The Blessed

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Josephine nodded gravely, her smile fading. “You are called to the Palais de le Pape, just as I am.”

  “Indeed,” Father Piero said. “We know not where our journey will end, or if we shall escape with our lives, only that we are to do this and no other. It shall have bearing on the course of the Church, indeed, upon all of humanity.”

  “Not to lend any pressure,” Vito put in. He grinned at them all. “ ’Tis a grand adventure, if nothing more.”

  Josephine smiled as Gaspare translated the knight’s words. “Oh, ’tis much more.” She gazed around the room at them all. “You believe that this is where it all ends. I can feel it within you. But my friends, my new family, this is where it shall all begin.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “THEY have arrived, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Bordeau to the pope, bowing low in front of his chair and leaning forward to kiss his ring. Morning light streamed through leaded glass windows at their right, in the private papal apartments.

  “Oh?” said Cornelius absently, settling back into his thronelike chair, a bit tired after morning mass. “And who might that be?”

  “Those Cardinal Boeri spoke of. Those I have warned you about,” said Cardinal Bordeau. The pope flicked his fingers toward him, and the cardinal stood and took a seat. “Those who believe their coming is foretold. They believe they are in possession of a lost letter of Saint Paul, or at the very least, Apollos, a letter that bespeaks of power within the people. Do you remember my speaking of this matter?”

  “We do.”

  “They arrived in the company of the Count Rieu des Baux, and have already collected quite the following among the Provençal nobility.”

  “And how have they accomplished such a feat?”

  “Apparently,” the cardinal said, sitting forward, eyes aglitter, “there is some truth to their prophecy. Word has it that the lady does indeed hold the power to heal; the priest, the gift of wisdom; the knight, the gift of faith. There is even one among them who can produce miraculous acts, and a child who can discern light from dark. What’s more, there is one of our own city now among them . . . an old, blind woman who claims to be a prophetess.”

  “It is bound to be nothing more than magic,” the pope said, scowling. “Such spiritual powers have not been seen since the days of the apostles. And never would our Lord God deign to gift feeble women as such. It is preposterous. And dangerous.”

  “Agreed,” said the cardinal.

  The pope settled his chin in his hand, thinking. “Did Cardinal Boeri intercept them? Is he with them?”

  “He is.”

  “They must know that this is not a safe place for them. Why not hide out among the people as the Cathars did? Why present themselves to us as sheep to the slaughter?”

  Cardinal Bordeau gave him a rueful smile. “I believe they hope to persuade you to support them.”

  Pope Cornelius laughed, his brow lifting. “Such audacity!”

  “Not if one believes oneself holy and called,” said the cardinal.

  The pope sat back in his chair, studying him. “They will end up in the Court of Apostolic Causes. Their judgment shall be final, might cost them their very lives.”

  “You must tread carefully, Holiness,” said the cardinal, rising and pacing toward the window. “There is word of a miraculous healing for Lord Devenue. He has just entered Avignon.”

  “Dimitri Devenue?” the pope said, mouth agape.

  “Indeed,” nodded the cardinal. “Again, this is not all rumor. Their claims are not without merit. Lord Devenue was grotesque in the end, merely waiting in self exile, praying to die, these last two years.”

  “Hideous was his deformity.”

  “And now ’tis entirely gone. His head is as any other man’s. He is thin, but handsome as ever. And he has wed the Countess Rieu des Baux.”

  “They wed?” said the pope, a bit surprised. “We do not recall receiving an invitation. Not that we would have attended, but ’tis customary . . .”

  “Indeed. It was rather sudden. Cardinal Boeri presided in Les Baux, much to the consternation of Cardinal Saucille.”

  “Hmm. The good cardinal de Vaticana de Roma came to us, certain that he could guide this group, bring them into line. He believes they might be an asset to us, not heretics on the prowl.”

