Time Enough for Love (20 page)

21 March, 952, Santa Lucia, Italy

Gwen stood in the funeral cortège, Alberto, King Otto, and Queen Adelaide, their little girls and the nannies, all waiting with her, all cloaked in black.

Stefano. Why had things turned out like this? Why had she lived and found love, while he’d found only anguish and death? Was she having survivor’s guilt? Perhaps. And yet so much more. Gwen sighed. Putting a label on her feelings didn’t really help her deal with them.

She watched the children play with their new dolls, then passed the time by stealing glances at the townsfolk of Emilia, now residents of the newly christened village of Santa Lucia.

The people looked back, whispering about her and others in the royal party, some jabbing each other with elbows and pointing to King Otto, or smiling and genuflecting to Adelaide, their beloved queen. Gwen knew they had assembled because one of their own was about to be buried with honors. She also realized they did not know him and had been puzzled how Adelaide could have made such a mistake. But no one dared question the queen’s decision, especially once they found out Adelaide intended to gift a wonderful reliquary to their church.

Their town would have a bright future, for now it would be a place of pilgrimage. From far and wide, people would flock to see the blessed relic of Santa Lucia.

Gwen found herself staring at a handsome, dark-haired family, a mother and her two daughters, one in her teens, the other a bright-eyed little girl. They were pointing to Alberto, their faces animated.

Gwen smiled at them, wondering at their enthusiasm, then let her gaze move on to others in the crowd. Many reminded her of Barca, solidly built and short, or Memmo, so bright and strong, of hearty peasant stock. But some were a little taller than the rest, and one youth had green eyes and blond hair, in pale imitation of the handsome man about to be buried.

Gwen felt a little chill prickle her skin. This young man also had the look of her cousins.

A trumpet sounded, shrill in the morning air. The crier set off, calling out, “
Stefano dí Santa Lucia
, here to be buried in his home, honored man and valiant hero, blessed of God. Make way the path for the final passage of his earthly remains!”

Father Warinus, several monks, and the priest of the chiesa – the very one who’d first given her the cowl after she’d time traveled – followed the crier. To her relief, the priest didn’t seem to recognize her.

Behind them, two gleaming-dark horses pulled the caisson bearing Stefano’s coffin, which was covered in a black pall. The horses were also draped in black, the linen running from their ears to their tails and falling to the ground on either side.

The trumpet blew once more, and the royal cortège started forward. Gwen felt a touch against her hand, then Alberto’s fingers entwined with hers, his grip warm and reassuring.

When they entered the cobbled piazza, Gwen felt another shiver run through her body. It looked familiar, yet different, like a place conjured awry in a dream. She searched among the simple stone and brick buildings, looking for the café where she’d had her cappuccino, the leather shops, and jewelry stores, but of course they weren’t there. She felt their presence, nonetheless, as though, if she wished hard enough, she could reach out through the ether and grab hold of them, pull them back to this time, to the here and now, or pull herself forward.

But no, no. Of course she couldn’t, nor did she want to.

Father Warinus’s voice caught Gwen’s attention and she turned to watch.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et…
”
The priests and monks moved up the church steps, then started to sing the Dirge. The crowd joined in with them, voices rising. Pallbearers removed the coffin from the caisson, preparing to carry it inside. Gilda’s nanny relinquished her charge. The child took Gwen and Alberto’s hands, and together, the three followed the procession.

As they entered the church, Gwen gazed at a blank wall, recalling her relief when the queen asked her to stay after the interment, long enough to pose for a last gift to Santa Lucia: a fresco of Adelaide and her ladies. Dumbfounded, Gwen realized immediately this would be the way to send her message.

Smiling, she faced the altar and imagined a wedding day far in the future, her grandmother young and beautiful. The image shimmered in her mind, then blurred, merging with that of another, dear Stefano, also gorgeous. Gwen’s breath caught as incredible thoughts surged to mind. Her connections with the past ran deeper than she’d ever dreamed and she looked at the world with new understanding.

