Torrent (7 page)

“So why did San Galgano thrust his sword in the stone?” I asked.

Dad smiled. “He forswore everything he hated—wealth and war. Violence and lust.” Did he glance at Marcello when he said that last word?
Oh, you did NOT, Dad! C’mon
… “An angel—”

“Archangel,” Marcello gently corrected.

“
Archangel,
” Dad repeated with a nod, “came to him and asked him to come here, to this place.”

“The twelve apostles, too,” Marcello said.

“Do you wish to tell this story, or may I, m’lord? Mayhap our version in Normandy is different than yours.”

It was Marcello’s turn to nod in deference. But he was smiling, and he gestured for Dad to go on.

“On Montesiepi he was told to build a church, and once there, he thrust his sword into the stone in an effort to create a rudimentary cross. He succeeded—only the end remained visible, which, indeed, looked like a cross.”

“And then the pilgrims came,” I guessed, “and the monks after them.” I’d spent enough time in this country, in my own time, to know how it worked. If something holy happened, the people had to come check it out.

“Indeed,” Dad said, clearly pleased with me.

When Marcello and Luca started chatting about something else, I leaned back over the rump of my horse, toward Dad. “So…do you think it’s a hoax?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I, like you, would like to see it myself. But many have tried over the years to pull it from the stone and failed.”

“I read that they tested the alloys around 2000,” Mom whispered. “Completely consistent with an eleventh- or twelfth-century weapon.”

Lia glanced at me with raised eyebrows. Her expression said,
Impressive
.

I hoped I had the chance to give the old sword a pull. Mayhap I was the true queen of England, and Excalibur would show it was so. I giggled under my breath.
Yeah, that’s just what you need, Gabs. A whole other gig drawing some serious attention
…

The abbey rose from a wide basin surrounded by hills that would become miles of crops—sprouting wheat and grapevines full of leaves and fruit—come summer. She was all the more inspiring sitting as she was, alone in a field, with a terra cotta brick monastery sprouting off one side. Montesiepi was the high hill beyond her, and on top of it, we could see the round church built around the sacred stone.

The monks were already coming out to greet us.

“Lord Forelli,” said a tall one—more handsome than most—standing in front of four others, “you have done us a great honor with your visit.” They were all barefoot and dressed in the brown robes with white rope belts. I shivered at the thought. Especially on the cold stone of the abbey or monastery…

“It is our good pleasure,” Marcello said. He dismounted and helped me down, then introduced us all. “I have brought you gifts of indigo and gold leaf for your scriptorium, Father.”

“It is most welcome, m’lord. And a fine meal will soon be available to you on top of the mount. In the meantime, would your guests care to see the abbey?”

Marcello cast us a sly smile. “I think they would favor a visit, yes. And I know that they are quite intrigued with the sacred stone.”

“Well then,” said the tall monk, “let us be about it.” He leaned down and whispered in another man’s ear, and that one set off toward the path that led upward.
Probably needs to tell the kitchen staff to get on it,
I decided.

We moved into the grand abbey that reminded me of so many cathedrals we’d seen in France, with the pronounced ribbed arches and high, narrow domes. The columns were fluted, with elegantly carved capitals, and as we walked down the center aisle, I thought the setting would make for a fairy-tale kind of wedding. On either side of the main part of the church, high above, were small round windows, filled with the thinnest, creamiest stone that allowed filtered light to seep through swirls of brown. At the front, beyond the marble altar, was a large, carved crucifix backlit by a massive, round window and, below it, arched windows. On either side of the main area were long apses with arch after arch. It was lovely, really. Somehow light, in the midst of tons of stone. Ethereal. Holy.

After a brief turn through the public rooms of the monastery and scriptorium, we exited and began our climb up the hill. It felt good to be off my horse and stretching my legs. I fought to stay on Marcello’s arm, as was expected, rather than dash ahead. At the top the tall monk led us into the small, round chapel.

“Such a strange shape for a church of this time period,” I heard Mom whisper.

“Maybe the Pantheon served as inspiration,” Dad returned.

