Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  She stared at Prand, desperately trying to keep her thoughts safely in the present. The man to whom he referred, and her remembrances of him, had been locked away because of duty and honor. But now they came rushing back, unfettered, causing her heart to leap: Otto of Germany.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “yes. I know of whom you speak. Yes, we must seek his counsel.”

  “My queen, I would advise we do more than that. He should come here. In all haste.”

  Adelaide lowered her gaze. Otto’s golden hair and dark blue eyes, the power of his warrior physique, beguiled her still. They had met but twice: on the eve of her wedding to Lothaire, and then once more, after the marriage ceremony. Her feelings for Otto had never changed, not once since those first thunderstruck moments, had never diminished during the years with Lothaire.

  The lightning bolt had left its mark, piercing her heart to secret depths, down to her very soul.

  Suddenly, she realized the time for hibernation, for winter’s dark and dismal dreams, had passed. It was springtime, and summer’s blessings were nearly at hand.

  She glanced at the still-open door and breathed in the lovely night air. “Yes, send for him,” she said, squeezing her chancellor’s hand. “Tell King Otto the Queen of Italy has need of him.”

  *

  When Stefano reappeared, Adelaide could scarcely believe her eyes. Jacopo’s pretty wife, Isabetta, and her serving woman, Maria, had worked magic; Stefano’s wild, blond hair was tamed, his face washed and shaved. His bruises and cuts had faded considerably, allowing Adelaide to fully appreciate his features. He was as pleasing to the eye as the most famed of jongleurs, even rivaling the gloriously handsome musician, Armand of Burgundy.

  “Stefano, you are beautiful,” Adelaide gushed, wondering if in time his soul might also fully heal. If so, he might make a good husband for one of her ladies-in-waiting.

  He grinned, held out his arms, and turned around for her benefit, showing off the farmer’s best clothes, done in varying shades of green. Although standard garb for a peasant, the breeches and tunic had been sewn using a good quality woolen cloth, while the hose were finely woven. The poulaines on his feet were also well made, with short, pointed tips in the latest style.

  And the women had added a final, perfect touch by sewing Stefano’s golden crest onto the tunic, in the spot over his heart.

  Prand smiled. “Isabetta, thank you. Here is something for your pains, and to replace the clothing.” He rummaged in his coin purse.

  Frowning, the woman shook her head. “No, Liutprand. Put your money away.”

  Prand flushed, and Isabetta’s face became a mask.

  Adelaide sensed the tension between them. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, my lady.” Isabetta curtsied to Adelaide and shooed the servant from the room.

  Shaking his head, Prand watched them leave. “Forgive us.”

  Adelaide felt a stab of guilt. “Am I the source of your quarrel? I fully understand the risk they take.”

  “No, no. A family squabble. Nothing more. It goes back several years.” Prand hesitated as if he wished to say more, but then reached for a jug on the table. “I… er, allow me to pour you and Stefano some wine.”

  “You are kind. Please pour more for yourself as well.” Glad for the change in subject, Adelaide felt like celebrating. She raised her cup to Prand. “Thanks to you we are free. Health!”

  “Health!” he echoed.

  Eyes sparkling, Stefano added, “Salute!”

  While the men drank, Adelaide said, “I think Stefano and I shall take our wine and go outside, Prand. You must be anxious to spend time with your uncle. We’ll give you a little privacy.”

  “Thank you, my queen.”

  Taking a small oil lamp, she led Stefano outside, through Isabetta’s herb patch, to a courtyard paved with bricks and edged with flowerpots. There was a wooden table there, and two garden benches.

  “Come. We’ll look at the stars.” Adelaide placed the lamp on the table, turned down the wick to lessen the glow, then sat on the bench farthest from the light. She patted the spot next to her. Stefano took a seat, and in silence they enjoyed their wine, watching the sky, drinking in the perfection of the moment.

  “I shall send Jacopo and Isabetta a gift for their hospitality,” Adelaide said, breaking the quiet. “A pair of potted lemon trees would look lovely here.”