Her grandmother was a cousin of Stefano’s family, which meant Rozala must have been their ancestress as well, and because of that…

We’re not just cousins. I’m descended from Stefano, too!

*

Finally, the funeral Mass came to a close. Father Warinus folded his stole, kissed it, and laid it aside, then took the proffered censor and waved it, once, twice, three times over the head of the casket, before sprinkling Holy Water. He led a final series of prayers, then the other priest brought out the reliquary. The monks followed them, holding crosses or Holy Books, and singing,
“
Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis…
”

Gwen closed her eyes, listening to the beautiful psalm:
For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death…

Pallbearers lifted the casket from the catafalque and followed the holy men. The mourners fell in behind. They were given candles at the stairway to the catacombs, and by the flickering light, they wound their way down the steps.

When the door to the catacombs opened, Gwen felt a rush of dank air, tinged with the scent of death. Her flame wavered and her thoughts veered to a distant memory. She saw a flashlight’s beam, heard easy laughter, saw the glint of delightful, green eyes. Stefano. She looked down. Her flame was steady now. She would never forget him.

Her eyes misted, and Alberto put his arm around her shoulder. “It will not be much longer now.”

The place was different than before, the crypts still in use, filled with the bones of the dead. The candles and the press of bodies quickly warmed the air. Gwen glanced around, but nobody else seemed bothered by the nearness of the bones, the thickening smoke, or mounting heat.

They moved into the oldest reaches of the burial chamber, the living cave. Water dripped, stalactites glistened. Father Warinus stopped at a newly excavated crypt and said prayers, then made the sign of the cross within the empty space and over the casket. He sprinkled Holy Water one final time, before Stefano was placed inside.

More prayers.

Even though he had died many months before, the horror of his passing rushed back to haunt Gwen. She fought her rising panic, wanting to leave, but knowing she must stay for Stefano, wishing to pay her respects, loving him all the more, her cousin and ancestor.

A stone was lifted into place, closing off the crypt.

The air grew stifling, the heat of her candle intense. Gwen passed it back and forth between her sweaty hands.

People pressed in and blocked her view just as Queen Adelaide stepped up and presented Father Warinus with something, which he set in front of the stone. He moved back, smiling, thanking the queen.

Gwen leaned in, knowing what it was without looking, but her eyes were drawn to the thing, just the same. The marble plaque. Once again, she could see Stefano’s mischievous smile as he described how he’d claimed this fellow as an ancestor.

But it wasn’t another man’s name. It was yours. He is you.

Gwen heaved a ragged sigh, and Alberto’s arms engulfed her.

With the interment over, everyone filed past them, singing,
“
Domine ne in furore tuo arguas me neque…
”

Alberto kissed Gwen’s brow.

“Is Mama sick?” Gilda pulled on Gwen’s skirts, trying to get her attention.

“No, dearest,” Gwen reassured her. “I’m fine, just sad. Let’s catch up with the others.”

“What are they singing?” Gilda asked, tilting her head back to see her father.

He scooped her up and explained, “They are called the ‘The Penitential Psalms,’ Gilda. There are seven of them and they ask God for forgiveness.”

“Oh.”

“You heard them once before, when you were very, very tiny.”

“When my other mama and my brother went to heaven?”

“Yes. Quiet now, and listen.”

“
Quoniam sagittae tuae infixae sunt mihi…
”

Gwen caught a glint of gold. Father Warinus passed by carrying the reliquary. The saint’s finger rested inside, but without the emerald ring, for it was still gracing Adelaide’s hand. That bit of history hadn’t played out yet; like the baby Gwen hoped for, it was still to come.

But some things were done, complete.

She gave his tomb a last, lingering look.
You’re home, Stefano, finally home.

Glancing up at Alberto, her warm gaze caressed his beloved features.

And so am I.

