The Other Side of Heaven (5 page)

Trying to relax, Gwen leaned against a tree trunk. The warmth of the wine helped somewhat, yet she still fought uneasiness. Images of the butchery came rushing back, and she couldn’t reconcile that behavior with how the men had acted since.

She hazarded a look around the camp. Some of the soldiers stood sentry, others tended to the horses and gear, while several sat together, eating and drinking. Father Warinus and Lord Alberto, however, kept to themselves in close conversation. She studied the pair, lit by the glow of the fire, trying to understand what sort of men they were.

Father Warinus was middle-aged, his hair thin and graying at the temples. Short and slim, he wore a cowl with a russet tunic over it. Neither of his garments had a hood; instead, he’d sported a rather shapeless, felt hat, which was put aside, for now.

He seemed wise, calm. A good man. Maybe he could be trusted.

Her gaze shifted to Alberto. A tall man, his long legs seemed to stretch on forever toward the campfire. His black hair was pushed away from his face and fell in lazy curls to his shoulders. In the firelight, Gwen could see silver strands scattered evenly throughout. Odd for a man probably no older than she, but the effect was perfection. She let her gaze roam on, to his jaw, his lips, recalling her sight of them as he’d dressed her wounds. Serious expression, bordering on moody, yet a sensual mouth…

Suddenly, she could feel his touch on her skin again, feel the heat his fingers had caused, and she longed to study him more closely. But she was still unwilling to look him in the eye. Now, more than ever, she felt as if every thought she possessed, every secret, would be uncovered as soon as they exchanged that first glance. It was illogical, because he hardly seemed to take notice of her and treated her like a nuisance when he did.

Don’t be an ass! He’s not paying attention to you, not like that.

Gwen forced herself to look higher, to find his eyes, and was instantly aware of the long, slow departure of breath from her lungs. Beneath the dark slash of brows, his eyes were black pools, mysterious, endless. She felt drawn to them, as though she could dive in and never hit bottom.

Captivated, Gwen wondered what he was like in an unguarded moment. Did he like to smile, or was he always serious? Did he ever laugh?

She doubted it. Still, she felt unable to look away. He seemed wiser than his years, more careworn, as though he’d lived a thousand lives to her one. The strength and control on his face stood in stark contrast to the softness of his hair. She sensed Lord Alberto was a man of deep passions.

She continued to watch as he leaned back on one elbow, still deep in conversation with the priest. But, when Alberto’s penetrating gaze leapt across the fire toward her, she looked away, terrified.

When she ventured to peek again, she saw a watchful man, a grave man, always on guard, his eyes constantly roving around the campsite, assessing, but no longer turning her way.

The men’s voices grew stronger, and both rose to their feet.

“I do not doubt Berengar poisoned King Lothaire,” Alberto said. “You will never convince me otherwise.”

“I understand, my lord,” Father Warinus said, “but since I come as an official emissary from Pope Agapetus, to advise and mediate between the factions, I cannot in the absence of proof do anything but accept Berengar’s protestations of innocence. I must hasten to Pavia, to Queen Adelaide, and from there call for a parley. We must pray Berengar may yet see reason.”

The two men spent a moment more together, and then parted, each to his bedroll.

Gwen could only stare. Had she heard right? Lothaire? Adelaide? Pope Agapetus?

“No,” she whispered, stunned. “No! They… Agapetus… he was pope… in the Middle Ages!”

*

What little sleep Gwen got that night was fitful. Mostly, she watched the constellations walk a slow course across the night sky, remembering astronomy nights at Griffith Observatory in LA. She used to have issues with her life, but now she realized how good she had it – heaven compared to this. Was that life gone? Was it her imagination, or did the stars look different here, as if an age had vanished, as if she were now on the other side of heaven?

Gwen closed her eyes. Everything would make sense; everything would fall into place if she accepted the impossible. Was she feeling the past now? Yes. Undoubtedly. Inescapably. She felt it. She was in it. The Latin. Even the so-called common language everyone spoke. She hadn’t fully recognized it at first, because it was a dead language. The accent was so different from what she’d heard in her head when reading old texts. Yes, she was here. The proof was all around her.

And that means I’m gone. They must think I’m dead. Vaporized in the ruins of the church.

Gwen pictured her family, her friends, horrified, grieving, as tears ran out of her eyes and soaked into her bedroll. Had they heard yet? Oh, this would kill her mother. She thought of her family’s home in Santa Monica and her own apartment, just blocks from the pier. Everything, everyone Gwen cared about was gone, forever gone, as good as dead.

Gwen wadded up her blanket and forced it against her mouth, her eyes. She couldn’t stop crying. Hopefully, the blanket would block the sound of it from carrying across the campsite.

Home, she wanted to go home, but how could she? She didn’t even know how she’d gotten here.

In the midst of her grief, how odd to suddenly have one of her beloved poems enter her thoughts. She wiped her tears, gazing at the starry mantle of night, remembering evocative lines from her favorite poet, Tasso, which spoke of mourning and loss.

What weeping, or what dewfall,

Whose then were those tears,

Flung from night’s cloak, I saw,

And the white face of the stars?

Why was the white moon sowing

A pure cloud’s crystal mass

In the lap of fresh new grass?

Why were the winds heard, blowing,

Through the dark air, round and round,

Till dawn, with mournful sound?

Were they perhaps the strife

Of your going, life of my life?

