“He has gathered together the foulest within my city and banded them together, and its effect is kin to common war, though hidden, their work done in the shadows, impossible to rout out. He leaves behind disaster, and I tire of his play.” The doge wiped his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth and rose, splaying an arm out in either direction, staring at them all. “I am a man born of the militia, leader of the finest maritime power ever seen by the modern world. From what I have learned, from what I know, the time has come for us to strike. For Venezia. For the Gifted. For God.”
“Well I know men of power,” Gianni said, sitting beside Cardinal Boeri. To his right was Daria. “You must strike the sea monster at his belly, to bring down the head. What drives this man most?”
“Ambition. Greed. Power,” said Boeri.
“Yes. And what feeds those things?” asked the doge.
“Sin, depravity, lawlessness only seem to take him to new levels,” Daria said.
“His foul ceremonies with the dark lord,” Boeri said.
“His play among the nobility in every city, the foul ceremonies, all of it are but pretty jewels upon his dark crown,” said Josephine. “Take away his funds, his wealth, and you strike the belly of the dragon. Now how do we take down a businessman on the level of Abramo Amidei? This is the question we must ask ourselves.”
The doge sat down and smiled. “Well you have chosen your prophetess. She speaks the truth.” He looked to Morassi. “Together, we still rule enough of Venezia to close him off there, drive out his compatriots.”
“Done,” Morassi said, with a grave nod.
“I can cut him off at the knees in Roma,” Boeri pledged. “He owns several powerful nobles. But we can put them back in their proper places. Providing that we all strike at once.”
“Agreed,” the doge said.
“And Anette, with the other friends our Gifted have made, could cut him off in Provence,” Conte Morassi said.
“They shall support her,” Daria said.
“We need Toscana,” Gianni said, rising and pacing. “Even if we inflicted wounds there, he would feel it heavily in combination with Provence, Venezia, and Roma.” He looked to Daria and Ambrogio. They stared at one another for a long moment, remembering what the d'Angelo name once meant throughout Toscana.
Slowly Daria rose, righteous anger making her appear fierce, and she glanced at Nico, Roberto, and Agata. “The time has come for justice to be served. We shall send a messenger this night, with word to the Nine, from the former Lady d'Angelo, now Lady de Capezzana.” Gianni came to her and took her hand, wondering where this might lead.
“I shall tell them that Vincenzo del Buco took the lives of my servants, my knight, kidnapped these three here, ransacked my house for valuables and set it all aflame, all in the aim of controlling me, owning me.” She looked to Gianni, asking permission. “I shall send it to Marco. He is one of the Nine now, and highly favored. He has no idea that Vincenzo has fallen so far. That he has used him as well. He shall rally the others to our side.”
“Are you certain?” Gianni asked. “That Marco is not more firmly on their side? He was in Venezia . . . his presence helped persuade you to speak to Vincenzo.”
Daria stared at him, remembering that fateful night with him. She shook her head. “He was a pawn. Nothing more. Vincenzo used him and sent him home. He was afraid he would learn the truth, and Marco would defend me.”
“Are you certain?” Gianni repeated softly. Siena, Vincenzo, Marco . . . ghosts of the past rose up between them. “Are you truly prepared for justice to be meted out?”
“Justice is in God's hands,” Josephine put in. “We merely set truth in her proper place.”
“Excellent,” the doge said, dividing the de Capezzanas' soft glance. “We then shall have Roma, Toscana, Venezia, Provence. With those four firmly in hand, we can lend pressure upon the Visconti, Gonzaga, and Estense families, even upon Firenze, Genoa, and Pisa.”
“What of Napoli?” Gianni asked.
“Let him retreat to Napoli,” said the doge in dismissal.
“And what if he retreats back to Firenze?” Daria asked. “It was from there he came to Siena.”
“Then, dear lady, we shall surround him,” the doge pledged. “And take him down there. This battle turns here, now.”
They all studied him in silence.
