“And Morano is so pleased at Amidei’s progress, he has reportedly begun to confess his own sins to Amidei.”
“What?” Piero asked, flushing red at the neck.
“Such is the way our enemy works,” Gaspare said.
“They spend a great deal of time together. Amidei and Vincenzo have resided in the cardinal’s mansion for a week now. An eavesdropping maid, my source, told me the cardinal confessed carnal sins committed long ago, before he took his vows. But he said the desires remain.”
“Such is the way flesh works,” Piero said. “Only God can fill our minds with the holy. But we must ask it of him.”
Ambrogio paused.
“There is more,” Piero said flatly.
“Five nights past, after the masquerade, Amidei and the others had one of their ceremonies. It was widely attended. By maid and cardinal alike.”
Daria closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cool plaster wall like a cold cloth against a fever. Not wanting to know what he was about to say, yet aware she must hear it.
“My young friend, the maid, was horrified, properly rushing back for confession and a declaration never to enter any room that Lord Amidei is in again. She has left the cardinal’s employ.”
“Take care, friend,” Piero warned. “Fill our minds only with the barest of facts.”
Ambrogio grimaced. “Well I know of what you speak. Wide is Amidei’s reach, and spreading,” he said to all of them. “He must, must be stopped. If he infiltrates every cardinal’s mind, every cardinal’s heart, it will not be long until he controls the pope himself. All of Christendom is in danger.”
“It was so bad?” Daria asked, daring to look at her old friend.
“No eyes have seen the depravity of that ceremony. And what is worse, Amidei turned it in their heads. In their eyes, in their memories, they believe it a holy venture, an enlightening ceremony where they saw at last how things ought to be. God must have had his angels around that girl.”
Daria’s eyes met Piero’s, then Gaspare’s and Hasani’s, even Josephine’s blank eyes that so strangely seemed as if she could see.
It was time to get to the palais. Even before the pope demanded their presence, they must demand his.
“I must confess something else,” Ambrogio said.
“Speak,” Piero said, tensing.
But Ambrogio smiled. “The Chapel of Saint John was fully prepared for frescoes. It merely needed the right artist to lay pigment upon the plaster. While you were away, Simone and I, working long into the night, completed them.”
Daria let out a curious laugh through her nostrils, seeing the mischief in his eyes. “So you wish to confess that your weariness produced . . . unworthy results?”
“Nay, the results are grand, as usual,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But the executioner who took John the Baptist’s head? The face of Satan, hovering in the corner at Golgotha? The face of Judas, at our Lord’s table? All three bear a striking resemblance to men we know.”
Daria let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “You did not.”
“I did,” Ambrogio said, nodding. “It shall not be long until one of the cardinals ushers our friend into the new chapel for a look.”
Vito clapped him on the back and began laughing, and they all joined in, laughing so hard they cried.
IT took everything in him to bear the entrance into the chapel, to pretend admiration for Simone Martini’s work. But he dearly wanted to make his way into Cardinal Stefani’s mind and life as he had so easily with the others. This one was difficult, resistant to him.
And while Stefani oversaw all the pope’s endeavors to make the palais something of world renown, he was also the keeper to the keys of the cells far beneath the palais floor. If he could befriend the cardinal, he might gain access to the prison and kill Gianni before the man was released.
Vincenzo trailed behind, obediently admiring the new frescoes that had been added in the past week, the vast array of bronze stars set into the vast, barrel-vaulted ceiling of the Grand Tinel, the first of the pope’s private compartments—done by apprentices of Martini—and then up to the Chapel of Saint John.
“It was just completed yesterday,” Stefani said, opening the doors and ushering them inward. “You are of the first honored guests to lay eyes upon it.” He looked up. “Is it not magnificent?”
“Magnificent,” muttered Amidei, feeling physically ill. What kind of prayers had already been uttered here? He had not felt such presence since he had been beaten back by the Gifted and their God on the isle, and before that in Il Campo de Siena . . .
