Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  The wounded were being treated across the square from the dead. Gwen moved closer, wondering where Father Warinus was and where she could put her charge, not wanting Emma to see any more of the carnage than she already had.

  “Brother Godwyn, you’re alive?” Swatting at flies, the priest rose from amidst the wounded. He was covered in blood. “I feared…” His voice faded, then he cried out, “Praise God, is that the princess?” He dropped the bandages he held and rushed toward Gwen. “Our prayers are answered. Berta!”

  A long wail of joy filled the square, and Gwen turned to see Berta rushing toward them.

  “My babe, oh, my sweet babe!” Berta, tears streaming, deftly scooped Emma out of Gwen’s arms without waking the child, and kissed her closed eyes, her round cheeks, and unruly wisps of hair.

  “You have done well, Brother Godwyn. It is good to know you stood with us this day.”

  “Of course I’m on your side!”

  “Yes, there can be no doubt.” He clapped her on the back. “Now, you must help me tend the wounded. Berta will see to the child. Come with me––”

  “Wait,” Gwen said firmly. “We need to make sure Emma is safe, not just with Berta.”

  The woman’s chin trembled.

  “I didn’t mean… I meant soldiers must protect you and Emma.” She turned to Warinus. “Where are the queen’s men? Are any still alive?”

  “Many were killed,” he replied, “and those who survive man the walls. Come, Brother Godwyn, we will find their captain – if, by God’s grace, he survived. Berta shall take the child to Holy Sanctuary, to await us.”

  Before leaving, he spoke quietly with the nursemaid, who nodded several times, then started to walk away with the child.

  “No!” a wail rose from Emma’s throat. She craned her neck to see around Berta’s shoulder, and then stretched her arms toward Gwen. “I want her. I like her, Berta. Please.”

  Dumbstruck, Gwen stared back at the princess as Berta carried her away. How did she know? Gwen recalled the child’s sleeping face, nestled where all children seek solace and refuge, against a woman’s breasts.

  Beside her, Warinus smiled grimly. “Well, you certainly made an impression on her, Brother, although you may have to ask God for a beard. But for now,” he motioned for Gwen to follow, “we have other priorities.”

  *

  With Emma hidden and protected within the depths of St. Peter’s Church, Gwen turned her efforts toward assisting with the wounded in the square. Despite feeling queasy, she did the best she could. As she worked, she thought about everything that had happened. She was involved now, her own pain revisited, raw and fresh, as she recalled her lost family. Gwen was determined to reunite the queen and her little daughter, no matter how great the odds.

  And then there was Stefano. Seeing him as a captive broke her heart. She needed to help him, too. But how?

  “You there, monk, quickly now.”

  The woman’s voice was hoarse with fatigue. Gwen looked up to see her pointing to an injured man on the ground, saying something about cutting.

  He was semi-conscious and moaning. Horrified, Gwen stared at his mangled leg.

  She backed away. “No, I can’t do that. Find someone else.”

  Father Warinus came up beside her. “She will do the cutting, Brother Godwyn, and you must hold him. I am too busy, else I would do it. Lie on top of him and pin his arms. Just grip fast and pray he survives,” he added as he left.

  The woman signaled to a blacksmith, who stood near a brazier. After crossing herself several times, she took a grimy butcher knife, a small saw, and a strip of leather out of her satchel. She bound the injured man’s leg tightly with the leather, then, gripping his knee, she hacked and sawed at his lower leg. Gwen held on as he thrashed and screamed. It took less than a minute to sever the limb.

  Despite the leather tourniquet, blood spewed freely. The smith pressed white-hot metal against the stump to cauterize, and then the woman took a handful of white powder from her satchel and coated the smoking, stinking flesh. “The flour will protect,” she said as she got to her feet and looked around, knife poised as if seeking another victim.

  Please, no, Gwen thought. Don’t ask me for any more help. The stench and memories of everything she’d experienced overwhelmed her, and she leaned over the poor man and vomited.

  “Brother Godwyn?”

  Gwen opened her eyes.

  “The man fainted, praise be to God. You may release him.” Warinus helped Gwen to her feet.

