Piero's knees shook. He could not help himself. Here he was, before the Holy Father, the Bishop of Greater Rome, the man who held the keys of Peter. From him, the entire Church flowed; he was like the spring that produced a river that led to a sea that covered the earth.
Piero frowned. He had not anticipated this, this thrill, this awe, in meeting the pope. He had been called to the Church, served the Church, for many, many years. Nearly all of his life. Who was he to question what God had put into place and what he had not? Was he not but a lowly priest from the outer reaches of Roma?
He focused on Ariana, the young beauty before him, and remembered what she had been like but an hour before. He glanced over his shoulder, as Daria had before him, looking for Amidei. The devil would use any edge, any wedge he could find, to worry a crack into a chasm into a valley between him and his Lord. It was his way. Piero knew that. He shook his head and whispered a prayer of covering for himself and the Gifted. Because standing here, before the pope, the Holy Fatherâthe man from whom all Christendom received guidanceâsent his knees to quaking again.
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GIANNI looked back to Piero in confusion, looking for him to lead here, but Ariana's reunion with her parents, their obvious surprise and joy at her appearance, their questioning glances to the adults behind her . . . all had set things off in the wrong direction, as if a boulder had broken loose and headed toward the valley floor unhindered.
“How is it, Ariana?” asked Prince Maximilien. “How is it that you are well again?”
“These people came to me,” she said, reaching back to Gianni and Daria with girlish delight. “They freed me, Papa. Healed me.”
“You no longer suffer from stomach trouble?” asked her mother delicately, sliding a glance toward the pope, who now stood beside her husband, obviously anxious to avoid further detail.
“No troubles at all,” gleamed the young princess.
“So this is Sir de Capezzana and his bride, the former Lady d'Angelo,” the pope said, taking another step toward them.
Daria, Piero, and Gianni immediately knelt. “Yes, Your Holiness,” said Gianni, again waiting for Piero to speak, and then stepping in when he did not. What ailed their priest?
The pope leaned forward, allowing them each to kiss his ring. “You may rise and remove your masks for a moment,” he said.
“We brought you two gazelles for your menagerie, Holiness,” Daria said, doing as he did.
“Thank you, daughter. They shall be well looked after and bring light to our new gardens and menagerie.” He reached forward and lifted her chin, and nodded once. Did he hesitate, as if he recognized her? “You are as beautiful as you are fabled to be, Duchess. Are you truly a healer as well?”
Daria's eyes flitted to meet his, glanced at Boeri and then back to the ground.
Gianni's muscles tensed at another man's hands upon his wife, old holy man or not. But he remained where he was. Clearly the pope knew more of them than they expected. What all had Boeri told him? His heart raced. He had promised to shield them, introduce them in a prudent manner that would not elicit a response of might . . .
“You may look upon us, daughter. There is nothing to fear here, with us. Tell us of your story. We expect it shall be the most intriguing thing we hear this night. But first introduce us to those who travel alongside you.”
Two cardinals edged nearer, on either side of Boeri, and Piero rubbed his chest, still puzzlingly silent.
Daria raised her chin and slowly, elegantly rose from her deep curtsey. “Holy Father, may I present one of your own, Father Piero, my chaplain.”
“Ah yes, Father Piero,” said the pope, leaning down to place his hand on the man's head in silent blessing. When the priest did not look up, he moved on.
“We travel with my friend and freed man, Hasani, Gaspare de Venezia, Vito and Ugo Donati de Siena, Josephine Fontaine de Avignon, and others.”
“We see,” said the pope. “Quite a varied group. You are a collector of people as well as a healer, Lady Daria?”
Daria hesitated, eyeing Piero, still with head bowed.
“She healed me, Your Holiness,” said the young princess, coming beside them, clearly attempting to ease the tension in the air and aid them. “This very night.”
“Oh? And what ailed you?” asked the man, eyeing her. “Stomach trouble?”
