The Blessed (5 page)

“Mayhap,” Daria said, climbing a narrow stair behind Armand. “Yet I should still pay my respects to a kindly count who once welcomed a daughter of Toscana as potentially one of his own.”

Armand smiled down at her and gestured inward. “Prepare thyself,” he whispered.

Daria stepped forward, hesitated, and had to fight against the urge to step back. The smell of decay and urine was overwhelming. A young maid rose from the corner of the dark room.

“Saints in heaven,” muttered Daria, bringing a hand to her nose. “Does your noble patient have no vessel in which to move his bowels?” she whispered.

The girl looked confused and whispered back, “Nay, m'lady. We simply change the bedding twice a day.”

Daria frowned. “Vito, please go and fetch my medicinal trunk.” She turned to the maid. “Go and fetch four more maids, two with fresh linens, two of you with a new featherbed. This one needs to be burned. Bring along three large kettles of boiling water and clean cloths. This room is to be scrubbed, top to bottom.”

She went to the window and opened the shutters, letting fresh cool winter air into the room, ignoring the rain that spattered in with it. Then she turned to the bed and slowly approached the count.

Armand was on the other side, watching her.

She knelt at the old man's side. His face was covered in a long, scraggly beard. He was terribly thin, and each breath did indeed sound like a death rattle.

“Count Rieu,” she said softly. He did not open his eyes or move at the sound of her voice. “Count Rieu,” she said again, covering his hand with her own. “I am Daria d'Angelo de Siena.”

The count moved a bit and moaned, then coughed, a pitiful, gurgling sound. It made Daria wish she could cough for the old man, force the blockages that kept his lungs from full, free breaths. She stood and carefully folded back the blankets that covered him, taking in the sight of a once hale and hearty man, who now weighed little more than Nico or Roberto. She leaned down and laid her ear against his chest, listening to him breathe, then stood straight again, covered him, and laid two fingers on his neck.

Armand looked at her hopefully. Did he think she might heal this aged man now, here before him? She gave him a small smile. “It is as the doctors have told you, Armand. Your father is soon to move on to the next life. But we can certainly make him more comfortable in the meantime.”

The silent hope in Armand's eyes died down again, like flames turning to embers, but he was grateful. He lifted a weary hand to his head. “It has gone on so long . . . I suppose Anette and I have grown weary from the effort.”

“I understand,” she said. “How long has he been like this?”

“More than two years.”

“What does he eat?”

“The maids manage a thin gruel and water, spooned down his throat.”

“Good.” She could well imagine the enormity of such a task. It likely took a good part of their day. “He is in a fine robe, but let us put him in something softer. Do you have any of the smoothest silk, from the Orient?”

Armand smiled at her. “Spoken like a merchantess of cloth. I shall see what we can muster.”

“We also need something highly absorbent, like the thick cotton that mothers use to cover their babes. We shall use it to protect the new bedding and keep your father more comfortable.”

Armand paused, hesitating over the emasculating dishonor of it all. “The servants are bound to have some of it. If not, I will send one to fetch a bolt of it.”

“And a barber. A noble should be freshly shaven, should he not?”

“My father always wore his beard long.”

Daria turned to the count and ran her fingers across his forehead. “But it no longer looks well upon his face. Let us shave it closer to his cheeks, and cut his hair, so that we might easily wash and dry it. It is not seemly for him to be in such disarray.”

Armand nodded. “It shall be so.”

Vito arrived, out of breath after his run through the rabbit warren of halls to fetch Daria's trunk. She went to him and set to work, pulling out small boxes and her mortar and pestle, to create a poultice that might ease the count's breathing.

 
“THE count has roused,” said the servant excitedly, the following day at noon meal.

Armand and Anette both leapt to their feet. “He has spoken?”

“In a whisper, but yes,” she said, nodding repeatedly, a grin across her face. “He knew my name! After all this time!” Her eyes moved to Daria. “He has asked to see you both . . . and Lady d'Angelo.”