  She saw the woman several yards away, bandaging someone. Thankfully, her knife was put away.

  Gwen wiped her mouth. “Forgive me for getting sick.”

  The priest shrugged. “There is no need to feel shame. We have all been worn down this day.”

  “Father?” Gwen tried to close her mind to the sights around her and decided to ask a question that had been nagging her. “Who is Berengar? Why did he do this?”

  “He is margrave of Ivrea and a wicked man. He would see his power stretch not only over this realm, but also over all of Christendom. I am certain he would happily do to the Holy Father that which he did to Father Odbert, may God rest his soul. Berengar’s soul, if he may still call it his own, is rotted black with evil.” Grimacing, he surveyed the square. “We must see to burying the dead, quickly. I ordered the digging of a mass grave. Forgive me, but I must go and make certain it is ready.”

  “Wait.” Gwen grabbed his arm. “Please, I need answers. I – I thought Queen Adelaide had enough protection. You made no secret of your discussions with Lord Alberto, and I heard him say as much.” Gwen noted the priest’s drooping shoulders. “Father, what happened?”

  He shook his head. “I know not. I was praying in St. Peter’s, so I was not witness to Berengar’s coming. I heard he surprised the queen’s soldiers on patrol. Many fell and their horses were scattered or killed. As a result, the guards at the gate were easily overwhelmed, and the city opened to him. Right now, men search the countryside to find mounts for the surviving troops. As soon as Emma is gotten well away to safety, we must turn our thoughts to the rescue of Queen Adelaide.”

  “And Stefano.”

  The priest frowned. “The guide you spoke of when first we met? What of him?”

  “He was here,” Gwen replied. “I saw him. He was taken prisoner along with the queen.”

  Father Warinus was quiet for a time, staring into space, then he said, “Brother, there is something else that needs to be done, and I fear there is no one to spare, save you. You must ride to find Lord Alberto and tell him of the events of this day.”

  Gwen looked up sharply. “Alone? No, I can’t possibly––”

  “You must. I cannot leave Pavia. As you well know, the soldiers, what few are left, must guard Princess Emma. This shall be your task, Brother Godwyn. You may use my horse. The soldiers have already confiscated the one you rode. I will draw a map for the route to Canossa, although you already know much of the way.” He placed his hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “Be of brave heart, Brother. With God’s help, you shall find Lord Alberto mustering his men and ready to come to us, as he planned. I pray he will make short work of Berengar, and deliver Queen Adelaide and your Stefano from harm.”

  Chapter 7

  In the flicker of firelight, Adelaide strained against the ropes binding her to a tree, then collapsed back in helpless fury. She spotted movement on the other side of the camp and saw Liutprand of Pavia, Berengar’s chancellor. He was well known to her, having first served as a page in the royal court of her father-in-law, Hugh of Arles, then, after Hugh died, becoming her husband Lothaire’s confidential secretary and advisor, even a friend.

  And Adelaide had considered Liutprand a friend as well, even giving him a nickname. Prand was one of the few courtiers as learned as she, and she had enjoyed their debates in Latin and Greek. He was a self-assured man, not afraid to match wits with a woman – or a queen.

  Yet, just when she and Lothaire needed him most, when Be
rengar first made his move toward usurpation, Prand abruptly left court and attached himself to Berengar’s house. They had been devastated by the betrayal, hearing a promise of wealth had prompted his hasty and unannounced departure. She wondered how much Berengar paid the chancellor, just how many pieces of silver were exchanged for his services.

  Adelaide frowned at the man’s hawklike profile. Judas, she thought, closing her eyes, fists clenching. Had he lent a hand in her husband’s death? If he had, by God–– “My lady?”

  Adelaide jumped.

  Prand bowed. With a pained expression, he looked at her bindings. “I… I do not condone this barbaric treatment.”

  “Where is my daughter?” Adelaide’s body shook with rage. Ignoring her guards, she yelled, “All of Italy – nay, all of Christendom – shall come down upon Berengar – and you – if she has been harmed!”

  Prand glanced back at Berengar’s tent, then leaned in, whispering in Greek, “Prosphilôs moi ekhe… please, be kindly disposed to me.”

