DELUGE

by Lisa T. Bergren

  To me, Marcello and Luca were heading out into some scene out of The Walking Dead. All I could envision were the refugees that continued to come to our gates, begging for help, for food, for hope.

  “How are they going to steer clear of everyone who might be infected or carrying the plague?” I asked Mom as we entered the storeroom. She took a wooden crate and began gathering supplies.

  “They won’t,” she said. “That’d be impossible.”

  “But then…”

  She glanced at me. “They’ll need to be strong. Stay strong. I believe Luca might have an edge. If it was an early strain of the plague that he caught those years ago—and it sounded like it was—he might have some immunity.”

  My heart pounded with hope, but I said nothing, conscious that Gabi was listening. What of Marcello?

  “In fact,” Mom continued, settling two bottles of Oil of Thieves in the crate, surrounded by straw, “you all were exposed at that point, right? There could be something in our vaccines that aid us. And maybe Marcello is immune. He got close to Luca, right? When he was sick?”

  Gabi nodded. “Very. He practically carried him.”

  Mom touched her hand. “I find hope in that. I hope you do, too.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I needed something like that to hang on to.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Now what can we help you pack?”

  “Food, in that crate there. Wine. I don’t want them to have to hire servants or shop much in the markets.”

  “If Siena still has a market,” Gabi said.

  “Any way we can keep them out of the public will be beneficial. Gabi, grab a bag of the dried oranges. Vitamin C, in case this monster is pneumatically spread.”

  “Pneumatic?”

  “Some say it was fleas and it was transported by bite and blood. Others maintain it was spread like colds—sneezing and coughing. I say we shore your boys up for either version.”

  “I’m down with that,” Gabi said. “So…linen, too? To cover their faces?”

  “And soap. Blankets from here,” she directed me. “Those we know won’t have fleas inside them.”

  One of the cats walked in as we worked, weaving in and out of our legs. Every night Mom and Dad combed all the dogs and both cats, searching for fleas. Blessedly, they’d been free of them. But they still periodically dabbed orange oil onto their bellies and legs, just to make certain. Or combed soda ash through their fur. Fleas, apparently, hated orange oil and soda ash.

  Mom was already putting orange oil into the box, along with two bags of lime powder—which we periodically swept across every inch of the castello floor—soda ash, two braids of garlic heads, and several jugs of apple cider vinegar. Tiny vials of the outrageously expensive tea tree oil and lemon grass oil were the last to go in. She packed straw into all the empty corners and then secured the lid.

  We all looked at one another. The boys had probably packed and would want to get on the road at once. Which made us all reluctant to go out and face it. Mom took our hands.

  “You both married well. They’re strong. They’re smart. And they know how to use all these medicinals. I’ve taught them myself. Have faith in them.”

  ***

  Come morning, we all dragged out to the courtyard, watching with dull eyes as horses were led from the stables. Two patrols would accompany our guys. I could tell the remaining men envied them. They itched for new activity, real battle, anything to save them from the monotony of the castle…even if it meant facing death.

  Luca took my hand and led me away to where we were partially hidden by a wall from the mass of people. He pulled me into his arms, and we just stood there. Still. Silent. Aching.

  “You keep my baby safe,” he said at last, pulling back to look me in the eye. “I want to see a bump instead of your beautiful flat belly when I return.”

  I let out a small laugh. “I shall do what I can.”

  “See that you do. In fact, I’d love to see you fat. Chubby, at the very least. It would make you all the more delectable. Curving even more in all the right places.”

  That made me laugh outright. “Be careful what you wish for, Sir Luca Forelli.”

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the way I so loved, and lifted my hand to his lips. Then he took my hand firmly in his and led me to the center of the courtyard, where everyone was gathering to say their last farewells. I closed my eyes, wanting to memorize the feel of his hand around mine. So warm and strong…My husband. Would this be the last time he touched me? Would he die out there? On the road? In Siena? Or was it possible…could he possibly be immune?