They rushed toward the door, but Daria drew them up short. “My friends,” she warned, “it is common for the old and infirm to rally, but then soon give in to death. It is as if God gives them one last window upon this world. Make the most of this time. Say what you must as if it is the last you shall share with your father.”

Armand frowned, and Anette's wide eyes filled with tears. And then they disappeared into the dark hallway, Daria directly behind them. Gianni caught up with them, silently echoing her steps. He paused outside the door, standing guard, she supposed. Looking in, but not intruding.

The count's room was so different than when she had first arrived. The fire still crackled in the hearth, but it had been built up to produce a constant and maximum heat, to counterbalance the open window, which allowed fresh, cold air from the valley floor. The room had been scrubbed from top to bottom with lime, and Daria could smell the acidic clean scent of it still in the room.

The count had been bathed as well, prepared for his new bedding, and shaved. His beard was now but an inch from his withered cheeks, and his hair in back was no longer than his shoulders. Armand and Anette went immediately to him, sitting on either side of him, each taking a hand. Daria smiled over the scene. These were children who had been loved by their parents, and who loved them as well. It made her miss her own father and mother, now gone for years.

“Father?” Armand asked.

The count's eyes moved beneath blue-tingend, paper-thin lids and then fluttered open. He stared at the wooden ceiling a moment, as if trying to focus, and then turned his head to smile upon his son. “Armand. Where is thy sister?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Right here, Father,” Anette said, and the count turned to give her a weak smile as well.

Daria went to a pitcher and poured the count some water. “Please, friends, help your father to rise a bit, so we might give him some water.”

They helped him rise, and the count studied her over the rim of his goblet as he drank. They eased him back to the pillows.

“You, m'lady,” he said, raising a finger to Daria, “are the mirror image of your mother. Even more beautiful, if it is possible.”

Daria smiled. “I see how your son has come by his gift of flattery.”

“Bah. Flattery is false. I speak the truth.”

“Thank you, m'lord.”

The count eyed Armand and then looked back to Daria. “You know, your father and I once spoke of arranging a marriage between you and my son.”

“Yes, m'lord. Armand and I have already addressed it.”

His face fell a bit. “Ah. Then you have been promised to another.”

“She may as well be,” Armand put in. “Her heart, alas, can never be mine because she loves another.”

“Phh. Love is one thing. A good union even better.”

Daria shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Gianni. He smiled back at her with a soft look in his eyes.

“Who is there?” asked the count, following her gaze out the door.

Armand waved Gianni inward. “This is Captain Gianni de Capezzana, Father, the lady's knight.”

The count sank back into his pillows and stared at Gianni as if he were a vision. His mouth fell open as his eyes flitted back and forth between them in the slow manner of the aged.

“M'lord?” Daria asked in concern.

He lifted a hand to stop her from nearing him and then rested his hand on his chest. “The old prophecies are true . . .”

Gianni frowned and leaned forward. “My lord. Tell us what you must. You plainly recognize us.”

“I thought . . . I thought the resemblance to Daria's mother was coincidence. But I see that . . . it was Lady Daria all along. And you . . .”

“Father?” Anette asked, seeing him pale.

“The . . . chapel. An . . . entrance . . .” His breathing was becoming labored again.

“Quickly, lay some more horehound upon the fire,” Daria said to Gianni, motioning to the stack beside the hearth.

The count reached for his daughter's hand and his son's with the other, pulling both to his chest as he fought for breath. “I have loved you . . . both. Remember that. Serve our people. And my children . . .” He pulled them closer. “Serve these two with us . . . with your very lives. It is . . . important . . . for reasons I cannot . . . begin to share.”

“We shall, Father,” Armand pledged, seeing the urgency in his face.

“We shall,” repeated Anette.

The old man's face eased into relief.

When Daria turned back from her medicinal chest she saw the still death mask upon the count. Anette leaned down to place her face on his chest, her shoulders shaking with sorrow.

