The Other Side of Heaven (6 page)

Adalbert glowered, but said nothing.

“And worry not about Lothaire’s brat. I have it on good counsel, the stars show little Emma won’t last the summer.”

“But I love Gerberge.”

“She is a worthless chit, boy – a mouse!”

“She is a countess of Chalon, Father. Her bloodline rivals Mother’s.”

“A noble chit, then,” Berengar said sarcastically. “I will not barter with that family. Her father has bedeviled me for years.”

“Because you insisted on fomenting rebellion against King Otto.”

“Fomenting rebellion?” Berengar shook his fist at Adalbert. “How dare you! Otto is not worthy of the crown he wears. Let him marry your chit. He has been a widower for far too long. Mayhap fucking a new bride will turn his mind elsewhere,” he grinned, “and put a halt to his meddling in my affairs.”

After letting his son stew for a long moment, Berengar continued, “Adelaide’s a beauty. She’s enough golden hair to wrap and warm the length of any blade, and she’ll writhe and moan beneath you like no virgin could.”

Glancing sideways, Berengar could see the deep flush in Adalbert’s cheeks. He frowned for effect, then proceeded to drive his point home, “Jesus Christ have mercy, Adalbert, think! Would you rather spend years bringing a bitch to her first full pleasure, or have her pressing against you and drenched with lust from the first night? That is the true accounting between a virgin and a widow. The only good thing about a virgin is when the taking of her is not what she desires.”

“Enough!” Adalbert shouted at him, seething.

Berengar smiled inwardly, realizing the only way to assure his son’s loyalty was to eliminate the girl who had captured his heart. Mayhap a deadly fall?

Or mayhap… poison had always proved effective.

Berengar took a long pull from his wine skein. “Never mind, boy,” he chuckled. “You shall see my side of it yet. Now, let us get on with the business we have set out to accomplish this day.”

He drove his spurs into his charger and surged ahead. Pavia was less than an hour’s ride hence.

*

Sitting in the window, Adelaide gently brushed Emma’s hair. Across the room, Berta worked with a mortar and pestle, crushing iris roots, which gave off the warm, sweet fragrance of wild violets. Dumping the finely ground roots into a soaking pot, she swished and stirred, then sprinkled some of the scented water on Emma’s clothes.

Adelaide looked down at her daughter.
My beautiful child
, she thought. Emma’s limbs had recently grown slim, losing the last traces of baby fat, yet her white-blond locks were still wispy-fine as an infant’s, barely touching her tiny, white shoulders.

“Emma, raise your arms,” Adelaide said.

The little girl giggled and fidgeted, and Adelaide smiled as she playfully wrestled a clean smock over her daughter’s head.

Emma placed her arms around Adelaide’s neck. “Mama, I love you,” she said, holding tight.

Rocking her daughter, Adelaide whispered, “Emma, I shall give you a thousand kisses. You are my joy.”

“
Aiuto! Ahimè! Aiutatemi!
” A man’s distant pleas echoed through the window.

Adelaide strained to listen, to understand. The language was unfamiliar, yet the tone was shrill, desperate. Someone needed help.

She exchanged a glance with Berta and then placed Emma on the floor, among her dolls. “Stay with Emma,” Adelaide ordered the nurse. “I must see about the commotion.”

“But, my lady, the danger––”

“I will not hide in my room, as most deem fitting. And I will
not
shrink from my duty.” Adelaide paused, forcing a smile. “Worry not, Berta. Our soldiers guard the town. There is no safer place in all Italy. Stay here. Watch Emma.”

She hurried from the room, down the stairs and outside, almost colliding with a penitent. He struggled in the courtyard of St. Peter’s, dragging his chains over the cobblestones, the clatter deafening. Above the racket, he loudly chanted the Lord’s Prayer.

Adelaide wondered how long he had wandered in search of salvation. Would St. Augustine answer the penitent’s prayers this day? Would the saint break his chains and set him free?

She crossed herself just as his body odor overwhelmed her. Holding her breath, she swept past him, then took a few more steps, exhaled, and listened. Lamentation still issued from beyond the church grounds, but she could no longer hear strange words, only sobs. She passed under the archway. A few paces away, the priest of St. Peter’s, Father Odbert, spoke with several pilgrims, while a hysteric sat on the ground, blubbering.

Adelaide considered the man with compassion. He was bruised and covered in filth, but she could tell he would be extremely handsome, if groomed. Blond hair, long limbs.

