The Other Side of Heaven (15 page)

She swallowed, brokenhearted, because she was all too aware that on the day it ended, the day Willa tired of him…

Sighing, she leaned against the wall and touched it, hoping the impossible would happen, hoping they would be rescued before it was too late.

*

The wistful, twisted smile on Willa’s face meant only one thing. She was done using him.

Stefano watched as she stood in his cell, her hand placed protectively over her belly.

She glanced at the door, then lowered her voice, “We have done it, Handsome. My monthlies are late by two weeks.”

Shaken, he forced himself to remain still. He tried not to care that a child of his grew inside her, a child he doubted he would ever see.

“Unfortunately,” she went on, “I won’t be visiting you anymore, unless my calculations somehow prove incorrect. You will be kept here until I am certain. When my husband returns, he will wish to interrogate you, of course, and I have been wondering how to prevent that, for you could spill what happened between us. I thought about having your tongue removed, but then Berengar would question why I would order such a thing. Then again, my husband might forgo torturing you, if you tell him everything he wants to know right from the start.” She narrowed her eyes. “Remember this, Handsome, if you do spill your guts, things will go badly for Adelaide. Do you understand?”

He studied her. She was playing a dangerous game, one that could quickly go out of control. If he were tortured by Berengar… God, he wanted so badly to let the bastard know what had gone on. He knew Berengar’s rage would be unstoppable and that Willa would die a horrible death. His fists clenched and unclenched, his blood boiling with the need for revenge. But now, there was even more to consider. The unborn child, his child. How could he make sure Berengar never got the chance to question him?

“Santa Lucia give me strength,” he prayed in Italian. “Santa Adelaide, give me wisdom.”

“That bitch is no saint,” Willa exclaimed, suddenly angry. “She wouldn’t do anything for you if she could, anyway.”

Wracking his brain for a solution, he considered Willa. A thought occurred to him – he needed to force her hand! If she dispatched him before Berengar arrived, if he could send her into a frenzy of fury…

Swallowing, his heart racing, he knew what he had to do. He had no choice, there was no other way. The realization dawned on him that, beyond any doubt, what remained of his life would be counted not in years or months, not even in days. Moments were all he had left.

Making his decision, Stefano raised his chin and looked Willa squarely in the eye, then lunged at her. He punched her, landing a blow just above her left eye, and she staggered back, stunned.

“You are old and ugly,” he cried out. “Your sow’s breasts sag worse than the skin on your face.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and drove her against the door, making sure he didn’t kill her, as he wished he could. “Your sex is dry and stinks of decay. I piss on your pregnancy, and every vile memory I have of rutting with you, hag.”

Crazed with fury, Willa thrashed and clawed at his face. “Guards!” she shrieked.

Instantly, men surged in, grabbed Stefano, and pinned him against the wall, and Willa launched her fist at him with all the strength she could put behind it. She struck his face repeatedly, bellowing. Grabbing him by the hair, she shoved him to the floor, and then slammed her knee into his face.

Blood spewed from his nose. “Santa Lucia!” he cried out through cut, bruised lips. “Santa Lucia!” There was little he could do to resist, and he did not try, even when she drew out her dagger and jabbed it into his right bicep.

Searing pain tore through his body, and he screamed, then cried out again to the patron saint he’d grown up with. “Santa Lucia, I beseech thee, help me, help me!”

He felt the blade plunge into his shoulder, just above his right clavicle. An even darker pain engulfed him as the heat of his own blood warmed his chest. A tiny spark of understanding told him he’d won. Berengar would never get his opportunity.

“Ugly, dried up bitch,” he managed to say, just to make sure.

Froth and incoherent rants flew from Willa’s mouth, and she drove the blade into his other shoulder.

“Mother Mary, full of grace—”

“Whoreson! Whoreson, die!” Willa raged, as she continued to drive the blade home.

Terrible, numbing pain almost blotted out awareness. Stefano saw the flash of the blade one more time, and felt a moment of scalding heat across his neck, and then Willa’s screams started to fade.

