DELUGE (34 page)

“Gabs?” Lia asked me, growing concerned. “What is it?”

“Oh,” I said, shaking my head, “nothing. Nothing.”

“You looked sad…”

“I’m fine,” I said, moving to the other side of the bed, climbing out. The last thing Lia needed was to hear me fretting about the plague and what it might do to a family. I knew firsthand what it was like trying to do birth control the old-fashioned way, and Fortino was the result. If Lia and Luca were doing the same…well, chances were she’d end up pregnant at some point soon, too. The only true birth control in this era was to avoid your husband altogether. And the Forelli boys? I blew out a breath and smiled. Yeah, those two were way too hunky to keep at arm’s length.

I moved to the fresh gown Marcello had brought me from Castello Forelli. Lia would lace me up when she decided to set down her nephew.

I grinned. Who was I fooling? I’d probably have to call for a maid or wait for Alessandra. I looked in the dim looking glass at my reflection, my hair a crazy mass of curls, and attempted to brush it. Rather than fight it, I decided to dip my hands in the basin of water and wet it partially down, giving in to the curls. Marcello always liked my hair down anyway. And in this intimate space, when he came back to collect us…it’d be okay, I figured. Even if the rest of the medieval matrons disapproved of a girl with her hair down.

I forced myself to eat some of the food that Alessandra brought us; but mostly, I paced and dozed and stared and stared at my little son. All I wanted was for my family to gather, for all of us to get back to Castello Forelli. Once there, surrounded by all I loved most, I believed I’d feel settled. But as the sun set, Lia looked over at me on the bed.

“It’s getting dark, Gabs. It’s not safe for them to travel. I think you should just try and sleep. They’ll surely be here soon after sunup. They’re likely halfway between here and Siena already.”

I nodded, feeling ridiculous about how sad this thought made me. Of course they couldn’t travel after dark. These winter days were short, and they’d probably stopped at the inn, halfway home. I didn’t want them to get hurt, riding after dark. But still…my heart was like a stubborn two-year-old, wanting what it wanted.

And what I wanted was Marcello, and Mom and Dad.

All of us home. Now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

~GABRIELLA~

We departed the next morn, Marcello lifting me to my side saddle, and then taking Fortino from Alessandra’s arms to lift him up to me. Little Chiara cried, sad that we were taking the
bambino
away, reaching for us. Her heartfelt tears melted my heart. Alessandra picked her up and kissed her cheek.

“It’s all right, Chiara,” I said. “You and Alessandra will come and visit us soon. Yes?”

Ali smiled and nodded eagerly. “We shall let you get settled and come and visit in a few days.” She held up three fingers to Chiara. “We’ll go see little Fortino in this many days, yes?”

Chiara sniffed and stuffed two fingers in her mouth.

Rodolfo was stiff and distant, only giving me a quiet nod and smile as farewell. Maybe he felt guilty…but honestly? I knew what had driven him to push me. He only wanted to protect his family. And holding little Fortino close, I couldn’t blame him a bit.

Marcello tied my mare’s reins to his saddle, leading us, and I knew he felt every measure of pride in bringing us home as he did upon the morn after a victorious battle. Forelli knights in full golden regalia rode before and behind us, ready to escort their littlest charge home. Every one of them wore the wide grins of proud uncles. Not even the cold, foreboding early spring day could dampen their moods.

I glanced back to Rodolfo and Alessandra, knowing I could never thank them enough…grateful that the man had ridden after my husband. They smiled up at us, and Rodolfo bent and took little Chiara into his arms, waving as we exited the gates. As we rode out, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, telling him of what was to come…and yet, I didn’t feel guilt. Only relief. That someone else might have a fighting chance to battle what was to come, that it wouldn’t catch my dear friends unaware. I thought of telling Marcello what had happened as we passed the tombs, but didn’t want anything to mar the day. Marcello would be frustrated by the potential risk of my disclosure, I thought, but he would understand. And if there was one of his brothers that I thought he’d tell himself, it’d be Rodolfo.