Present Day, Santa Lucia, Italy

Paola Godwyn stood in the sunshine of the piazza, the light blinding, unbearable, her body freezing and hollow, a dark pit of emptiness.

Staring at what remained of the Chiesa di Santa Lucia, fearing Gwen was buried somewhere inside, she felt both a deep dread at what might be found, and the desire to see her daughter, to hold her once more, even if…

Oh God
, she thought,
this isn’t happening. It can’t be true.

“Paola?”

Seeing her husband Robert’s heartbroken eyes caused hers to brim and spill. He took her hand, his skin also cold, his face ashen, and looking so old. They moved forward, their feet leaden and shuffling, slowed by grief and fear.

Yellow caution tape stretched across the base of the church steps. Still holding her hand, Robert held up the tape up for them to pass, and together they followed a path winding among piles of rubble. The three walls surrounding the altar were all that remained. In the center was the broken shell of what had been, a rose window now devoid of glass.

As they neared the end of the path and a second tape barrier, an official hailed them, stepping over plaster and brick to make his way over.

“Godwyns? Are you the Godwyns?”

When Robert nodded, the fellow stuck out his hand and they shook. “I am Terenzio Rizzo, the curator here. I’m so sorry for your terrible loss.”

Paola looked into his eyes, seeing only polite concern, knowing he could not possibly understand how it felt to lose a child.

“Is there any news?” Robert asked.

“No, nothing, I’m afraid,” Rizzo replied. “In all, the remains of two of our sisters and a priest have been found, but your daughter and another…” He shrugged. “We cannot seem to find either one. As I told you on the telephone, we are still searching, but,” he lowered his voice, “I must tell you, this is a recovery site now. I’m so sorry.”

Recovery?
Paola heard his words, but could not digest the meaning.

“But people survive beneath rubble,” Robert said, “sometimes for a long time. I heard there are catacombs––”

“Which have been thoroughly searched,” Rizzo interjected. “No one was down there when the earthquake struck. That was four days ago, and… anyway, the recovery effort is ongoing. Again, my condolences.”

His meaning was now clear. Paola turned her face away and pressed her cheek against her husband’s chest, but Robert had more questions. “Are you sure our daughter was here?”

“
Sì
. A tour had just been completed, and we have contacted most who participated, and all confirm her presence among them. Also, many noticed that she and our guide, Stefano Moretti, seemed, er, quite friendly with one another. They were seen talking after the tour. Our ticket agent says they definitely went back inside together, just before the quake hit.”

The curator glanced over his shoulder and nodded toward a cluster of people huddled together near one of the walls. “That is Stefano’s family, over there. They come to pray for him every day. He is the only other person we have not located.”

Robert gazed at them sadly. “Gwen came to Santa Lucia to do family research. My mother-in-law was born here.”

“Ah, that is helpful!” Rizzo exclaimed. “Perhaps they went into the archives. Stefano was quite good at research. I shall make sure the area is given special attention, or… do you know this family still? Perhaps she went to meet with them?” he added hopefully. “We might give them a call.”

Paola straightened and shook her head. “No, we lost touch. Mama’s parents, her siblings, I don’t know, I think most of the DeFabios were killed during the war.”

“DeFabio?
Mio Dio!
But here, this family too, Stefano’s family is part DeFabio, I believe. Come, let me introduce you.”

He spoke in Italian with the others, explaining the situation, and they rose with anguished smiles to greet the Godwyns. A petite woman wearing dark sunglasses stepped forward and held out her arms to Paola.

“I am… his mother,” she said in halting English.

Paola hugged her and wept, consoling, sharing her grief.

A commotion erupted from across the worksite, then cheers, and they all turned to see what it was about. Workmen gingerly extracted a grimy object from beneath a fallen slab of the building.

“What’s going on?” Robert asked.

A man ran over and spoke to the curator in rapid-fire Italian.

