The Blessed Read online

  “Change?”

  “Change, on a level that may well shake the Church to its roots.”

  “You are one of those who wishes for the papacy to return to Roma?”

  “That matters not to me. I am one who wishes for the papacy to return to its Christian ideals. To confess sin and attempt to live exemplary lives. To honor love of neighbor and love of God above all else. To shake off its cloak of wealth and give to the poor instead. To drive out the evil that exists within its walls and fill the world with light, light that others can emulate. To allow the masses to read the Holy Writ for themselves. To allow them to pray directly to their God, without aid of priestly intervention. To practice the faith of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rather than the faith of man.”

  Armand sat back and studied the priest. And then he began to laugh, laugh so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. “You are quite the mad little priest, are you not?” he said, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. He sobered some when Piero made no response. “You do realize they will tear you limb from limb.”

  “They will try,” Piero said, eyeing Daria and Gianni. “But we have already weathered many storms the enemy has sent our way. Our God goes before us. We can do no other thing than to honor his call.”

  Armand smiled and nodded his head. “I believe you mean what you say, priest. So tell me, tell me all of it.”

  Piero hesitated and glanced about at all the people.

  “Your days of secrecy are over, priest. I am not the only one who knows of your presence and your powers. Morassi’s letter merely confirmed what was already common court gossip. I wager even the courts of England know of you. Your only hope now is to take on your enemies with courage and intelligence.” Still, Armand ordered many to leave with but a wave of his hand, shooing them out the door. Half the hall cleared, leaving only his sister, steward, and most trusted knights behind.

  Piero took a swig from his goblet and dived into the story—of how they had been brought together by the prophetic letter, possibly penned by Saint Paul or his friend, Apollos. He pulled the leather pouch from his robes and gently took the sheets from within. After gathering Abramo’s pages, they now had six in total. Armand whistled when he saw the likeness of Daria and Piero on the first, and listened intently as they told of the other clues God had given them, all leading them here. The boys brought the small chest that held the glass blocks. On the floor of the hall, they put them together, a glass map of amber and turquoise, outlining the boot of Italia and the curve of Provence’s southern coast. A gold line traced their path from Roma, to Siena, to Venezia, to Avignon.

  “We came by sea, rather than overland, of course,” said Piero.

  The lord’s eyebrows shot up in mild surprise. “It would’ve been foolhardy to take on our mountains in the midst of winter. The sea is dangerous enough.” He leaned forward and moved the pages of the letter until those depicting Daria, Piero, and Gianni battling the sea monster were in view. “Who is the monster?”

  “Abramo Amidei,” Piero said.

  “Ah yes, Amidei. We have confirmed that it is he who tracks them?” His eyes went to his captain, Lucien.

  “We have a scout out now, m’lord, to verify that.”

  Armand’s eyes returned to the Gifted and shifted to Anette. “We know him well. A fearsome adversary.” Daria could feel Armand’s eyes hover upon her. “He nearly had you then, Daria? If he is the dragon and you are the peacock?”

  “Nearly.” It was enough, their scant reference.

  “And you swore never to let him get close to your lady again,” Armand said to Gianni.

  “Indeed.”

  The young lord nodded approvingly. “Yet you cannot shake him. He still tracks your every move. His goal is still to capture the lady?”

  “Given our last exchange, I think he would prefer to kill me,” Daria said, leveling a gaze at him.

  “Kill you? What did you do besides refuse his advances?”

  “Maimed him. Took an eye.”

  Armand nodded, barely concealing his immediate fear for her. “There is little Amidei prizes above his wealth and power. His own physical beauty might be one. Why does the baron travel with him? Was he not once a loyal friend to the house of d’Angelo?”

  “Once,” Daria said. “Far has he fallen.”

  “I believe they wish us all dead,” Piero put in. “Amidei had in his possession a portion of this letter. Well he knows what our intent might be—to be agents of change within the Church, to bring light where there is darkness. This is antithetical to his goals. If he cannot control us, use us, he will try to destroy us.”