He looked up at her, his gaze pleading, pitiful.

Adelaide was struck by his emerald green irises, which stood out against the redness of his tearful eyes.

She crossed herself. Diabolical magic had surely stricken his soul.

The priest turned to her.

“How might I help, Father?” Adelaide asked.

“Ah, my queen, this fellow is suffering––”

“The queen!” “Queen Adelaide!” Pilgrims bowed, or dropped to their knees.

“
Santa Adelaide?
” The poor man closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and began to pray.

Adelaide shook her head, blushing, yet relieved she had finally understood something he said. “You are mistaken,” she quietly demurred, helping him to his feet. “But mayhap I might help.”

A horn trumpeted in the distance. Frightened, Adelaide recognized the signal. The captain of the royal guards had raised the alarm.

A shout erupted from beyond the city’s main gate, then terrible noises of fighting, the clash of weapons, the ferocious clamor of horses and men in battle.

“Queen Adelaide, flee. Save yourself!” Father Odbert beseeched.

Suddenly, horsemen burst through the gate. Swords flashed, cutting great arcs through the air, felling pilgrims like scythes against grass.

Spellbound, Adelaide watched, hand to her mouth, horrorstruck and disbelieving.

They are coming for us,
she thought wildly. She was about to run back to the church to save her daughter, when someone yelled, “Move aside!”

Instantly, the troop parted for a helmeted man riding a warhorse.

“How dare you!” Father Odbert shouted at him. “The queen is protected by Holy Sanctuary. Get you gone!”

“She is fair game,” Berengar said, grinning, “for she is not inside the church. Get
you
gone!”

*

Dazed, Stefano stared at the carnage around him, the dead and dying. The kind peasant woman who’d treated his wounds writhed in pain, the cobbles beneath her wet with blood. He shuddered and gazed at the priest, who stood in front of Queen Adelaide and protectively held forth his crucifix
. I can’t believe… where the hell am I?

The horsemen raised their bloody swords and circled the priest and queen, laughing. Stefano saw a man in armor riding among them, who had the gall to start arguing with the holy man.

Armor?
His mind rebelled again and he swore he could hear someone chanting,
You’re crazy, you’re crazy, you’ve gone fucking crazy.

With a shout, the warrior urged his mount forward and took a mighty swing with his sword, cutting the priest from his right shoulder downward, through to his groin. The priest crumpled, his blood spraying Adelaide, his entrails splashing across the ground.

“Berengar!” Adelaide screamed.

Stefano staggered, horrified.

The murderer, this Berengar, seized the queen’s arm and attempted to pull her onto his horse. She struggled, kicking and shrieking, and he leaned over and slapped her face.

Stefano’s thoughts crystallized with pent-up fury. “Bastard!” He sprang forward, slipping on the priest’s intestines, yet somehow managing to stay on his feet. He wrenched the crucifix away from the dead man’s hand and threw it straight at Berengar.

The crucifix caught Berengar in the face, the shock of it causing him to lose his grip on Adelaide.

Stefano grabbed the queen, pulling her out of the way of Berengar’s flailing charger. Horsemen surrounded them as blades rose in the air, as curses rained down. Berengar was off his horse and coming for them. Stefano felt Adelaide shiver, felt his heart tremble as well. He heard the cries of the wounded and dying, some calling for Queen Adelaide, others cursing the name Berengar.

With a smile, Berengar placed the tip of his blood-covered sword against Stefano’s throat, pressing his advantage; the sting of his blade, his victory, as sharp as the look in his eyes.

*

Swiping at the trickle of blood on his cheek, Berengar grinned and turned to his son. “We have a mighty warrior here, Adalbert, but a tossed cross is no match for my blade.”

On Berengar’s signal, one of his men pulled Queen Adelaide away from her would-be savior. Ignoring her pleas, Berengar was about to thrust his sword into the bastard’s neck when he spotted a crest on his tunic. The emblem was filthy and torn, but the papal tiara and keys were still visible, sewn with costly gold thread.

Berengar considered the man. His clothes were oddly cut, but finely sewn, his leather shoes, though scuffed and muddy, also skillfully made.

He withdrew his sword. “
Agapetus Secundus?
Speak! Do you represent the Pope?”

The man gaped. If Berengar hadn’t already heard him shout gibberish, he would have thought him deaf and dumb. “Are you the Pope’s envoy? Answer me!”

He muttered strange words. Berengar could make out only
Papa Francesco.

