The Blessed (52 page)

Daria drew her dagger as Vincenzo jumped down the last five feet between them, his cape billowing about him.

“Come now, Daria, put that down. You never could best me sword to sword. You shall not best me with a dagger.”

He moved to her level, beside her. Bormeo screeched high overhead, and he glanced upward. “Remember when I gave you that falcon?”

Daria shifted, frowning. “When I was sixteen. Back when you were human.”

Vincenzo lifted his chin. “Human.” He raised a brow. “Mortal. Northing but man.”

“A man with a hope and a future. A man with love in his heart.”

“Before I knew that all was vain hope and deep disappointment ahead of me.”

She stared at him. He was still tall, but she had become accustomed to the brute power of her husband, his broad shoulders, his square jaw. Vincenzo was elegant, but gray had overtaken his dark, thick hair. He was very thin, reminding her of the elderly who refused to eat because food no longer had taste. Again, sorrow cascaded through her, echoing through her ribs like a small bird caught in a cage, knocking up against one side and then the other.

Daria gasped, a sob forming around the lump in her throat. “Do you remember, Vincenzo? Do you remember? Family? Love? What . . .” She paused to swallow hard. “What we meant to each other?”

He looked to the ground and then slowly met her gaze, his face still deep in morning's shadow.

“Great has been my suffering on your account,” she said softly. She lifted a hand as if to reach to him, and then covered her belly. “Vincenzo, I carry Gianni's child. A child, after all this time, all this waiting. A child.”

He moved back, his eyes going back and forth as if to detect a lie in her. “It is true, then?”

“It is true.”

His brows, riddled with gray, furrowed and then sank. “It is most unfortunate how your God moves. I had the task of killing one. Now I must kill two.”

He raised his sword and Daria moved a step away. She shook her head. “You do not wish to kill me, Vincenzo. Somewhere, deep within you, God is calling you back to him. Grave have been your sins. Loathsome. You have already murdered innocents, taken part in Abramo's foul ceremonies. Undoubtedly you have done other unspeakable acts. But Vincenzo,” she said, reaching up again, “you can return to God. He sees you here. Now. And he can do what I cannot.”

“And what is that?”

She held his solemn gaze. “Love you. It is where the divine separates from humanity. I look upon you and can see only loss. God looks upon you and can see only gain. Return to him, Vincenzo. Return to him and be saved.”

He scoffed at her suggestion, but did not move. “Dear Daria. Always trying to save me, heal me.” He looked up, into the trees—as if searching for Bormeo? He sighed heavily and lowered his sword a bit.

“Baron del Buco!” a woman cried upward.

Daria backed up a step as Vincenzo whirled and faced those down below, on the road. One archer was on one knee, arrow drawn backward. The other was on her feet, her own arrow drawn. “Kill her,” said the one on her feet. “Or we shall.”

Vincenzo took a step toward them, arms raised. Daria realized he was edging between the archers and her. But he could not cover her fully. “I shall do so, but in my timing. Be away from here. Go back to the fray in the camp and make short work of the knights who continue to plague Lord Amidei.”

But the women did not move. “Turn and kill her now. We shall not wait more than another few breaths.”

Vincenzo turned and raised his sword as if he were about to strike, and Daria raised her arms as if to fend off the blow. But then she could see that his face held no malice, only emptiness, grief.

“I am ready to greet my God,” Daria said, slowly dropping her arms, seeing her last opportunity, a door opening within him. “Are you?”

But still he paused, arms trembling now with an ache to release the swing of the heavy sword. His eyes searched hers.

Oh
, Daria breathed, understanding his sorrow, the slow pivot within him, almost as if she could see him physically turning from his dark road . . .

The arrow came through him with such force that it almost pierced her as well, when he waved forward from the impact. The sword came down at his side, not slicing into her, but clanking to the rocks and moss and dirt beside them. Another arrow pierced him, this time high and to the right on his chest.

Still, he kept his feet, staring at her. “Live. Prosper, Daria. I have fallen far, but . . .” He tried to reach for her face, as if to caress her cheek, when a third arrow pierced his belly.