Ariana hesitated and then nodded. “I have not felt this well in some time, Holy Father. These people freed me. Healed me. I swear my life upon it as truth.”
The pope raised an eyebrow. “No swearing, please, daughter, in our presence.” He looked to the king and Prince Maximilien. “May we take these honored guests away from you? I have sat so long, I need to stretch my legs. And you must be eager to join the others in the festivities.”
All three nobles nodded their heads reluctantly, clearly wishing to take part in that conversation, and the pope laced a hand through Gianni's arm and another through Daria's. “Come along, little brother,” he said to Piero. The priest obediently rose and followed. It made Gianni want to turn and shake him. Despite years with Cardinal Boeri, he was ill prepared for this, time with the pope himself. “You, too, mother of Avignon, and fisherman de Venezia, and freed man of Siena. Where is the girl child? We must speak with you all.”
“She is safe at home,” Gianni said, holding his breath. “She did not come with us.” What did this mean, that he knew of each of them?
“No matter,” said the pope, waving his hands in dismissal. “You may relate our words to her.”
They walked through the vast garden, led by two of the guards of the
palais
in Avignon, and followed by the two cardinals. Evidently Cardinal Boeri had been instructed to remain behind. He had met Gianni's glance with a helpless look.
The pope moved slowly but consistently forward. The festival had reached a new height, with laughter and singing and dancing engaging almost everyone present. He paused at last, at the edge of the cliff. The castle across the river was alight with torches on every level, sending glittering, reflected streams across to them as if lifelines. The full moon cast its own wave of light across the water.
“We stand at a precipice, my new friends,” the pope said, looking dolefully downward, into the dark abyss before the river washed the rocks below. “You must see that you walk a path that is like that we see here, perilously close to taking you down.”
Piero looked up, and his eyes glittered in the moonlight. He rubbed his chest and eyed the men in red behind them. Gianni followed his gaze to Cardinals Bordeau and Corelli. Had these two been touched by Amidei and his minions, as the young countess had? What were the weaknesses? Where were the wormholes that had made way into their hearts, giving them entrance to evil?
“We are here,” Piero said, finally finding his voice, “because we can be no other place. God himself leads us. We merely follow.”
“Worthy words, little brother,” said the pope. “But pray, tell us that the stories we have heard are not true. That you have not deigned to use your gifts outside of Church sanction? You have not purported to truly heal?”
“We have healed, at God's own bequest,” said the priest, “under his advisement and leadership.”
The pope raised his chin and studied Piero. “Then pray, tell us the truth of this as well. It is but rumor that you have baptized, upon a river bank.”
Piero swallowed hard, but his gaze did not waver. He clearly was not telling him anything Cornelius did not well know already. “Upon the river bank and elsewhere, just as John and the others did before us.”
A long moment of silence followed. “And what of communion?”
“We have communed in many places, many a time.”
The pope eyed Gianni and Daria. “And the sacrament of marriage?”
“Again, in the full view of our God on high.”
Cornelius sighed and paced back and forth. He began to speak, paused, and then resumed his pacing, his chin again in hand. “We must speak of this further,” he said at last. “We shall spend time in prayer and fasting, and you shall come to our palace very soon. There we shall wrestle through what is to become of your eternal fate.”
When it was clear that Piero would say nothing, Gianni said, “Begging pardon, Your Holiness. But we are the Gifted, prophesied to come together centuries ago. And we firmly believe that while you are in a holy stead, no one but God himself shall decide our eternal fate. We shall come to you as you have asked, but we shall brook no argument that anyone rivals the God on High. It is our enemy's best argument, and we fervently hope that you shall not use it as well. Now, may we have your leave to depart?”
Cornelius stared at him coldly. “Do not make us your enemy, former knight of the Church.”
Piero roused again. “We do not wish to do so, Holiness. Never have we wished it. But if your dearest friend suddenly is in the wrong, what can one do? One must argue for truth and light, and pray that that friend sees the way. Must one not?”