  Stefano nodded and smiled politely, but it was clear he didn’t understand. A striking man with a fine temperament was a rare thing, a precious jewel. Adelaide smiled back. He would make an excellent match for someone, but whom? Agnes was married, Alessandra was older by at least ten years, and Sibille too young and flighty. Gertrude, mayhap.

  Helaine. Ah, yes, Helaine would be perfect. She was his equal in beauty, with a dreamy nature. Dear Helaine would swoon when she saw Stefano’s face.

  Smile widening, Adelaide felt more like a girl than she had in years. She took another sip of wine and looked up at the sky, focusing on a sapphire-blue star, sparkling in the velvet night. It was the same shade as…

  Were King Otto’s beautiful eyes drawn to the heavens at this very moment? Far away in Germany, was he also stargazing?

  The great distance between them shifted her mood, and she sighed.

  Stefano greeted this with a chuckle.

  Adelaide turned. “What is so amusing?”

  He rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and began singing in a strong, clear voice.

  Enchanted, Adelaide closed her eyes and listened, realizing she could understand some of his words. The song spoke of love lost, of releasing someone into heaven’s grace. There was something regarding a star outshining the sun. And heartfelt words about a last goodbye.

  “You have the voice of a jongleur,” Adelaide declared. “But instead of farewell, mayhap you should sing of welcome.” She paused and then whispered, “We might each find new loves, soon. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  She tilted back her head and stared at glittering constellations, looking for…

  What? A sign? A glimpse of the future?

  Adelaide sighed again, knowing the answer would come in its own time. The Lord worked in mysterious ways.

  And she had grown accustomed to waiting.

  *

  Prand sat at the farm table with Jacopo, Isabetta, and their three gangly sons.

  “You see, it is a wonder,” Isabetta said as she held up Stefano’s torn breeches. “Watch this.” She took a small piece of metal and tugged, slowly moving it along the seam of the fly toward the waistband, where normally there was a drawstring.

  It made a strange sound: zziipp.

  “See?” she went on. “There are little, er, teeth. You pull it so, and the thing seals itself. A marvel! I asked Stefano how he came by it. Alas, he did not understand my words, but he told me the names.”

  “Names?” Prand asked as he watched Isabetta open and close the fly.

  The woman frowned. “Ah, he called it by two names.” She hesitated. “Cerniera a lampo. Yes, I believe that’s what he said. And he also used the word zipper.”

  “Zipper?” Chuckling, Prand thought the word amusing, matching its sound. He repeated it several times, and the boys joined in his mirth.

  Jacopo laughed out loud. “I would not want one for my breeches!” he declared, taking them from his wife. He stuck a finger between the toothed tracks, then pretended to draw the little metal piece up to his wagging appendage. “Oh ho, lads!” he said, glancing at his sons and nephew. “Imagine getting caught in this?”

  The men roared, while Isabetta grabbed the breeches. “Husband, shhh!” she admonished. “What if the queen hears your nonsense?”

  Grinning, Jacopo stood and walked over to the open door. “Ah, worry not, my love. She sits on a bench with Stef––”

  His voice broke off, and he turned. His face had grown pale. “Nephew, quickly, come!”

  Prand hurried to the door and looked outside. It took only a moment for his eyes to
adjust to the darkness, but then he saw twinkling lights moving in the distance. He gaped. Torches – dozen of torches!

  Despite the balmy breeze, Prand found himself shivering. He trained his gaze on the courtyard, where moments before Adelaide and Stefano had been sitting.

  They were nowhere to be found.

  *

  A low curse erupted from Stefano’s throat, chilling Adelaide. “Andiamo!” he urged in a harsh whisper as he took her arm and wrenched her away from the bench.

  She barely noticed the spilt wine, his firm grip, the pain in her arm. There was no mistaking his meaning: go, hurry, move.

  But what had he seen? Suddenly drenched in a cold sweat, she glanced about and spotted torches in the distance. God in heaven. The rest was a blur as he hustled her toward the dark fields.

  Heart pounding, side aching, Adelaide half ran, half stumbled in the gloom. As Stefano yanked her along, she was whipped and jabbed by stalk and vine, until she thought she could go no farther. At that very moment, he ground to a halt and forced her to her knees. Trying to catch her breath, Adelaide’s throat felt raw, her lungs on fire, as she coughed and wheezed.