  “Es Haidou baske!” Adelaide condemned him to hell.

  “I entreat you,” he hesitated. “Please, I beg you to listen. The princess was not found. They believe she escaped Pavia.”

  Surprised by his words, Adelaide stared a moment, then closed her eyes and mumbled, “Blessed be.”

  Prand nodded. “I heard it myself in Berengar’s tent, from an eyewitness. I thanked God Princess Emma wasn’t captured.”

  Adelaide’s gaze narrowed. “Did you have anything to do with my husband’s death?”

  “No!” The look of open shock on his face was unmistakable.

  Thanks be to God, Adelaide thought in relief. He tells the truth.

  “Believe me. Never would I do harm––” Prand’s voice broke off when the flap of Berengar’s tent opened and soldiers appeared. “My lady, have faith,” he whispered, and hurried off into the shadows.

  The poor hysteric who had defended Adelaide in Pavia was dragged from the tent. All evening, she had listened to his screams as they questioned him, his tortured wails rising wraithlike in the night. The soldiers took him to a nearby tree, checked the bonds on his wrists and ankles, and then tied him to the trunk.

  With a cruel laugh, someone threw a bucket of water in his face and he thrashed to consciousness as the men returned to their posts. Squeezing his eyes, coughing, shaking his head, he finally looked over at Adelaide.

  “I am most grateful for your help,” she said, striving to convey thankfulness and sincerity in her tone. “I am Adelaide.”

  “Stefano,” he croaked. “Mi chiamo Stefano.”

  “Stefano. Yes, I understand you.”

  He sighed, and she watched as he closed his eyes, as exhaustion overtook him. She glanced at the campfire and the sparks that whirled and danced in the air, glowing, rising toward heaven, toward…

  Freedom.

  *

  Berengar fingered the spy’s strange wristlet, studying it in the candlelight. He had discovered some curious things about it in the last few hours. A trio of small, gold spears spun at different rates within the square case, pointing to golden marks positioned in a circle. He shivered with excitement, for it reminded him somewhat of clepsydras, the amazing, mechanical sand and water clocks he had seen while campaigning against the Moslem Saracens in southern Italy and Sicily.

  Upon opening the back, Berengar had been further astounded by the many tiny, intersecting, cogged wheels, whirring about in an intricate dance. Whoever constructed the device was a genius. What he wouldn’t give for such a man – imagine the weapons he could create.

  Berengar squinted at the case, looking for a clue, mayhap the maker’s mark, but he could not focus his eyes. “Adalbert, what does it say?”

  The young man leaned in. “Monaco and TAG Heuer.”

  “Do you recognize the name?”

  “No, Father. Do you suppose he is a sorcerer?”

  “Bah!” Berengar frowned at his son. “This appears to be a device of some advanced engineering, quite possibly of Saracen design.” He lowered his voice, “Do not always look to witchcraft for answers, boy. Your mother’s ways are not the sole path, and they are fraught with great danger, besides.”

  Still holding the wristlet, Berengar rose and stalked to the table for wine. It was darker here, and he was about to ask Adalbert for a candle when he noticed a greenish glow emanating from between his fingers. Slowly, fearfully, he opened his hand and saw the glow coming from the tiny spears and marks.

  “Jesus!” He dropped the thing on the table and backed away.

  Adalbert turned. “Father, what is it?”

  “Witchcraft.”

  “But, you said––”

  “Never mind what I said.” Berengar slopped some wine into a cup and gulped it down.

  Adalbert drew near and stared at the wristlet in fear and wonder. “So, Father, it is true. The madman may be a spy, but he is surely a sorcerer.”

  “Humph.” Berengar poured another cup and took a long drink, forcing himself to consider things from a more rational point of view. Had a Saracen created the faint glow as an aid in the dark? This sort of light was often seen on nighttime sea voyages, coming from creatures of the deep, even the water itself. And there was no sorcery in the ocean. The Saracen had simply found a way to transfer sea light into the gold.