“What? Francesco? You are an idiot. Who the hell is he?”
Ah, but then again,
Berengar thought.
Yes, yes. You play the fool, all the while spying for Agapetus.
“You wily bastard,” he said, envisioning the Pope.

As if in answer, more nonsense poured from the man’s mouth, including something sounding like a plea for mercy, his eyes filling with womanish tears.

“Bah!” Spitting on the ground, Berengar was about to slay the miserable spy when he caught another flash of gold. He grabbed the man’s left arm and tried to yank off the leather and gold wristlet, but it wouldn’t budge. He raised his sword, threatening to chop off the hand.

In a panic, the spy pulled back. Berengar let go, watching as he worked the back of the leather strap to unfasten it.

“Give that to me.” Berengar snatched the wristlet away. It was beautifully wrought, the leather exotic, the square case at the center edged with gold and covered with translucent crystal. Could this be a papal gift? Squinting, he attempted to read the fine writing inside the case, but it was too small, so he shoved the wristlet into the purse on his belt.

“You, Adalbert,” Berengar shouted, “take him straight away to our camp. I wish to question him further.”

Berengar saw Adelaide was already bound, gagged, and on a horse, then mounted his. Ignoring her muffled protests, he turned to his second-in-command. “Find the queen’s brat,” he ordered. “Do not leave this place without the princess.”

Adelaide’s gag loosened, and she yelled, “God will punish you!”

“Quiet, woman. There is punishment enough in this world, without bringing God into it.” Berengar realized his hunger pangs had returned, but he ignored them and kicked his charger into action, directing it over the remains of the priest and away from the chaos.

Looking forward to the feast Sweet Willa had planned, his mouth watered as he took the lead and passed beneath the city gates.

Alberto’s dark eyes compelled Gwen, called to her, sought to pierce her soul, and she wanted to respond, but her leaden arms refused to move. The beautiful eyes grew harsh and withdrew suddenly, as screams, sounds of terror and anguish, filled her mind.

Gwen shifted on her bed, seeing Alberto and his men slashing at Ugly and his gang. She started and then opened her eyes wide, glad to be rid of the nightmare.

But the sounds of battle continued. What––? Adelaide. Pavia. Gwen scrambled to her feet, scared, groggy, and off-balance. This was no dream. Something was happening right now. And very close by.

Listening intently, she heard metal clashing against metal. She pulled on her cowl. Shrieks, like those she’d heard from the dying thugs, sent shivers down her spine. Gwen yanked open the door and started running.

In the cloister, women, children, and clergy darted in every direction, but mostly away from the doors leading to the square. One grotesque figure, a man, nearly naked and lugging heavy chains, hobbled past Gwen, sobbing incoherently. She rushed on, determined to confront whoever was outside.

At the archway, Gwen stopped short and stared. Warriors on horseback filled the town square. Many bodies were lying on the ground; horses, held in check by their riders, pranced nervously in the blood, their hooves and hocks spattered red.

Alberto? No,
she thought, relieved,
he’s not part of this
. These killers had griffin crests instead of greyhounds.

Then she saw the queen on a horse, struggling with a warrior holding her, her dress covered with blood.

“Let her go!” Gwen yelled, running toward them.

A tiny, shrill voice pierced the din. “Mama! Let go of my mama!”

Gwen halted and twisted back, stunned to see Emma standing in the middle of chaos, all alone, weeping, her arms held out for her mother.

Adelaide shrieked, “Emma! No! Run!”

Suddenly, Berta appeared and started toward the child, but when she saw the carnage, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

“Monk, save my daughter!” Adelaide screamed, but Gwen was already moving.

A galloping horseman bore down on Emma. On sheer nerve, Gwen darted in front of the charger and grabbed the reins. As the horse spun and careened, she was lifted off her feet, and all three crashed to the ground.

Gwen barely had time to roll away from the thrashing hooves. The horse lunged to its feet and thundered back toward the square. Struggling to her knees, seeing stars, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then focused on the warrior, who wasn’t moving.

Adelaide cried out, and Gwen looked up just as the queen’s abductor booted his mount toward the gate.

Suddenly, Gwen caught a glimpse of another captive on horseback, a blond man – Stefano!

Before she could react, the warrior groaned and shifted, bumping into her. Gwen scrambled to her feet and yanked the sword from his hand. She staggered – it weighed a ton. Straining hard, she lifted the sword and swung, hitting his helmet with the flat of the blade. The impact jarred her arms, sending spasms across her shoulders, the blade slipping from her grip. To her relief, he went limp, knocked out cold.

