The musicians began with a haunting, lovely tune native to Provence. After one verse, Anette began to sing, her eyes solely on Dimitri. It was a song of love found, and love lost, and as the words cascaded from her mouth, tears rolled down Dimitri's cheeks. He reached out for her, and abruptly her voice cracked, even as she smiled through her own tears. She went to him. The musicians finished the song as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and Vito arrived with his flute. They conferred for a few moments, and then a more vivacious, joyful song emerged.
Anette stood beside Dimitri, still painfully thin but gloriously straight. He was a head taller than his lady, and he took the countess's hand and led her to the center of the room, where tables had been moved to the side. They faced each other and moved a step away, their hands meeting in the middle, their eyes never leaving their beloved's face. Daria brought a hand to her throat, a bit unbalanced by the intimacy of it. But they cared not. It was as if nothing else mattered than this rediscovered love affair. Her eyes went to Gianni, and he stared at her without wavering, eyes full of words he longed to share. But then Count Armand abruptly stepped between them, standing in front of Daria with hand extended. He leaned forward. “M'lady,” he whispered. “Come and dance with me and we shall make your man mad with envy.”
Daria looked up into his kind blue eyes, sparkling with mischief, and considered his invitation.
“Come, Daria, trust me,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows. “We shall move the knight to declare what is upon his heart before the moon descends.”
She took his hand and rose.
“You need to know this dance and several others anyway,” he said, leaning to his right so that their heads were scandalously close. “The pope, his court, the nobles who entertain them, all enjoy dancing. You must learn the steps in case you are invited to one of their social occasions. We shall follow my sister and my future brother-in-law, if they can keep their minds on the music.”
Anette smiled over her shoulder at them, hearing Armand's teasing, and followed Dimitri's lead. She took a handful of her skirt and swished it to the left for several steps and then to the right, moving her head in tandem with it and the beat of the music. It was as if she were floating about Dimitri.
Daria shook her head. Could she move in the same manner? She had grown up with the traditional dances of Italia, but this was something altogether different. Their dances had been in groups of four or eight, circles that intertwined and moved together and parted, breaking up on occasion in couples. This appeared to be a dance performed solely in couples and occasional, larger rings. A peasant's dance, at once intimate and showy. No wonder Piero had been dismayed to hear that the papal court enjoyed such a spectacle!
“You are thinking far too much,” Armand said in her ear, moving to take her right hand in his left and placing his other hand at her waist. She dared not look Gianni's way. “Watch my feet for a moment. These are your steps, in time with the music. Follow along. One, two, three, one, two, three, one . . .”
Daria began to echo his steps and, shortly thereafter, to match them.
“Now keep doing that, Daria,” he said soothingly. “Lighter on your toes, drifting, like a boat upon the ocean, as Anette is doing it. That's it. That's it, m'lady.” He moved to the side, eyes upon her. “Keep looking at me, that's right. Don't let your gaze leave me,” he said, half teaching, half daring her, smiling, obviously knowing how much Gianni must be despising this moment.
He turned to the musicians as they concluded their song. “Another, in a similar tempo,” he instructed.
Dimitri and Anette began the dance again, alongside Armand and Daria. This time, Armand took his small steps, simply leading Daria about in a circle, then stepping forward to repeat the process three paces away.
“You are a vision, Daria,” the count said. “Nay, do not look away. Eyes on me, 'tis part of the dance. It's the most daring part of it, right? It is called the Dance of the Eyes for a reason. Scandalous, is it not? We are barely touching, but there is much that transpires between two people in a gaze.”
Daria returned his look, smiling slightly. She fought the urge to glance away, feeling a slow, red burn rise on her neck.
“I want you to hear it from me, m'lady. I know your heart belongs to the knight, and his to you. But know that you are a lady who deserves nothing but the truest of loves.”
“What makes you believe I do not think the same?”
“Because I can see it in those big, olive eyes of yours. You have already loved, and lost. It is the same haunted look as I have seen in my sister.”
