The Blessed (7 page)

“You?” The man practically quivered in anticipation. Anything that stirred intrigue and drama within the Palais de le Pape was in favor with those of the court. “You have it on your person?”

“Indeed. And that is just the beginning, Your Grace. There is much, much more to share before they arrive.”

“They are in transit now? They journey here, to Avignon?”

“Indeed. If they tarry longer than a fortnight, I would be surprised.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY set off at daybreak, with Bormeo set free and flying high overhead. And for the first time, they were afforded a perspective of Les Baux they could not see when they approached in the dead of night. They wove down a steep rock road paved with rounded limestone and lined with wild figs and black cypress. There was even a lotus tree or two, heavy with the many branches that boasted of age. Daria glanced back to admire the castle before it disappeared around the bend in the road, like a red ruby atop the cliffs, absorbing morning's glow. Inside, she knew Ambrogio, Ugo, and Nico still rested, each needing more time to heal or gain strength for the journey ahead.

Nearby, the spiny Les Alpilles mountains climbed to rim the lustrous valley, named Les Fontaine for its celebrated springs. Vast olive groves and fields covered the belly of the valley. Avignon was but a day's ride to their north.

Anette had told her they would spend the day traveling northwest, to the south of St. Remy and her ancient Roman ruins of Gaul, across Le Rhône via ferry at Tarascon by the old castle and traveling up the Gardon river to the Pont du Gard. There on the tributary's banks, they would encounter the castle of Lord Devenue.

Her eyes flicked to the oddly pockmarked and shaped rocks above the canyon beyond Les Baux. Undoubtedly Amidei and his men would follow their every move. But in the light of day, they would not dare to attack their number. All they had to do was make Lord Devenue's manor by nightfall and set up a perimeter. Father Piero's words echoed in her mind.

She would not give in to fear. She would not. But still, she could not resist searching the eerie hills once more for signs of the enemy giving chase. Too many nights in Lord Amidei's dungeon, too many lashings across her back, too near to despair . . . how could she banish the memories? She would not give in to fear, no, but how did one battle
memory
?

Gianni, so handsome on his steed beside her, searched her face as if reading the memories there, and she tried to smile at him. It had been weeks since he had stolen a kiss, and she had wondered if his interest was fading. But what she saw in his eyes was no lack of care. He loved her. He had seemed to love her from the moment that God had used her to pull him from the brink of death, at once furious with her for taking him from heaven's door and thankful that he had been brought back and into her life. As soon as he had been on his feet, he had pledged his loyalty, so sure, so very sure that his place was with her. Even at the expense of leaving his post as captain of the Knights de Vaticana de Roma, Cardinal Boeri's most senior guard for years.

Cardinal Boeri had been in Venezia . . . were their paths destined to cross again here? He had been on the hunt for Amidei; undoubtedly it was what had led him to Venezia. If his sources were good, it could lead him to Avignon. Was he an ally, or another enemy of which they need be wary? Was Gianni's history with him, his abandonment of his post, a detriment for which they all would pay?

“What troubles you, m'lady?” Gianni asked.

She smiled again. “Too many thoughts. My mind works on so many fronts that I grow unbalanced from the effort.”

“Then cease. Give in to this lovely countryside, the first day without rain in a week, and my company,” he said.

Daria laughed softly. “You are learning to speak in the courtly manner of our count.”

Gianni raised his eyebrows and grinned at her. “I am yet humble enough to remain a student in arenas I have yet to learn. Our count is the master in this regard.”

“Indeed.” She eyed the count and countess, riding ahead of them, in front of Vito and Ugo. They all rode, two by two, down the winding road that eventually met up with a straight Roman road. To either bank of them, scouts rode, on the lookout for Amidei's deadly archers. Behind her were the rest of the Gifted—aside from Ambrogio, who had been left in the castle chapel to paint—and at the end were Basilio and Rune and a portion of the count's own men. “Do you trust them, Gianni?”

“Our lord and lady? I do.”