Vito rose and placed his hand in the center of the table.
Everyone else laid their hand atop his, until the doge's hand edged on top.
“After the darkness,” whispered Piero.
“Light,” said the others lowly, reverently.
“Ambrogio,” said Gianni, “can you go to the chapel? Invent some reason for remaining there? It's as close as we can get to guarding the pope as possible, yes?”
“Yes,” Ambrogio said, searching his mind for a tangible excuse. “But I am rather sorry when it comes to swordplay.”
“No worries,” Gianni said, reaching out to lay a hand on Vito and Ugo, pushing them forward. “Meet your new apprentices.”
Vito scoffed. “If he's bad with a sword, you should see what I can do with a brush.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HASANI wistfully gazed after the brothers trailing Ambrogio, but there was nothing for it. In the light of day, the
palais
was like many other houses of power. Black men were relegated to the outer regions or servants' quarters only. It was a wonder they had allowed Hasani to remain with them at all in the Court of Familiars. When they were together, they brought him with them. But sending him off in the direction of the papal chambers . . . nay, Gianni was right in sending the brothers.
Daria turned from her tall, black friend and moved to his desk. She pulled a small piece of paper from the drawer and dipped the quill in the ink, pausing over every other word. It had been more than a year since her handfast to Marco had been dissolved.
Â
20 February, the Year of Our Lord 1340 Avignon
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Marcoâ
I pray that all is well with you in our beloved Siena and Francesca is soon safely delivered of your babe and that he is hale and hearty. Much has transpired in the past year, some of which you know, some you do not.
Upon my life, I beg you to believe the words you must now read, and moreover, I beg you to act as one of the Nine must, with authority and swift decision. I have always trusted your good, sound judgment, even after all that has transpired between us.
Vincenzo del Buco is no longer my guardian and treasured friend. He is in league with an evil lord, Abramo Amidei. They used you as a pawn to get to me in Venezia, where they kidnapped me, as they had Ambrogio Rossellino, Agata and Nico Scioria, and a boy of Il Campo, Roberto. All four will attest to the fact that it was Vincenzo and his men who came into my mansion, murdered Beata and Aldo and my knight Lucan, and burned it all to the ground, taking with it the other mansions of our
calle
that night.
At the same time, he burned my country manor to the ground, and under the guise of paying debts incurred by the fire, froze my assets in banks from Roma to Firenze, cutting me off from any funds that might see me and mine to freedom.
Well you must know how much it pains me to write this to you. But it is the truth. I have been freed from Amidei's prisons, narrowly escaped his utmost attempts to control me, own me, suffering every torture possible. Still he has continued to haunt our every step,
threatening me and mine, murdering other beloved friends.
It is not an overstatement when I say I am in the midst of a holy war, called as a healer of God. Gianni, my captain, has the gift of faith, and Piero the gift of wisdom. Our coming has been foretold and much have I to tell you of the wonders we have seen. We battle one who wishes for nothing more than to stop our harvest of souls for Christ, preferring to sow diseased minds in the furrows of his followers,
everywhere he travels. Such has it been with his control over our Vincenzo, and the result is Vincenzo's terrible fall, producing nightmarish acts neither of us could have imagined.
I beg you to believe me in this, Marco. I need you to act on my behalf, without pause. Please. In memory of our friendship, our
families. There is no ill will between us, no vendetta present here. You must know that I have become Sir Gianni de Capezzana's wife, and we expect a child of our own come autumn. Life has come full circle, or shall, if I can free myself of the evil one who seems committed to the idea that we must die.
Help us, Marco. Persuade the Nine to suspend all of del Buco's and Amidei's properties and accounts within reach and call them to testify before you. I shall bring you your witnesses and you can see to
justice from there. Regardless of your decision, send me word through Countess Anette Devenue des Baux at once.
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In the God who lives and breathes,
I wait, ever your friend,
Daria de Capezzana
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Gianni came in and leaned against the wall, watching her sign her name.
