Italian Time Travel 02 - Time Enough for Love

by Morgan O'Neill

  Out in the great hall, the royal court was still celebrating the twelfth night of Christmas and the eve of the Epiphany – January 5, 952!

  Gwen grinned, recalling how she and Alberto begrudged the king and queen even those few hours spent away from their room, their privacy, but the evening had been magical.

  Candles blazing, music, and feasting, all part of a riotous festival. The Lord of Misrule held sway over the evening, a master of revels bent on turning the world upside down with his comic commands: lords and ladies exchanging roles with servants; cross-dressing by men and women alike, the dances becoming hilarious when the men were forced to curtsey and the ladies got to swagger and lead.

  As they watched the fun, Adelaide had exchanged a knowing look with Gwen. The queen’s gentle smile, the warmth in her gaze, signaled that the trauma of their great ordeal had started to fade. For each, the terror had been softened by love and the passage of time.

  After the antics and fun, the formal dancing began. Every step was measured, everyone moved in unison as partners ebbed away, then flowed back again, each mirroring the other. Gwen could never have imagined, from the vantage point of her other life, how sensual it was to dance this way with Alberto. The barest touch of his hand, the feel of his warm breath on her lips, so near, and yet… the evening was an agony of desire.

  One that was fulfilled at last, sometime well past midnight.

  Her thoughts turned forward. Later that day, they would leave Pavia for Canossa. She would miss the queen, but beginning her new life with Alberto was thrilling. She could hardly wait.

  Her heart still ached with the realization she would never see her family again, but the desire to let them know what had happened seemed more possible now, because of Alberto. He’d promised to help her find a way.

  Alberto murmured in his sleep and then fell silent. Gwen watched him, his face bathed in star glow. The gentle curve of his lips, his expression relaxed, his hair black against the pillow, the silver strands invisible now for the dark.

  She rose on an elbow, leaned in, and kissed him, her lips barely caressing his.

  “I love you,” she whispered, her heart full.

  His arms encircled her in answer.

  *

  There was a knock on the door. Groggy, Gwen rubbed her eyes. Hearing Alberto’s soft snores, she realized two things: he was still in a deep sleep, and the events of the previous week were no dream, but the real thing. She’d had to remind herself every morning. One day she would accept it, but for now she still needed reassurance. Alberto was here, and he would stay with her forever. The darkness and heartache of the past months were gone.

  Another knock. She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her shift. Padding to the door, she stood to the side and opened it a crack.

  A servant bowed. “My lady, an urgent message for you.” He handed her a scroll, then turned and left. It was sealed with the queen’s crest, stamped in red wax.

  Gwen broke the seal and saw Adelaide’s delicate script. She angled it toward the light and read in Latin: Forgive the intrusion. Please meet me this morn at Tierce, in my private chapel. It concerns Stefano, may God rest his soul. Adélaïda Regina.

  Gwen closed the door. Stefano? What was going on?

  She tiptoed over to her clothing. Her pack was now relegated to a trunk in her chambers, but she still carried both wristwatches in a hidden pocket of the purse she wore on her belt.

  She opened the purse and removed her watch. Eight thirteen. Tierce was at nine o’clock.

  She’d better get moving.

  By eight fifty-five, Gwen was hustling across the cobbled courtyard toward the queen’s private chapel. Fierce gusts whipped at her cloak, an icy reminder of the not-so-distant Alps. Dark clouds, tinged with sallow yellow, threatened snow. As the wind blasted and howled, the trees swayed and groaned. Winter’s first storm.

  Gwen arrived at the chapel out of breath and sweating, despite the cold. Glancing around, she was surprised to find no one there. “Queen Adelaide?”

  The door creaked behind her and she turned. Wearing a fur-trimmed cape and gloves, the queen stood at the threshold, Father Warinus by her side. The priest held something covered with a red velvet cloth. It was rectangular, about the size of a shoebox.

  Gwen curtsied. “Queen Adelaide. Father.”

