The Blessed (40 page)

But for now, it was only them. The Gifted. Safe within the Father's own hands.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“HOW shall we approach it?” Gianni asked as they rode toward the palace two days later, having supped and feasted the previous night as if it might be their last opportunity. They rode across the bridge of Bénezet and the palace rose, high and still and strong in the early-morning light.

“Forthrightly,” said Josephine. “Truth is truth. Begin at the beginning. Leave nothing out. Force the Holy Father to face God's own story, woven among his people. What he does with it is out of our hands.”

“Well spoken, sister,” Piero said. “It shall be as she says. We shall begin at the beginning, telling the pope all of it.”

“That shall take the better part of the day!” Daria exclaimed.

“So be it,” said Piero. “He has called us into audience. We have prayed that he would be shown the light, that darkness shall not prevail. We shall entrust the rest to our God.”

They rode on across the bridge, breathing deeply of what they all thought might be their last free breaths of the air above the Rhône. All were in attendance, from little Nico to aged Agata, from Ambrogio to Piero, although only a portion were summoned to the papal court by name. But they had pledged to live and die together, and come what may, they would endeavor to remain together.

Abramo Amidei and Vincenzo awaited them at the far end of the bridge, atop their own mounts, smiling in victory as they passed. The Gifted looked to the knights beyond them, assigned as Cardinal Boeri had shared, to watch and make certain Amidei did not harm a one of them. With that promise in each of their minds, they resolutely did not look upon Amidei with more than a passing glance, which plainly infuriated him.

“Sir de Capezzana, your grief must weigh heavily upon you,” Amidei said, edging near the knight. “Great is your woe, losing the count.”

Gianni ignored him.

“Your friends shall have to watch themselves. None of them wish to be stabbed by you and die like Armand,” he added in a whisper.

Gianni clamped his teeth shut. He would not respond. He would not give this devil entrance to his heart again.

Giving up on the knight as they neared the papal
garde
at the end of the bridge, Abramo wheeled around and rode up beside Ambrogio, some distance back from Daria and Piero and Gianni.

“Remain here,” hissed Gianni, circling his mare back to face the Sorcerer and protect Ambrogio, as Vito and Ugo did. Two knights of the
palais
followed.

“You think you can dare me so and not live to feel the pain of my wrath?” spat out Abramo, edging his horse into Ambrogio's. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Yes,” Ambrogio said, staring levelly back into his eyes. “You should have.”

A
palais
knight edged between them and stared hard at Abramo. “Lord Amidei,” he barked. “You shall give these people passage without harm.”

“As you wish,” said Abramo, still staring at Ambrogio with hate. Slowly he backed his horse up, allowing them to pass.

Gianni and Vito looked back at him, guarding Ambrogio's back as they moved away. Ugo rode beside him.

“My, those paintings must be quite fine,” said Vito.

“Quite,” said Ambrogio, raising an eyebrow at him and grinning.

“I would pay a king's ransom for a look,” said Ugo.

“I might be able to arrange a quick viewing,” promised Ambrogio.

“Take care, gentlemen,” Gianni warned, “We must watch where we tread.”

Ambrogio nodded and turned again in the saddle. They had reached the
palais
.

Together, they paused, taking in the soaring towers, fifty meters above them; the square Campane tower to their left, hovering over the church of Notre-Dame-des-Doms; the Familiars' Wing with its high arches; the Angel Tower directly above them; and the elegant and imposing Chapeaux Gate, immediately to their right.

Piero blew out his cheeks, watching ten and more knights stare down upon them at the Chapeaux entrance. “After the darkness . . .” he muttered, already heading inward.

“Light,” the remainder said, following behind.

 
IT was soon after they arrived that the Gifted learned the pope was ill and would not see anyone that day. They were shown to simple but comfortable apartments in the Familiars' Wing and told to stay within the palace grounds while Pope Cornelius recovered.

“Is the Holy Father in need of care?” Daria asked, that first night.

