Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  “Jesus Christ have mercy,” Warinus muttered. He sighed and crossed himself. “If it be God’s will.” He straightened his shoulders and regarded the healer. “Ionas. Ionas the Greek. I have heard of your talents. Let me show you about.”

  Ionas glanced around the hall. “How many of the injured have you lost since the attack, Father?” he asked softly.

  The priest hesitated, considering. “Mayhap half.”

  Ionas’s brows rose. “Not more? You have done well then. I congratulate you on your healing talents.”

  Father Warinus visibly relaxed as he put a hand on Ionas’s shoulder and led him in.

  While Barca guarded the saddlebags, Gwen followed the priest and Ionas through the infirmary, pallet by pallet, injury by injury. She saw strange things she didn’t understand or care to see: agates placed on patients’ brows; leeches atop bruised flesh; bloodletting. She desperately wanted to beg them to sterilize their equipment, to drop the superstitious practices, and deal only with real medicine.

  But what about changing history? What sort of ripple effect would she let loose if she tried to impose even her modest knowledge of modern medical procedures? Frowning in frustration, Gwen kept her mouth shut and trudged on.

  In the middle of the room, a small fire smoldered in a metal tray, set atop a tripod. Gwen watched a woman reach into a sack and place slender leaves onto the coals. Thick, white smoke wafted up and its potent, peppery smell filled the air, prickling Gwen’s eyes and nose. The scent of Vick’s was overpowering.

  “That’s so strong!” Coughing, Gwen felt like her head was liquefying and had to wipe constantly at her streaming eyes and nose.

  Ionas turned to look at her, mopping his face. “Yes, camphor. It is strong. I use it to calm my patients. It is also quite effective in cleansing the air of evil humors. I sometimes make camphor water for bathing wounds and soothing fevers, for it is cooling to the touch.”

  “I think I’m melting,” Gwen replied.

  Ionas smiled, and then rejoined Father Warinus, discussing and assessing the infirmary’s many problems.

  She continued walking with them. Many patients had bandaged wounds, and she gagged when she saw Ionas inspect one, removing the gauze on a man’s thigh, then sniffing the air near the gaping injury. White maggots were munching the infected flesh, but they wriggled deeper when he exposed them to the light.

  Forcing her eyes away, she noticed juniper branches placed near the injuries of some patients. “Is that medicinal?”

  “Yes, to be sure,” Ionas said. “Juniper is excellent for warding off demons.”

  Gwen shook her head.

  The camphor woman returned, this time carrying a bucket. She went to a patient, chanting solemnly, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Mary, heal this poor soul. Let there be no more blood or pain till the Blessed Virgin bears a child again.”

  Gwen stared at her. Had she heard that right?

  The woman drew forth a thick bouquet of rosemary and lavender. Liquid dripped from the bouquet, which she flicked over the patient, dousing him. The sour odor of vinegar hit Gwen full in the nostrils, mingling with the fiery camphor and causing her to sneeze again and again.

  “God bless you, Brother Godwyn,” Father Warinus spoke at her elbow. “Ionas will stay here. We must go to the priory and attend to other matters.”

  “Yes, Father,” Gwen agreed, wiping her nose, miserable, while making an effort to smile.

  *

  Gwen and Barca joined Father Warinus for the midday meal. It had been a week since she’d returned to Pavia, and everyone was exhausted from work and worry. Lunch was sparse and uninteresting: hard cheese, trenchers of dark bread filled with a thin wheat gruel, green onions, and a bitter, warm beer to wash it down. The priest had warned them it would be the same at each meal, for provisions had run low since the attack.

  Sighing, Gwen picked at her food as the men talked, wishing instead for some pizza and a nice cabernet. And chocolate. With a deeper sigh, she pushed away the remains of her trencher. Where was Alberto? The queen? Stefano? Her mind was wracked with worry at the lack of news.

  “What is going on out there, Barca? Why haven’t we heard anything?” Gwen interrupted the men’s talk.

  “I do not know, Brother Godwyn.” He shrugged. “Mayhap people are not traveling because they realize war is afoot. Lord Alberto is busy and would have no time to send messages, let alone spare a man to do so.”