“Or the Etruscan tombs all about,” she said, smiling.

They were quiet then, knowing the monks would want silence. I went directly to the top of the boulder, which was raw and open, like it had exploded through the perfect travertine floor, and neared the oxidized, dark metal sword that emerged from it. I circled it, noting its rough texture—and the ancient form of it.

Marcello was kneeling on a small bench before an altar, praying. After a moment he rose, crossed himself, and backed away several steps before he turned and offered his arm to me. He gestured to the frescoes about the room. “Ambrogio,” he said in my ear.

The freaky thing was, I knew the artist. Ambrogio Lorenzetti. I’d met him once, if not twice, at the parties in Siena. Out of the
Sienese school of art, which I knew would generate some of the
most famous paintings in all of Italia. I’d been dragged through the Uffizi—a dizzyingly full museum in Firenze—enough to know that much. But it wasn’t until now, here, that I put two and two together. When I was staring at his frescoes, recently laid down on the wall.

Wait until Mom and Dad heard that—that I’d met Mr. Fresco. They’d freak.

We admired the domed roof, which was formed out of alternating layers of terra-cotta and white travertine, giving it a sort of muted candy-cane look, and then took turns saying a prayer at the small altar, which showcased an elaborately framed, gold-leafed, iconic painting of the warrior, relinquishing his sword to an archangel with massive wings. When I knelt, I didn’t know what to say. Was I to pray to Galgano? The angel?

God
, I silently said instead.
Thank You for bringing us here safely. Get us back to Siena without any trouble. And help me to figure out how to get Mom and Dad to buy in to our whole hairy plan. Amen.

I rose, awkwardly making the sign of the cross, wondering if God was tugging at my heart to relinquish
my
sword, but I laughed it off. That was impossible. Not with what we had ahead of us.

As we exited, Marcello said quietly, “I have never seen you pray before.” His eyes were full of hope, admiration. He took my arm, and we moved toward a small portico, where the monks had set out a table full of rustic, simple, but tons of food.

“Yes, well, it is different in Normandy.”

“Prayer is prayer, regardless of where you are,” he said. “No?”

“In some measure,” I said.

As the group assembled, he led me to the corner of the portico, and for a moment we were hidden behind a large pillar. He wrapped his arms around me, standing behind me as we stared out over the valley. It felt good to be held by him. Warm.
We could get married down in the abbey and honeymoon someplace like this,
I mused. But, of course, without all the monks about. That wasn’t exactly romantic.

He kissed the side of my head and then turned me, tucking a stray coil of hair over my ear as he liked to do. “Prayer
is
prayer, regardless of where you are. Is it that you feel need a priest to help show you the way?” He tucked another strand. “No woman has as many independent thoughts as my Gabriella. Tell me what you need, beloved, and I shall see you have it.”

I laughed under my breath at his gentle jibe, even as I considered his offer. Maybe it’d help me to sort things out, to have a priest around. There was so much about faith I didn’t know. So much I felt like I ought to know, but I felt like an idiot asking. I smiled. “You are kind to think of it. I believe I would like that—if he was the right sort of priest.” My smile faded when I thought of the horrid little priest that had been at Castello Forelli when I arrived. That dude had had serious issues and clearly disliked me from the start. But I’d met others since then, others that seemed friendly and open.

“Then you shall help me find the right one. Castello Forelli needs a new chaplain.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to notice what he said.

“I mean, Palazzo Forelli,” he amended.

I looked to his hands and then up into his face again. “You miss it terribly, do you not?”

He sighed and looked to the valley. “Every moment of every day,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I miss it too.”

After a moment we knew we had to join the others and did so. The monks had baked fresh fig pudding and served it to us hot, with a delicious sugary sauce on top. It was spicy and nutty and gooey. I could’ve eaten ten bowls of it, but I had to stop after two. We broke the bread we brought and cut the hard cheese and dried meats and fruits.

Mom and Dad sat side by side, staring out the archway at the high green hills all about us.

“Tuscan bliss,” Lia whispered, catching me staring their way. They’d always, always loved this country, with its unique valleys and hilltop villages, and after long days on a dig, they would often stand with their arms around each other’s waists and stare out at the view.