“I miss Hasani.” In all her years, she could not remember being without her tall, black friend and guard, a slave child her father had freed and raised as her playmate, even going as far as to educate him alongside Daria. “He might be able to confirm that we are right in our beliefs.” What visions might he have had in his days since the slavers took him from the cell in Amidei's dungeon? What traps might he allow them to avoid? Moreover, was he ill, beaten, lost? Even dead?

“He is well, Daria, and strong. We will find him, as soon as this is over.”

“I cannot help thinking that we ought to have gone after him before taking on this task before us. We are stronger together.”

“It would have taken months, tracking the slavers to Constantinople and beyond.”

“But what if the trail is long cold by the time we get back to it?”

Gianni was silent for a while. “God has called us here, to this path. You know it as well as I. And as for Hasani, the fact that he is not with us . . . does not mean God has abandoned him, Daria. He is a follower of the Christ, one of us. His path will not be dark for long.”

“I pray you are right,” Daria said. “And I pray that he will forgive us for pursuing this over his slavers.”

“It will be well. When this is over, you and I will not rest until we find our friend and free him again.”

Daria shared a long look with him. His words washed over her like balm on a fiery wound. So he did think of being with her beyond this mission before them. Was his love one that would lead them to marriage? Or more of a courtly devotion like Armand lauded as the highest of the loves, most perfect when it was unrequited?

She swallowed hard. The thought of their love remaining unresolved, unrequited, left a hollow ache beneath her breastbone. What was the hesitation she sensed within her captain, ever since they had landed upon this shore? Did he fear his lack of lands or means? Did he really think she thought of anything of that order, a woman without any sort of dowry? Or was it her barren state that troubled him? Mayhap he did not wish to be with a woman who could not bear him an heir, landed gentry or not. Mayhap he thought her less of a woman because Marco had left their handfasting for another. Mayhap he did not wish to take a bride who had lain with another. Daria sighed.

“What is it?” Gianni asked, reaching across to lift her chin. “Daria, what troubles you?”

“Amidei,” she lied. “He cannot be far behind.”

And Gianni, ever vigilant and on guard, believed her, immediately sinking into their shared concern.

 
THEY made it to Lord Devenue's crumbling manor as the early-winter sun made its way over the far hills, casting meager light upon their path. The building sat on a road that hugged one hillside, the sprawling, blue-sparkling Gardon river meandering its way down below. On the far side, a dense forest covered the land. Farther upriver, Count Armand said, were the ancient remains of the Pont du Gard, the massive Roman aqueduct that had once carried water to the city of Nimes.

Armand and Anette shared a long look, pausing at the front gates of Lord Devenue's dilapidated home. It was apparently as bad as they had heard or imagined. The entrance was unguarded. The towers and walls were in fearsome disrepair. Now Piero knew why they had two wagons of stones and mortar, and four masons, trailing them. The nobles of Les Baux knew well of the disintegrating state of Lord Devenue's estate. If Daria was to heal the lord, the count and countess would do their part in helping to aid the lowly country manor.

Generous, their count. For the hundredth time, Piero thanked the Lord that he had granted them a benefactor and guard. Who among the nobility would have dared to support a group of pilgrims who pledged to take on the Church itself? The Church and nobles wrangled far too often; one did not wish to invite oneself to a new battleground. To say nothing of facing Amidei and his men, who undoubtedly watched them even now. Only God could have orchestrated such a meeting, such an alliance.

But what was this they were about to discover? They marched into the courtyard, paved with the same limestone that seemed to dominate every structure in this part of Provence and beyond. They were more than forty in number, and still not one person had hailed them. Had the lord abandoned his property? Gone elsewhere? Mayhap left to seek out his own cure? Or worse . . . died?

“Stay where you are,” growled a man from the top of a parapet walkway above them. He pulled back the string of his bow, aiming at the count. Ten of Armand's men, along with Basilio and Rune, immediately nocked an arrow and drew their own bows.

“Lord Devenue,” Countess Anette said, pulling back her hood. “It is us. Be at peace.”