  He tossed back the rest of his wine. As for the idiot-spy, mayhap he was the Pope’s creature, mayhap not. Whatever the truth, this wristlet was too fine a possession for the likes of him. And if the Pope did not gift it to him, then there had to be another explanation. Queen Adelaide might have given the thing for services rendered.

  Berengar stroked his beard. Was the spy also in league with her? He glanced at the tent flap. He would find out soon enough.

  *

  Adelaide had just dozed off when approaching soldiers awakened her. Untying her, they yanked her up, thrust a torch near her face, and marched her forward. She shut her eyes against the glare and was shoved through the tent flap, tumbling to her knees.

  “Look at me.” The hated voice was quiet, edged with malice.

  She opened her eyes. Berengar stood there alone, circles under his dark eyes, his face drooping, wan. He was of her father’s generation, and a true warrior, fit, hardened by many campaigns, by years on horseback, and yet now he showed his age. She stared at him, considering. If this was his moment of triumph, why did he look so ill-favored? Mayhap what Prand said was true? Had things not gone as planned? Had Emma indeed eluded capture? Might she be free?

  Adelaide hid her hopefulness beneath a frown. “Where is my daughter?” she asked as she ignored her trembling limbs and got to her feet.

  “I ask the questions, chit. Look here.” Berengar held up some sort of trinket made from leather and gold. “What is this?”

  His eyes narrowed as he watched her face.

  Adelaide purposefully held herself erect, head high. “I do not know.”

  “Come now…”

  “I’ve never seen it in my life.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, then placed the trinket in the purse on his belt.

  She took a breath, steadying herself. “Berengar, where is my daughter?”

  “Never one to give up, eh, chit?” His tone was flat. “Ah, but I think you must guess.”

  Her insides lurched. Where was Emma? What did he mean? Heart pounding, Adelaide studied Berengar’s face, searching for a clue, desperate.

  He smiled, looking younger now, and pointed to his camp bed. “As it turns out, I may indeed have something of yours,” he said simply, “but it is mine, now, all mine.”

  She turned. There was a mound on the bed draped with a blanket, a still lump under the covers, about the size of…

  “No!” The room careened, wheeled, and Adelaide felt herself falling into a pit of darkness.

  *

  “Father, what have you done to the queen?”

  Adelaide heard the voice and groaned. Where was she? What––?

&
nbsp; “Not a damnable thing. She fainted.”

  Her eyes flew open. She was on the floor in Berengar’s tent, with Prand and a young man staring down at her.

  “Queen Adelaide,” Prand said as he raised her to a sitting position. “Please, you must…”

  “Bastard!” she screamed, spotting Berengar. “Have you killed my daughter?”

  He frowned. “Are you mad, woman? The brat ran off with a Benedictine.”

  “What? But, but I thought…” She glanced at the lump beneath the covers. Was this some cruel trick?

  “You are addled if you think this looks like a child.” Berengar walked toward the bed. “The life of the soldier who let your daughter escape was forfeit, although I granted him mercy when he brought this back. Instead of death, he was merely given a good beating. Others are out even now looking for the princess, and they dare not fail me.”

  A tear of relief rolled down Adelaide’s cheek. She reached for Prand’s arm and he helped her rise, but when she turned to thank him, he shook his head, lowered his gaze, and backed away to a corner of the tent.

  She returned her attention to Berengar, who pulled the blanket off the mysterious object. Through tears of relief, Adelaide saw an ordinary strongbox, and wondered why he was taking so much pleasure in revealing it.

  Berengar unlocked it and, grinning, removed her personal jewel chest with a flourish.

  The rosewood was marred, its small, golden lock broken, but she didn’t care. Emma was safe and that was all that mattered. Adelaide coldly watched as her enemy eyed the chest.

  “Ah,” Berengar said, chuckling, “what have we here?”

  Adelaide glanced away, her gaze falling on Adalbert. Little worm, she thought as he stared her down.

  “You would have me marry this? Look at her, Father. Look at her face, how it twists in disgust at me. How dare she! Her mind is lacking, and she is filthy and stinks of blood and death.”

  “Silence, boy.” Berengar’s voice was low. “She’ll clean up well enough.”

  “Father, look you past the filth. She resembles Mother.”