“Just taking it in,” Dad would always say.

“Tuscan bliss,” Mom would add.

Over and over, always the same thing. And now they were back together, able to keep on saying it. Maybe until they were old and in rockers on some Tuscan porch. Lia and I shared a smile. Mom and Dad were back in their own little orbit. But this time we were in it too. We both felt it. Things had shifted, fundamentally, within our family dynamics. We still had the same kind of banter, but there was a sort of awareness that we had been missing before. And I loved it.

“M’lord, what news do you have of your brother?” asked our host gently, continuing his conversation with Marcello.

“He lives yet,” Marcello said somberly, ignoring me entirely. “But I would covet your prayers for him, Father.”

“And you shall have it, m’lord. Daily,” he added, giving him an encouraging smile. “Not only for health, but for freedom.”

“We shall soon fight for his freedom. Bring our names to the Lord daily in the next week, please. For protection. For wisdom. For strength.”

I shared a look with Lia, wanting to kick Marcello under the table, to remind him my folks were listening and we had not yet told them of our plan…

“Again, ’tis yours for the asking.”

Finally I let my eyes casually shift to Mom. She’d missed none of it, of course. While Dad was still in his Tuscan Bliss state, she’d heard enough, knew enough from her time here before. I looked away, but I was too late.

“Gabriella,” she said lowly, “is there something that your father and I need to know?”

I sighed. “There is, Mom. A lot, actually. And…well…I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

Chapter Six

So my folks…yeah. Not so down with the idea as we were. You know, putting our lives at stake, possibly being tortured, imprisoned, torn apart forever, killed—basically things that made every parent’s Do Not Allow list.

Mom finally convinced Dad to let us go—“These men have risked so much to save our girls”—but there was one requirement: They insisted on coming along. Which was pretty much the last thing I wanted. Now I’d be concentrating as much on keeping them safe as on freeing Fortino. Mom was wicked good with her staff, and Dad was out of his dream-fog and decent with the sword, but the fact was, the more of us who went, the harder it would be to get us all back alive. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t have a lot of choices.

Several days later we headed out of Siena at sunrise—ungodly early—toward Sansicino, a high hill town to the east of Toscana, in the traitorous republic that had aided Firenze during the battle but now maintained a “neutral status.”

Yeah right, like you guys get to pretend you’re just sitting it out…

But it was what it was. I was so excited that we were finally on the move, on our way to rescue Fortino, that the first few hours of our ride slid by. As agreed with Firenze, we left with only twenty-four men, including Marcello and Luca, my dad, and the Three Amigos from the piazza, as I’d dubbed them—Signores Salvatori, Bastiani, and Bonaduce. The Fiorentini were to arrive with no more than that either. If they played by the rules.

Sansicino had been chosen because it was a hill town, on a mount so high that their “drawbridge” was basically a half-mile-long true bridge that led to the city gates. It made her amazingly defensible, and enemies could be seen from miles away. Our plan was basic: We’d make the exchange, then our guys would bust Lia and me loose, and we’d all rappel off the side of the castle to the hill below the wall and join up with our men—plus reinforcements. To say that that Marcello and Luca were amazed that my mom was willing to fling herself over the edge too would be an understatement. I practically had to give them CPR.

“Daring is in their blood,” Luca said, admiring Lia, me, and our mom.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dad put in. I laughed at him. We’d pretty much always been the good girls, in the background, all our years with him. But he’d recognized that we’d grown up and changed, and he’d grasped some of who we’d become since being here. And he clearly admired it.

Mom and I had packed a basket full of medical supplies, hoping the Fiorentini would allow us to see to Fortino’s wounds even while the men were still in negotiation. I shuddered every time I thought of Fortino with an eye gone. But I hoped that would be the very worst we would have to deal with. I’d heard servants whispering of repeated floggings. That he’d almost died last year before Lord Greco stepped in and placed him in his own dungeon cell. But he’d recently been taken back to the city prison, and things had obviously gotten much, much worse.