  Armand rose and paced, back and forth, fingers steepled before him, eyes shifting back and forth, deep in thought. “So Amidei wanted you to turn to him so that he might make use of your powers, your gifting, as the priest calls it. He framed your knights for a crime they did not commit, kidnapped another, and stole Daria to his dark isle.”

  “Yes. He believed separation would weaken us, leave us vulnerable. It did for a time,” Daria allowed. “But he did not count on God’s own power undergirding us all. He did not understand that for all the drama of my own gift of healing, Gianni’s faith, Father Piero’s wisdom, Hasani’s visions, Tessa’s discernment, Gaspare’s powers—that God himself wishes us to be together, remain together. Together, we are mightiest of all.”

  “You are all of the Body,” Armand mused. “One an arm, another a leg, another a hand. Together, you are of the most use.”

  “Well said,” Father Piero said, appreciating the nobleman’s obvious knowledge of Saint Paul’s writings to the Corinthians. “Amidei wished to tear us apart, take Daria because her gifting is the most public, the most useful to him.”

  Armand cocked an eye at Daria and then looked to the priest. “I beg your pardon, Father, but I doubt it was only Daria’s gifting that drew Amidei’s attention. Your lady is famed for her beauty and clearly harbors an intellect to rival any man’s. If he is after her, there shall be no dissuading him.”

  Daria sighed impatiently. “We shall not fail one another nor our God. We shall never bow to Amidei. Despite your chivalry and hospitality, we shall never bow to you.”

  The young lord blinked slowly in her direction and gave her a patronizing smile. “I see, m’lady, that while you are beautiful and intelligent, you still have much to learn in the art of courtly conduct.”

  Daria frowned. They hadn’t time for such trifling. “M’lord, please understand. We have been brought together by God’s hand. We live to serve him in his call, alone. Nothing must get in our way.”

  Armand became as still and focused as she. “Even at further threat to your lives?”

  “If necessary. Obviously we prefer to live. But no matter the cost, we are committed to this call and this cause. We can do no other.”

  Armand shared a slow smile with Anette, then looked to the others. “You are aware that you are in a castle that has long housed true believers.”

  “Speak plainly,” Gianni said.

  “We are descendants of Balthazar,” Armand said, rising. He walked to a nearby wall and tapped on the family crest on a massive tapestry, hung from rings atop a bar.

  “The star of Bethlehem,” Daria whispered.

  “You are a descendant of a king who worshipped at the feet of the one true King?” Piero said, rising. His voice was tight, full of wonder.

  “Indeed,” said Armand. “We have long risen when our Lord beckons. To his birthplace. On crusade to the Holy Lands. And in light of that, I have something to show you.” He walked to the edge of the tapestry with the family crest and drew it backward, showing an aged and badly damaged fresco of six knights on horseback, the flag of the crusaders high above them, an Oriental castle before them.

  The Gifted rose from the table and stumbled closer, seeing now the family crest across each knight’s chest. “Our great-great-grandfather,” Armand said, tapping the man on the first horse, a star of Bethlehem across his armored chest pla
te. “Morassi’s great-great-grandfather,” he said, touching the next man. They all could see the other family crests on the following four horses.

  The peacock of the d’Angelos. The dragon of the Amideis. A lion, paws outstretched. A fox, as if on the prowl.

  Daria’s hand went to her mouth. “How long has this been here? Our ancestors . . . they were all together in the Holy Land?”

  Armand shook his head. “I do not believe they made it there. This fresco was done soon after the castle was rebuilt around eleven eighty. I believe this depicts the Fourth Crusade—see Constantinople in the background? They intended to enter the Holy Land through Egypt, but lacked the funds to pay for the provisions and fleet contracted from Venezia, so they sacked Constantinople instead.”

  Daria gaped at the wall. “I never knew a d’Angelo as a crusader.”

  “But as I understand it, your ancestors arrived in Siena with some wealth to their name, oui?”

