Italian Time Travel 02 - Time Enough for Love

by Morgan O'Neill

  When she opened the door, she could hear soft weeping coming from within, and rushed to Gwen’s side. Lying in bed, her friend’s eyes were puffy and red, her pillow stained from tears.

  “Dearest soul, I’m so very sorry you have such terrible head pains.” Adelaide pressed her cool hand against Gwen’s brow, her skin feverish from crying. “Did you speak with Alberto?”

  Gwen murmured something and then shook her head.

  “No? I’m so sorry. No wonder he’s in such a state. Dear, I regret asking you to get up, but Otto has requested I marry him this night – and I have said yes! We shall make our vows of carnal union.” She felt the heat rise on her face. “They await us in the church. Please, please. I would have no other stand by me at this time. Please, my dear friend, say you are able to come.”

  Gwen nodded, quickly got out of bed, and splashed water on her face. “I’ll be fine, Adelaide. Thank you for asking me. I am so honored. My head is much better, really.” Then she stopped. “Alberto… will he be there?”

  “No, poor man. He said his leg was bothering him, so he left when the dancing started. I assume he is fast asleep by now.”

  Adelaide took Gwen’s hand and together they rushed away. When they reached the Church of St. Nicholas, the king stood waiting at the foot of the altar, two large candles lighting the scene.

  Adelaide gasped, seeing the warrior-king in all his masculine glory, her Otto – Saxon to his core – tall, blond, and fiercely handsome. She suddenly had a renewed sense of what her future held.

  *

  Gwen found herself approaching the altar in a daze, struggling to rise above her grief, trying to displace it with the gladness she knew she should feel for Adelaide. Instead, she felt the deadly twinge of jealousy and hated herself for it. I will not envy my friend. I can’t. She deserves a wonderful life.

  Father Warinus walked into view, wearing surplice and stole. Smiling, he nodded to the queen and Gwen, then indicated the place before the altar where Adelaide should stand beside King Otto.

  Trembling, Adelaide squeezed Gwen’s hand. “I will always remember this moment,” she whispered. “It is what my heart has most desired, and least expected. God has brought completion to me this night.”

  “Yes,” Gwen kissed her cheek, willing herself to give the semblance of a genuine smile. “If anyone is deserving of such happiness, it is you. Now go. The handsome king awaits his bride.”

  Adelaide laughed sweetly and took her place. When the royal couple’s eyes met, Gwen caught the blaze of passion between them.

  I’m happy for you, Adelaide. I am. I am. Tears again. Gwen tried to stem the tide with the hem of her sleeve, joy supplanting heartache, at least for now.

  Father Warinus made the sign of the cross over the king and queen. “Most worshipful friends, we are come here at this time in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…”

  *

  Hours later, and after many dances, Adelaide left Otto, withdrawing from the great hall. Soon, Otto was ushered by Father Warinus, the steward, Ambrogio, and several Saxon officers, to the threshold of a bedchamber, newly provided for him and Adelaide. Otto’s serving man, Henry, waited there, holding a tray laden with steins.

  The priest made the sign of the cross before the door, while Henry offered ale to the Saxons. Ambrogio, Father Warinus, and Henry left, heading back to the hall.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, the officers broke with protocol and slapped Otto on the back. “Felix conjunctio!” his lieutenant said.

  Despite his poor skills in Latin, Otto understood the choice phrase well enough – happy coupling! Chuckling, he raised his stein in a toast, then took a swig, his men following suit. After several loud belches, they finished the brew.

  Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Otto gave his stein to the lieutenant. As the officers sauntered off, he tapped lightly on the door of the bedchamber. He waited a moment prior to entering. The room was softly lit with a few candles in brackets on the walls. Before him, the bed was turned down, empty.

  Curious, Otto looked around. “Adelaide?”

  In a dark corner, he saw movement, a shadowy shape. Adelaide rose from her prayer stool and faced him, her body draped in gauzy nightclothes, a loosely tied robe, and her veil. He swallowed, seeing the shape of her breasts, feeling the heat in his loins.

  “Dearest… husband… I love you.”

  He took her in his arms. “Ma petite, ma femme, je t’aime.”