What if we had taken longer to return? What if we never had? If the rumors were true, I could only picture Fortino dying. Cold, alone, tortured by infected wounds…It was such a terrible picture that I could hardly think of anything
but
freeing him. I remembered his smile, how close he had been to death when I first arrived, how he had been returned to us, almost as shockingly as my dad had been. In those days and weeks he had become a brother to me. And he’d fought for us, for Marcello, for Siena. We owed him. We all owed him.

“You know that it will mean another battle, if we take Fortino and escape,” I said, for the hundredth time.

“I’m well aware of it, Gabriella,” Marcello said, “as are the rest of the Nine. We are prepared to again defend ourselves—and our She-Wolves.”

“I only want to know you’re prepared.”

He and Luca shared a small smile. “We are,” Marcello said calmly.

“Are they gonna let us in on their plan?” Lia grumbled.

Both men stared forward, self-satisfied expressions on their faces.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

We spent the night at a villa tantalizingly close to Castello Forelli and then skirted her lands on our way up to Sansicino. It was raining like crazy, and we tried to keep oilskin capes over our heads and clothing to stay somewhat dry, but I was shivering. Seriously, my teeth were chattering and everything.

Georgii and Lutterius, who were twins—something of a novelty in this time—rode ahead, scouting for enemies that might be hidden about. They seemed more like big, friendly Labrador puppies than knights, and I worried for them. “What if they run into a trap?” I asked Luca.

He shrugged. “It is a scout’s duty to be aware, to spot what others cannot.”

For as much time as I’d been here, I still wasn’t quite used to the medieval Tuscan man’s way of thinking. It was so dang
harsh
. We might as well have been with a group of Special Ops guys assigned to ferret out rebels among the caves of Afghanistan. My hope was that we’d get over this hurdle and actually experience life like Marcello had imagined—settling down, finding peace. But was that a realistic hope while Castello Forelli remained in enemy hands?

Not likely.

I didn’t know what Georgii and Lutterius hoped to see—we could barely see more than fifty feet ahead of us, given the fog and the pounding rain. Any prints on the road that might give them clues would surely be washed away.
Whatever
. I wasn’t going to ask Marcello to call them back. I knew it’d be fruitless.

So we rode on through the rain and muck, with mud splattering up from the horses’ hooves to their bellies—and our dresses. I fought the urge to whine, “When are we gonna get there?” But I really wanted to know.

When Marcello drew closer, he gave me an encouraging smile. “As fine as this weather is, you’ll be glad to know we’re only an hour from Sansicino’s bridge.”

I sighed in relief. “Very good, m’lord. At least we’ll be able to change into dry clothing and sit by a warm fire.”

“Indeed.”

Men’s shouting, muted by the rain, brought both of our heads forward. Someone was coming. Fast.

Marcello had just barked his warning and the men were on the move, taking defensive positions, when a man on a massive gray gelding rounded the bend of the road, spraying water and mud with every hoofbeat. Right behind him were Georgii and Lutterius, swords drawn, faces—normally alight with mischief—now filled with fury.

The men at the front had no time to meet his charge, only to stand and ready themselves for a strike. We were relatively confident, given our twenty-four to his one, but did he have companions close behind?

But he never drew his sword. He simply charged by our line of horses and yelled, “
Consiglia loro di cessare l’inseguimento,
Marcello!” as he did.
Tell them to cease their pursuit!

Marcello looked after him, wheeling his horse around so that he was between me and the newcomer, as did Luca with Lia and Dad with Mom. But then he yelled, “Hold!” and lifted his fist in a sign that echoed the command.

The twins immediately peeled off to either side of us and brought their mounts to a stop. Everyone else maintained his position.

The man on the massive gelding pulled up on his reins, then slowly turned and looked at us all. He removed his own oiled hood and urged his skittish horse forward. He was a bit hard to make out through the pounding rain, but after a few steps Marcello laughed, then urged his horse toward the man. They met and clasped arms, speaking and turning to look our way.

Then I recognized him. Greco. It was Lord Rodolfo Greco.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

Dangerous as all get-out and just as confusing.