  “Gwendolyn, I apologize for intruding on your privacy,” Adelaide said. “This arrived an hour ago, another of my wedding gifts. It is a reliquary, come from Sicily.” As the priest pulled away the velvet covering, she added, “It contains a relic, the finger of Santa Lucia.”

  Gwen gasped. It was the golden and rock crystal box, the very one she’d seen in the church in Santa Lucia, right before the earthquake. The one Stefano had shown them during his tour.

  She realized Adelaide was studying her. Father Warinus frowned, his gaze going back and forth between them.

  “Gwendolyn,” Adelaide took her arm, “come, let me find you a seat. You look as if you might faint. Sometimes relics have that effect, the shock of seeing disembodied flesh.”

  Gwen suddenly realized something was missing – the mummified finger was bare. “Where is the emerald ring?” she blurted.

  Adelaide halted and let go of her arm. “What?”

  “I… I… never mind. Forget I said it.”

  “Could you have meant my ring?” Adelaide asked, confused, as she removed her gloves and held forth her right hand. “My Otto gifted this to me last night in the privacy of our bedchamber. Did you already know of it? Does it have some connection with the reliquary?”

  Gwen gaped. It was the same ring she’d seen on the saint’s finger, centuries in the future.

  Searching to cover her shock, Gwen stammered, “No, no, I was confused. It’s beautiful. Why did you ask me to come?”

  “Because Stefano… he, he cried out to Santa Lucia over and over again when he was being tortured by Willa.” Adelaide sighed and crossed herself. “Father Warinus and I spoke of it this morn, Gwen. He was your friend. Did the saint hold some significance for him? The gift seems so providential.”

  Gwen glanced at the priest. “I cannot say.”

  Adelaide stared into her eyes. “Father,” the queen said, “we have need of wine. Would you kindly fetch some for us?”

  He started to speak, then checked himself. “Yes. Ladies, follow me.” He led them to a bench and placed the reliquary on a nearby table. “Please sit and take your ease. I shall return straight away.”

  Adelaide sat, but Gwen stood for a moment, until the queen patted the seat beside her.

  “You know the truth, don’t you, Gwendolyn? You know why he called to Santa Lucia.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But please, Adelaide, I cannot divulge… I… I…” she grasped for an explanation, “I promised Stefano I would not discuss it with anyone. I swore an oath to him.”

  “Say no more. I would not have you break a sworn oath. But you must tell me what I should do. Memmo contacted me through Liutprand, who sent him gold at my request, a gift for him and his family for his heroism in saving us and for burying Stefano in secret. The body of our dear friend is being transported here as we speak.”

  Tears threatened and Gwen found it impossible to say anything more. She could merely nod.

  Adelaide nodded back. “I would honor Stefano here, in Pavia, but if you know whence he came, I shall bury him there. And I shall take this reliquary there as well, to be placed in his church, as is befitting his selfless service to me.”

  Gwen felt as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. A vision of the church of Santa Lucia sprang to mind, of Stefano taking her and the other tourists down to the catacombs to find a crypt and a marble plaque, the memory overwhelming, the meaning of all that had happened well beyond her comprehension. Everyone had thought it was a coincidental joke when they saw a single name on the plaque, his name.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the inscription: STEFANO. And now she knew the reason for the solitary name. Despite the fa
ct they had discovered they were cousins, despite the fact they’d found their grandmothers were related, he’d never had the chance to tell her anything more before the earthquake hit and they traveled through time.

  His surname was unknown, and unknowable.

  Chapter 18

  21 March, 952, Santa Lucia, Italy

  Gwen stood in the funeral cortège, Alberto, King Otto, and Queen Adelaide, their little girls and the nannies, all waiting with her, all cloaked in black.

  Stefano. Why had things turned out like this? Why had she lived and found love, while he’d found only anguish and death? Was she having survivor’s guilt? Perhaps. And yet so much more. Gwen sighed. Putting a label on her feelings didn’t really help her deal with them.

  She watched the children play with their new dolls, then passed the time by stealing glances at the townsfolk of Emilia, now residents of the newly christened village of Santa Lucia.

