The Blessed (41 page)

“Indeed. Even de Capezzana's murder of the count is reported not to have damaged his support among the nobility. The countess is due to return any day, after seeing to her brother's funeral.”

The pope stared outside for a long while. The steward, accustomed to such silences, waited where he was, allowing the pontiff to think, consider, pray.

“Have you searched the archives for what we asked?” he said, suddenly turning and staring at the steward.

“Yes, Holy Father,” he said, with a slight bow. He moved to a table and pulled the stack of papers from the leather satchel. “The chief librarian found three copies, just as Cardinal Boeri described. As you and he both surmised, none were ever canonized by our forefathers. In fact, they appear not to be Pauline at all, but rather one of his followers.”

Reluctantly Cornelius reached out to take the stack from the man. “Give us a moment. We shall attend the audience in but an hour. Please siphon off anything that can be seen to by the Lessers, leaving only those issues of utmost importance to us.”

“Yes, Holy Father,” the man said, bowing even as he drew the twin doors shut behind him.

Cornelius sighed and unclasped the royal cape that threatened to pinch off his breathing and threw it to the bed. Then he took the stack of papers to a desk and sat before them, a hand splayed on each side of the stack, praying for fortification. He had stumbled upon them in the library during his first days as pope, but quickly reshelved them. No pope wished for such controversy. When he opened his eyes, he carefully took the top sheet of parchment, mayhap several centuries old, and laid it in the upper left-hand corner of his desk. He did the same with the following eight sheets, until they lined the entire upper portion of the table.

He lifted two fingers, each bearing massive ruby rings, to the sinuses just above the bridge of his nose, and massaged upward, feeling the pressure release as he did so. But even with just a partial view of the pages, he could see what Cardinal Boeri had described on his own copy of the letter. He would ask for the original pages the Gifted had collected, to see if they were of the same scribe. It would be logical. It could simply be happenstance, coincidence. Mayhap one scribe had impressed another, and what began as merely flattery in copying an art form had become what the “Gifted” interpreted as prophecy.

He had not studied the group for long, but yesterday spent a few minutes on the ramparts above the Familiars' Wing, watching as they moved about the open courtyard far below, talking, praying. They were an odd group, with three older people—the priest, the woman of Avignon, and a fisherman—and three children in their company. The girl had paused in the courtyard while he watched them, and slowly lifted her gaze as if she had sensed him.

Cornelius had stood his ground, backing away from no mere girl, but he fought the desire to do so. Hasani, the lady's private guard, had looked up as well, as silently observant as a sentinel and following the girl's mute attention. And then the lady had moved into the center of the courtyard, lifted her arm, and a falcon—of the purest white, worthy of his royal menagerie—had dived down within the ramparts of the
palais
, lifting his wings at the last moment to flutter down to her proffered glove.

He had seen them at the prince's feast as well, but it had been late, very late, before they were received, the last in line. If Prince Maximilien was to be believed, the Gifted were responsible for delivering his daughter from some great evil. Could it be?

Cornelius picked up a page of the fabled letter and studied the image of the woman in the margin, comparing it to what he remembered of the people he had met. “Daria de Capezzana, the former Duchess d'Angelo,” he whispered. Then he picked up another. “Sir Gianni de Capezzana, former knight of the Church.” And then a third. “Father Piero, former loyal priest of the Church.” He was the most troublesome of all. This group had entrusted their spiritual condition to this little man, and where had he brought them? But it was uncanny, the resemblance. He picked up the second copy of the letter and the third, all admittedly done by different scribes, but all clearly depicting the trio now lodged within the
palais
walls. He sighed heavily and began to read the text again, at once enthralled and dismayed with each word.

 
AMIDEI and Vincenzo made the most of every opportunity to walk the Familiars' Wing, eager to catch the Gifted out-of-doors as they awaited their audience with the pope.

