The Blessed (49 page)

He looked over his shoulder and waited for the man to slowly bring his dark eyes to meet his. Ah yes, fear. He remembered. Remembered his sin, his failures. How one might construe what had transpired as rationale for defrockment, as easily as rationale for praise. The cardinal had denied the women—in fact, denied every sweet, tantalizing offering the master had brought before him, tightening his belt, crying out with each one. But that he had been there at all tied him to Abramo forever.

“Do not fail me,” Abramo said.

The cardinal stared at him, lips set in a grim line. He saw the lines of his cage well. And recognized no door.

Abramo reached for his bags and passed Ciro and Vincenzo in the hallway.

“We shall lay a trap for them in Provence?” Ciro asked, once they all were astride horses.

“Nay. They are being released as we speak. They will tarry, saying good-bye to all their dear, newfound friends. Whether they travel overland to Marseilles or down the Rhône, Countess Anette shall see them well guarded. Once they reach the sea, the doge shall escort them. They are not fools. They shall suspect our intent to come between them and Siena. But once they reach Pisa and begin their trek toward home, they shall relax, believing the lies that I have planted. They shall send the doge's guard home to Venezia once they reach Pisa.”

“Which lies?” Vincenzo asked, following him toward the docks of the Rhône.

“That we head to Paris,” Abramo said. And for the first time in days, he smiled.

THEY were summoned to appear before the Court again at sundown, and they left their cells, hearts beating fast at the mere thought of what might transpire. What was their verdict? Excommunication? Or worse, would they be passed to city authorities to carry out a more despicable means of justice—something the Court wished, but had no stomach to see through themselves?

They climbed the long stairs and wound their way up into the massive courtyard, then into the long, hallowed chambers of the Court. Daria brought a hand to her mouth at the sight of Gianni and the other men, looking as weary as she herself felt. He broke from them and ran to her, ignoring the guards' shouts, and took her into his arms, kissing the crown of her head and cradling her close. “Daria, thank God you are well.”

“Well enough, husband. I am relieved to be with you again.”

A steward announced the entrance of the Court. As the cardinals and bishops filed inward, taking their seats along the curved dais, Daria noted Countess Anette and the other nobles filing in behind them. How had they known?

From the left, six cardinals and the pope and his stewards arrived, but her attention returned to Bishop du Puy and the Court of the Rota, those who held their immediate fate in their collective hands. The bishop rose. None of the awe that had graced his face five nights prior remained; instead he looked nonplussed, unable to do anything but what he was about to do. Daria's brow furrowed in fear.

The entire hall became as silent as a forest with a tiger about.

Tessa took her hand, leaning in.

“This Court finds you blessed and highly favored by the God we serve,” said the bishop without preamble. “We find your method unorthodox but your intent holy. None can argue with the proof of the child before us,” he said, waving toward Roberto, “of the miracle that transpired before our very eyes. Each of us has been profoundly influenced by the occurrences of five days past. That said”—he raised his chin—“we stand behind the defrockment of Piero, in that he has not done as the Church prescribes and confesses he shall do no other. We ask you not to baptize or commune outside the Church, for to continue to do so will be to risk excommunication. This court had decided to give you each time to consider our request. Shall you persist, we shall undoubtedly meet again. But until that time, you are free to go.”

They stared in silence at him. Nico spoke first. “They're letting us go?”

“Yes, Nico,” Piero said. He reached for the boy's hand and he took it. “They are releasing us.”

“Where do we go now?” said the child as they all walked out, breathing more freely for the first time in weeks.

“Home,” Gianni said, smiling toward Daria, pulling her close.

The nobles followed them out, and Countess Anette hugged each of them close. The doge shook hands with the men and nodded at the women, a grin across his face. He leaned close to Daria and Gianni. “It has begun. Lord Amidei received the first letters today, declaring their business arrangements null and void.”

Gianni's smile faded. “What was his response?”

“Reportedly he and del Buco are en route to Paris.”