“Our
reliquiario
… the sacred finger of Santa Lucia… it has survived!” Rizzo exclaimed as he hurried off to examine the find.

Numb to the celebration, Paola exchanged a mournful glance with Stefano’s mother, then she heard Robert sigh.

“It could almost be Gwennie,” he mumbled.

“Who?” Paola asked, raising her head.

“Look at that fresco.” He pointed to one of the remaining walls. “See the tall girl?”

Paola searched the dust-coated image, scrutinizing each figure, trying to discern what he’d meant. Then, crying out, she grabbed Robert’s arm and pointed. “Rob… oh, my God… it
is
Gwen!”

She sprang away, crossed the tape barriers, and ran toward the image.

Workers shouted at her to get back, Robert, too, but she paid no attention. Stumbling, she fell hard on some loose bricks, but got up again and continued on. She could feel a warm wetness on her knee, but she didn’t care as she scrambled over rubble toward the fresco.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed and stopped, staring, as Robert reached her side. “Look at her,” she cried out, tears pouring down her cheeks. “My baby. Oh, Gwennie, my baby. It’s our baby. Look how tall… blond. Rob, she’s the only one looking at us, and she,” a sob tore through her, “she’s tugging on her ear!”

Rizzo came up and quietly reminded them they must move back behind the tape.

“Was she always there?” Robert demanded. “The tall woman, has she always been a part of this painting?”

“
Sì
,” Rizzo said, clearly puzzled. “Always. It is an original work painted in about 950, and depicts the presentation of the reliquary we just retrieved.”

Paola pulled out the picture of Gwen she’d brought and showed it to the curator. “It’s her. We always did that – tugging the ear. What does this mean? What can this mean?”

“Dear lady,” Rizzo said calmly, “your daughter is beautiful, and she does resemble our fresco, I will admit, but,” he spread his arms, “of course it would be impossible. Let me read to you the names. You will see.”

He approached the fresco and pointed to faint script below each image. “It is in Latin, and says ‘Queen Adelaide, wife of,’ etcetera, and then,” he moved closer and brushed away dust, “this one says ‘Gwen—’”

Obviously startled, he straightened and looked back at them with a haunted gaze. “I never saw this before,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “The plaster, it has flaked away and beneath it,” he squinted at the script, “is something… more. It says, ‘Gwendolyn of Canossa, beloved wife of Alberto Uzzo. She traveled with Stefano, the rescuer of Queen Adelaide and hero of Santa Lucia, who is buried here.’”

He gasped and then, with a mumbled apology, rushed off toward the Morettis.

Paola looked into Robert’s eyes and saw his shock reflecting her own.

“What the…?” He shook his head. “Time travel? But that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

With that, the darkness lifted from Paola’s soul. Skin tingling with goose bumps, her heart filled with hope, the seeds of possibility. Her instincts as a mother surged, replacing all doubt. How could it be anyone other than Gwen?

“No, Rob, it’s true. It’s not a coincidence. Look at her, look at our baby, she found a way to tell us, to tell us she’s happy. She, they went there somehow. She’ll never be found, because… because she isn’t here anymore. Somehow… I don’t know, but somehow…”

Paola reached out as if to caress the image of her daughter, knowing the bond between parent and child was unbreakable, whatever the distance between them, however far apart they lived, in space or time. The fact that she was alive… knowing she was happy and alive… made all the difference.

“Darling Gwen,” she said, “I understand. Thank you. Thank you for thinking of us, for letting us know.”

She looked over at Robert and caught the softness in his gaze, his burden eased, and heard his voice catch as he whispered, “Gwennie.”

There was a sudden shift in the stonework not far away, and a fine powder drifted down from the wall above, muting Gwen’s image, a soft crumbling taking the edge. As workers called for everyone to stand back, Paola realized there was little time.

Trembling, her eyes blurring with tears, she touched her earlobe one last time, this moment between them so final, their love ever strong, everlasting.