By now, Amidei had access to nearly every hall and room of the grand
palais
. Piero watched as each man entered the courtyard, wary of their adversary. But he had told the Gifted to treat them as if they were not there at all—not to speak to them, engage them in any manner. Gianni had been engaged, and none of them wished to be tricked into any more horrors. “The best defense,” Piero had said, “is to turn away. Do
not
allow him access.”

“It is difficult when he is in our heads, invading our minds, whispering in our ears,” Gianni said, clearly remembering what had transpired on the cliffs.

“Indeed. But not impossible. We must block every avenue he finds. The devil delights in confusion. How do we battle confusion?”

“Concentration.”

“Yes,” Piero said. “Concentrate on Scriptures. Our Lord was tempted by the evil one. How did he fight back?”

“Scripture,” Daria said.

Piero nodded, chin in hand. “The devil said to Jesus, ‘If you are the Son of God, tell this stone to become bread.' What did he say in response?” he asked, looking at Daria.

“ ‘It is written: “Man does not live on bread alone,” ' ” Josephine said, surprising him.

Piero turned and smiled. “Exactly. Time and again our Savior returns to what is
written
, and that is what we shall do both with Abramo and in our coming arguments with the pope and those who seek to lead him astray. It kept Abramo at bay for Daria on the dark isle. The Word will not fail us now. The Holy Spirit protects us, seals us from him—but if we allow Amidei and his dark master entry, he'll come quickly. Allow him no entry, my friends. No entry.”

They were grand words, words of truth, but well Piero knew of how difficult it was to remain focused on Scripture when the dark one came into view. Each time, Tessa set to trembling, running to hide behind Hasani or Vito or Ambrogio, the boys drawing close as if to protect her, one on either side. The adults were more successful in pretending they had not even noticed him, other than Daria, who edged closer to her husband every time.

The beast seemed to feed on her fear, looking as if he meant to truss her up and cook her upon the spit, then gazing out over them all as he pretended to converse with one cardinal or another. His mind play was fierce, and he had grown in power since they had last done battle. They could all attest to the fact that while he seemed entirely engaged in dialogue, he seemed to speak to each of their hearts, playing off their deepest fears, hopes, emotions.

Each time, Piero clung to one phrase, born of Scripture: “I believe solely in the Alpha and the Omega. Who was, and is, and is to come.” Vito said he had been reduced to simply repeating the Savior's name, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Collectively it seemed to be working. Abramo and Vincenzo appeared more often each day, intent on drawing them out upon the battlefield. But each time they were constrained by the slow, steady pace of the cardinals they walked alongside, as well as the retinue of guards who trailed them, and the Gifted easily remained on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Tessa looked up at him suddenly, soon after they had arrived that morning, eyes full of alarm. “He approaches. And it is different,” she said, her whisper sounding like a screaming alarm in his ears.

“Behind Hasani,” he directed the girl, but she was already running.

Gianni stood and moved in front of Daria just as Abramo Amidei and Vincenzo del Buco entered the courtyard, with Ciro directly behind them. There was no cardinal in attendance this day. And no guards. Amidei moved across the grass diagonally, charging toward them.

Gianni, Vito, Ugo, and Hasani all drew their swords as one.

“You shall kill me in the pope's own courtyard?” Abramo asked, smiling at them all as he circled. Daria remained behind Gianni, but then realized she faced Vincenzo. Abramo moved toward Gianni, edging his chest into the tip of his sword, taunting him. “Do it. Do it. I shall die for my master. And you all shall be dead before sunup tomorrow. The cardinals would see to it. The pope would not stand for it . . . murder in his own Court of Familiars of one of the most prominent and beloved men among the cardinals! And your dreams would die.”

Gianni trembled, and the veins on his neck stood out as he flushed red.

“Gianni,” Piero said, laying a hand of warning on his arm. “Remember, remember the words . . .”

“Nay?” Abramo asked, hands out, daring the knight. “You shall not take down the very man who has touched nearly all of your pretty wife?” He leaned over the sword and eyed Daria, then slid his eyes again to Gianni.

Twin beads of sweat rolled down from the knight's temples, and his breath came in quick pants.