The man on the parapet above them audibly drew in a breath, which seemed to reverberate around the stone courtyard. He lowered his bow a bit, his mouth slack. “Anette?”

“It is I, m'lord. Please. Come down and greet us.”

The man lowered his bow and arrow but slowly shook his head. Even in the dim light of winter's dusk, Piero could see the massive tumor that distorted the man's head. It was as if he had sprouted yet another skull atop his own, the size of a child's head. “Nay. I am here alone. I have nothing for you or your people. Go on your way. You may not stay here.”

Anette leapt down from her horse and straightened her skirts, at once every inch a noble lady. “Nay, Lord Devenue. We shall stay here. We have brought a healer. She says you are to be well.”

The man laughed, softly at first, edging into a guttural guffaw. “Nonsense. I am to die. Here. Alone. We said our farewells more than two years past. Be on your way.”

Count Armand dismounted and stood beside his sister. Immediately the rest of them did the same. All looked up to the man on the wall. “We are here until you see our healer,” Armand said. “Only a fool would turn away God's own path out of hell.”

“Call me a fool, then.”

“Nay,” Anette said. “I once called you my own. My beloved,” she said softly, so softly that Piero wondered if the man could hear her. “Will you not see her? Our Lady Daria?”

She gestured back toward Daria and Gianni. Gianni tossed his cape backward in agitation, revealing the red peacock on the white background, as well as the hilt of his sword. In the dim light, the d'Angelo crest almost glowed, and Piero could feel the man's eyes drawn to it like moths to a flame. Of course. God had given him a sign, just as he had the Les Bauxs. Some key that would unlock the door to this man's hardened heart.

Lord Devenue leaned backward, as if against a wave of wind, eyes still upon Gianni's cape. And yet it was utterly still.

Piero whispered to Daria, “He knows your family crest. He has seen the peacock somehow, somewhere.”

“Only the healer and her people. Even you, Anette. The rest will have to stay in my courtyard or the stables. The mansion is not suitable anyway.” What he meant to say . . .
I am unsuitable
. . . remained unspoken.

“As you wish, brother,” Count Armand said with a smile, as if the man had offered them his choice accommodations.

“I have no food,” said the lord.

“We brought enough for all,” said Armand.

And with that, Lord Devenue left the wall and came down to let them in.

 
THE pain radiated off him like heat off a sun-baked stone. No doubt the massive tumors were causing him to lose balance, hunger, thought, memory, as well as forcing him to endure intolerable agony. Daria struggled not to gasp at the enormity of the two bulges atop his head. And the smell of him . . . the man reeked as if he had not bathed in months. Tessa leaned hard against her. “Oh, m'lady, he is in such pain,” she said.

“I know, Tess,” she said, studying the man. She took the torch from Gianni and slowly circled the man, who stood under a cobweb-covered chandelier and in front of a door that did not latch properly. The stairwell was covered in dust. Two chairs were in the corner, little more than a pile of splintered sticks. What impotent rage had this man suffered?

“Be at peace, m'lord, I have come to bring you the Lord's healing.”

“Be that in heaven or on earth?” he asked, meeting her eye as she came before him again.

“I do not yet know. But your agony ends here, this night,” she said.

“There have been others, others who have pledged the same.”

“Then why allow me entry?”

“Because you are in the company of my one great love.”

Daria paused and considered Piero's whispered words. “And something more. The peacock. You have been given a sign.”

Lord Devenue looked away. His chin was strong, his eyes wide and clear, even if filled with pain and sorrow. But she was right. “For days now, I have not slept. And when I doze off, one thing has come to me in my dreams . . . a red peacock on a white background.”

“Our Lord was preparing you, showing you that we were to come.” He did not answer. He feared believing. She had to awaken in him at least a tiny glimmer of hope.

“We are here, Lord Devenue, to heal you. God has used me to heal many in this past year, and you are to be the next. He is always very clear in his direction. I was at Les Baux when he spoke to me about you.”