  Daria blinked slowly. “Yes. They did.”

  “Men of the Fourth Crusade plundered Constantinople. They came home wealthy, if not victorious for the faith.”

  “Hardly something my family would wish to remember.”

  “But they put the money to good use, did they not? They invested in Toscana, in the woolen guild, and imported inks, dyes, and parchment for the neighboring scribes. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she said, still searching her memory for any word from her father or grandfather about a crusading ancestor. Her eyes went back to the fresco. “And Amidei . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “The Amideis tend to be either the best of men or the very worst. They have enjoyed power for some time, in any region they enter. It is logical that they had a family member on this crusade. Your family did well with the money, redeemed it. Amidei’s family used it for more base desires, building, always building, but corrupt.”

  He moved in front of Daria. “You see, Duchess, why I have known of you for some time,” he said, gesturing toward the fresco. “As a boy, I longed to go on crusade, and begged my grandfather to tell me all he knew of the great battles. He knew of your family, knew they had settled in Toscana. He even knew of a lovely young daughter, a promising beauty who might have been a good match for me, but she had been promised to another in Siena—”

  “And these others?” Gianni interrupted. “What families do these two represent?” he asked, waving toward the knights with the family heralds of lion and fox.

  Armand dragged his eyes from Daria, and waved toward the lion. “The herald of Lord Blanchette, of Uzes, and this,” he eyed Daria again after pointing to the fox, “is the herald of the Richardieus, of Villeneuve-des-Avignon. Both are longtime friends of Les Baux.”

  Piero sighed. “Just one more clue, in a long line of clues. God knew we would need allies, and here they appear to be.” He turned to Armand. “We are on God’s own path, m’lord. Surely you see that.”

  “Indeed I do. And I aim to aid and protect you, if necessary. I will do all I can to assist others in pursuit of the King and his cause. If I cannot go on crusade,” he said, waggling a brow toward Daria, “this is a close second.” He reached out a hand to Daria and led her back to a chair. “You are in the abode of a friend, m’lady. You shall stay with us as long as you see fit. And we shall aid you in any way possible.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHERE is your father?” Daria asked Armand as they finished breaking their fast with a hot, delicious gruel laced with dried fruits and nuts.

  “He is ailing, as he has for some time. For the past six months, he has not been able to rise from his bed.”

  “You must take me to him.”

  “As you wish, m’lady,” he said with a smile, and Daria blushed, realizing that she had no place in ordering a future count of Les Baux about. He lifted his arm and ushered her away from the main room. Daria met Gianni’s eyes for a moment, and his brows were lowered in consternation. She brushed off the look in irritation. If he was not going to formalize his claim upon her heart, she owed him no explanation.

  Vito and Ugo fell into step behind them, a silent guard she allowed. Armand ignored them.

  The lord led her down a stair and through a hall. He cleared his throat. “How is it that you do not travel with Marco Adimari?”

  Daria shifted, suddenly more aware of Vito and Ugo’s presence. But this was no time for secrets. “Marco broke our handfast.”

  “What? Why? Your love was fabled. We have sung of it in our own courts. My mother told me you loved one another as children. That you were destined to be man and wife.”

  Daria smiled a little. “It was a grand love. But unable to surpass what men of power need most. An heir.” She paused. It was best to be out with it and get beyond it. Soon enough, if the lord thought her mysterious and intriguing enough to try to pull her from Gianni, he would need to know it as well. After all, Vito and Ugo already knew of it. “I proved barren,” she said.

  It had been some time since she had felt the impact of how her womb had failed her. She despised herself for dropping her eyes.

  Lord Armand drew her to a pause by a torch and slowly, tentatively reached out to lift her chin. Daria was acutely aware of her men’s presence, but she could not keep her eyes from slowly lifting to meet the handsome noble’s.