  There was a knock at the priory’s front door, and Father Warinus rose and went out to answer.

  “Also,” Barca continued, “the country folk fear Berengar, so we have heard very little of him, only the direction he took when leaving here. He is returning to his castle-keep on Lake Garda – is surely there by now – but we have no word of the queen, although had he murdered her along the way, we would most likely have received word of the wretched deed.”

  Gwen grew aware of raised voices and she looked down the hallway. When Father Warinus cried out, she got up and hurried toward them, Barca close on her heels. She faltered when she heard Father Warinus exclaim, “An execution is planned? Merciful Lord! The queen, is she to be killed?”

  “I have only heard there is to be an execution of a traitorous noble,” the messenger said. “I know not the identity of the one sentenced to death.”

  Noble! Gwen latched onto the word and turned to Barca. “Alberto? Where is he? He should have caught up with Berengar and fought him by now. Could it be him?”

  “There is no word of any battles,” the messenger responded. “When last I heard Berengar was hiding within his fortress and was, as yet, unchallenged.”

  Gwen’s fears eased somewhat, but still where was Alberto?

  Warinus shook his head. “The queen is in grave danger.”

  “We have to do something,” Gwen said. “And Stefano needs our help, too.”

  Barca turned to Father Warinus. “I would seriously doubt Berengar plans to kill the queen. He is too shrewd for that. I expect he will keep her hostage, as a bargaining chip, or use her for ransom. He would be a fool not to, and he is not a foolish man. It is my guess she is safe enough for now.”

  “But what about Lord Alberto?” Gwen asked. “How come nobody knows where he is? Something is wrong. We should go to Garda.”

  Barca frowned. “Would you have us knock on the front door? We are too few to storm the keep, if that is what you suggest. Besides, no matter our strength, Berengar’s fortress is impenetrable.”

  “We can’t just sit and wait,” Gwen countered. “I’ll find a way inside.”

  Father Warinus shook his head. “Impossible, Brother Godwyn. Impossible.”

  “You have never seen Berengar’s keep, Brother,” Barca said. “It sits on a high promontory overlooking Lake Garda and is surrounded by a sheer drop to water on three sides. The only point of access is narrow and closely watched. No one approaches the main gate unseen, and no one escapes.”

  Gwen scowled at their reticence. “Well, I am going with or without you.”

  The men looked back at her with unenthusiastic eyes, then Barca heaved a half-hearted sigh. “God help me. I must accompany you, then.”

  “Yes, you must.” Gwen turned to the priest. “Father Warinus, nothing is impossible.”

  He stared at her and then made the sign of the cross, murmuring, “Heaven help us all.”

  *

  How much time had elapsed since they’d reached Garda? Several days? A week? Two weeks? A month?

  Adelaide sat alone in the dark. Nobody opened the door, and no one spoke to her. Once a day, she heard her jailers shuffling in the hall. The bottom door slat would open, and she could see a little light as they passed food, drink, and an empty slop bucket to her. In turn, she was expected to push her refuse back into the hallway, in silence, without a word.

  Her attempts at starvation had failed. She couldn’t go through with it, especially since the food no longer made her ill; in fact, it was wonderful. The devious Willa must ha
ve inquired as to her favorites. So Adelaide was tempted with dishes like roasted pheasant or peacock, and enticed with the finest young wine.

  Guilt overwhelmed her as she nibbled delicacies in the dark, for she guessed Stefano was not receiving the same treatment. Every day, all night, Adelaide could hear Willa scream at him, slap him, force him to have sex with her, and then shriek and curse his ruin. In turn, Stefano remained silent, except for his groans, the awful, unspeakable sounds of sex and torture – and climax. Sweet Jesus, would it never stop?

  She swallowed, brokenhearted, because she was all too aware that on the day it ended, the day Willa tired of him…

  Sighing, she leaned against the wall and touched it, hoping the impossible would happen, hoping they would be rescued before it was too late.

  *

  The wistful, twisted smile on Willa’s face meant only one thing. She was done using him.

  Stefano watched as she stood in his cell, her hand placed protectively over her belly.

