The Other Side of Heaven (14 page)

Adelaide shivered, and then suddenly imagined Willa’s final triumph, glorying when she could deliver the news of Emma’s death.

This last caused her to fall back onto her cot, weeping. Was it true? Would the dreaded image come to pass?

As Gwen and her escorts finally came in sight of Pavia’s walls, she realized she had been in a saddle, almost without pause, for weeks. Her backside had known every stage of pain, and the aches throughout her body were only now beginning to ease.

Her heart, too, had suffered, her feelings ranging from sadness to hope and joy, then back to even bleaker thoughts, a deepening despair. There was still one darkly private space she tried not to visit; it had also been weeks since the loss of her other life, her family and friends.

Gwen’s eyes filled with tears, and she blotted her face with her sleeve. Looking out, she saw the main gate of Pavia was shut, odd for midday, yet understandable, given Berengar’s assault. She shook her head, feeling a kinship with the people inside, realizing they were doing everything they could to safeguard what remained of their lives.

“Ho, there!” Barca called out their identities and purpose to a sentry on the wall. After a moment, the great wooden gate creaked open, and Barca motioned for Ionas to ride on ahead.

Bringing his horse alongside Gwen’s, Barca said quietly, “I have kept your secret, Brother Godwyn, even from Ionas as I was bid, and I have treated you as I would any man. Still, I would ask your forgiveness if my ways have seemed less, er, courteous than they should.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Barca,” Gwen replied. “You have been perfect. A man of honor. I’m sorry you have to lie for me.”

“Ah, I do not consider your disguise a lie, but a necessity. I am simply following orders. Besides, Lord Alberto had no choice but to divulge that I alone must provide for our defense, should an enemy come along. As you have learned, Ionas the Greek is a healer, not a warrior.”

Gwen nudged her horse, watching Ionas’s back as he rode through the gateway. The black-haired Greek was a small man with delicate features; he could no more wield a sword than she. “Lord Alberto was right, Barca. I know which end of a sword to hold, but my abilities stop there.”

Once inside the gates, Gwen cautiously looked around. The square had been put back to order, cleansed of the battle scars and bodies, but the people who milled about glanced furtively at the new arrivals, their expressions grim and unwelcoming.

Barca called again to the sentry. “Where might we find Father Warinus? The church?”

“No.” The man shook his head. “At this hour, the infirmary. There were so many wounded in the attack, the old merchant’s hall was converted to a hospital.” He waved his arm toward the far end of the square. “That way. Follow the stench.”

Gwen and her companions moved on. Soon, the heavy reek of diseased flesh permeated the air. They approached a two-storied, stone building. On the doorstep, an old woman sat beside a basket of herbs, eyes closed, chanting, and waving a handful of dried lavender.

Dismounting, Gwen and Barca helped Ionas with his heavily laden saddlebags. They stepped around the woman, went inside, and found themselves in a great hall, where row after row of patients were lying, some on pallet beds, most directly on the floor. The room was open and airy, with uncovered windows, but it still smelled of rot, bile, and, oddly, something that reminded Gwen of Vick’s ointment.

“Brother Godwyn, welcome back!” Father Warinus shouted from across the hall.

Relieved to see the priest, Gwen wanted to race over and hug him, but she held herself still and smiled. “Yes, Father. I’m back.”

“So, you were able to find Lord Alberto, I see.” He eyed Barca and Ionas, then started toward them, his gaze moving to the doorway to see if anyone waited outside. “How many are with you? If there are not too many, I would suggest we quarter them within these walls.” He looked at the saddlebags. “Is that medicine? I would see it put to work immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but––” Gwen started, but Barca stepped forward, interrupting her.

“Father Warinus.” The warrior bowed crisply. “I am Barca, swordsman for my liege, Alberto Uzzo, lord of Canossa. This is Ionas the Greek, one of our most able healers. My lord was mustering his men when Brother Godwyn arrived with news of the queen’s abduction. The muster has been completed, and he was to break camp and ride for Garda the same day we left.”

Brow wrinkling, Father Warinus looked from Gwen to Ionas and back to Barca. “I know of Lord Alberto’s intention to confront Berengar,” the priest said. “I only wish we had all acted sooner. But you have not answered my question. How many men have you brought for our aid and succor?”