The man who had tracked me down. Brought me to Firenze, before the grandi. Slapped me before them. Then fed me. Bound me and put me in a cage. And then helped Marcello free me.

“Gabi, is that—?” Lia began.

“Yeah. It’s him,” I said, licking my lips. I wished I had a canteen of water. Of the nice metallic, Girl Scout variety. Not the repurposed animal skin that made me never want to drink again. I sighed. Dying of thirst while drowning in a sea of rain.

Rodolfo and Marcello turned to face me. “We’ll rest here for a moment. Take shelter under those trees,” Marcello said. We moved toward them, but finding relief from the rain under them was kind of fruitless. The old oaks were massive, so the limbs gave us some partial breaks, but they weren’t the same as in the summer, when fully leafed.

“Lady Gabriella,” Rodolfo said, nodding toward me. “Lady Evangelia,” he added to my sister.

“Lord Greco,” she said. Appropriately. But I couldn’t seem to say anything. Dry throat, I thought. But in truth I wasn’t yet ready to speak to the man.

When Marcello dropped to the mat of dead leaves and grass at his feet and then turned to me, I braced myself. It made sense, if we were breaking. He wanted me off the horse and closer to him. He studied me, concern in his eyes. “You are well?” he asked quietly.

“Well as I can be,” I returned in kind. “Marcello, I know he helped you free me…but he is also the same man who captured me and dragged me into Firenze behind his horse.”

The muscles in Marcello’s cheek tensed. “What? Surely he did not—”

“He did.”

Marcello stared into my eyes and then pulled me around to the other side of my mare, where we could speak more privately. “You never spoke of it.”

“You never asked!” I sighed. “Marcello, there was hardly time for us. We were in constant battle, from the time you freed me to the time I left.”

“And yet you said nothing as we made these plans to bring you here.”

“It hardly seemed appropriate. You had greater things to be concerned about. And I…I didn’t think it would be
him
. Here.”

“What is greater than your welfare? Do you…can you not trust him, Gabriella? Based on my testimony?”

I closed my eyes. “I do not know, Marcello. You said yourself that he had to pretend a certain amount in order that the grandi would not know he was a Sienese sympathizer.” I thought of the Rossis, of them all hanging from a rope, their necks at odd angles, feet dangling, and I shuddered. If Rodolfo was our friend, he was taking a grave risk indeed.

“We need to hear him out. And in the end, he did help us rescue you. Without him we would’ve never made it out of Firenze.”

I nodded. “You’re right, of course. It’s only foolish, idle memories getting in my way.”

“Not foolish,” he said, lifting my chin. “It was terrible, what you endured.”

“Stay with me. Please, Marcello—”

“Say no more, my love.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and led me over to the rest of the group. Luca was regaling my parents with the tale of my rescue, and they looked at him, Lia, and Rodolfo in wide-eyed wonder. He paused in his tale when we neared, and Rodolfo stepped forward.

“M’lady,” he said, ducking his head.

I dipped my head in response. “Lord Greco,” was all I said.

“Are you quite well?”

“Well enough. I am weary of the road and this relentless rain. What news do you bring?”

He cocked a brow and straightened. “
Relentless
is the correct term. But I must get back to my men before they become concerned. They believe I am in the cottage of an old friend, warming myself by the fire.” He smiled. Even soaking wet, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen. After Marcello, of course. There was a raw power in him that both drew and repelled me.

“You sneaked away?” Luca asked.

“Indeed. But I must leave shortly, or our plan will fall apart.”

“Understood,” Marcello said. “What must we know?”

“The grandi have charged me with bringing back the Ladies Betarrini. I assume you won’t allow us to exit Sansicino, let alone enter Firenze’s gates, with them in hand.”

“Across my dead body,” Marcello said.

“And mine,” Luca echoed.

“As I knew it would be,” Rodolfo said. He shook his head. “And yet Lord Fortino might not live through the night. I left him in the cottage of my friend, by the fire, but he is in dire shape,” he said, sorrow and warning in his thickly lashed brown eyes.