  “That would be ideal,” Cardinal Bordeau allowed, rising to pace, chin in hand. “Ideal. But from what I know of them, there would be much work for the cardinal to do. This group does not seem like those who wish to conform. There is a rumor that the countess and Lord Devenue married without sanction or blessing—that Cardinal Boeri conducted rites already spoken by their common priest.”

  The pope’s eyes widened with displeasure.

  “And we’ve seen before what religious fervor can do for heretics . . . and how the masses gravitate toward them.”

  “Much has transpired of late, it seems, at Les Baux. Yes, much has transpired. How is it that you know such intimacies?”

  The cardinal smiled. “It is my aim never to fail you, Holy Father. My network of people loyal to the papacy has grown quite vast. Well beyond Provence.”

  “Hmm. As evidenced by the handsome sum that goes to pay for it.”

  “Well worth it, to be prepared, no? Lord and Lady Devenue entered the city last night, and are now at the Richardieu manor on the river with her brother—and this intriguing group we have spoken of. Word has also reached us that the doge intends to arrive on the morrow, along with Conte and Contessa Morassi de Venezia.”

  “For Prince Maximilien’s menagerie ball?” the pope asked. “That is a long way to travel for the festivities.”

  “There are others. The Bonaparts of Tarascon, the Blanchettes of Uzes, the Duvins of Nimes.”

  “And all of these nobles have ties to this group?”

  “Indeed.”

  The pope rested the back of his head against his high, carved chair and stared upward. His light brown eyes flitted across the ceiling, searching the massive wooden beams as if they could give him guidance. “It is unsettling,” he mused. “They have amassed enough power that we cannot quietly deal with them.”

  “Exactly their intention, Holiness.”

  “And so we are forced to catch them in some outright act of heresy that no noble would dare defend.”

  “Indeed.”

  Pope Cornelius steepled his fingers and sat in silence a moment longer. “They shall be at the menagerie ball?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “Be certain that we are seated near one another, will you?”

  “Consider it done, Your Holiness.”

  The man turned to go, and Cornelius waved away his secretary and guard, eager to be alone. Seeing the pope’s face, the last guard turned and closed the double doors behind him. Cornelius stared at the wooden doors, remembering copies of a forbidden letter . . . hidden deep within his own library. Could it all possibly be true? Prophecy unfolding before him? He grimaced. This would become quite a mess before it was over. He could feel it in his bones. Wearily he rose, went to the window, and lowered to his knees to pray.

  “ABSOLUTELY not,” Gianni said, pacing in front of Count Armand. “We shall not attend a masked ball. We shall not be able to know who is friend and who is foe!”

  “We really have no choice,” Armand said. “I have already sent my men to Marseilles to retrieve two suitable animals for the pope’s new menagerie. You must sit immediately, along with the others, and be fitted for new clothing. What you wear is hardly suitable for a ball.”

  “We shall not attend,” Gianni said.

  Armand rose and leaned closer to him, pointing a finger. “You shall.”

  “Nay,” Gianni said, leaning a little closer.

  Piero, roused by the raised voices, entered the room and edged between the men. “What are we not attending?” he asked quietly.

  Gianni held Armand’s gaze a moment longer, seething, and then turned away with a sigh. He ran his hand through his
hair and then pointed toward Armand. “The count wants us all to attend Prince Maximilien’s menagerie ball. For the pope.”

  Piero studied Armand, who was plainly having difficulty holding his tongue, and then looked to Gianni. “Is it not what we are here for? To reach the pope with the good news? To help enlighten him? Bring him into the new era of the Church?”

  Gianni laughed without mirth. “And this is the way, Father? We engage him at a dance? To say nothing of the danger of such a show. Think of it! We enter, all in mask and finery. Who else do you think shall attend?”

  “Abramo Amidei,” Piero said evenly.

  “And his minions. They will seize every opportunity to get to us.”

  “But we shall be surrounded by nobles,” Piero said.

  Gianni paused. “You are not considering attending . . .”