  “Daria d’Angelo, you are a fine woman, a prize, regardless of the heart-ache you have suffered. You are serving our God where you live and breathe, and his angels must be singing in the heavens because of what you have done already, to say nothing of what you shall do ahead.” He shook his head and dropped his hand, his eyes rife with wonder. “A healer. You are a healer,” he said. “ ’Tis a remarkable, enviable gift. Never forget that you have value and might as a daughter of God and daughter of Toscana, regardless of what your womb produces.”

  He resumed their walk, and Daria could hear Vito and Ugo breathe a sigh of relief. She could feel Armand take a step away from her within, as well as without. He did not wish to take a barren bride. But it was just as well—she could no longer imagine being with anyone but Gianni, if even that was to be. She appreciated Armand’s friendship, his encouragement of her and the task ahead. In the lord’s eyes, she still had value, merit, even though Marco had abandoned her.

  “I fear my father is beyond healing. He merely waits for something, day in and day out. The physicians have come and gone, all claiming old age will take him at any moment.”

  “Mayhap,” Daria said, climbing a narrow stair behind Armand. “Yet I should still pay my respects to a kindly count who once welcomed a daughter of Toscana as potentially one of his own.”

  Armand smiled down at her and gestured inward. “Prepare thyself,” he whispered.

  Daria stepped forward, hesitated, and had to fight against the urge to step back. The smell of decay and urine was overwhelming. A young maid rose from the corner of the dark room.

  “Saints in heaven,” muttered Daria, bringing a hand to her nose. “Does your noble patient have no vessel in which to move his bowels?” she whispered.

  The girl looked confused and whispered back, “Nay, m’lady. We simply change the bedding twice a day.”

  Daria frowned. “Vito, please go and fetch my medicinal trunk.” She turned to the maid. “Go and fetch four more maids, two with fresh linens, two of you with a new featherbed. This one needs to be burned. Bring along three large kettles of boiling water and clean cloths. This room is to be scrubbed, top to bottom.”

  She went to the window and opened the shutters, letting fresh cool winter air into the room, ignoring the rain that spattered in with it. Then she turned to the bed and slowly approached the count.

  Armand was on the other side, watching her.

  She knelt at the old man’s side. His face was covered in a long, scraggly beard. He was terribly thin, and each breath did indeed sound like a death rattle.

  “Count Rieu,” she said softly. He did not open his eyes or move at the sound of her voice. “Count Rieu,” she said again, cov
ering his hand with her own. “I am Daria d’Angelo de Siena.”

  The count moved a bit and moaned, then coughed, a pitiful, gurgling sound. It made Daria wish she could cough for the old man, force the blockages that kept his lungs from full, free breaths. She stood and carefully folded back the blankets that covered him, taking in the sight of a once hale and hearty man, who now weighed little more than Nico or Roberto. She leaned down and laid her ear against his chest, listening to him breathe, then stood straight again, covered him, and laid two fingers on his neck.

  Armand looked at her hopefully. Did he think she might heal this aged man now, here before him? She gave him a small smile. “It is as the doctors have told you, Armand. Your father is soon to move on to the next life. But we can certainly make him more comfortable in the meantime.”

  The silent hope in Armand’s eyes died down again, like flames turning to embers, but he was grateful. He lifted a weary hand to his head. “It has gone on so long . . . I suppose Anette and I have grown weary from the effort.”

  “I understand,” she said. “How long has he been like this?”

  “More than two years.”

  “What does he eat?”

  “The maids manage a thin gruel and water, spooned down his throat.”

  “Good.” She could well imagine the enormity of such a task. It likely took a good part of their day. “He is in a fine robe, but let us put him in something softer. Do you have any of the smoothest silk, from the Orient?”

  Armand smiled at her. “Spoken like a merchantess of cloth. I shall see what we can muster.”

  “We also need something highly absorbent, like the thick cotton that mothers use to cover their babes. We shall use it to protect the new bedding and keep your father more comfortable.”

  Armand paused, hesitating over the emasculating dishonor of it all. “The servants are bound to have some of it. If not, I will send one to fetch a bolt of it.”

  “And a barber. A noble should be freshly shaven, should he not?”