  He leaned down, touching his forehead to mine.

  “I’m not much of a praying person,” I whispered, “but Luca, I’ll be praying that you will be protected, and wise about choices you make, and above all, shielded from the illness.”

  “And I shall echo those prayers for you as well, beloved.” He brought my hands to his lips again and then tore himself away to mount up.

  I’d take any help God was dishing out if it meant that Luca would return to me. Return to us, I corrected myself, and found my hand straying to my stomach, as I’d seen Gabi do so many times during her own pregnancy.

  “I shall send word,” Marcello said to Gabi. “Once a day. By carrier pigeon to the village, not here.” He knew Mom didn’t want any more birds flying in here if she could help it. We’d long since shuttered the dove cote and killed any bird that knew Castello Forelli as home. “I’ll share all I can.”

  She nodded, clearly trying to hold back tears, and the nursemaid brought Fortino forward for his father to kiss him. He did so, on both cheeks.

  “You are the man of the castello, Fortino. See that it remains safe.” He smiled, obviously kidding, but Fortino nodded soberly and then reached for Gabi. Marcello bent and kissed her tenderly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the knights all mounted up. Luca turned to me.

  “Farewell, beloved,” he whispered, kissing me once more, lightly, almost reverent.

  “Return to me, Luca.”

  He didn’t promise, only flashed me a smile, then mounted up. In seconds, they’d ridden out, and the gates were immediately closed, the massive crossbeam sliding back into place. Dad came over and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, holding me, as we stood there, silent.

  And for a moment, I didn’t worry about Luca dying. I envied him, the ride, the freedom. How long had it been since we’d ventured out of the gates? More than two years now. I felt like we’d just been locked up in a tomb. And I wondered…was it better to go out and face death or hide from it, hoping it wouldn’t come hunting?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  GABRIELLA

  We waited for four days to hear from Marcello for the first time. I was nearly tearing my hair out, about ready to saddle Zita and go galloping toward Siena, because he’d promised—promised—to send word. What had happened? Why wasn’t he sending messages? Did he not know that his silence would be driving me mad?

  I was up on the wall again, watching the road that led to Cavo, the little village that should have received at least three messages by now. Apparently, he’d forgotten the awesome spectacle that was the Wrath of Gabi. Apparently, I’d given him the impression that communication was optional.

  Or worse, something terrible had happened….Something really, horrifically awful…

  I could feel how tense I was making the men, hanging out there, hour after hour, in the cold. Two offered me their capes to wear over my own, but I refused. I knew they had to be twice as chilled as I.

  Fortino was having a temper tantrum somewhere below, probably because his nursemaid wasn’t allowing him to have everything he wanted, which seemed to be particularly frustrating for a three-year-old. Within, I felt the same frustration. I wanted that message now. Needed it. Please, Lord…

  “M’lady,” Captain Pezzati said, coming over to me and turning to fac
e the outer wall at my side. “Mayhap the dove keeper has met with some sort of…obstacle.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, horror overtaking me. If the plague had gotten the dove keeper…

  No, he was fine. He was in Cavo, the village that the young widow Bibiani Mancini lived in, as so far the village had been miraculously untouched by plague. We’d taken Signora Mancini a cow and two sheep and a crate full of baby chickens that first year after her husband died, and I knew she made a living, now, off the milk and eggs and wool. It had worked so well, we’d taken to providing similarly for any widow of a Forelli knight who perished. There’d been ten since that day. Valente and Pietro and Giovanni among them. More had perished in the battles with Firenze, but many died as bachelors.

  I thought about all the men riding out with Luca and Marcello. They’d all volunteered, Marcello said, and most were unmarried. But I knew that three had brides. What would happen if the plague came to our castello? Struck one after another down? How long might we manage to provide for widows and orphans before the coffers were empty? We’d had a couple of challenging years ourselves. More men and maids to pay; no crops to harvest. No pay from Siena, now that Marcello wasn’t one of the Nine. Only a stipend, as an outpost of the Republic, to aid with the keeping of additional knights. But even those payments had grown less frequent as the city struggled to negotiate the trials this plague wrought.