  Smiling, he sought to remove her veil.

  Her face twisted with horror and she pushed away, clutching at the thing. “No, Otto. No! They… no. Please leave it. I would not have you see my shame.”

  “Adelaide, fear not. I am aware of what they did, and we shall leave your veil in place, as you wish. You must know my love for you extends far beyond your hair. Let’s not speak of it anymore,” he said, drawing her to him. “Our enemies will not be brought into this room on this night.”

  Resting his chin on the top of her head, they were quiet for a moment, but Otto could tell by the tension in her body she was still distressed. “Adelaide, look at me.”

  She raised her eyes, the depths of them reaching out to his soul.

  “Your hair was beautiful, true. And now it is gone, also true. Will it grow back? Of course. And through it all, my love for you will never fail.”

  Gazing at him, she blinked back tears and smiled.

  “Now, let me drink you in, as you are.” Otto lifted the robe away from her shoulders and let it fall.

  Her eyes closed, and her hand trembled at the front of her shift.

  His desire resurged. “Allow me to know my greatest love.”

  He untied her gown and pushed it off her shoulders. Adelaide’s soft skin, her gentle curves, glowed amber, and he sucked in his breath at the sight of her.

  Opening her eyes, her breathing shallow and rapid, Adelaide worked at his clothing with trembling fingers. Then, when he was naked, she passed her hands over his chest, then lower, to the muscles of his stomach. He heard her moan as he took her in his arms.

  “Otto, kiss me. Kiss me!”

  He leaned over and kissed her passionately, for the first time. Her lips were tender, yearning, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her bare skin against his. Picking her up with ease, he carried her to the bed and gently set her down.

  Just as he moved to cover her, she raised her hand and hesitated for a bare instant, then pulled the veil away, letting it drop to the floor.

  Her short, golden hair gleamed against the pillow, looking lovely, but he was barely aware as passion overwhelmed, as he touched his lips to hers once again.

  *

  I am reborn, Adelaide thought, kissing her husband deeply.

  Her body was warm, tingling, the sensations new, so new, and yet natural and familiar, as if they had ever been hers.

  Her breath came in gasps as she clung to him, as he held himself still, poised above her.

  The sweetness of this moment, just before, just before…

  His lips gently brushed hers, and then he whispered, “Now, at last, we are one.”

  *

  A knock sounded on the door just as Father Warinus knelt by his bed for prayer. His arm ached and he was tired, more tired than he had felt in years. Closing his eyes, he clasped his hands together, hoping whoever it was would go away.

  Another rap. “Warinus, open up, damn you!” came the muffled shout.

  He frowned. Lord Alberto? The voice was barely recognizable, such was the man’s low timbre and surprising lack of deference.

  The priest struggled to his feet, then drew on his robe. Placing his hand on the door, he hesitated, recalling Gwen’s tearstained features at the ceremony. He had thought them mere womanly emotion, but…?

  Uneasy, he opened the door. The nobleman stood there, eyelids half closed, clearly drunk. He held a flask with one hand, a small leather satchel in the other.

  Alberto shoved past Warinus, dropping the sack on the table
as he flopped onto the bed.

  “My son!”

  “I do not answer to you,” Alberto slurred. He narrowed his eyes at Warinus. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, but… what is the matter?”

  “That is not your concern!” Alberto sat up, wobbly, and pointed to the sack. “Do not open it. Swear! You must not look inside!”

  The priest’s eyes widened. “Dear Lord, what is this about?”

  “Swear it, Father! Swear to God!”

  Things seen, minor things of seemingly little consequence, filled Warinus’s mind. Gwen’s trembling fingers wiping tears as Otto and Adelaide repeated their vows. The pale cast of her skin as they declared their love until death’s parting. Her voice, barely audible – she of the loud, headstrong manner – as she begged off attending the evening dance. Something was grievously wrong.

  “Yes, my son, before God, I swear.” The priest crossed himself. “What would you have me do with it?”

  “Take it to her.”

  Warinus already knew the answer, but he asked nonetheless, “Who?”

  Alberto closed his eyes as though in pain. “The she-monk.”

