on High,” Gaspare said, placing a hand on the girl's head, “we ask that you silence the evil spirit that has laid claim to this daughter's heart. Keep him silent now, as we work to do as you have bid, in the name of Jesus Christ.”

The girl writhed in Gianni's and Gaspare's arms, but she was rendered mute, as clearly as if they had gagged her. Outside, they could hear music and the swell of crowds.

Daria hoped that they would have time to heal this one before they were discovered.

 
THE master caught Abramo's eye as he moved through the crowd waiting to present their gifts to the pope. It was a long and crowded train of people, interspersed as they were by the caged animals, a thrilling string of ladies behind masks, and men as well. All people to be drawn forth, enticed toward the deep night's ceremony. Abramo watched the master move in and out among them, whispering in their ears, unseen, and the results behind—leering, whispering, hidden touches, laughter.

Men with casks of wine upon their backs already wove their way among the people, pouring liberally, and behind them, maids carried trays laden with cheeses and fruit. The feast would be hours ahead, but Prince Maximilien knew well how to care for his guests.

The master stilled among the people and caught Abramo's eye again. He looked up the palace wall to the third floor, where Abramo knew the prince's young daughter resided. She had visited them and their ceremonies. She already belonged to them. Abramo smiled in victory, but the master did not return his grin.

Something was wrong. The Gifted. That was why they had not yet seen them. They were with Ariana.

Nay. They could not have her. She belonged to him. He needed her. Needed her ensconced here in the castle, ready to serve him.

He turned and pushed his way through the throngs, slowly making his way back to the castle, with Vincenzo and Ciro right behind him.

The master was there, suddenly, right before he entered the castle. “Use the servants' stairwell,” he said in a hiss. “They guard the main stairwell.”

“Of course, master,” Abramo said, bowing his head in shame for not having foreseen such obvious facts. His master was good to him, ever patient, ever guiding.

“Just who are you referring to as a master?” said a regal young lady before him. Dressed in a delicate rose silk and peacock feathers, she was anything but male. And she appeared to be momentarily without escort.

Abramo smiled, realizing he had spoken aloud to his lord, invisible to the masses. He bowed and grinned down at the young woman, with a long neck and pleasing cleavage that peeked from behind a screen of peacock feathers. Her neck and the feathers reminded him of Daria, undoubtedly above them in the castle now.

He gave the young woman a rakish grin and stroked one of the peacock feathers slowly, seductively, until his fingers brushed the very edge of her skin. Her eyes widened in surprise at his audacity, but her lips parted in pleasure. “Fine feathers, m'lady,” he said.

She shivered and looked about, suddenly aware they were not alone. “Who are you, m'lord?” She peered around his shoulder, at the hulking Ciro and the more lean, graying Vincenzo.

“Ah, our identities are to remain a secret as long as possible, are they not? Is that not the charm of such a masked ball?”

“I know not,” she giggled. “I have never attended one before.”

“Nor have I,” he said secretively, leaning closer to her. She smelled of roses, fresh and innocent. Just as he liked them. Only oranges and cloves would be better . . .

“I shall find you this night, during the dances,” he promised.

Impulsively, she pulled one of the five feathers from her bodice wainstband and rubbed it across his cheek, handing it to him. “See that you do, m'lord.”

He smiled and turned away. A girl playing with womanhood. He would show her what it meant to be a woman . . .

“So we shall hunt more than one peacock this night, m'lord,” Ciro said, edging closer.

Abramo laughed and ran the smooth edge of the peacock eye feather again past his cheek. “And so we shall . . .”

 
ARMAND Rieu des Baux had noticed the Gifted's absence after the service. They had arranged to reconvene after the mass, with Daria and Gianni and the rest coming to join them in line to greet the pope and pass along their animals. He had been looking for them as night descended and the river valley grew colder, as had his sister and her husband.

“Armand,” Anette said, taking his arm. She pointed with her chin in the direction of the castle.

Abramo Amidei. His knights had identified him, Baron del Buco, and those who belonged with them, carefully describing what they wore in costume. He was talking to a young woman, it appeared, and now he was moving off toward the servants' area of the castle.

Lucien finally returned and leaned in to whisper his report. “M'lord, the Gifted are inside. Lady Daria and the others are above. She has been called to heal a young woman on the third floor.”

Armand looked to Amidei and the others, disappearing inside the kitchens, with men and women rushing in and out, madly at work to prepare and serve one course of food after another for the hundreds in attendance. Then he looked up to the windows, shuttered and shut high above them. “Captain de Capezzana left guards on the stairwell?”

“He did. That is where I found them.”

“But he forgot the servants' stairwell,” he said. “Go to the others. Tell them their people have been discovered on the third floor, or soon will be. You and you,” he said to two others, “come with me.”

“Armand,” Anette said, her hand again on his arm in concern.

“It shall be well, sister. Remain here with your husband, and pray for us.”

Armand set off, trying not to show his agitation as he and two knights made their way at an agonizingly slow pace through the crowded courtyard and to the kitchens. A cheer went up as seven massive bonfires were set ablaze at once. The fires bathed the massive courtyard in firelight and warmth.

 
GASPARE wrapped his meaty arms around the girl's shoulders and pinned her arms against her sides, as if he were embracing her. His head was bowed in fervent prayer, repeating again and again, “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, we command you to release this girl and be away from this house.”

Gianni had moved to her legs, clasping them in his arms, keeping her from writhing.

Daria hesitated. “Does she not need to ask to be healed?”

“She asked to be healed, just of the wrong healer,” Piero grumbled. He leaned closer to Ariana. “Daughter, you were claimed in baptism by the God on high, but you have relinquished authority to the enemy. We are here to free you and bring you true healing. Long will be your sorrow if you do not allow it.”

Ariana grimaced and then looked as if she laughed, but no sound came out. She laughed and laughed, but her eyes were wide, giving her a maniacal appearance. Piero leaned in to pray over her, and Ariana spit in his face. The priest barely paused to wipe his face this time, already lost in his prayer of hope.

Daria knelt beside her and took the girl's hand in hers. Ariana dug her fingernails into the back of her hand, but Daria ignored it, wanting her to know she was here to stay until she was freed. God had called them to heal this child. And they would remain until the task was done.

 
THEY climbed the curving stone stairwell of the turret, one turn, then two, then three, up and up. Amidei paused and smiled. “Do you smell that?” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, catching their scent above the smells of roasted meats and baked goods in the kitchens below them.

“Oranges and cloves,” Vincenzo said tiredly.

Amidei eyed him warily. What was troubling his brother? He deeply needed time in the caves. Tonight would restore him . . . and if they could find victory here against their enemy before they returned to Avignon, how sweet might that be?

“Oranges and cloves,” he repeated, with a nod and a grin. He rushed up the final flight of stairs that clung to the turret wall, and paused at the door that led to the third floor. He inhaled again and closed his eyes, remembering Daria, so close to him, so nearly his own. It was a pity, really, that she had to die.