“Father,” Barca said, “the battle is no longer with Pavia. I will help in the defense, and Ionas has brought medicine. We will assist the town as we are able, but his lordship’s concerns, and his armies, are elsewhere, searching for the enemy. He seeks to aid the queen, and the queen is no longer here.”

“But, but you mean to say there are no more? Only two men?” Warinus’s face had turned crimson, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Father,” Gwen tried to placate him, placing her hand on his arm. “You must be exhausted. I’m sure you haven’t rested since I left. These men can take over now. You should have something to eat, and then sleep.”

“Jesus Christ have mercy,” Warinus muttered. He sighed and crossed himself. “If it be God’s will.” He straightened his shoulders and regarded the healer. “Ionas. Ionas the Greek. I have heard of your talents. Let me show you about.”

Ionas glanced around the hall. “How many of the injured have you lost since the attack, Father?” he asked softly.

The priest hesitated, considering. “Mayhap half.”

Ionas’s brows rose. “Not more? You have done well then. I congratulate you on your healing talents.”

Father Warinus visibly relaxed as he put a hand on Ionas’s shoulder and led him in.

While Barca guarded the saddlebags, Gwen followed the priest and Ionas through the infirmary, pallet by pallet, injury by injury. She saw strange things she didn’t understand or care to see: agates placed on patients’ brows; leeches atop bruised flesh; bloodletting. She desperately wanted to beg them to sterilize their equipment, to drop the superstitious practices, and deal only with real medicine.

But what about changing history? What sort of ripple effect would she let loose if she tried to impose even her modest knowledge of modern medical procedures? Frowning in frustration, Gwen kept her mouth shut and trudged on.

In the middle of the room, a small fire smoldered in a metal tray, set atop a tripod. Gwen watched a woman reach into a sack and place slender leaves onto the coals. Thick, white smoke wafted up and its potent, peppery smell filled the air, prickling Gwen’s eyes and nose. The scent of Vick’s was overpowering.

“That’s so strong!” Coughing, Gwen felt like her head was liquefying and had to wipe constantly at her streaming eyes and nose.

Ionas turned to look at her, mopping his face. “Yes, camphor. It is strong. I use it to calm my patients. It is also quite effective in cleansing the air of evil humors. I sometimes make camphor water for bathing wounds and soothing fevers, for it is cooling to the touch.”

“I think I’m melting,” Gwen replied.

Ionas smiled, and then rejoined Father Warinus, discussing and assessing the infirmary’s many problems.

She continued walking with them. Many patients had bandaged wounds, and she gagged when she saw Ionas inspect one, removing the gauze on a man’s thigh, then sniffing the air near the gaping injury. White maggots were munching the infected flesh, but they wriggled deeper when he exposed them to the light.

Forcing her eyes away, she noticed juniper branches placed near the injuries of some patients. “Is that medicinal?”

“Yes, to be sure,” Ionas said. “Juniper is excellent for warding off demons.”

Gwen shook her head.

The camphor woman returned, this time carrying a bucket. She went to a patient, chanting solemnly, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Mary, heal this poor soul. Let there be no more blood or pain till the Blessed Virgin bears a child again.”

Gwen stared at her. Had she heard that right?

The woman drew forth a thick bouquet of rosemary and lavender. Liquid dripped from the bouquet, which she flicked over the patient, dousing him. The sour odor of vinegar hit Gwen full in the nostrils, mingling with the fiery camphor and causing her to sneeze again and again.

“God bless you, Brother Godwyn,” Father Warinus spoke at her elbow. “Ionas will stay here. We must go to the priory and attend to other matters.”

“Yes, Father,” Gwen agreed, wiping her nose, miserable, while making an effort to smile.

*

Gwen and Barca joined Father Warinus for the midday meal. It had been a week since she’d returned to Pavia, and everyone was exhausted from work and worry. Lunch was sparse and uninteresting: hard cheese, trenchers of dark bread filled with a thin wheat gruel, green onions, and a bitter, warm beer to wash it down. The priest had warned them it would be the same at each meal, for provisions had run low since the attack.