Gwen glanced toward the gate. Stefano and the queen were gone, but soldiers continued to rampage in the square. She turned back. Whimpering, little Emma had backed into the shadows of an alleyway.

She bolted toward the child, grasped her around the waist, and ran. Gwen’s arms were weak, still tingling, making it nearly impossible to hold on as Emma yelled, scratched, and thrashed.

She shifted her grip to entrap the child’s flailing arms. “Be quiet, Emma,” she hissed. “Did you hear your mother? She told me to keep you safe. The bad men will get us if you yell.”

Eyes wide with fright, the girl fell silent.

Running, Gwen dodged some barrels, then darted past a broken down cart, heading deeper into the maze of back streets. “We must hide, Emma, then after the bad men are gone, we’ll get you back to your mother.”

Gwen finally found an area far removed from the main square. The constricted pathways between hodgepodges of thatched-roof dwellings were too narrow for horses to pass, and too cluttered by fences for easy visual detection, even from a short distance. They would be safe here, for a time.

She let Emma down and slumped to the ground beside her, still keeping a firm hold on one little arm. Breathing hard, she glanced down at her hand and saw her bandage was gone, the wound reopened
. Deal with it later
, she thought.
Think of the kid. Take care of Emma.

“Emma, Emma, listen,” Gwen said gently. She spoke slowly, hoping the girl would understand every word. “You – you were very brave back there, trying to help your mother.”

The princess glared, then turned her back on Gwen, refusing to talk.

“Emma, please. We have to stay here for a while. The bad men are probably running scared right now, but––”

“I hope they get their guts cut open! I hate them!”

Surprised by the brutality of the girl’s words, Gwen could think of no adequate response. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

“I want Mama!”

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

The tiny girl plunged into Gwen’s arms, gripping her, needy beyond words. She did her best to console the child, holding her, rocking, and humming softly. With her gentle care, it didn’t take long before Emma stopped crying and fell asleep.

Gwen took the opportunity to piece together the events of the day. She guessed it was mid-morning by the time she rushed out of her bedroom. Father Warinus had said he would allow her to sleep through the usual series of morning prayers, but insisted she wake in time for the church service of Sext and the midday meal.

But he’d never shown up. Gwen’s chin rose sharply at the realization. Why hadn’t she seen him? Was he okay?

Another memory, another face, surged into her thoughts. Stefano. He was here, too. Dirty, bloody, but alive. How had he gotten mixed up in all this?

“Monk!” A man shouted behind her.

Gwen’s initial instinct to flee was impeded by Emma’s soundly sleeping form. She braced herself for a confrontation and turned. A peasant with a bleeding forearm scowled at her. Despite his greasy hair and blackened teeth, he held himself tall with a presence that made her feel ashamed.

“You cower…craven rat… have you no will…confront our enemies?”

He had a heavy accent, but Gwen got the gist of his words and bristled. “I do not cower. I saved Princess Emma.”

The peasant scrutinized Gwen, then the child, still asleep in her arms. “Emma? Lothaire’s whelp?”

Gwen hesitated, afraid she’d already given too much information. The man was clearly not one of the soldiers, but could he be trusted?

“My name is Brother Godwyn,” she hedged. “Do you know Father Warinus? Where is he?”

He said something she didn’t understand and then pointed in the direction of the square. “The priest tends… many wounded and dead. Soldiers… gone.” He grumbled something about Count Berengar, then spat on the ground, and walked away.

Carrying the sleeping child, Gwen crept back, hoping the man was right about the soldiers. When she reached the square, she hid with Emma and watched. She had to be certain no one there would harm the child – and she needed to find Warinus.

To her relief, the main gate was closed. Berengar and his men had left, but the tragedy of what they’d done hit her hard. Bodies, dead or bleeding, sprawled everywhere. Survivors walked among them, weeping when they saw someone familiar. Others made attempts at cleaning lifeless faces or arranging clothing for dignity’s sake. Some slung buckets of water and scrubbed the cobblestones, washing away gore, blood, and the threat of disease they knew could follow.

The wounded were being treated across the square from the dead. Gwen moved closer, wondering where Father Warinus was and where she could put her charge, not wanting Emma to see any more of the carnage than she already had.

“Brother Godwyn, you’re alive?” Swatting at flies, the priest rose from amidst the wounded. He was covered in blood. “I feared…” His voice faded, then he cried out, “Praise God, is that the princess?” He dropped the bandages he held and rushed toward Gwen. “Our prayers are answered. Berta!”