I shivered and pulled my cloak closer, looking down at my son’s tiny face. He slept, unaware that he was going home for the very first time to the castello that would one day be his. My heart swelled with joy, even as I obsessed over the idea of getting close to a roaring fire in the hearth of the Great Hall and driving away the chill that was settling in my bones.

As Castello Forelli came into sight, her golden flags waving in the stiff winter wind, I saw that every possible person was now bundled and waiting on her walls. When they saw us, they cheered, their combined voices warming the chilled air with the name
Forelli! Forelli! Forelli!

Never had I had a clearer sense of home.

The gates were opened, and maids and squires and knights and cooks and stewards all spilled out in a continuous stream, surrounding us. Surrounding us, welcoming us, begging for peekaboo views of the tiny “prince,” as I’d taken to calling Fortino…

Behind us, the gates closed, and then, I saw them, Mom and Dad. They waited by the big doors of the Great Hall, stately, as if they were presiding over the castello in our absence. But I could tell by their expressions that they fairly burst with anticipation. And judging from their appearance, they’d only arrived shortly before us. Mom, with her normally perfect braid, had blonde hair sticking out all over the place, and her dress was rumpled, even dirty. Dad, well, he looked like he’d risen from his bed and hadn’t given a thought to changing his clothes or combing his hair. But I didn’t care—I was just glad they were home, finally ready to meet their tiny grandson.

Marcello pulled to a stop, dismounted, and then came to me, easing me down, the baby still in my arms. We shared a grin, and I handed him his son. Marcello cradled him, lifted him a little and began turning slowly.

“Welcome, my people, your future lord, Fortino Betarrini Forelli!”

There was an audible gasp, then sighs, and people were clapping and crying, pressing in, kissing our cheeks, touching the baby’s head…And then they made a way. A visible passage for my parents. We moved toward them, my eyes on Mom and Dad, wondering anew at the gift this moment was. When I came here, I had no father. He’d been long dead. And yet he’d been restored to me, as Mom had been restored to me in another way altogether.

I had to hand it to them. Both looked first at me, as if the babe wasn’t there. They reached out to me, Mom cupping my cheek, Dad taking my arm, and pulled me to them, even as they ushered us inside, out of the wind. “Gabi,” was all they said. But it was enough. And yet in the utterance of my name they’d seem to have said,
We’re proud of you…We wish we had been with you…what is this gift?

“
Madre, Padre
,” I said,
Mom, Dad…
“This is your grandson.”

We circled in close. I soon sensed Lia and Luca moving in, too, with me and Marcello, the babe.

“And now we are seven,” I said lowly. I looked at each of them.

“A holy number, Tomas would say,” Marcello whispered, stroking his son’s head.

“A perfect number,” Mom said. Eagerly, she gestured for me to give her grandson to her—with a hopeful “May I?”—and I happily complied. She cradled him close and Dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders, openly weeping. I’d never seen him cry so much.

“Do you know?” he whispered, turning red-rimmed eyes toward me. “Do you know what this means to me? A moment I could so easily have missed. Would have missed. To see you with my grandson,” he said in a hush, and we were all crying then. “So perfect. So perfect! Oh, how I love you all!”

We pressed in, none of us willing to let the moment slip away.

“A new generation upon us,” Marcello said, holding his gaze on each of us a moment, letting it sink in. “Hope. Do you feel that, my family?
Hope
. Cling to it. Do not let it go. Regardless of the dark days ahead. When we feel despair, when we feel loss, remember
this
. Hope. Light. It fairly blinds us now, but some day we will need to hold this memory in our hearts. Remember it.
Remember
it.”

I stared at him.

And I thought that never, ever, had I loved Marcello Forelli more than I did in that moment.

PART III

PESTILENCE

1348

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

~GABRIELLA~

It came to Italia as we expected.

Months after Marcello had resigned his post as one of the Nine, ignoring the confusion and outrage of the other eight. In the last hundred years, such a resignation had never been witnessed. But we knew there was no way we could be in the city when it arrived. It was the only way to ensure a chance at survival.