A sense of deep peace enveloped Stefano, and he saw his life pass before his eyes. His mother’s smile. His father’s pride. The lovely town where he’d grown up.

Santa Lucia
, he mouthed the name reverently.
Santa Lucia.

*

In the darkness, Adelaide waited. It had been quiet for a long time. She placed her ear against the wall, almost certain Willa had finally left Stefano’s cell.

Courage,
she told herself. She breathed deeply, then rapped her knuckles on the wall three times.

She leaned in, listening. Nothing. She tried again.
Tap, tap, tap
.

The silence was dreadful.

Tears filled her eyes as she clasped her hands. “Santa Lucia,” she whispered, “please help Stefano. I heard him call out your name. I pray, if it is God’s will, that he should live. Please, rescue him soon.”

Her voice broke, then her heart, and she pounded the wall, wildly sobbing. “Stefano, I do not understand why everyone has abandoned us. Oh, Stefano, are you there? Are you there?”

*

Gwen, Barca, and Father Warinus had ridden hard over the past week to get to Berengar’s castle, tethering their horses under a sheltering overhang, away from prying eyes.

Now, on this cloudy, grim afternoon, looking through the trees and up the long slope toward the looming castle-keep, Gwen wondered why she had insisted they come. Berengar’s stronghold was built of dark stone, the land surrounding it a mass of tangled vegetation. Evil seemed to pour from the highest turrets, from every fissure and crag, all the way down to the lower gate, which barred entry to the road leading up to the castle. Sentry soldiers kept watch from the ramparts. An aura of foreboding shrouded the entire place.

“We cannot get much closer than this without exposing ourselves, since the tree line gives out about one hundred paces from the first gate,” Barca said. “I would prefer to get inside and see things for myself, before we finalize a plan.”

Gwen looked up, catching sight of a second, massive gate at the top of the road.

“It would be foolhardy to try,” Father Warinus said. “Stealth would be futile, and they would never trust a stranger. As it is, I remember this spot well enough. I know the general layout of the public areas and can sketch it for you, but I can only guess at the location of those places Berengar prefers to keep private.”

“But that’s still assuming we can get inside,” Gwen said.

“True. I believe we may need to await Lord Alberto,” Barca replied, glancing up. “To do otherwise would give away our intentions and endanger our lives.”

“But where is he?” Gwen asked, putting to voice what she’d wondered ever since leaving Pavia. “He was supposed to be here by now, and if he’s keeping watch somewhere nearby, wouldn’t he have seen us? The whole area looks too quiet.”

“We must keep faith in Lord Alberto, but you are right about the quiet,” Father Warinus said. “When Berengar is home, the ramparts are crawling with soldiers – and they are not.”

Barca nodded. “Mayhap his forces have ridden out to meet Lord Alberto’s army.”

Gwen looked back at the castle. She didn’t believe in omens, so why did she have such a sense of dread dogging her every step? She shook her head to dispel her unease. “What do we do now?”

“First,” Barca calculated, “we must be absolutely certain Berengar’s main force is not within. Also, we must watch the guards and take note of their rotation, to see if there are gaps in time or in coverage that we may use to our advantage. Then, we must circle the whole to see if there are any breaks in the fortifications Berengar may have missed, although I do not expect we will find any advantage.”

The three crept to the very edge of the trees and knelt behind a large bush.

Gwen let her gaze wander over the entire façade. She could see the steep, rocky crags plunging toward the lake. And, in the distance, she saw the placid, steely gray of Lake Garda’s glacial waters.

The sun’s dying rays burst through breaks in the cloud cover, bathing the stronghold in an orange glow. Gwen shivered. The light did nothing to lessen Garda Castle’s malevolent atmosphere.

“Sweet Jesus!” Barca gripped Gwen’s arm. “The execution has already taken place. Praise be to God, it is not the queen!”

Gwen’s eyes unwillingly followed the direction of his gaze. The sun shone on a mass stuck on a pike above the lower gate. A decapitated head! She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before seeing the bloodstains that darkened the door and ground.