Daria cried out, falling to her knees as he went to his, holding him upright as a shield, knowing he was the only thing between the archers and her, weeping at the cowardice, the injustice of it. Her uncle. Once her warden. The shield her father had left behind for her, shielding her again, in the end.

An arrow sang over his shoulder as she stared into his eyes, weeping. The archers were making their way up the hill. She and Vincenzo would die here, in this valley so close to home. “Look to Jesus,” she whispered through her tears, ignoring the sound of the archers perilously gaining ground behind him, coming fast. “Look to Jesus,” she said again. “He shall save you when I could not.”

Vincenzo gasped and then fell in a dead slump toward her, covering her, trapping her.

She fell backward and wept as the sharp points of the bloody arrows that had pierced her friend's body now sought to pierce her own. She cried for Vincenzo, for all he had lost in life, for all he had cost her, for all he had given her, looking up through the trees to Bormeo, sailing in a high circle above them, his wings catching the golden gloss of daybreak, wondering who would care for him when she was dead.

More arrows flew through the trees. A woman cried out, and dimly Daria wondered if Agata or Josephine had been discovered, praying they would not feel pain as they died. With each breath she expected an archer to arrive, to draw back an arrow upon her bow and pierce her heart. It would be over, over soon.
Oh, Gianni. Forgive me. Forgive me for dying. Father God, protect the others. Protect . . .

But it was Gianni, Gianni's face then, blocking her view of Bormeo, pulling Vincenzo's body from her, then pulling her up and into his arms. “Daria,” he whispered. “Are you injured? Are you all right?”

“I . . . I am . . .” she began, searching her body from head to toe as he was, taking mental inventory, certain she had suffered a grave wound.

But it was only her grief.

She pushed her way out of his arms and turned to Vincenzo. She moved to go to him, but Gianni held her back.

“He is dead, Daria,” he said, no victory in his voice. “Killed by his own before we could kill them.”

He wrapped his arms across her chest as she shook with sobs, staring down into her uncle's face. He nestled his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder. “I am sorry,” he whispered.

 
“WE have to move, Daria,” he said, after allowing her to weep for a few minutes. “Either Vincenzo's absence or a scout's return will undoubtedly tell Amidei we are here. We must move as if they are directly behind us.”

Piero arrived and reluctantly prayed over Vincenzo's body, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand upon Daria's shoulder, then easing it under her armpit to assist her to her feet and away.

She followed him down the hill, where the rest had gathered. “How many did we lose?” she asked dully, her mind clearly on Vincenzo's body, abandoned behind them. What sort of funeral would he have had, had he never walked Amidei's dark path? Daria would have celebrated his life, honored his memory, as he had once done for Tatiana. Gianni supposed that was when his feet had begun to turn in Amidei's direction. The enemy, using grief for his own gain, he thought. Death was his weapon of choice.

“Six, plus two injured,” he said. Leaving them only four more of the Sienese knights. Ruggero, the captain, had been taken down by the archers as he and his knights entered the sword fight.

Daria's eyes scanned the group for Vito and Ugo and Hasani, breathing a sigh of relief when she spotted them.

“Did any of Vincenzo's knights get away?”

“Not that we saw,” he said. He helped her mount up and followed her gaze up the narrow valley.

“Will we do nothing about the bodies?”

“Other than Vincenzo, the others are back at the campsite. We shall retrieve them and give them proper burial, once we reach Siena. For now, we need to make for Siena.” He left the rest unspoken. Because if they did not reach Siena, someone else might have to see to their own bodies as well.

Gianni mounted up, feeling echoes of another death scene, many months ago now, when his knights de Vaticana had been cut down in the forest outside Roma. The Sorcerer. He shook his head, fighting back the bile in his throat at the thought of him.
How long, Lord? How long until we are free of him? How long until he knows your victory in death, and his own eternal condemnation?