His eyes stilled on the scene of Golgotha, relishing the Lord Jesus upon the cross, running across his dying body as if it gave him sustenance. But as his gaze traveled over the faces of the mourning, glorious in their defeat, he stopped on the ghouls and the face of Satan, painted in blue in the corner. His face. Abramo Amidei’s.
His head whipped to Simone Martini’s, the artist now visibly shaken as he looked from Amidei to the face of Satan. “It is not I who painted that, m’lord,” he whispered. He swallowed hard.
“Lord Amidei,” Vincenzo whispered, nodding up to another panel above them, this scene depicting the beheading of Saint John the Baptist. The executioner, with axe in hand, was again clearly Abramo. “You are not alone,” Vincenzo whispered, nodding to the upper right panel, a scene of the Last Supper. Judas, with Vincenzo’s face.
Abramo Amidei seethed, searching his mind. He whipped his head back to Simone, ignoring Stefani, who stood, mouth agape, seeing what they had already discovered. It would take only hours for word of this to spread throughout the palais, for all to come and see it with their own eyes. What traction would be lost if the cardinals saw this?
“Who assisted you in this chapel?” he asked, striding over to the small man, already knowing the answer.
“Ambrogio Rossellino,” said the artist, trembling before him. “I swear, m’lord, I had no idea it was your visage. No idea—”
“I want it destroyed,” he said to the cardinal, over Simone’s shoulder. “Now. Destroy it this instant and repaint it. Close off these doors and allow no entrance.”
“Nay, m’lord,” Cardinal Stefani said, looking at him as if he were half mad. “I can understand your embarrassment at the apparent likeness—”
“I want it destroyed!” he screamed.
Two knights came running, swords drawn at the uncustomary shouting so near the sacred chambers. Behind them were a bishop and Cardinal Saucille. All rushed in.
Amidei turned and walked out and down the stairs. He had to get to the men who could see his task done. Immediately. He paused in the Grand Tinel, feeling Vincenzo pause beside him, closed his eyes, and pinched his temples with middle finger and thumb.
“Lord Amidei,” said a small voice.
He opened his eyes to see the pope, Cardinal Corelli, two bishops, and four secretaries trailing behind him.
Amidei went to his knee, reaching forward to kiss the pope’s proffered ring, feeling the bile of hatred rise in his throat even as he forced a proper expression to his face.
“We take it you have seen our new chapel, Lord Amidei,” said the man, not giving him permission to rise. Vincenzo still was kneeling, just behind Abramo, but was ignored.
“I have, Holiness,” Abramo said evenly.
The pope smiled, staring down at him without blinking. “The artists took some creative license with their interpretations. By and large, we are well pleased.”
Could he have missed the resemblance? Might it all be in Abramo’s imagination?
“We all would do well to pay attention that Satan still lingers at the foot of the cross,” the pope said.
Abramo could feel his smile fall. This man missed nothing. “The enemy is always about, Holiness,” he ground out.
“Always,” said the pope, still staring down at him. “Vast is our holy realm, Lord Amidei, but do not underestimate our power to closely watch those things that are of the gre
atest importance.” He brushed past him, leaving him on his knees.
Abramo frowned and met Vincenzo’s gaze over his shoulder.
“I understand you wished to pay a visit to Sir Gianni de Capezzana,” the pope said from behind him.
Shoving down his anger, Abramo shifted around to face him, still on his knees. The man toyed with him. “An old friend from Toscana. I thought I might bring him a word of encouragement.”
“Hmm. We highly doubt that. But you needn’t seek him out. Upon Countess des Baux’s urging, we thought it appropriate to release him an hour past. He shall return with the rest of the fabled Gifted in three days’ time, in a private audience with me.” He strode forward. “Lord Amidei?”
“Yes, Holiness?” Abramo ground out.
“See that no harm comes to Sir de Capezzana nor any of the others between now and our private audience. If anything dire does transpire, you shall be the first we come to. Deep is the division between you and them. We have seen it. Do not cross the divide. Is that understood?”