  The priest gaped at him. “My lord… Alberto, please, pray with me. Tell me what happened between you. I would counsel––”

  “No, damn you!” Alberto shook his head. “No,” he repeated flatly. “I cannot say, not ever.”

  Warinus watched Alberto clutch the flask to his chest, rise with difficulty, and stagger out. As the door slammed shut, he peered at the sack. What could it hold? He reached for the drawstring, momentarily tempted by its mystery. No, he’d sworn an oath to God he would not.

  He glanced at the door. Gwen. She needed him. He was certain of that.

  But he could not visit her bedchamber now. It would not be proper. The morning. Yes, he would go to her then.

  Kneeling down at his bedside, he asked the Lord for strength and wisdom in helping two lost souls find their way back, each to the other.

  *

  The drapes over the window were closed tight, the room was dark, dreary, but Gwen could tell it was past sunrise, for a little ribbon of light escaped from the place where the curtains met.

  She pulled the covers over her head, blotting out all traces of light, but she couldn’t rid herself of her memories. She kept seeing Alberto’s furious expression, hearing his terrible words over and over: Get you gone… the love I once bore you… no contact with me or my daughter ever again.

  Where could she go from here? What would happen now? How could she live without him? How? Gwen felt a cold, wretched grief at the thought of leaving Alberto, leaving Canossa.

  She started to weep again, her eyes scalded by fresh tears, her chest torn with wracking sobs. There was a knock at the door. Ignoring it, she continued to cry. Then someone started pounding, someone who wouldn’t give up.

  Alberto! Gwen scrambled from beneath the covers, raced across the room, and pulled open the door. Father Warinus stood there, a look of horror on his face as he beheld her, clothed only in her shift, shivering.

  He took her arm with one hand, held up a bottle with the other. “Daughter, you have need of this. It will calm. Come with me.”

  Gwen let the priest lead her back inside the room and onto a stool. He wrapped her in a blanket, then wiped her face with something and told her to blow her nose. Uncaring, numb, she let him tend to her.

  He placed the bottle against her lips. “Drink.”

  Ale. Strong. Gwen coughed.

  “Drink more.”

  She took another sip, letting the liquid trickle down her throat, realizing she was very thirsty.

  “More.”

  When she had finished half the bottle, he set it aside. “Do you wish to speak of what has happened?”

  She hung her head, despondent.

  Warinus sighed. “Gwendolyn, whatever evil has arisen, you cannot stay here for now. You must come with us.”

  He touched her brow and she flinched.

  “Daughter, I shall request the queen make a place for you in her household until this passes. We are away the day after tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  She nodded dully, then shook her head, reliving Alberto’s rage. “He will never let me return, Father. Never.”

  “Ah, but nothing is impossible, my child,” Father Warinus said quietly. “Those were your words. I shall return in one hour. Finish the ale and get dressed, then we will pray.”

  Gwen felt him press something into her hand. A moment later, the door closed.

  She glanced down at a little leather bag. Pulling on the drawstring, she saw folded red silk, a handkerchief, wrapped around a small bundle. She removed it from the bag and opened it.

  Stefano’s watch rested inside.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto the silken square. It was then she saw the delicately embroidered image, done in silver thread.

  A greyhound. Alberto’s family crest.

  Chapter 14

  Bouncing along on her horse, Gwen dreaded the approach to Garda Castle. She felt useless, depressed, and now on the verge of really losing it. She didn’t want to see the hated castle ever again, or face those who had done so much evil.

  At Canossa, Otto and Adelaide’s honeymoon had been brief. The morning after taking their vows of carnal union, they set in motion plans for a Proceeding of Condemnation and Excommunication against Berengar, Willa, and Adalbert, to be held at Garda. Two days after that, Brother Felix was on his way to Rome, and Gwen was passing through Canossa’s gates, on her way north with the king and queen. Alberto and Gilda, having said their farewells to the monarchs in private, were nowhere to be seen.

  To her credit, Queen Adeliade had respected Gwen’s privacy about her troubles with Alberto. Without pressing for answers, she’d reassured Gwen there would always be a place for her in Adelaide’s heart and home.