  She glanced at the door, then lowered her voice, “We have done it, Handsome. My monthlies are late by two weeks.”

  Shaken, he forced himself to remain still. He tried not to care that a child of his grew inside her, a child he doubted he would ever see.

  “Unfortunately,” she went on, “I won’t be visiting you anymore, unless my calculations somehow prove incorrect. You will be kept here until I am certain. When my husband returns, he will wish to interrogate you, of course, and I have been wondering how to prevent that, for you could spill what happened between us. I thought about having your tongue removed, but then Berengar would question why I would order such a thing. Then again, my husband might forgo torturing you, if you tell him everything he wants to know right from the start.” She narrowed her eyes. “Remember this, Handsome, if you do spill your guts, things will go badly for Adelaide. Do you understand?”

  He studied her. She was playing a dangerous game, one that could quickly go out of control. If he were tortured by Berengar… God, he wanted so badly to let the bastard know what had gone on. He knew Berengar’s rage would be unstoppable and that Willa would die a horrible death. His fists clenched and unclenched, his blood boiling with the need for revenge. But now, there was even more to consider. The unborn child, his child. How could he make sure Berengar never got the chance to question him?

  “Santa Lucia give me strength,” he prayed in Italian. “Santa Adelaide, give me wisdom.”

  “That bitch is no saint,” Willa exclaimed, suddenly angry. “She wouldn’t do anything for you if she could, anyway.”

  Wracking his brain for a solution, he considered Willa. A thought occurred to him – he needed to force her hand! If she dispatched him before Berengar arrived, if he could send her into a frenzy of fury…

  Swallowing, his heart racing, he knew what he had to do. He had no choice, there was no other way. The realization dawned on him that, beyond any doubt, what remained of his life would be counted not in years or months, not even in days. Moments were all he had left.

  Making his decision, Stefano raised his chin and looked Willa squarely in the eye, then lunged at her. He punched her, landing a blow just above her left eye, and she staggered back, stunned.

  “You are old and ugly,” he cried out. “Your sow’s breasts sag worse than the skin on your face.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and drove her against the door, making sure he didn’t kill her, as he wished he could. “Your sex is dry and stinks of decay. I piss on your pregnancy, and every vile memory I have of rutting with you, hag.”

  Crazed with fury, Willa thrashed and clawed at his face. “Guards!” she shrieked.

  Instantly, men surged in, grabbed Stefano, and pinned him against the wall, and Willa launched her fist at him with all the strength she could put behind it. She struck his face repeatedly, bellowing. Grabbing him by the hair, she shoved him to the floor, and then slammed her knee into his face.

  Blood spewed from his nose. “Santa Lucia!” he cried out through cut, bruised lips. “Santa Lucia!” There was little he could do to resist, and he did not try, even when she drew out her dagger and jabbed it into his right bicep.

  Searing pain tore through his body, and he screamed, then cried out again to the patron saint he’d grown up with. “Santa Lucia, I beseech thee, help me, help me!”

  He felt the blade plunge into his shoulder, just above his right clavicle. An even darker pain engulfed him as the heat of his own blood warmed his chest. A tiny spark of understanding told him he’d won. Berengar would never get his opportunity.

  “Ugly, dried up bitch,” he managed to say, just to make sure.

  Froth and incoherent rants flew from Willa’s mouth, and she drove the blade into his other shoulder.

  “Mother Mary, full of grace—”

  “Whoreson! Whoreson, die!” Willa raged, as she continued to drive the blade home.

  Terrible, numbing pain almost blotted out awareness. Stefano saw the flash of the blade one more time, and felt a moment of scalding heat across his neck, and then Willa’s screams started to fade.

  A sense of deep peace enveloped Stefano, and he saw his life pass before his eyes. His mother’s smile. His father’s pride. The lovely town where he’d grown up.

  Santa Lucia, he mouthed the name reverently. Santa Lucia.

  *

  In the darkness, Adelaide waited. It had been quiet for a long time. She placed her ear against the wall, almost certain Willa had finally left Stefano’s cell.

  Courage, she told herself. She breathed deeply, then rapped her knuckles on the wall three times.