  The people looked back, whispering about her and others in the royal party, some jabbing each other with elbows and pointing to King Otto, or smiling and genuflecting to Adelaide, their beloved queen. Gwen knew they had assembled because one of their own was about to be buried with honors. She also realized they did not know him and had been puzzled how Adelaide could have made such a mistake. But no one dared question the queen’s decision, especially once they found out Adelaide intended to gift a wonderful reliquary to their church.

  Their town would have a bright future, for now it would be a place of pilgrimage. From far and wide, people would flock to see the blessed relic of Santa Lucia.

  Gwen found herself staring at a handsome, dark-haired family, a mother and her two daughters, one in her teens, the other a bright-eyed little girl. They were pointing to Alberto, their faces animated.

  Gwen smiled at them, wondering at their enthusiasm, then let her gaze move on to others in the crowd. Many reminded her of Barca, solidly built and short, or Memmo, so bright and strong, of hearty peasant stock. But some were a little taller than the rest, and one youth had green eyes and blond hair, in pale imitation of the handsome man about to be buried.

  Gwen felt a little chill prickle her skin. This young man also had the look of her cousins.

  A trumpet sounded, shrill in the morning air. The crier set off, calling out, “Stefano dí Santa Lucia, here to be buried in his home, honored man and valiant hero, blessed of God. Make way the path for the final passage of his earthly remains!”

  Father Warinus, several monks, and the priest of the chiesa – the very one who’d first given her the cowl after she’d time traveled – followed the crier. To her relief, the priest didn’t seem to recognize her.

  Behind them, two gleaming-dark horses pulled the caisson bearing Stefano’s coffin, which was covered in a black pall. The horses were also draped in black, the linen running from their ears to their tails and falling to the ground on either side.

  The trumpet blew once more, and the royal cortège started forward. Gwen felt a touch against her hand, then Alberto’s fingers entwined with hers, his grip warm and reassuring.

  When they entered the cobbled piazza, Gwen felt another shiver run through her body. It looked familiar, yet different, like a place conjured awry in a dream. She searched among the simple stone and brick buildings, looking for the café where she’d had her cappuccino, the leather shops, and jewelry stores, but of course they weren’t there. She felt their presence, nonetheless, as though, if she wished hard enough, she could reach out through the ether and grab hold of them, pull them back to this time, to the here and now, or pull herself forward.

  But no, no. Of course she couldn’t, nor did she want to.

  Father Warinus’s voice caught Gwen’s attention and she turned to watch.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et…” The priests and monks moved up the church steps, then started to sing the Dirge. The crowd joined in with them, voices rising. Pallbearers removed the coffin from the caisson, preparing to carry it inside. Gilda’s nanny relinquished her charge. The child took Gwen and Alberto’s hands, and together, the three followed the procession.

  As they entered the church, Gwen gazed at a blank wall, recalling her relief when the queen asked her to stay after the interment, long enough to pose for a last gift to Santa Lucia: a fresco of Adelaide and her ladies. Dumbfounded, Gwen realized immediately this would be the way to send her message.

  Smiling, she faced the altar and imagined a wedding day far in the future, her grandmother young and beautiful. The image shimmered in her mind, then blurred, merging with that of another, dear Stefano, also gorgeous. Gwen’s breath caught as incredible thoughts surged to mind. Her connections with the past ran deeper than she’d ever dreamed and she looked at the world with new understanding.

  Her grandmother was a cousin of Stefano’s family, which meant Rozala must have been their ancestress as well, and because of that…

  We’re not just cousins. I’m descended from Stefano, too!

  *

  Finally, the funeral Mass came to a close. Father Warinus folded his stole, kissed it, and laid it aside, then took the proffered censor and waved it, once, twice, three times over the head of the casket, before sprinkling Holy Water. He led a final series of prayers, then the other priest brought out the reliquary. The monks followed them, holding crosses or Holy Books, and singing, “Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis…”

  Gwen closed her eyes, listening to the beautiful psalm: For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death…

  Pallbearers lifted the casket from the catafalque and followed the holy men. The mourners fell in behind. They were given candles at the stairway to the catacombs, and by the flickering light, they wound their way down the steps.