  Gwen touched her chest. Before leaving Canossa, she had pinned Alberto’s silk handkerchief on her shift, over her heart. It was her secret, hidden beneath her gown, the only remnant of their love.

  But that was over a week ago and now, as Gwen glanced around, the familiar surroundings haunted her: the woods near a campsite she’d made with Warinus, Ranulf, and Barca; the path to the village; and just ahead, the thicket of brush where they had hidden and first gazed upon Garda’s dark ramparts.

  Gwen’s chest constricted with grief and fury. Would Stefano’s head still be there? She forced her gaze aside, but not before catching a glimpse of Garda’s menacing lower gate. It was flung open this time, and people milled about, some saluting, others smiling and waving. How different Queen Adelaide’s arrival this autumn, versus that of her springtime entry.

  At the front of their group, Otto, dressed in full, gleaming, warrior regalia, rode beside Adelaide. The queen was not resplendent, however, choosing to dress in the man’s clothing given to her by Memmo.

  “I will change before the proceedings begin,” Adelaide had explained that morning, as Gwen helped her dress. “The people of Garda will be shocked by my garb, but I wish to remind them of what I suffered at the hands of Berengar and Willa.”

  The royal couple passed through the gate, flanked by Father Warinus and Liutprand, and followed by an enormous entourage of dignitaries and soldiers.

  Gwen squeezed her eyes shut. Stefano. Near. Too near.

  But the pull was strong, horrible, and irresistible. She had to look.

  Raising her eyes, Gwen clapped a hand to her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. She was at the very spot, now empty, where Stefano had been hung on display.

  Damn you, Willa, where is he? What have you done with him?

  Gwen urged her horse to catch up with the others. To mounting fanfare, the entourage passed through the second gate. Wiping her face, Gwen looked around, noting the cheering crowds, who seemed elated now that Berengar was defeated.

  Then, among the many faces, Gwen saw a familiar one – Memmo! Thank goodness no one had found out how he’d helpe
d them escape.

  He beamed up at her, waving like crazy.

  Despite her mood, Gwen forced a smile and waved back. “Come see me later, Memmo,” she called out. “You must.”

  He nodded vigorously, before the crowds shifted and he was out of sight.

  She felt a moment of gratification at seeing him alive and well, a ray of sunlight in an otherwise bleak world. Sighing, Gwen’s smile faded, gloom enveloping her mind once more.

  She turned, looking upon the main entryway into Garda Castle, and her mood shifted in a flash from sorrow to anger. Surrounded by dozens of guards, Berengar, Willa, and Adalbert stood on the front steps, hands bound behind their backs. Her enemies were dressed in their best – the men’s tunics of finest brocade, Willa’s gown and veil of exquisite ivory silk – but they looked haggard, the parents pale, the son red-faced and trembling.

  One of the guards forcefully nudged Berengar, and he bowed before Queen Adelaide and King Otto. Willa and Adalbert followed suit.

  Quiet descended over the crowd. Otto dismounted, then assisted Adelaide, and as one, they proceeded up the wide steps. Without a glance toward the prisoners, the royal couple faced their audience.

  “This day,” Adelaide called out, her voice strong, assured, commanding, “by Blessed Authority of His Holiness, Pope Agapetus II, the people of Garda will see justice and retribution meted out in equal portion, for the many grievous ills wrought against the Kingdom of Northern Italy. Murder, insurrection, kidnapping, attempted usurpation of a crown bequeathed and sanctified by God, are but a few of the charges brought against the perpetrators. Their fate rests with God. I suggest they turn their sights thither, and pray – hard.”

  Adelaide looked at Otto, nodded, and they passed into the castle. Behind them, Berengar, Willa, and Adalbert were hustled inside.

  Gwen hurried to hand over her horse, then pushed her way through the departing crowd, wanting a good spot to watch every detail of the proceedings.

  Inside, minutes passed as Gwen and everyone else waited. And waited. Like so many others, she found herself restless and bored, gazing at the ceiling, its embossed diamond and floral pattern by now all too familiar. The droning conversation around her was less than intriguing, although she’d heard one interesting bit of gossip: the steward Niccolo and the dungeon’s jailers had disappeared some days before, deserting the castle in order to avoid punishment.