Cornelius studied him, and smiled a little. “We believe we shall have many spirited discussions before we turn you over to the Court of Apostolic Causes. It shall be our goal to turn you back to the truth that you mention now, little brother. Because if we cannot, you shall face the Lord's Commissioner. And that rarely ends well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE dance, which took place on the other side of the castle, atop the rocky cliffs, was something that none in attendance would soon forget. As Daria and Gianni moved into the crowd, seeking their comrades, with Piero right behind them, Gianni continued to feel as if he were walking through a dreamscape, what with the masked men and women all about. Some had gone well beyond the feathered, furry, or skinned masks that most held to their eyes. A few had entire hollow heads of a zebra, or the long, skinny neck of a giraffe. One fellow had a massive elephant head, and a second followed him around as the elephant's tail.
Such foolishness and expense. Gianni grabbed three goblets from a passing maid and handed two to Daria and Piero. It was a fine, smooth wine, unwatered. Mayhap from the pope's own vineyards, world renowned for their quality, although the grapes grew from dry, rocky soil that no one could imagine would produce anything, let alone a fine wine. They called it a miracle of God.
He watched the people about him, some already stumbling in drunkenness. He knew Amidei and Vincenzo and Ciro were somewhere near. These people were weak, defenses down, victims in the making for the likes of their enemy. How long until they drew them to a dark cave? Would they be a party to another child sacrifice, as Gianni had witnessed outside Roma? His hands itched to unsheathe his sword, hunt Amidei down, and end it here, now.
Daria knew well what he feared. Her hand tightened on his arm. “Gianni, the moon.” She looked over her shoulder at the priest, who gazed upward with them.
A full moon. It was then that he knew that this party was just the beginning for Amidei and Vincenzo. On a full moon, their master called them to their foulest acts. Their attention had been so focused upon the pope and other royals that they had neglected to pay attention to the waxing moon . . .
Gianni turned to Daria and took her hands in his. “Daria, promise me. Promise me that you shall do everything in your power to remain right by my side this night. We must not let anyone separate us. Anyone.”
She frowned at his intensity, but squeezed his hands. “Right beside you, husband.”
“We must gather the others and make our way back to the tents,” he said to them both. “We shall be safe there, together. But we must find the others.” He dropped one of Daria's hands and pulled her behind him, searching for their comrades.
But as soon as they neared the raucous crowds, men and women pulled at them, inviting them in to the dance. Groups of musicians wandered, all matching the rhythm, through one tune and then another, and there were multiple circles of people lining up to dance, bowing to partners, turning. Never had they seen such a feat. The nearest thing to it was at the Morassis' mansion in Venezia, but that had been no more than a hundred people. More than three hundred were dancing here.
Gianni frowned, seeing men and women kissing passionately, out in the open. It was unseemly behavior, but no one looked upon them with surprise, all intent on their own pleasures. “We must get . . .”
A man, singing with another, fell backward into him, and all three went down. The big man fell so hard against him that Gianni fell flat on his back, hitting his head upon the hard limestone of the cliffs. He gazed at the moon, but it swam in the sky, shifting and then streaming as if now a comet. Piero's face appeared above him. “Gianni?”
“DaâDaria . . .” he said, reaching up.
Piero looked away and then left him.
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TWO women in leopard dresses grabbed Daria's hands right as the men collapsed into Gianni, taking him down. “Come! Come and dance with us!”
Daria frowned, looking over her shoulder. “I cannot. Please. Let me go.”
They dragged her down the hill, and Daria fought to find a toehold to resist them. They were laughing and smiling, beautiful girls, but something was wrong. Daria could feel it within her.
Men took her hands from the women and pulled her into a loose ring of people, dancing in time with the music. The women were gone.
“Pardon me, I must excuse myself,” she said to each of her dance partners, and turned to move up the hillside again, to where she had left Gianni. She had promisedâ
“Duchess,” Abramo Amidei said, bowing low before her.
Daria's hand went to her throat.
It could not be. Not again.