He gave the order to move out, and the group of knights, men, women, and children did so, with Gianni and Hasani in the lead, and Vito and Ugo bringing up the rear. All scanned the ridges above them, watching for any sign of Amidei's presence.

“LORD Amidei,” said the knight.

He rose from inspecting the dead Sienese knights bearing the crest of Marco Adimari, wondering how many more rode at the Gifted's side, and stared as the men dragged Vincenzo's body forward. Seeing their lord's expression, they laid Vincenzo gently to the ground, on his side. Four more brought the women, the two archers, laying them down on either side of his dead comrade.

“We found them in the next valley, downriver.”

Abramo walked over to Vincenzo's lifeless body and studied his face a moment, wondering what his last thoughts had been. Had he given up all the ground Abramo had helped him win? Gone running, cowering, to the Gifted's God? His eyes went to the arrows.

It was as he had suspected, feared. His archers had been forced to kill him in an effort to get to the Gifted. It had to have been Daria he had protected. Only his familial love for the woman could have turned him at this late hour.

Abramo sighed and let Vincenzo's face roll into the dust. The master would be most displeased. Vincenzo's sacrifice had obviously greatly aided the Gifted. Not one of them, not even an old woman or child, were among the dead. And he had lost two archers and eight men. Nine, counting Vincenzo.

He eyed the remaining troops. Ciro clomped to a stop beside him, awaiting orders. “Take eight men. Make your way over this steep ridge, to Montalcinello and then southeast. It will be too difficult for the women and children. We shall close in behind them, but you must cut them off on the other side of San Galgano.” He rose and looked into the knight's eyes. “Ciro, be certain that the Gifted do not ride through Siena's gates.”

“They shall not get through, m'lord,” said the man, ever eager. Abramo could read the greed within him, the desire to step into Vincenzo's position, a position he had always considered rightfully his own. That was fine.
Let him earn it. Show me at last that he is worthy.

Although Vincenzo's failure stung, there were others ahead, others who would fully embrace the master's teaching and never look back. They were whom he sought. And if he was to be victorious, he could not pause over temporary losses. His master would not.

 
BY late afternoon, they were nearly out of the Cecina Valley and discussed making their way over a lesser pass, in order to cut some hours from their journey. It was after their noon meal, nothing more than bread and a bit of cheese, that the scout came galloping up behind them. “Lord Amidei and his men are coming hard, not far behind me.”

Gianni ran to grab the reins of several horses and tossed Tessa and Nico atop theirs; Roberto was already astride his own. “Follow Vito!” Gianni cried to the children, pointing to the knight, already atop his horse and several paces ahead. “If we get separated, head to San Galgano and ask the monks for sanctuary. They are old friends of the d'Angelos.”

He hit the horses' flanks, sending them scurrying forward. Vito turned and urged his mare up the steep path that led to what he and Ugo remembered as a little-known pass eastward, and Gianni ran to help Ambrogio with Josephine. Gaspare already had Agata astride a horse, and Daria's horse pranced, waiting on them. “Go! Go!” he cried, waving his arms.

Daria was off before he could say farewell, leading Josephine's horse by the reins, but he was relieved to see her departing. They shared a meaningful glance, saying their farewells silently. Ugo and Hasani rode off behind her.

“How many?” he asked, turning to the scout.

“Twelve, plus Lord Amidei.”

Gianni placed a foot in his stirrup and mounted. “Was there a large knight beside him? Broad in shoulder, sandy haired? Bigger than I?”

The scout frowned. “No one of note. The nobleman was the largest of them.”

Ciro. If not with Amidei, where was he? Again, the memory of Hasani's drawing waved through his mind. The trees, so like the conical cypress planted as windbreaks throughout Toscana. Was it this day he would face the knight again? That Daria would be caught by Abramo?

He kicked his horse in the side and snapped the reins, moving into a gallop to catch up with his wife.

 
THEY had just passed San Galgano, the children eyeing the old abbey with eyes full of longing, when Ciro and the other eight knights emerged on the ridge ahead.

“We can take them,” Vito said. “Let us be done with it, here, now.”