“Most clearly,” he said.
The pope sat back on his heels and studied him. A small smile grew at the corners of his mouth; he undoubtedly was seeing Abramo’s face as Satan’s own. When he got hold of Ambrogio . . .
“We shall assign six knights to follow your every step, Lord Armidei. Do not be surprised to see them behind you,” said the pope.
He turned to go, leaving Abramo sputtering in rage. Just what exactly was transpiring here? When had the tide turned? When had the Rhône again shifted direction?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DARIA ran across the narrow footbridge to meet him, and Gianni swept her into his arms, holding her close, tenderly, whispering over and over, “Oh Daria, I am so sorry. So sorry.”
At last she pulled away and looked up into his green eyes. “You did as any one of us might have,” she said. “Armand understood you had been tricked. He could see it all. And Anette . . .”
“Anette?”
“She grieves. But she knows the truth of it, too, Gianni. She will return to us.”
Gianni looked up into the winter-dormant tree branches. “She left, then.”
“To say her farewells to Armand. See him home.”
He sighed heavily and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they began to walk back to the river manor. “I would have liked to do the same.”
“I know. We all feel it. Father Piero has proposed a remembrance ceremony of sorts. We shall honor Count Armand’s memory here, even though we shall not be at his funeral pyre.”
“They will burn his sword with him?” Gianni asked.
“In the manner of all the valiant,” she said. Her eyes went to the ground, but in her head, she could only see Basilio and Rune and Armand’s father, all clutching their swords in hand as the fires were lit beneath them. The flames rising to the sky, heat so great they had to back away . . .
“So much death, in this life,” Gianni said.
“So much life, among the death,” Daria returned. She had to tell him of the baby. It could not wait any longer. She turned to face him, but a shout went out from behind her. They turned together, to see Vito, with Tessa across his back. The two cried out in joy and rushed to them, embracing Gianni. Their shouts roused the rest of the household, and soon all were about Gianni.
Daria backed away and watched as they enfolded him as a long-lost brother. Even Lucien and Matthieu came near, tentatively reaching out an arm for Gianni to grasp, silently giving him their blessing, their forgiveness. Piero had spent some time with them of late, explaining Amidei’s great power over the mind, the flesh, the heart. He had explained enough of Daria and Gianni’s history with the Sorcerer that they might see things from Gianni’s perspective, understand how things might have gone so desperately wrong.
She could see from the tender look upon Gianni’s face that their embrace and welcome meant the most to her husband. As they reached out, touched him, held him within their gaze, he found some of the absolution he sought. Daria knew that only when he was forgiven by Anette would this journey be complete.
“Come, husband,” she said, taking his hand and leading him into the manor. “You must bathe and eat and tell us what you have learned while in the pope’s close care.”
Gianni smiled. “Close care? If that is his close care, then I would hate to be in his prison.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” she said with a grin. “Go upstairs. I will bring water for a hot bath,” she said.
“Only if you join me in it,” he whispered.
She shoved him away and yet smiled at him. “Mayhap in the second bath,” she said. “You smell of pig slop and lesser things.”
He gave her a shrug and turned and headed up the stair, his weariness plainly evident in every step he took. He bore the effects of five nights in a prison cell, the grief of the loss of a friend, but she could detect no abuse. “Thank you, Lord Jesus,” she whispered, filling a huge kettle to set atop the cook’s fire.
Gianni was asleep, facedown across their bed, when she and the maids came up, buckets of water in hand. They poured it into the massive master washtub, filling it halfway with the steaming water, then returned to the kitchen to fetch five more, letting the captain nap.
Daria looked outside and then down at her snoring husband, aware that it was but three in the afternoon. If he slept for the night now, he might awaken partway through the night and prowl the manor, awakening them all. Nay, it was best to rouse him now with a bath, help him remember life, hope, love. Then he could tell them what he had learned in the palais and retire for the night.