The secretary gave her a small smile and raised one brow. “I think not,” he said. “The Holy Father is already under the care of his own trusted physicians.” And with that he departed, leaving Daria to smile over at her husband.

“I think the holy secretary does not trust me.”

“Shocking,” he said, enfolding her in his arms. “Good of the old fellow, in any case, to give us our own room.”

“Nicer than the papal dungeon?” she asked.

“Infinitely,” he said, kissing her on the crown and holding her close.

She thought again of telling him—telling him that he was to be a father. That they had been blessed with a child. “Gianni, there—”

A knock at the door made them both turn.

He held up a finger to her and walked over to the door. “Who is it?”

“Us,” said Tessa's voice.

Gianni smiled and opened the door, looking out at the group in the hall.

“We are going to see the pope's own Grand Tinel, and the chapel, where Brogi emblazoned Amidei's and Vincenzo's faces on every evil face possible,” Tessa said, eyes alight.

“Ahh,” said Gianni. “I must put a stop to that, beloved.” He gestured them all inward and closed the door behind them. “It may appear that we are the honored guests of the pope, given freedom over his
palais
. But it is not as it appears. If we are discovered in places where we ought not to be, it will not go well for us.”

Tessa, Nico, Roberto, Vito, Ugo, Hasani, and Ambrogio all took in his words with sober faces, nodding. “We understand your warning, Captain,” Tessa said. “We shall return to our apartments and see you in the morningtide.”

“Good night,” Gianni said, opening the door and then closing it behind them, gratified by their ready acceptance.

“You do not really believe they shall stay put,” Daria said, wrapping her arms around him, kissing him in the center of his back.

He turned and looked down at her, running his fingertips down the edge of her face in a light touch that sent shivers down her spine. “Nay. But their lives, like our own, are in God's own hands. And as much as I'd like to see Ambrogio's work, I'd rather lay my eyes on God's own work, right here, in the shape and form of my wife.”

 
“THE captain is right,” Ambrogio said in a whisper, again in the dark hall just outside the de Capezzanas' room. Piero had drawn near, curious to see what they were up to.

“And we shall return to our apartments,” Vito said, “just as we promised.”

“But not until we have laid eyes upon Ambrogio's masterpieces,” said Gaspare, joining them with Josephine.

The group smiled at one another, but Ambrogio paused. “You cannot see it anyway, Josephine. Why not stay behind?”

“Because,” she retorted, “if it is a hall that strikes a blow to my enemy, I wish to say a prayer within it.”

“Mutiny,” said Vito, raising a brow. He gestured forward with a flourish. “Lead the way, Brogi.”

“Stay close,” said the man, already heading down a hall. “Stay close to me.”

The group set out, scurrying down the Familiars' Wing and through the quiet of Cornelius's vast chapel, smelling of old incense and pooling, cooling beeswax candles—now extinguished for the night until Lauds—on through the kitchens, dormant for several more hours before the bakers began their daily task. Ambrogio paused at the entrance of the Consistory Wing, waiting for two priests to pass by, then led the way onward. In another moment, they passed through two doors and headed upward to the second floor. They emerged on the next, hushed and remarkably quiet for a group of ten souls.

Ambrogio reached for the lone torch alight on this floor and waved them forward. He set the three others inside the chapel alight, and a warm glow spread through each curve and dome. “Daria always said I liked to show off my work,” he said unapologetically.

“As well you should,” Gaspare said. “ 'Tis magnificent, brother.”

“Simone did half of them,” Ambrogio said. “See if you can guess which half.”

Hasani moved forward, looking at each inch of each fresco with the hungry eyes of another artist, eager to see how a hand was drawn to not appear like a paddle, how eyes depicted emotion. He backed up and looked at all of them, then pointed to each of the panels Ambrogio had done.

“Indeed,” Ambrogio said, pretending to applaud for the man. “How could you tell which were mine? Other than our enemies' depiction?” Abramo's and Vincenzo's portraits were not in the five other panels Ambrogio had painted.