At that point, one of his knights arrived beside them, keeping step, and then took a turn with Daria about the floor. A second arrived and then a third, as one tune melded into the next, all in the same tempo. Then a fourth and a fifth man came, all as well schooled in the art of the dance as their count, it seemed, and eager for a turn about the floor with the lady. None dared to approach the countess. Mayhap because her eyes were solely upon her beloved, mayhap because it wasn't seemly. Once again, Armand arrived and took her hand.
“How is it that you have not loved and lost, Armand?”
He waggled his eyebrows and continued to hold their gaze. “I have not yet found my lady. But I tell you this . . . if your knight hesitates much longer, I shall be forced to consider the opportunity before me, Duchess.”
Daria let out a scoffing but friendly laugh. “Count Armand Rieu des Baux. You favor courtly flirtation so much, I doubt you shall ever settle down to but one woman.”
“A woman such as the Duchess d'Angelo, healer of Toscana, called and gifted from on high, does not oft arrive in my realm. I would explore it with you further,” he said, “but your man approaches, and it is he who has your heart. No, keep my eye; do not look away until the next man has your hand.” He lifted his head, still staring at Daria, still keeping time with the beat and yet remaining beside Daria. “You wish to learn this dance, Sir de Capezzana?”
“It is in our best interest to all be prepared, is it not?” Gianni ground out, well aware that the count baited him.
“ 'Tis the truth of it,” Count Armand said, smiling a farewell to Daria and then looking to the knight at last. “Follow my steps.” He counted it out for Gianni, showed him what to do with his hands. The music seamlessly flowed into a fifth song.
Dimitri and Anette left the dance floor, Dimitri suddenly fatigued. Daria knew she should feign exhaustion as well and demand they end the festivities, but Armand continued his instruction, even as more of their party disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Gianni's gaze held her there anyway. His hand felt so right under hers, and the nearness of him made her feel as if she were indeed afloat about him. His green eyes studied her silently, but seemed to call to her. She found it easy to meet them, not to lower her gaze. This was the idea of the dance, she realized, to find the one from whom you could not look away.
They danced and danced about the room, reveling in their proximity, their silent conversation. The music seemed to envelop them, lead them, coax them onward, sometimes quiet, sometimes building.
At one point Daria dimly became aware of the music fading, leaving them. They were leaving, moving down the hallway, and Daria pulled her eyes from Gianni's to see that they were utterly alone in the dining hall, the music dying like the last embers in a hearth. In the end, it was silent but for their slow breaths and the sizzle of an occasional candle's wick, sputtering out in a pool of beeswax.
Gianni stopped but still held her hand. Slowly he lowered it and pulled her to the side, until she faced him. Daria's heart picked up a beat. He lifted both hands to cradle her face and gently tipped it upward. His mouth covered hers in a long, tender kiss, their eyes both closing at last. He smelled of cedar and peat, and she pulled him closer.
“Daria, Daria,” he moaned, pulling her close, running his fingers through her hair. “You confuse me.”
“I confuse you?” she said, pulling slightly away. “We had this, this on board the ship. What happened when we reached land?”
He sighed. “I love you, Daria. From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I have loved you. But I have nothing to offer you as husband.”
“Nothing but love,” she said, resting her chin on his chest to look up at him. “ 'Tis enough for me. I need not land or title from my man. Only love. And yet I have my own question for you.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Is love enough for you, from me? I have no means, either. No dowry. And after a broken handfast, I am neither virgin nor able to conceive. Can you tolerate that? Don't you long for an heir?”
Gianni ran his fingers through her hair and held her face again. “That another man has touched you is something that I will endeavor to forget, but can manage, as long as it is only I who touches you in the intimacy of a bedroom from here on out.” He gave a small shrug. “It is what it is. Understandable. Common enough among nobles. And that you are barren bothers me . . . solely because you would be a fine and lovely mother and I would love to see our babe in your arms. But I do not need a child to find completion. I only need you, Daria. You. I tried to pull back, to exist beside you as only your captain, but you have my heart. Totally. Completely. I am yours, if you will have me.”