CHAPTER FOUR

DAYS later, they had seen the wondrous castle of Les Baux in the golden light of sunset, the lavender light of dusk, and the russet tones of sunrise. Whatever light God cast upon his earth, the castle's stones seemed to absorb, giving Daria the protective feeling of a cloak, as if she might be invisible to the naked eye. But that was a falsehood, of course.

Vigil had been observed over the last few days for the count of Les Baux, and a sennight after their arrival, against a dim and gray winter sky, they burned his body in the manner of ancient kings, a Les Baux tradition. Afterward, they processed toward the castle, all eager to escape the cold northern winds that now nipped at the bluff.

Daria, Gianni, Armand, and Anette exchanged solemn condolences. Piero neared and talked of their hope in heaven, of freedom from pain, of unspeakable joy ahead. “It is for this reason we wish to speak to the people, wherever we go,” he said. “To tell them the hope we have in heaven, and the hope we have here, on earth. But there are many who wish to dissuade us.”

“He is there, your enemy, among those rocks you see in the distance,” Armand said, pulling the group to a stop and pointing across the valley. He seemed eager to switch the subject from his father to the new battle at hand.

Daria shivered. Whereas the rocks of Les Baux were mostly weather-worn and rounded, the rocks the count pointed to looked as if they had been hewn from the earth that morning and set at precarious angles.

“Hell's Keep,” Anette mused.

“I beg your pardon?”

“From Dante's
Divine Comedy
? The poet rested here for a fortnight, and it is said that he took that valley there as his inspiration for his vision of hell.”

“Then it is apropos that Amidei shelters there,” Gianni said.

“Rest assured, my men will keep him from crossing the valley floor between us.”

“You shall make an enemy of him,” Daria warned.

“I believe I became his enemy the moment my men brought you here to shelter for the night,” Armand said with a rakish grin, a bit of himself coming back, away from grief's covering. “It matters not. Your enemy is mine as well.”

“I fervently hope we shall not bring your castle down behind us. They will stop at nothing, Armand,” she said, turning to lay a hand upon his arm in forewarning. “Nothing. They murdered my servants, captured my friends, burned my mansions to the ground, ousted me from the Mercanzia, even managed to disassociate me from my bank accounts. It is all gone, save my friends and my faith.” Her eyes shifted to Gianni, and she abruptly dropped her hand from the count's arm. “Do you understand what this may cost you?”

Armand looked her in the eye, his admiration for her obviously growing by the day. “Daria, I understand. Les Baux stands beside you. It is clear that the Lord is moving among you. That we are to walk this path with you, as your protectors in a foreign land. We shall not fail you, no matter the cost.”

His eyes wandered over her shoulder, where his father's remains now were mere smoldering ashes. “It was Father's dying wish.” His blue eyes returned to search her own. “No matter the cost,” he said resolutely.

Daria shook her head a little. The cost. The cost had already been dear. Nearly everything, she thought. It was one thing to cast herself into such a chasm of loss. Was it fair to ask this man to endanger everything he had as well? His loved ones? His livelihood?

“Cease your fretting,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm, strolling along the castle guard walk. He cast an eye back at Gianni to make sure he was not overly agitating the knight. Gianni clumsily offered his arm to the countess, seconds too late. “You forget I am now a count of this region, held in high regard by many. My reach is long and strong.”

They strolled for a while in silence, lost to their own thoughts. Daria paused as they neared the northeast corner, turned, and pulled her hand from Armand's arm to stare back toward the mountains. Gianni came to her other side, rested a hand at her lower back, and leaned close. “What is it?”

“What is up in that direction?” she asked.

“Why, that is the road that leads to the Pont du Gard,” Anette said, her voice soft.

Gianni was already shaking his head. “No, Daria. We must not tarry. We do not have time for this.” He could read it, then, from the look on her face. He did not say the words that came next, but Daria could feel every syllable.
Amidei is right here. He watches our every move.