It came when our son, Fortino Betarrini Forelli, had grown a mess of curls and the fiercest determination to defy every parental directive sent his way, and delighted in tottering after Chiara Greco—a soulful, thoughtful girl of five—who doted on the little boy as if she were the mother hen, and he, her chick.

It came just when we were hoping we were wrong, or something had changed and it wasn’t going to come after us like a dragon.

The Black Plague.

The darkest of terrors.

It was as if we held to some holy, horrific prophecy, hearing news of its arrival along our coastal cities, and moving swiftly, striking down one in three. January swept into February, spreading the plague among those who huddled around winter fires. It reached further, deeper, in March into April. But summer was the worst.

Come the heat of August, the cities raged, weeped, keened their horrified, mourning cry.

And Marcello paced.

Paced and paced, torn between the knowledge he held and the history unfolding before him, powerless to stop it.

Worse, he began to drink, into the night, alone, staring into the fire. Glass after glass of wine, calling for more when the carafe was empty.

His republic called for him, begged to him, hoping that he held some magical fire-retardant to the inferno unfurling all around. But there was nothing. Not even the knowledge within my parents’ minds could stave off what was to come. What they built within Castello Forelli, and by repetition, Castello Greco, was merely their best guess at a defense.

Food. Water. Medicinals, in the most basic sense.

And so we waited. Listening as it closed in, a narrowing funnel, the danger ever nearer, within a few days’ ride.

Then it arrived within our borders. Toscana. Then within reach of us, in the northeast.

Messengers arrived.

Messengers we would not admit.

We demanded they break the wax seals, and read aloud the words from the other side of the gates.

It came to us, story after story of disease and death.

But still, Castello Forelli would not open her gates.

We listened.

We returned missives.

We distributed food.

But we would not open our gates.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

~EVANGELIA~

At first, the men watched in mute disbelief as Marcello and Luca turned those at our gates away. Out of respect, they did as they were asked, but I could see them peering after their captain and lord in complete confusion. It was so out of character for the Forellis—to reject those in need rather than greet them with mercy—that I guessed they simply hoped it was a phase of sorts, and that Marcello and Luca would soon give in.

They did not.

They had no choice, really. To take to giving away food and medicines would mean that anyone with need—and there would be many, in time—would take to camping outside our walls. While the walls were tall and thick, Mom and Dad had been clear; they didn’t want those who were sick right outside. It was simply too close. People, even people who were well, inevitably attracted vermin. And vermin inevitably made their way past the highest and thickest walls.

For a time, Marcello sent crates of supplies to the villages within our lands—Cavo and Annini and Carini—weekly. A knight would volunteer, load two mules, take them to the villages, and then spend a week in the hunter’s hut to be certain he had not taken sick. For months, they all returned. Then one did not, and the system failed. Because when the next knight went out, he found the last one dead in the hunter’s hut, hauled him out and buried him, then took sick himself. He ended up at our wall, begging to be admitted.

Luca refused him. “Forgive me, brother,” he said. “For the good of all within, we cannot. Go and make your peace with God, and find a good place to lay your weary head in the woods. We shall pray for your soul.”

He’d left the wall, then, not looking at anyone else. Not even me.

Over the weeks that followed, the knights’ and servants’ disbelief and confusion turned into simmering indignation…

…then despair…

…then resignation…

…then apathy…

…which was the toughest of all for us to take.

“We came here to embrace
life
,” I said to Gabi, under my breath, as we took our daily walk around the perimeter of the castle. “To take what came to us, even if it meant facing death. Remember? That’s what we said. We wanted to hold on to that feeling of living, truly living, rather than just making it through the day. That’s what we discovered here. That’s what we wanted to hold on to. Now, how are we any different?”

She set down little Fortino and rolled the leather ball for him, and he happily chased after it, kicking it, in that awkward, stiff-legged way of toddlers. But she said nothing. Because she was thinking? Or disagreed?