  She leaned in, listening. Nothing. She tried again. Tap, tap, tap.

  The silence was dreadful.

  Tears filled her eyes as she clasped her hands. “Santa Lucia,” she whispered, “please help Stefano. I heard him call out your name. I pray, if it is God’s will, that he should live. Please, rescue him soon.”

  Her voice broke, then her heart, and she pounded the wall, wildly sobbing. “Stefano, I do not understand why everyone has abandoned us. Oh, Stefano, are you there? Are you there?”

  *

  Gwen, Barca, and Father Warinus had ridden hard over the past week to get to Berengar’s castle, tethering their horses under a sheltering overhang, away from prying eyes.

  Now, on this cloudy, grim afternoon, looking through the trees and up the long slope toward the looming castle-keep, Gwen wondered why she had insisted they come. Berengar’s stronghold was built of dark stone, the land surrounding it a mass of tangled vegetation. Evil seemed to pour from the highest turrets, from every fissure and crag, all the way down to the lower gate, which barred entry to the road leading up to the castle. Sentry soldiers kept watch from the ramparts. An aura of foreboding shrouded the entire place.

  “We cannot get much closer than this without exposing ourselves, since the tree line gives out about one hundred paces from the first gate,” Barca said. “I would prefer to get inside and see things for myself, before we finalize a plan.”

  Gwen looked up, catching sight of a second, massive gate at the top of the road.

  “It would be foolhardy to try,” Father Warinus said. “Stealth would be futile, and they would never trust a stranger. As it is, I remember this spot well enough. I know the general layout of the public areas and can sketch it for you, but I can only guess at the location of those places Berengar prefers to keep private.”

  “But that’s still assuming we can get inside,” Gwen said.

  “True. I believe we may need to await Lord Alberto,” Barca replied, glancing up. “To do otherwise would give away our intentions and endanger our lives.”

  “But where is he?” Gwen asked, putting to voice what she’d wondered ever since leaving Pavia. “He was supposed to be here by now, and if he’s keeping watch somewhere nearby, wouldn’t he have seen us? The whole area looks too quiet.”

  “We must keep faith in Lord Alberto, but you are right about the quiet,” Father Warinus said. “When Berenga
r is home, the ramparts are crawling with soldiers – and they are not.”

  Barca nodded. “Mayhap his forces have ridden out to meet Lord Alberto’s army.”

  Gwen looked back at the castle. She didn’t believe in omens, so why did she have such a sense of dread dogging her every step? She shook her head to dispel her unease. “What do we do now?”

  “First,” Barca calculated, “we must be absolutely certain Berengar’s main force is not within. Also, we must watch the guards and take note of their rotation, to see if there are gaps in time or in coverage that we may use to our advantage. Then, we must circle the whole to see if there are any breaks in the fortifications Berengar may have missed, although I do not expect we will find any advantage.”

  The three crept to the very edge of the trees and knelt behind a large bush.

  Gwen let her gaze wander over the entire façade. She could see the steep, rocky crags plunging toward the lake. And, in the distance, she saw the placid, steely gray of Lake Garda’s glacial waters.

  The sun’s dying rays burst through breaks in the cloud cover, bathing the stronghold in an orange glow. Gwen shivered. The light did nothing to lessen Garda Castle’s malevolent atmosphere.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Barca gripped Gwen’s arm. “The execution has already taken place. Praise be to God, it is not the queen!”

  Gwen’s eyes unwillingly followed the direction of his gaze. The sun shone on a mass stuck on a pike above the lower gate. A decapitated head! She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before seeing the bloodstains that darkened the door and ground.

  Biting her lip, Gwen let a morbid curiosity take hold, and she looked at the features more closely. Who was the poor––?

  Shock waves crashed through her body. Blond, wavy hair, so beautiful, so…

  “Oh God, no! No!” Gagging, crying, overwhelmed by horror and grief, Gwen turned and ran from the awful scene, away from the terrible, harsh truth.

  *

  Father Warinus set off with Barca, running after Brother Godwyn. The priest was startled by Godwyn’s strong reaction to the grizzly, though hardly uncommon, sight. He found the monk back at the overhang, fists clenched, and weeping.