“You should read it,” Daria said.
He moved closer, silent, and leaned over her shoulder to read the missive. She could hear his breath catch when he read over the sentence of the expected child, pausing so long that she turned to make sure he would not pass out. He looked down at her in confusion, almost anger. Did he think it a ruse she used to play upon Marco's emotions?
She reached out to place her hands atop Gianni's own and waited for the truth to reach from her eyes to his mind and heart.
He gasped and came around the chair to kneel before her, taking her hands, then her shoulders, then her knees, then her face in his hands. He shook his head in wonder. “Are you certain?”
She smiled back into his eyes. “Very. I have been trying to tell you for nigh unto a week.”
He lifted her up into his arms and cradled her there. “How it possible, Daria? How has my barren wife suddenly become a mother-in-waiting?”
“I know not. All I can believe is that that night in the prison, when I healed you? And was healed as well?”
He nodded, remembering.
“That the way was made. That God healed me in every way possible.”
He nodded, so pleased, so happy . . . and then all at once stilled. “Amidei knows. It is the secret he spoke of?”
It was Daria's turn to nod, miserable as he.
“How? How could he know?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. No one knows but Josephine. She and I were together, the seamstress doing a fitting . . .” She looked up at him, remembering Tessa's reaction to her dress.
One of the dark has touched it.
“The seamstress. He sent a spy into our house.”
“Shocking,” Gianni said dryly. He cradled her close. “I must tell you that it makes me more convinced than ever that I must protect you. Now there are two of you to watch over.”
“I understand, Gianni.” She pulled away to look him in the eye. “But just as we must leave justice in God's hands, you must trust our well-being to the Lord as well. Concentration must remain upon our task at hand. Only in seeing it through might we have the chance to resume a normal life with our child.”
He stared at her. “I must get the letter to the docks. The doge intends to send all of his own letters on a special ship en route down the Rhône, due to depart within the hour.”
Daria turned to fold the letter, place it in an envelope, and seal it with a peacock stamp in red wax. “Go,” she said, handing it to her husband.
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THE pope emerged from his deep slumber, dimly remembering canceling afternoon audience. His breathing was the same, wet and milky, and he fought not to begin coughing, for to begin coughing meant never ceasing.
His physicians arrived, bringing leeches to suck the poisons from his blood, speaking of bodily humors and the odd mix within the Holy Father this night. They laid horehound upon the fire and gave him foul-tasting liquids and he slept again, awaking hours later to again find them in his room, but it was difficult to see in the dim light of eventide. He had missed prayers.
They whispered about him, debating what could be happening deep within his lungs, and possible remedies, including hart's tongue, massive doses of goat's milk, and lungwort wine.
Cornelius kept his eyes shut, watching them through his lashes. His gaze moved to his desk, where the lost letters lay. He felt as though he sat in the corner of the room, watching the scene unfold before him as if actors in a play. The letter lay there, and the images arose from the sheets, almost taking life in front of his eyes. The beautiful healer, Daria de Capezzana. The knight of faith. The priest of wisdom.
He looked to the royal bed, to himself. Pale and in anguish, even in sleep. To the physicians, well schooled but absent of total and complete knowledge. Back to the papers, spread across his desk. It was as if he moved to them, moved over them, greeted them. Well aware was he that his fever soared. But he could not deny the call. He was almost out of time. He was weak, so weak.
Move
. His God said to him.
Rise. Speak! Now!
Cornelius rose, looking through dazed eyes at the startled physicians and his steward behind them. “Fetch the Gifted to attend to us. We are in need of their succor. Let no one attend us but them,” he said, falling back upon the pillows.
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THEY heard them approach, and Ambrogio moved into the hallway to steal a look. The three papal physicians and the surgeon moved past, grumbling, and Vito pulled back, listening. A steward peered out of the papal chambers, telling a sleepy guard to go and seek those in the Familiars' Wing, Sir de Capezzana and his wife, along with their priest.