  Stunned, she watched as horsemen thundered past, bearing down on the farmhouse. How had they found Prand’s family? How? Adelaide agonized over the question. Had someone seen them today? Who had betrayed them?

  Adelaide looked at the farm and trembled. Prand, Jacopo, Isabetta, the boys.

  She fought her tears and said, “Stefano, I can’t let them be harmed. I must go back. Berengar wants only me––”

  “Andiamo!” he urged as he pulled her to her feet. “Affrettiamoci!”

  He pointed to the ribbon of black edging the horizon, the forest they had ridden through just before sundown, a lifetime ago.

  “We cannot run!” She pulled from his grasp and pointed back, at the farmhouse. “How will we live with ourselves, knowing we left them there?”

  Stefano rounded on her. “Assolutamente no!”

  Hating herself, Adelaide felt her shoulders sag. She knew he was right. There was something more important in her life, the only thing that truly mattered.

  Adelaide allowed Stefano to lead her away. “Oh, Emma, Emma, my sweet, sweet girl,” she murmured. She had to stay alive and find her daughter.

  Guilt. Blame. Self-loathing. She cast these aside. Nothing else mattered but Emma.

  Nothing.

  *

  Prand looked out the door. The torches were coming closer. Berengar must have spied on him, read his letters. The bastard knew about his uncle all along.

  “We’ll stall them, Liutprand,” Jacopo said. “If they don’t see you, they’ll surely leave. Pray the queen and Stefano found a good hiding spot. You go out back. Make haste!”

  Prand watched his uncle and cousins fix knives to their belts and head out the front door to confront the horsemen. He removed his blade, and then turned to Isabetta.

  Her mouth twisted in anger. “This is your fault, Liutprand.” She looked at the door and added flatly, “Why don’t you bribe them?

  “What?”

  “You betrayed our king, Adelaide’s husband, for the promise of riches. Use your coin to make amends. Bribe the soldiers.”

  Mortified, he felt his face flame. “Isabetta, please, you do not understand. I betrayed no one. Berengar’s court offered new…”

  Prand heard horses snorting and blowing, men shouting in the front yard. He glanced around – the servant, Maria, was nowhere to be seen – and he realized the girl’s instincts were correct. Run. Hide.

  “Isabetta, come,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  “No.” She backed away. “You heard my husband. Go.”

  “But––”

  “Get out!”

  She grabbed the wine jug and threw it at him. He ducked, twisting and scrambling away, just as it crashed to the floor. Racing out the back door and into the yard, he barely made it to one of the outbuildings, rounding the corner at the very moment several torch-bearing horsemen reined in.

  Watching from the shadows, gripping his knife, he desperately tried to control his heavy breathing. As expected, the men wore Berengar’s griffin crest. One of them shouted, “Search the barn!”

  Our horses! he thought wildly.

  A man slipped from his mount and entered the barn. In a few heartbeats, he came back out, shouting triumphantly, while holding up some tack. “The farmer lied to us. They came here. The stolen horses are inside, all three of them.”

  Another man wheeled his charger about, urging it toward the front yard. Others quickly retrieved the animals from the barn and then followed.

  Prand held his breath, knowing this was his chance to flee, yet finding himself unable to move, a captive of his terror. More shouts erupted from the front, and he thought he heard swordplay. Suddenly, gray plumes curled from the windows of the farmhouse, then the thatched roof exploded in flame.

  A scream rose from somewhere inside, a woman shrieking.

  Isabetta!

  Prand’s low wail accompanied hers in shared agony, one pitched and loud, the other soft, keening.

  Rescue her! his mind cried out. He started forward, but scorching heat, a hell on earth, blasted his skin and eyes, forcing him back. He turned and stumbled away, heading for the hills, weeping uncontrollably.

  After a while, he dropped to the ground and watched the sky. The blaze reflected blood red in the smoky clouds, the stench of the fire, of death, finally reaching his nostrils.

  He closed his eyes. His family was gone.