  I stared at that open, empty road, as if I could will the elderly dove keeper to appear. I thought of his kind, droopy eyes. His keen interest in everything that happened at the castello. His joy at the feasts we held on the high holidays.

  I knew he’d come, if he could. Or at least send someone.

  “Send a knight to Cavo,” I said to the captain. “A volunteer. Tell him not to enter the village, but to call out to the first person he sees, staying at a distance.” I reached out to touch his wrist. “He must keep a fair distance between him and any other, you understand?”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “And if the village is clean—if there’s no plague there—see what has come of the dove keeper.”

  I forced myself to go down. To eat some meat and some bread at noon meal. To play with Fortino, chasing and kissing him as if there was nothing at all to be concerned about. All the while I kept listening for a knight to approach, for a shout at the gate, but nothing came. I felt the seconds tick by begrudgingly, and when Fortino had gone off with the nursemaid to play, I couldn’t tolerate it any longer. I swept my cloak around my shoulders again and climbed the steps of the turret. I resumed my position at the wall, and Captain Pezzati silently stood beside me, arms folded. Watching. Waiting.

  “There,” I whispered, seeing a figure in the distance.

  A Forelli knight, golden tunic just barely visible.

  But I frowned. Because he was riding fast, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him.

  Our knights traveled at a canter when on duty, unless—

  “Open the gates!” the captain bellowed. “Men at the ready!”

  I saw them, then. Twelve knights rounding the bend in the road, chasing our man. One taking aim with his bow and arrow…

  “M’lady, you must take cover,” the captain said sternly, taking hold of my elbow and trying to edge me toward the turret. “Enemies approach!” the captain bellowed at his men. “Archers, on the double!” The walls were a mass of movement, everyone slogging toward their stations, moving sluggishly, as if awakening from sleep.

  “Go, m’lady!” he barked at me. But he was too busy to worry about me for long.

  I tore down the turret stairs, flattening myself against the wall as twelve men ran past me, carrying bows. Then I went out through the fortified door into the courtyard.

  The nursemaid, Mercede, carried Fortino, who was crying. Her eyes were round, her face pale as she watched men and women run across the courtyard as the main gates slowly opened.

  “Get those gates closed as soon as he’s in!” Captain Pezzati bellowed to the men below.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Sprigati!” I told her. Hurry. “Go to the tunnel. It’s likely a misunderstanding, but in case it isn’t…Prepare to lock yourselves in the tunnel. Do not come out until I come for you myself.”

  “Yes, m’lady!”

  I shoved back the knot of guilt for not taking Fortino myself, for not comforting him as he wailed and reached for me. But I was lady of this house, and there was no way it was coming down today. I strode over to the Great Hall and into the armory, where a man was handing out weapon after weapon. Spying me, he turned to the corner where my sheath and sword were stored. He handed it to me, a slight smile on his lips.

  I laughed under my breath as I strapped on the sheath, even as I strode back out to the courtyard. Our man would return at any moment.

  “He…he has…he has a child with him!” Captain Pezzati cried. “Nay! Nay! Shut the gates! Shut them!”

  The men, at the ready, began pushing the massive, metal gates closed again, but at the last second, our knight burst through, hunched over, his golden tunic a mass of blood, three arrows in his back. In his arms was a small girl with a mass of black curls.

  I looked and then did a double-take.

  It was Chiara Greco.

  She looked healthy, just scared sick. Her black eyes found me and stared. “Per favore,” she mouthed over and over again. Please. Please. Please…

  “Send them out! Send them back out!” Captain Pezzati was screaming down at the men in the courtyard. Cursing like crazy, when I’d never heard him say a foul word in my life.

  I knew he feared what had just happened—in two years, we’d never admitted another who hadn’t spent a good week in the hunter’s hut to make certain they did not carry the plague. But I ran to them, fear gripping my hammering heart.