Biting her lip, Gwen let a morbid curiosity take hold, and she looked at the features more closely. Who was the poor––?

Shock waves crashed through her body. Blond, wavy hair, so beautiful, so…

“Oh God, no! No!” Gagging, crying, overwhelmed by horror and grief, Gwen turned and ran from the awful scene, away from the terrible, harsh truth.

*

Father Warinus set off with Barca, running after Brother Godwyn. The priest was startled by Godwyn’s strong reaction to the grizzly, though hardly uncommon, sight. He found the monk back at the overhang, fists clenched, and weeping.

“Brother Godwyn, what is wrong?” At the sound of his voice, the monk turned and glared at Warinus, then began to rant in his native tongue. The priest listened to the harangue of gibberish, watched the monk scream, and cover his face with his hands, sobbing like a woman.

Father Warinus could make no sense of his blubbering. “Brother Godwyn, please. You must calm yourself.”

“I am
not
Brother Godwyn! Are you blind?” he yelled, this time in Latin. “I hate this place. Hate it! I want to go home. Damn this place to hell!” He turned and began furiously beating his palms against the rock wall.

Blessed God, why such anguish? Father Warinus grappled for understanding. Something was wrong, very wrong.

He rushed forward, taking the shaken youth in his arms, but Godwyn pulled away from his grasp and wrenched back his hood, then started to violently disrobe.

Dear Lord, is he disavowing his calling?

Wearing only his undertunic, Godwyn wadded up his cowl and threw it as far as he could. “I am not a man,” he sobbed. “I am not supposed to be here,” he took Warinus by the shoulders, shook him, and then pointed back at the castle and raged, “and neither was he!”

Father Warinus gaped in horror, barely aware that Barca now stood at his side, gently prying Godwyn’s hands loose, muttering soothing sounds as he tried to calm this inexplicable rage.

Had Godwyn lost his mind? He was behaving like a madman.

“Why did this happen?” the monk wailed and sank to his knees, his anger abating as abruptly as it had begun. “Why did he have to die?”

Two thoughts suddenly struck the priest. Brother Godwyn had breasts, and the head on the pike had to be the guide, her friend—Stefano.

In shock, Warinus raised his eyes to meet Barca’s empathetic gaze.

“Yes, Father. Godwyn is a woman.”

“I realize that now, but, but––”

“My apologies for the deception, Father. Her true name is Gwendolyn Godwyn. I guard her at Lord Alberto’s behest. I believe she is important to him.”

With this onslaught of new insight, Father Warinus carefully regarded the weeping Gwendolyn. She seemed so lost, so vulnerable, all her strength melted away. He shut his eyes, pleading with God for His help, so she could find her path to salvation.

He knelt by her side, making the sign of the cross on her fevered brow. Then he rocked her until it was dark, until she was quiet, until she slept.

*

“Father,” Barca whispered, “I’m worried we have seen no sign of Lord Alberto. Berengar is surely stating his intentions with that head on the pike. The executed man was known to the lady?”

Warinus nodded. He looked at the sleeping woman, thankfully clothed once again in her monk’s cowl. “Yes. Stefano. He was a guide, a friend to her. She told me he went missing weeks ago, but she glimpsed him again in Pavia, when he was captured with the queen.”

Barca frowned. “If Berengar is willing to kill this man, then we must act swiftly. We must leave here in all haste to find his lordship. I fear the shock has been too much for the lady to bear. We must quit this place.”

Gwendolyn shifted, and then sat up, her careworn features bathed in moonlight. “I let you down,” she said, her voice grim, flat. “I shouldn’t have screamed like that – it put us all at risk. I’m sorry. Barca, I’ve been listening to your conversation, and I think the two of you should ride out tonight and do what you suggested – find Alberto.”

“The two of us? No, no, no.” Father Warinus tried to keep his voice calm. “That won’t do. In spite of your disguise, you are a woman and cannot stay here alone. You must accompany us.”