  *

  Prand stayed in the same spot for hours, rooted, unable to move. At one point, he heard horsemen searching nearby, but he couldn’t react, didn’t care. Finally, at dawn, he found the strength to get to his knees, and then rise to his feet. Wobbly, he peered out, his soul quailing at the sight of the farmhouse, now a smoldering ruin. Except for the occasional cackle and hiss of hot spots, all was quiet.

  Dully, his gaze roamed onward, to the western mountains and their sheltering forests. Somewhere out there, he hoped Adelaide and Stefano had eluded capture. Crossing himself, he knew he could do nothing more here, for any of them. He’d already done far too much.

  With a last glance, he called out softly to his queen in farewell, “Khaire! Ekhe! Khaire!”

  He turned away. Alberto Uzzo. Otto of Germany. The names surged into his thoughts, supplanting his grief with hope and determination. He would tell them what had happened in this place. Mayhap they would aid Queen Adelaide. Mayhap they could…

  No, he would kill the murderer himself. It would be his duty, his life’s work.

  Prand shook a fist at the rising, red sun.

  Vengeance ruled him now.

  Chapter 10

  Adelaide and Stefano had been on the run for hours. Behind them, clouds of smoke indicated Berengar’s soldiers were burning every farm they passed, in an attempt to ferret them out.

  “Oh Lord, the poor innocents,” Adelaide whispered. “God help them. Please, have mercy on their souls.”

  As queen, she was duty-bound to rise above hardship, to push on for the good of her family and people, yet as a woman, her all-to-human body was nearing collapse. She looked at Stefano, his face grimy, strained, the picture of watchfulness as he crept to the edge of the forest. To her relief, his bewilderment and fright seemed to have vanished. He was the epitome of courage and rationality, despite the fact their communication was limited to gestures.

  Adelaide watched as he cautiously raised his head and peered through the tangled brush. She moved to his side, seeing wheat fields and clear skies. No fires here. Mayhap Berengar’s men rode in another direction.

  “Fattoria,” Stefano whispered.

  “A farmhouse? Is that what you mean? Where?” she croaked, her throat parched. Her gaze followed his, and, indeed, she saw a farmhouse in the distance. She mimed drinking. “I am thirsty.”

  He nodded and then knelt down, motioning for her to do the same. Pointing to the sky,
he said, “Stasera.” Closing his eyes, he placed his hands together, rested his head against them, and pretended to sleep.

  Licking her lips, Adelaide nodded and sat. “Tonight,” she whispered back. “Yes, I understand you, Stefano. We must bide our time.”

  He leaned against a tree trunk, folded his arms over his chest, and once more closed his eyes. Soon, his breathing was slow and steady.

  Would this farm owner be friend or foe? She shrugged, realizing it did not matter. With any luck, she would never see him at all, and, with even more luck, Berengar would leave this farm undisturbed.

  She let out a sigh, realizing she had been reduced to the role of aspiring thief. But she didn’t care. Necessity alone drove them now.

  To find drink, food, provisions.

  To stay alive, stay alive.

  *

  Later, at dusk, Adelaide and Stefano snuck through the fields to the farm. They crouched by a fence watching the glowing half-moon, waiting for their chance. Laughter drifted from somewhere inside the house, mingling with the click-clack of a loom, but soon it grew still.

  As the moon slipped below the horizon, the candlelit rooms went dark, window by window, one by one.

  “Ora o mai più!”

  Jumping at Stefano’s urgent whisper, Adelaide shook herself to action and set off. She picked her way through the darkness, following him, his figure black, stealthy, as he advanced toward the barn.

  A dog barked in the distance. With a low curse, Stefano halted, and Adelaide froze, holding her breath. She exchanged a glance with him, the whites of his eyes barely visible, yet clearly wider than usual.

  They waited, but there was no more barking. She exhaled in relief.

  “Andiamo, Adelaide. Corri.” He took her hand and led her on.

  She did not mind the lapse in etiquette; she was well beyond that now.

  When Stefano stopped before a horse trough, Adelaide cast aside everything she had been taught about the dangers of drinking water, her thirst overwhelming, unbearable.

  “God help me.” She crossed herself, cupped her hands, and took a tentative sip, then lowered her face to the water’s surface and drank deeply.