  The knight looked down at me, eyes already beginning to roll back in his head. “Fiorentini,” he grunted, a bubble of blood appearing at his lips. “Lady Greco met me…”

  And then he collapsed to the ground, pulling Chiara with him.

  “They shall stay! Shut and bar the gates!” I screamed, even as I stepped forward to try and ease their fall. They fell and Chiara scrambled up and into my arms as the knight at our feet breathed his last. I stared at the arrows in his back as the gates were closed and the metal bar shoved into place.

  “Chiara, Chiara,” I said, rubbing her back, holding her tight. “Where is your mama? What has happened?”

  The little girl was sobbing, her words coming in gasps. “We…ran…through…woods. Mama…and me. Bad men…coming. Papa said…we…must.”

  I looked up at the grizzled Captain Pezzati on the wall, putting it together. The twelve chasing our knight. No messages from Cavo. Lord Greco, sending his precious family away from the most protected place they might be. Only desperation would have led him to send them to the woods. Only the Fiorentini…

  Or the plague.

  “Prepare for siege!” I screamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  GABRIELLA

  The men hastened to do as I’d ordered, even as Captain Pezzati shouted the same command. Arrows came a moment later, missing all but one man on the wall, then cascading inward in a harrowing fountain of death. Mom and Dad found me recklessly trying to drag the knight into the doorway of the Great Hall, out of some dull sense of duty. From far away, I noted that I must be in shock.

  Mom gripped my wrist. “Gabi, leave him! He’s dead!” She wrenched me around, toward safety.

  Together, we ran for the Great Hall.

  I looked back. Little Chiara, barefoot, dirty, stood where I’d left her. Arrows continued to rain down about her, and stuck in the dirt at an angle, like some curious contemporary art exhibit.

  “Chiara! Sbrigati!” I cried, waving her forward.

  She took a faltering step and then another, her filthy hand going to her lips.

  “Gabi, is that Chiara Greco?” Mom asked, alarm filling her voice as she joined me in the doorway
.

  I didn’t answer. I knew that if she stayed out there much longer, I’d see the child pierced. I ran, feeling an arrow miss my head by inches. The sky was filled with them, our men mostly taking cover in the face of them. How many Fiorentini were out there?

  I paused, my left eye catching sight of an incoming arrow, and that pause saved me. I wrenched the child’s arm, pulling her up and into mine, even as I ran back to the Great Hall.

  Panting, I looked at Mom and Dad, who stared at me and the girl.

  “Are the Grecos here?” Mom grit out, frustrated, torn. She worked at a wounded knight’s back, breaking off the head of an arrow as he groaned in agony. Given that we’d successfully kept out every outsider for more than two years, I thought she was showing remarkable restraint. Maybe because our infiltrator was all of five years old.

  “Nay. She was rescued by our scout, who died out there,” I said, nodding to the courtyard. “I don’t know what’s become of Rodolfo or Alessandra.” I knelt in front of Chiara again and tried to get her to look into my eyes. “Sweetheart, please tell me. Is your mama alive?”

  She nodded. “I…think so.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “In the woods,” she said. “She told me the bad men would follow her. I was to run to the village.”

  “What did you see there, Chiara? Were people sick? How many knights were there?”

  She only stared at me, silent. She was in shock. Stunned. What had she seen? What had left her unable to speak?

  I took her hands in mine. “Where is your papa?”

  Still, nothing but silence. Just fresh tears, breaking my heart. I pulled her back into my arms.

  “The scout,” Mom said, still working on the knight. “Where had he gone?”

  “Cavo,” I said dully. “He went to see why we’d received no word from Siena. And now we know why. Firenze is on the move. They’re cutting us off.”

  “But how would they know?” Dad asked. “That we’re not receiving carrier pigeons?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re taking out any men between us and Siena. I just have a really bad feeling. A really bad feeling…”