  When the door to the catacombs opened, Gwen felt a rush of dank air, tinged with the scent of death. Her flame wavered and her thoughts veered to a distant memory. She saw a flashlight’s beam, heard easy laughter, saw the glint of delightful, green eyes. Stefano. She looked down. Her flame was steady now. She would never forget him.

  Her eyes misted, and Alberto put his arm around her shoulder. “It will not be much longer now.”

  The place was different than before, the crypts still in use, filled with the bones of the dead. The candles and the press of bodies quickly warmed the air. Gwen glanced around, but nobody else seemed bothered by the nearness of the bones, the thickening smoke, or mounting heat.

  They moved into the oldest reaches of the burial chamber, the living cave. Water dripped, stalactites glistened. Father Warinus stopped at a newly excavated crypt and said prayers, then made the sign of the cross within the empty space and over the casket. He sprinkled Holy Water one final time, before Stefano was placed inside.

  More prayers.

  Even though he had died many months before, the horror of his passing rushed back to haunt Gwen. She fought her rising panic, wanting to leave, but knowing she must stay for Stefano, wishing to pay her respects, loving him all the more, her cousin and ancestor.

  A stone was lifted into place, closing off the crypt.

  The air grew stifling, the heat of her candle intense. Gwen passed it back and forth between her sweaty hands.

  People pressed in and blocked her view just as Queen Adelaide stepped up and presented Father Warinus with something, which he set in front of the stone. He moved back, smiling, thanking the queen.

  Gwen leaned in, knowing what it was without looking, but her eyes were drawn to the thing, just the same. The marble plaque. Once again, she could see Stefano’s mischievous smile as he described how he’d claimed this fellow as an ancestor.

  But it wasn’t another man’s name. It was yours. He is you.

  Gwen heaved a ragged sigh, and Alberto’s arms engulfed her.

  With the interment over, everyone filed past them, singing, “Domine ne in furore tuo arguas me neque…”

  Alberto kissed Gwen’s brow.

  “Is Mama sick?” Gilda pulled on Gwen’s skirts, trying to get her
attention.

  “No, dearest,” Gwen reassured her. “I’m fine, just sad. Let’s catch up with the others.”

  “What are they singing?” Gilda asked, tilting her head back to see her father.

  He scooped her up and explained, “They are called the ‘The Penitential Psalms,’ Gilda. There are seven of them and they ask God for forgiveness.”

  “Oh.”

  “You heard them once before, when you were very, very tiny.”

  “When my other mama and my brother went to heaven?”

  “Yes. Quiet now, and listen.”

  “Quoniam sagittae tuae infixae sunt mihi…”

  Gwen caught a glint of gold. Father Warinus passed by carrying the reliquary. The saint’s finger rested inside, but without the emerald ring, for it was still gracing Adelaide’s hand. That bit of history hadn’t played out yet; like the baby Gwen hoped for, it was still to come.

  But some things were done, complete.

  She gave his tomb a last, lingering look. You’re home, Stefano, finally home.

  Glancing up at Alberto, her warm gaze caressed his beloved features.

  And so am I.

  Epilogue

  Present Day, Santa Lucia, Italy

  Paola Godwyn stood in the sunshine of the piazza, the light blinding, unbearable, her body freezing and hollow, a dark pit of emptiness.

  Staring at what remained of the Chiesa di Santa Lucia, fearing Gwen was buried somewhere inside, she felt both a deep dread at what might be found, and the desire to see her daughter, to hold her once more, even if…

  Oh God, she thought, this isn’t happening. It can’t be true.

  “Paola?”

  Seeing her husband Robert’s heartbroken eyes caused hers to brim and spill. He took her hand, his skin also cold, his face ashen, and looking so old. They moved forward, their feet leaden and shuffling, slowed by grief and fear.

  Yellow caution tape stretched across the base of the church steps. Still holding her hand, Robert held up the tape up for them to pass, and together they followed a path winding among piles of rubble. The three walls surrounding the altar were all that remained. In the center was the broken shell of what had been, a rose window now devoid of glass.