She smiled and locked the door, then went to the bed and slowly undressed. She stared at her husband and rubbed her belly, aching with the need to tell him. But she wanted him alert, his attention solely on her, not so distracted, not so terribly weary. Daria leaned forward and gave him delicate kisses atop his temple and ear, wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of him. He roused and opened one eye at her.
Immediately he rolled to his side and held his head in one hand, gazing upon her. “What mischief are you up to, wife?”
“Mischief?” she asked, a puzzled expression upon her face. “No mischief. Just a bath as you requested.” She turned and slipped into the sudsy, hot water, then looked back to see his grin. “Come, husband,” she said, reaching out a wet, bubble-covered arm. The soap reminded her of home, with its scent of juniper berry and anise . . .
“THE cardinal came to me and confessed a greater ambition in his heart,” said Gianni, sitting with the others around the great dining room table after they had supped.
“Which ambitions?” asked Father Piero, fingering his knife, stabbing a rind of pork fat and stuffing it in his mouth.
Gianni remembered the priest’s strange hesitation with the pope, shoved it from his mind, and continued. “He confessed that he had hoped to use an alliance with the Gifted as a means to bring home the papacy to Roma. And moreover, he confessed his own desire to be crowned pope.”
They all stared at him, absorbing the information.
“He has come to see the error of such desires,” he said, looking each in the eye. “The Lord has made it apparent to him that his task is not to ascend to greatness, but rather to assist us in our monumental task. He now sees it as the rationale for my coming to him and serving alongside him in the hunt for the Sorcerer and others of the dark, for how he came to be the keeper of a portion of our letter. And moreover, why he is a cardinal. He has been kept separate, untainted by the work of Amidei here in Avignon, and yet he still has a favored voice within the pope’s ear. He has warned the Holy Father of what is transpiring among the cardinals, of Amidei’s widening web.”
Piero studied him. “Are you certain that he is now a trustworthy ally?”
“Upon my life,” Gianni returned.
THE Gifted rose just before daybreak, building a massive fire and holding a vigil of silence for Count Armand Rieu des Baux, just as they knew their friends did a
t the same time on the limestone cliffs beside the castle. The fire lit easily, for the men had stacked wood dried last autumn high, and laid the kindling well.
Piero spoke in a hushed whisper. “Good is the Lord, for he brings us friends along this difficult path, friends we shall see yet again, in our Lord’s own kingdom, a kingdom without end.” He took the torch from Vito and passed it to Gianni, who threw it across the kindled pile. It immediately caught and spread, moving about the pile at a steady pace until all was aflame.
The fire’s light drove away the last bit of darkness, even as the sun rose over the eastern horizon. “The enemy considers death his own victory, when he might extinguish the Lord’s light among the world,” Piero said, walking between the Gifted and the flames. “But God knows that death is but the beginning. In the hereafter, we are relinquished . . . to peace, to hope, to nothing but freedom and worship of our Lord God on High.”
They stared back at him, eyes drawn to the flames and back to their priest again. “Armand is lost to us, but not to the Father. Large is his reward in heaven, as it shall be for us. We shall not fear death,” he said, looking each in the face, waiting until each acknowledged him. “We shall not fear death. We shall not fear death!
“The devil presumes it is his greatest weapon. We can take this weapon from his hands. If we believe, brothers and sisters, truly believe, that our very lives are in God’s hands alone, then no one, no one can ever instill fear in our hearts again. This life is temporary, fleeting. The eternal is ahead, a life in the Garden, as it was meant to be. How many of our friends have pledged and given their very lives to our own cause? Lucan, Aldo, Beata in Siena; Basilio and Rune on the bridge.” He stopped before Gianni, observing his abject misery. He reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder. “And now Armand.
“Mayhap they saw it more clearly than we ourselves have. No matter how we try, how we fight,” he said, again pacing before them, forcing each to look into his eyes, “we cannot cling to a life that is not our own. We must relinquish our rights to the Father, and trust that he will see us to his end, come pain or glory. Do you believe this as truth?”
The Blessed Page 29