Sighing, Gwen picked at her food as the men talked, wishing instead for some pizza and a nice cabernet. And chocolate. With a deeper sigh, she pushed away the remains of her trencher. Where was Alberto? The queen? Stefano? Her mind was wracked with worry at the lack of news.

“What is going on out there, Barca? Why haven’t we heard anything?” Gwen interrupted the men’s talk.

“I do not know, Brother Godwyn.” He shrugged. “Mayhap people are not traveling because they realize war is afoot. Lord Alberto is busy and would have no time to send messages, let alone spare a man to do so.”

There was a knock at the priory’s front door, and Father Warinus rose and went out to answer.

“Also,” Barca continued, “the country folk fear Berengar, so we have heard very little of him, only the direction he took when leaving here. He is returning to his castle-keep on Lake Garda – is surely there by now – but we have no word of the queen, although had he murdered her along the way, we would most likely have received word of the wretched deed.”

Gwen grew aware of raised voices and she looked down the hallway. When Father Warinus cried out, she got up and hurried toward them, Barca close on her heels. She faltered when she heard Father Warinus exclaim, “An execution is planned? Merciful Lord! The queen, is she to be killed?”

“I have only heard there is to be an execution of a traitorous noble,” the messenger said. “I know not the identity of the one sentenced to death.”

Noble! Gwen latched onto the word and turned to Barca. “Alberto? Where is he? He should have caught up with Berengar and fought him by now. Could it be him?”

“There is no word of any battles,” the messenger responded. “When last I heard Berengar was hiding within his fortress and was, as yet, unchallenged.”

Gwen’s fears eased somewhat, but still where was Alberto?

Warinus shook his head. “The queen is in grave danger.”

“We have to do something,” Gwen said. “And Stefano needs our help, too.”

Barca turned to Father Warinus. “I would seriously doubt Berengar plans to kill the queen. He is too shrewd for that. I expect he will keep her hostage, as a bargaining chip, or use her for ransom. He would be a fool not to, and he is not a foolish man. It is my guess she is safe enough for now.”

“But what about Lord Alberto?” Gwen asked. “How come nobody knows where he is? Something is wrong. We should go to Garda.”

Barca frowned. “Would you have us knock on the front door? We are too few to storm the keep, if that is what you suggest. Besides, no matter our strength, Berengar’s fortress is impenetrable.”

“We can’t just sit and wait,” Gwen countered. “I’ll find a way inside.”

Father Warinus shook his head. “Impossible, Brother Godwyn. Impossible.”

“You have never seen Berengar’s keep, Brother,” Barca said. “It sits on a high promontory overlooking Lake Garda and is surrounded by a sheer drop to water on three sides. The only point of access is narrow and closely watched. No one approaches the main gate unseen, and no one escapes.”

Gwen scowled at their reticence. “Well, I am going with or without you.”

The men looked back at her with unenthusiastic eyes, then Barca heaved a half-hearted sigh. “God help me. I must accompany you, then.”

“Yes, you must.” Gwen turned to the priest. “Father Warinus,
nothing
is impossible.”

He stared at her and then made the sign of the cross, murmuring, “Heaven help us all.”

*

How much time had elapsed since they’d reached Garda? Several days? A week? Two weeks? A month?

Adelaide sat alone in the dark. Nobody opened the door, and no one spoke to her. Once a day, she heard her jailers shuffling in the hall. The bottom door slat would open, and she could see a little light as they passed food, drink, and an empty slop bucket to her. In turn, she was expected to push her refuse back into the hallway, in silence, without a word.

Her attempts at starvation had failed. She couldn’t go through with it, especially since the food no longer made her ill; in fact, it was wonderful. The devious Willa must have inquired as to her favorites. So Adelaide was tempted with dishes like roasted pheasant or peacock, and enticed with the finest young wine.

Guilt overwhelmed her as she nibbled delicacies in the dark, for she guessed Stefano was not receiving the same treatment. Every day, all night, Adelaide could hear Willa scream at him, slap him, force him to have sex with her, and then shriek and curse his ruin. In turn, Stefano remained silent, except for his groans, the awful, unspeakable sounds of sex and torture – and climax. Sweet Jesus, would it never stop?