Hasani gestured toward his face, waving two fingers about his own black oval, then drawing two fingers across each eye, as if drawing a mask.

“Well done,” Ambrogio said. “Simone prefers to keep his figures distant, as if uninvolved in what is transpiring. He calls it ‘divine distance.' I prefer to engage my subjects wholly.” He considered the black man, tapping his lips in thought. “Would you care to try your hand at a fresco at some point, Hasani?”

Hasani glanced at him and gave him the barest of smiles, the hint of intrigue, surprise, and pleasure visible there.

“Consider it done. Somewhere, sometime, we shall not be otherwise engaged, and you and I shall create a magnificent chapel, a chapel that will sing across the ages.” His eyes left the man and looked to the others, most of whom still stared upward or directly ahead of them, putting biblical scenes in context in their mind's eye. But his eye soon rested on Tessa, who stood at the far side of the room, her hands against the wall.

He moved toward her. “Tessa?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide in her small face. “He is on the other side? His room? Is the pope down here?”

Ambrogio pulled his head to one side. “There are three rooms between us, but yes.” Gaspare, Josephine, and Piero drew near them. “You can sense his presence there?”

Tessa looked at all of them. “His and more. We must pray for him. There is much good within him, but the dark . . . they hover, looking for a way inward.
We must pray.
”

And together, they all knelt at the far wall, hands atop one of Simone's frescoes, as if they were instead laying hands on the Father of all Christendom.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE pope's steward entered the papal apartments and opened one shutter to allow in light, but not send it directly over the Holy Father. The pope roused and turned, his breathing seeming easier now, not quite so congested. But when he pulled himself to a sitting position, the cough was as lusty and wet as it had been the day before. The poor man coughed until the steward thought he might bruise a rib, choking on his own mucus.

At last clear for the moment, the pope sank back upon the pillows and closed his eyes. “Mayhap we should summon the healer in the Familiars' Wing,” he said.

“That would rankle the cardinals,” said the steward with a grin. He handed the pope an Eastern
siwak
stick, used to clean teeth, and two glass goblets, one that held cold, spring water, the other serving as a spittoon.

The steward stood aside as the pope finished his teeth, took the goblets from him, and then followed behind as he moved to the next private chamber to move his bowels. That task completed, they returned to the papal chambers to give the Holy Father a sponge bath, performed quickly in the cool, morning air that even a hearty fire in the hearth had not fought off. The pope slipped on new undergarments and then the royal robes.

They could hear the bleat of a goat, the wild cry of a jaguar, and more in the gardens down below the papal chambers. “Mayhap the menagerie was a poor idea,” said the pope wearily. “Come summer, with the windows open, the noise will be intolerable.”

“We shall find new land for the menagerie,” said the steward. “Mayhap up above, toward the Rocher des Doms? That would be a fine place to wander the menagerie. You could extend the gardens.”

The pope sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly a bit dizzy.

“Your Holiness?” asked the steward in alarm. “Are you still not able to endure an audience this day?” The chest cold had taken hold more than a week prior, directly after Maximilien's masquerade. It troubled him that the pope still seemed so weak, even after several daily visits from the royal physicians.

The pope lifted a tired hand to his sweaty brow. “We must find it within us to see to some of the business at hand. We can only imagine the stacks of paperwork we must make our way through. Not to mention the people ...”

“There is quite a line to see you. Much of it can be seen to by your men,” he said. “But the Doge de Venezia should arrive today.”

“Via the Rhône?”

“How else would the master of mariners arrive?”

The pope gave him a small smile. “You expect him by eventide?”

“At the latest.”

“What is his stated purpose for such a visit?”

“Apparently he comes to defend the Gifted.”

“Ahh, not to seek restitution with us, the Church. Of course not, the vagabond. It is our troublesome Gifted who draw him, those who wait patiently in the Court of Familiars for me to see to their fate.” He rose and went to the window, easing open the second shutter. He stared outward, as if envisioning the doge behind them. “My, have they not managed to collect an impressive following?”