He knelt down before her and looked up into her eyes. Daria remembered the first time he had done so, outside Roma. And again in Siena, when he had sworn fealty to her. It was then that she knew that something else existed between them, something growing and grand. “You have no man in your life to whom I my go to ask permission, so I ask it of you. Daria d'Angelo, I pledge to you my life and my heart. Would you do me the overwhelming honor of agreeing to be my bride?”
“Gianni de Capezzana,” she said without hesitation, “it is as if I have waited my whole life to say these words. I would be honored to share your name and your life, forevermore.”
Gianni smiled and leaned down to kiss her hands, over and over again, laughing breathlessly, and then rose to kiss her again on the mouth.
Applause behind them made them turn, and they grinned to see their friends arrive back in the hall, clearly never intent on sleeping after all. The musicians returned to their position in the corner and began playing, but the Gifted came to offer their congratulations, with Armand and Anette and Lord Devenue right behind them all. Piero smiled widely, wrapping a small arm around each of them. “Let us marry you now, here, my friends. You have been in love since that day in the grove. It is time you make your love official.”
“Right now? Here?” Daria gasped. “Not in a church?”
“Right now, here. We are present, your friends. There is much ahead of us. Let us make your union official and you can begin the morrow without this on your mind. You need clear heads. Come, let it be done.”
“Such a romantic, priest,” Armand chided. “Can you make it any less appealing?”
“It
is
romantic,” Anette said.
“Then let us be about it as well,” Dimitri said. “Marry us at the same time, Father. This night. I cannot last another hour without Anette as my wife.”
Piero stared hard at him and then glanced at Armand. “You are asking me to perform the marriage ceremony of the Countess des Baux? The cardinal would be deeply offended.”
“The cardinal will have his due,” Armand interceded. “Go about your business. Marry these two couples this night. We will see to political protocol later, and have the âofficial' festivities the countess, and her cardinal, deserve. But love cannot wait a moment longer.”
Daria smiled. She felt dizzy, as if she had drunk too much wine, and clung to Gianni's arm hoping the muscles beneath her fingertips might steady her head.
He turned to her. “Is it all right, Daria? A wedding, such as this? It is hardly what a girl dreams of.”
She smiled. “Nay. It is more.”
And as she said it, she was sure of it, the rightness of it, the full-circle completion of it. She had dreamed of the festivities of a church wedding, but that dream belonged to what she had once shared with Marco. All her time with Gianni had been in transition, it seemed, en route to follow God's call. And God was calling her now, here, to him. To this man before her, her knight, her soon-to-be husband. She glanced around at the smiling faces about them and found only confirmation. It mattered not where they were married. It only mattered that they were together, and never parted again.
CHAPTER TEN
Avignon
“WORD has reached our ears of the Gifted,” the pope said without preamble, studying Cardinal Boeri as he kissed his ring.
“Yes, Beatissimo Padre,” he said, bowing.
“You may rise.” The man sat on his hand-carved throne, on a dais, and steepled his fingers as if in thought, the tips touching the end of his drooping nose. He was a wiry, small man, wielding sharp intelligence and insight as well as renowned faith.
Cardinal Boeri stood at the base of the dais, patiently waiting.
“You know these people well?”
“Indeed I do, Holiness. The knight who leads them, Gianni de Capezzana, was once the captain of my guard at the Vaticana.” His eyes moved to four knights of the
Honneur Gard
, those who protected the pope and his court.
“Ahh. And how did he become tied to this group?”
Cardinal Boeri paused, choosing his words carefully. What transpired now would set the tone for the rest of their conversation. “I believe they have been drawn together for God's own purposes, Holy Father. I know Gianni de Capezzana well, and he is truly one of the most devout in all of Christendom. The priest that travels alongside them, a Father Piero, was once an abbot outside Roma. He too, is highly regarded. And Daria d'Angeloâ”