“Come now, Gianni, do you not wish to take me down? Here? I shall only come after you and yours again and again. And someday soon I shall take back what should have been mine in the first place, whether she offers herself to me or not. Right before I
kill
her.”

Piero pulled back against Gianni with everything in him, feeling the last vestiges of the knight's control slip.

Ugo grabbed the captain's right arm and held it, slowing the sword as it sliced perilously near Abramo's chest.

But Abramo had already turned and spun, taking advantage of the knight's temporary distraction, and reached out to touch Daria's chin. “Have you told him of your little secret, my darling? Nay?”

Ambrogio sidled between them and pushed Abramo backward.

“Well, and now the artist pretends to be a knight, defending the lady,” he said, tapping the smaller man on the chest. “You think your little paintings shall turn them against me?” he asked with a wry grin.

“Nay,” Ambrogio said, staring back at him. A small smile grew upon his own. “But you are a most convenient model. When I paint the scene of heaven descending into Earth descending into
hell
, your visage shall surely again be of utmost aid.”

Abramo shook his head. “You shall not always be safely ensconced within the pope's own building. And when you emerge, I shall find you and cut off each of your fingers and feed them to the dogs before I hang you from a church rafter beside one of your precious frescoes.”

He turned and walked to Josephine, standing beside Gaspare. “What's this? A love affair among the aged of your group? How quaint.” He circled them, staring down at each. “A seer who cannot see. A man of miracles with the hands of a fisherman. Tell me, seer, what is before you now?”

She turned away, clinging to Piero's urgent command no longer to speak to him. The priest could see her, closing her eyes, wrestling with words in her mind, either those that Abramo shouted inwardly, or those she wished to release.

“Mute as well as blind, I take it,” Abramo said. “You should be with the African instead,” he said, gesturing toward Hasani.

“And what of you, fisherman? Why not call down a miracle now? Where is your lightning? One bolt, and I'd be ashes before you, yes?” He peered into the shorter man's eyes, taunting him. “Nay?” He blew out his cheeks. “Your God makes this most difficult for you.”

He moved on toward Hasani and Tessa.

 
DARIA could hear Abramo, taunting the others now. Dimly, she realized it was odd, the entire lack of
palais
servants or nobles or churchmen about. No customary guard. How had he arranged it?

But her eyes were on Vincenzo. It had been some time since they had come face-to-face in broad daylight. He hovered in front of her, a mere shadow of his former self. His skin hung in loose folds from his brow and jawline and it was a sickly color, as if his liver failed him. He was strong still, straight and handsome. But it was as if he had aged twenty years.

Her eyes moved to his hand, a dagger within it. Did he intend to kill her? Daria hated him. Hated what he had become, what he had cost her. How could he have given in to Abramo Amidei, so thoroughly, that he allowed this? This constant torment of them all?

He stepped toward her, and instinctively Daria's hand went to her womb, as if she might protect the babe. He paused and glanced down at her hand, then back to her eyes. Was that the smallest glimmer of hope there? How often had they prayed together that she would conceive, that her union would be complete with Marco? His tender look took Daria aback, and she stepped away from him. Just as fast as it had come, the glimmer was gone. He looked down at the dagger in confusion, as if unaware how it had come to be in his hand.

“Vincenzo?” she said, barely opening her hand, making herself reach out to the man who had cost her so much. But once . . . once, he had been so much more. Her father's friend. Her guardian. Her co-consul. Was he merely lost behind the screen of his dark master's making? Had his brain been entwined with the spider's web until it was but one dark mass?

“Baron! Master!” Ciro barked from the far corner of the courtyard, seeming to give them some sort of warning. Did others approach?

Vincenzo raised his eyes slowly to meet hers. And with the barest shake of his head, he turned and strode over to meet Ciro and Abramo. And then they were gone.

 
GIANNI lifted his gloved hand and used the inside of his wrist to wipe the sweat from his brow. He looked over at Piero. “I cannot tolerate much more of that. When are we to be free of him? How?”