“Paris?” Gianni asked, now frowning. He eyed Piero, who joined them. “I was certain they would come after us. Do they intend to ignore the summons from the Nine?”

“Apparently,” the doge said, clapping him on the shoulder. “My informant has told me that they went to the docks, but they did not travel in the direction of Marseilles. Ease your guard, man. It appears your enemy has fled. The Nine shall catch up with them eventually. Venezia shall aid them. For now, enjoy the respite from your enemy. You have endured much.”

Gianni and Piero shared a look. “I do not believe it,” Gianni said.

“It is wise to be wary when one such as Amidei is involved,” the doge said. “But the pope has granted you safe passage, and the countess shall see you safely through Provence. My own ships shall see you safely ashore in Pisa. You will reach Siena, and the Nine shall see to your welfare from there. Surely your city,” he said to Daria, “is less embroiled in intrigue than Avignon.”

“Surely,” she returned with a smile.

Vito neared them, Bormeo on his gloved arm. “M'lady,” he said with a flourish. “I once again return your bird to you.” He cocked a brow at Gianni, who shook his head and smiled.

“Oh!” Daria cried. She kissed the knight on the cheek and took the glove from him. The bird fluttered to her arm. She leaned in, nosing his soft, downy feathers. And as she closed her eyes, all she could think of was the falcon soaring over the high, green hills outside of Siena, of rebuilding her country estate, a home with Gianni and their child, of laughter. Singing. Peace. Joy.

 
DARIA moved beside her husband at the rail of the ship, threading her hand through the crook of his elbow. He smiled down at her and pulled her a bit closer. She welcomed the warmth of his body beside hers. The winter sun was bright upon the sea, but little warmth accompanied it. Together, they gazed out to the coastline of Italia. In another day, they would reach Pisa.

“You think I am unaware that you keep watch behind us?” she asked softly, eyes still on the teal waves before them.

He was silent for a long moment.

“Could it not be that he fled to Paris to avoid the Nine?”

“It makes no sense, Daria. We threaten everything he has worked to attain in the last decade. Stopping us is the logical course of action.”

“He has made illogical decisions before.”

“Very few. Most every decision Abramo Amidei has made, in retrospect, has been the decision of a strategist.”

Her eyes shifted left, to the curve of the horizon, no ship in sight. “If he follows, he is far behind.”

“There is another possibility.”

She turned and looked up into his kind, green eyes. He looked like he was reluctant to tell her, but must. “Go on.”

“He could be ahead of us.”

She frowned. “Why can you not let me rest in the idea that we are free of him, even for a little while? Do you have any comprehension what it has been like for me, these last two nights, to sleep beside you and not fear that Amidei might attack at any moment? It's enough to keep me at sea forever.”

Gianni moved his hands to her shoulders. “We need to be prepared. The stakes are high, Daria. Amidei does not intend to kidnap us this time. He intends to kill us, remove the threat and opposition. We cannot afford to relinquish our guard.”

Daria sighed and wrapped her fingers in his hand, turning again to the deck rail, with his arm around her. “Piero says this shall be much of our life, taking on the enemy. For he shall hunt us always, wanting us to abandon our mission.”

She could feel Gianni nod his agreement. “The final three pages of our letter speak of little else.” A steward had given them a copy of the last three pages of the letter—written by Paul? Apollos?—courtesy of the pope. “The dark hunts those of the light. The greater our following, the more we accomplish on behalf of our God, the more he shall wish to stop us. It is a battle. Always and forever.”

“What of my dreams? I had hoped to rebuild outside Siena, raise our child in the quiet of the countryside. To rest for a time.”

“I do not think that is an impossible dream, Daria.” He waited for her to look his way. “Truly. God knows that we need time to recover, regain our strength. Mayhap our ministry is best suited to the countryside anyway, a bit away from the hovering eyes of the Church who shall feel compelled to try to control us. Our time in Provence made me think of such things as well. But Daria . . .”

She turned to him, hearing the note of urgency in his voice.