  “At some point we must engage the pope, Gianni. Why not come bearing gifts?” Piero looked over his shoulder at Count Armand, who was visibly relaxing with the priest’s support. “It will be an affront to the pope if all honored guests within the Richardieu manor do not attend the festivities. Count Armand is right—we cannot do anything but attend. So we may as well make the most of it.”

  “Do you not remember what transpired the last time we attended a public dance?” Gianni asked, visibly paling. “Do you not remember?”

  DARIA fingered the elegant invitation and carefully lettered font of the words, and stared over the small portico that looked out at the Rhône. She remembered the ball to which her husband referred in his fury last night—when she and Hasani were abducted and the Morassi mansion burned above the curving Grand Canal. She stared out at the river of Provence, high and sparkling in the winter sun, remembering the Venetian waters.

  The seamstress took her hips in hand and forced her to straighten. It was her second fitting for her gown. Daria frowned down at her. No servant had dared to touch her so.

  The seamstress caught her look of disapproval but ignored it, concentrating at the task at hand. Word had come down that all ladies were to wear the finest dress possible, with a bit of wild animal skin worked into the creation somewhere. Men were to do the same with their coats. Every seamstress in the city had been working deep into the night for weeks.

  “It is as if we prepare for some vast drama,” Daria said. “Is the pope so bored with the work of the kingdom that he must turn to the exotic?”

  Josephine stood beside her, her hands constantly running over the elegant fabric of her gown, still slightly aghast that she wore such finery at all. “ ’Tis not the pope, but those who influence him. Deep within him beats the heart of a true disciple, a man of God. But he is led astray, more and more, by the wealth and deceit of others.”

  “It is encouraging that you believe he remains true, deep within. If I had whatever I wished at my fingertips, and the devil whispered in my ear, it would be difficult to defend myself.” Her thoughts went to Abramo, his whisperings. She closed her eyes, remembering how near she had come to falling, failing her Lord and giving in to the dark lord.

  “The dark one is insidious,” said Josephine. “He uses any edge he can to get between us and our Savior. Sometimes, even truth.”

  “Indeed.” Daria glanced at her. Could this one, too, read her thoughts? She had often wondered if Piero had the gift.

  “You have come close to the dark,” Josephine said quietly, still staring blindly ahead of her. She picked up pauses in speech as Daria relied on expression to read what people chose not to say.

  “Yes. The same man who sought to kill you in the streets was the same that hunted me. I was his prisoner for some time.”

  “Until the Lord found a way to free you.”

  Daria nodded, already tired of the conversation. She did not wish to remember those days. It made her fear what was ahead. Seeing Amidei again. Gianni had already warned her that they were likely to encounter him at the ball the next night. She laid a hand on her stomach, suddenly queasy.

  “You are ill, m’lady?” asked the seamstress, looking up at her in alarm.

  Daria tried to take a deep breath, then ran for the deck and vomited over the side. She returned, thinking back to how long it had been since she had had an appetite, how the very thought of food made her feel ill. Since they had set their course for Avignon, she thought, or soon thereafter. It was most likely the grief, the trauma of the last few months, the concern over what was ahead. Even in the midst of the joy of her union with Gianni.

  “I do hope you did not muss your dress,” said the seamstress.

  “I did not,” Daria said in irritation. “And I am well, thank you for your concern.”

  The seamstress gave her a rueful smile and resumed her pinning of the hem when Daria again stood upon the small platform.

  “You are well,” Josephine said with a small smile. “How long have you been our brave captain’s bride?”

  “Little more than a week now,” Daria said.

  “And already carrying his child. Blessed are you.”

  Daria whipped her head around and stared at the woman. “Carrying . . . nay. That is not possible.”

  “Oh? Then it is normal for you to feel so ill?”

  “It is the upheaval, the difficulties we have faced. I mourn two of our knights. They were killed by Amidei.”

  “Oh,” Josephine said. But her opaque blue eyes rested on Daria, waiting.