A long wail of joy filled the square, and Gwen turned to see Berta rushing toward them.

“My babe, oh, my sweet babe!” Berta, tears streaming, deftly scooped Emma out of Gwen’s arms without waking the child, and kissed her closed eyes, her round cheeks, and unruly wisps of hair.

“You have done well, Brother Godwyn. It is good to know you stood with us this day.”

“Of course I’m on your side!”

“Yes, there can be no doubt.” He clapped her on the back. “Now, you must help me tend the wounded. Berta will see to the child. Come with me––”

“Wait,” Gwen said firmly. “We need to make sure Emma is safe, not just with Berta.”

The woman’s chin trembled.

“I didn’t mean… I meant soldiers must protect you and Emma.” She turned to Warinus. “Where are the queen’s men? Are any still alive?”

“Many were killed,” he replied, “and those who survive man the walls. Come, Brother Godwyn, we will find their captain – if, by God’s grace, he survived. Berta shall take the child to Holy Sanctuary, to await us.”

Before leaving, he spoke quietly with the nursemaid, who nodded several times, then started to walk away with the child.

“No!” a wail rose from Emma’s throat. She craned her neck to see around Berta’s shoulder, and then stretched her arms toward Gwen. “I want her. I like her, Berta. Please.”

Dumbstruck, Gwen stared back at the princess as Berta carried her away. How did she know? Gwen recalled the child’s sleeping face, nestled where all children seek solace and refuge, against a woman’s breasts.

Beside her, Warinus smiled grimly. “Well, you certainly made an impression on her, Brother, although you may have to ask God for a beard. But for now,” he motioned for Gwen to follow, “we have other priorities.”

*

With Emma hidden and protected within the depths of St. Peter’s Church, Gwen turned her efforts toward assisting with the wounded in the square. Despite feeling queasy, she did the best she could. As she worked, she thought about everything that had happened. She was involved now, her own pain revisited, raw and fresh, as she recalled her lost family. Gwen was determined to reunite the queen and her little daughter, no matter how great the odds.

And then there was Stefano. Seeing him as a captive broke her heart. She needed to help him, too. But how?

“You there, monk, quickly now.”

The woman’s voice was hoarse with fatigue. Gwen looked up to see her pointing to an injured man on the ground, saying something about cutting.

He was semi-conscious and moaning. Horrified, Gwen stared at his mangled leg.

She backed away. “No, I can’t do that. Find someone else.”

Father Warinus came up beside her. “She will do the cutting, Brother Godwyn, and you must hold him. I am too busy, else I would do it. Lie on top of him and pin his arms. Just grip fast and pray he survives,” he added as he left.

The woman signaled to a blacksmith, who stood near a brazier. After crossing herself several times, she took a grimy butcher knife, a small saw, and a strip of leather out of her satchel. She bound the injured man’s leg tightly with the leather, then, gripping his knee, she hacked and sawed at his lower leg. Gwen held on as he thrashed and screamed. It took less than a minute to sever the limb.

Despite the leather tourniquet, blood spewed freely. The smith pressed white-hot metal against the stump to cauterize, and then the woman took a handful of white powder from her satchel and coated the smoking, stinking flesh. “The flour will protect,” she said as she got to her feet and looked around, knife poised as if seeking another victim.

Please, no,
Gwen thought.
Don’t ask me for any more help
. The stench and memories of everything she’d experienced overwhelmed her, and she leaned over the poor man and vomited.

“Brother Godwyn?”

Gwen opened her eyes.

“The man fainted, praise be to God. You may release him.” Warinus helped Gwen to her feet.

She saw the woman several yards away, bandaging someone. Thankfully, her knife was put away.

Gwen wiped her mouth. “Forgive me for getting sick.”

The priest shrugged. “There is no need to feel shame. We have all been worn down this day.”

“Father?” Gwen tried to close her mind to the sights around her and decided to ask a question that had been nagging her. “Who is Berengar? Why did he do this?”

“He is margrave of Ivrea and a wicked man. He would see his power stretch not only over this realm, but also over all of Christendom. I am certain he would happily do to the Holy Father that which he did to Father Odbert, may God rest his soul. Berengar’s soul, if he may still call it his own, is rotted black with evil.” Grimacing, he surveyed the square. “We must see to burying the dead, quickly. I ordered the digging of a mass grave. Forgive me, but I must go and make certain it is ready.”