“Until we know that Amidei, and even Vincenzo and Ciro, are dead, we cannot relinquish our guard. Promise me you shall keep your eyes on the horizon with me. As much as I intend to keep you safe, I cannot be everywhere. Please.” He took her hands in his own and pulled them to his chest. “I beg you.”

Daria nodded. His words were sound, of course. But it was not just a sense of the unknown that drove him; there was something more. Was it the letter that had unnerved him? What did he know that he was not sharing? She was about to ask, when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, ignoring the others aboard ship who could see their embrace.

And it felt so good to be held, to be warm, to be with him, Daria said nothing more at all.

 
VINCENZO followed Abramo and Ciro, falling behind a bit. He was tired, so tired, and the voyage to Pisa had been particularly rough, the captain encouraged to adopt full sail and the shortest course, regardless of the wave and wind, by Abramo's heavy coin purse. The result was that they had made spectacular time, but few aboard had seen rougher seas outside a storm.

So it was that he saw a nobleman and his men, high and behind them, before Abramo did. They were well past Pisa by then, halfway to Volterra, where they planned to spend the night. Even with four of Abramo's archers and six mercenaries, Amidei's troops numbered only thirteen. Lord Puccini came down the hillside with more than thirty.

Vincenzo watched as Abramo's archers each drew an arrow across their bows, intending to defend their master, but Abramo raised a hand to keep them from shooting. Vincenzo edged closer in order to hear what was about to transpire.

“Lord Amidei,” said Lord Puccini, circling his prancing horse, “in accordance with the Nine of Siena, I have agreed to keep you from crossing my lands.”

“Lord Puccini,” Abramo replied evenly. “We are on a public road, nowhere near your lands.”

“Excellent point,” said the young man, eyeing one of the archers. “Then we have no issue.” He grinned and reached out an arm to Amidei, who took it and grinned back.

“It is well to see you again, my young friend.”

“And I, you, m'lord. I received your missive. We received it only a day ago. You must have made good time from Marseilles.”

“The gods favored our passage,” Abramo said. He looked beyond the young lord. “These are the mercenaries I asked for?”

“Thirty in number, just as you had asked,” he said.

“With no ties to either Siena or other nobles, now forsworn as my enemies?”

“Nay. Most are from Sicily. They shall only understand your most basic of commands. But they are solid men, one and all.”

Abramo eyed him with some disdain, then nudged his horse in the flanks and rode before the men, speaking easily in the dialect of the Sicilians, shouting promises, collecting the men as he so easily collected others everywhere he went. Vincenzo sat back, a bit in amazement. He had thought he had seen the beginning of decline in Lord Amidei. Watching him here, now, only proved that nothing would stop him, short of death. The master had chosen his apprentice well.

Abramo spoke of intrigue, damage done to his reputation and businesses by a group soon to travel this way, who called themselves the Gifted. His tone lowered. “They appear as a group you might see on the street, a lady, knights, older women and men, even children. But they are charlatans. Magicians. And worse, liars, who have placed me and mine in grave danger.

“Now, I am a lover of peace, but I shall defend what is mine. Every one of them must die. Not a one can escape. If you do not have the stomach for such a task, please depart now. Our goal is to cut off their entry to Siena, drive them into the countryside, and take them there. We shall wear hoods so none can identify us. No flags or colors shall be worn. And if we accomplish this task, once I feel the deadened pulse of every one in their party, we shall dispose of their bodies and disband. And at that moment,” he said, reaching under his cape to his belt and holding up a heavy sack of gold florins, “each of you shall depart with a king's ransom. Pledge your service to me, follow my every instruction, and great shall be your reward.”

 
THE Gifted put into harbor that evening, edging through narrow passageways constantly dredged by the harbormaster. Once Pisa had boasted a navy that rivaled Venezia's. But a swiftly silting tide and a change in noble fortunes had forced a decline. Still, there were fifty boats and ships in transit as they traveled toward land, fishermen and merchants, in addition to three naval vessels that stood sentry at the mouth of the harbor, and more than a hundred at dock or anchored just off shore.