  Daria turned away from her, feeling the older woman’s piercing gaze as suddenly too intimate. As if she were not blind, but rather could see in an extraordinary fashion. Slowly she lifted her eyes to the mirror before her. Her mind raced, thinking back to the last time her menses had passed, more than five weeks now. The stomach upset, the ache in her breasts when the seamstress pulled the bodice tight . . . And then she ran again, this time making it only as far as the chamber pot.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to look upon Josephine. “ ’Tis not possible. You see, I am . . . I am barren.” Her words emerged in little more than a whisper.

  Josephine’s eyebrows shot up and she gave her a small smile. “Not any longer, m’lady.”

  It was too soon after their wedding night. Too soon to be sensing the first signs of pregnancy. Wasn’t it? Daria lifted a hand to her brow and stared at the wall, at delicate paintings of flowers and vines that filled false architectural panels. Was it even possible? Might God have blessed her at last with a child? And how could she forfeit her life if it meant forfeiting a babe as well?

  She turned back to Josephine and eyed the seamstress, who had turned to Josephine’s hem in her absence, ignoring them as if this were naught but idle talk. “It is imperative you not tell anyone of this. Yet.”

  Josephine remained facing forward. “I cannot tell a lie, m’lady. It is not in me.”

  “I am not asking you to lie. I am asking you not to share word of this . . . possibility.”

  “Until?”

  Daria stared back at the wall. Until she knew for sure? Until this was over? Hadn’t she just searched for a time to see to Roberto’s surgery and recovery and come up empty-handed? When would be the right time to tell Gianni? The others?

  She shook her head and sighed. Nay. They would all become impossible if they knew the truth. Gianni was nearly impossible now, when it came to her protection. If he knew she carried his child . . . if the others knew . . . God had not brought them this far for a babe to get in the way of his plans. She owed it to them all to see it through. When they were on the other side of the battle, safe, she would tell them.

  Her hand went to her belly and she shook her head again in wonder, looking up to the ceiling, thinking of how long she and Marco had waited, wanted a baby. An heir. It would have made their handfast a betrothal. The vows would have been exchanged. She would be at home in Siena, married to one of the Nine, enjoying life as she once knew it with the Sciorias and Hasani, spending half her year in the bustling city she loved, and half in the rolling green hills that she loved even more. Ambrogio
would just be completing his task for the Nine, in the Palazzo Publico on Il Campo, and Vincenzo . . .

  The thought of her lost dreams did not bring her the hollow ache of old, the grief that had once sent her to the convent where she met Piero. All of that was gone. In its place was this new life. If she had been granted that most fervent of wishes, if God had smiled upon her prayers for a babe, she might never have known what it was to heal in the Father’s name. She might never have met Piero or Gianni or Tessa or Roberto or Gaspare or any of her knights. She might never have known the vast power of the Holy and his war for his own, against those of the dark. She might not have seen life for all it was—this portion, here on earth, a mere itch on the vast horizon.

  She smiled. How good it was to know she was where she was supposed to be. With Gianni, Piero, and the others. And on the track God wished her to take. Her homes had been burned behind her. Many of the people she had loved had been taken or killed. Vincenzo was lost to her. But here, now, she knew love again, and a pervading sense of peace.

  Daria finally turned to Josephine. “Until it is right.”

  Josephine paused. “You know you are asking a prophetess to keep her tongue. That is nigh unto impossible.”

  “Please, Josephine. It is important.”

  “I shall do my best, m’lady,” she said with a nod. “It is all I can promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “YOU are certain?” Abramo said to the young woman at his side.

  “Heard it from her own lips, a day past. She believes she carries a babe,” said the young seamstress. “But she swore the old woman to secrecy.”

  Abramo laughed and turned, picking the young woman up in his arms and twirling her around. “Great shall be your reward,” he said, smiling up into her eyes. He set her down on the ground and kissed her until he felt her ease beneath him, bending to follow every curve of his body.

  “You are certain that the knight does not know? Nor the priest?”

  “The lady forswore the old woman to silence.”