Gwen finally fell into a fitful sleep, awakening before dawn. More tears threatened, her emotions raw.
The strife of your going, life of my life.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She had to get it together. No more self-pity.

They broke camp and started traveling just after daybreak. The weather was misty and gray, the horses fidgety. Exhausted, Gwen rode closer to Father Warinus and Lord Alberto, wanting to listen to their conversation, to learn where she was, and
when
.

She realized Stefano must have time traveled, too. She vowed to continue her search for him, hoping he was safe, hoping he was coping better than she.

Maybe somehow, some day, after she found him, they would return to Santa Lucia and figure out how they got here and then find a way to get back home.

Steeling herself, Gwen sat taller on her horse. She’d spent the night thinking of all she had lost. Now it was time to find a way to survive.

*

The morning’s ride was well begun. Alberto now felt intimately familiar with his surroundings. Every rock, every tree and rolling hill spoke of his homeland, his life’s blood, his cherished burden. He glanced at Father Warinus. Soon, they would part ways, for the roads they each needed to follow diverged at the Enza River.

It was three days gone since they had rescued the itinerant monk. Alberto’s sense of vexation toward the Benedictine had not abated.
Why does he ever dog my thoughts?

“My lord, a word?” Warinus nudged his horse alongside.

“Yes, Father?” Alberto groaned inwardly. He knew what the priest would ask of him. He’d brought it up several times already.

“As you know, I too feel uneasy about Brother Godwyn,” Warinus said, “and I would ask you again to reconsider. Is it not wiser for you to keep him close at hand, where you might watch him? If he travels with me, he would be free to pass messages or run off––”

“We have no proof whatever he is a spy,” Alberto interrupted. “Also, with you, he has knowledge of only one thing – that you travel to the church in Pavia. If he works for Berengar and stays with me, he will see that I muster my forces. He will learn where and whence I intend to go. No, he must travel with you. I insist.”

Father Warinus was silent for a time. Then he quietly muttered, “As you will, my lord. As you will.”

*

Gwen sat on her horse watching Lord Alberto lead his men away. For three days she’d ridden with him, observed him, listened as he spoke with the priest and his men. Although he seemed to get angry whenever she approached, she could tell he was honorable, not given to mood swings or a violent temper. Reserved physically, he led his men with absolute authority, yet didn’t put himself above them, and they obviously admired him. And when he laughed…

A pang tore through her as she recalled his laughter, quick and easy, his eyes sparkling. She’d been drawn to him from the moment their paths met, but now, now there was so much more to… miss.

She wanted to call out and chase after him, even as a dust cloud rose from the departing troop and he disappeared from view. Would she ever see him again? Gwen frowned, wondering if her feelings were simply the result of her vulnerability.

Her gaze flickered toward her remaining companion, Father Warinus, who looked as despondent as she felt. The priest was a mystery. Although he seemed kind, he had gone out of his way to avoid her, and they’d hardly spoken since her rescue. In prominent display, he now wore a sword at his waist. But would he really be able to protect them if the worst happened? Gwen wished she’d taken a martial arts class.

Again, she let her gaze trail down the path along the river. The dust cloud was nearly out of sight.

Gone. The security Alberto offered was gone. The man. Gone. She still wished he would turn around, come back to her, take away her fears.

Or just
take
her.

The thought was a familiar one, she’d been thinking it for days, but she knew she wanted Alberto for more than sex.

Gwen was amazed by this unfamiliar emotion. Love? But no, she didn’t even know him, had hardly spoken with him. Love. It certainly had never clouded her relationships before.

Yet something felt different, as if she were more alive in his presence. Now she wanted the whole man. She wanted his mind, his heart. And she wanted him to feel the same way about her.

She looked down at her monk’s robe. But it was hopeless. He was gone. And anyway, he thought she was a boy.

“Come. We must follow our own path, Brother Godwyn,” Warinus said.

Gwen nodded. Her thoughts shifted to the one she’d been forced to take since Santa Lucia, now so far to the south. Then she remembered her family in California, so far in the future, and she felt lost, utterly alone.

“Come, Brother.” The priest turned his horse toward Pavia, speaking over his shoulder. “The countryside can be fraught with danger, as you well know. If you would have any hope of returning one day to your Britannia, I suggest you be vigilant – and pray.”

She trailed after Warinus, glancing back only once, the distance empty, a wilderness. Yet, she held the memory of Alberto’s eyes in her mind, to carry with her into the unknown, praying for something else, something that would make sense, a path Warinus couldn’t imagine.

2 April, 951, Pavia, Italy

St. Peter’s Church of the Golden Ceiling. How grand it looked. Queen Adelaide of Italy took the hand of her daughter, Emma, and slowly walked past the tomb of St. Augustine, toward the new marble crypt of her murdered husband. She stopped before it and stared. Lothaire. A good man. Kind, wise, honest. How appalling his fate!

“Mama, where is Papa?”

Adelaide knelt before the tomb. Emma mimicked her.

“Your father has gone to heaven,” Adelaide said to the three-year-old, for possibly the hundredth time. “He is with God.”

“But Mama, when will he come back?”

Adelaide sighed. How to explain…?

She whispered, “Emma, dearest, your father cannot return. But if you pray to the Lord, Papa will hear your voice, for I am certain he sits with the angels near to God’s throne.”

Adelaide glanced at her towheaded child. Eyes squeezed shut, little hands locked in a tight grasp, Emma looked more an angel than any alive. A wave of sadness broke over Adelaide. Nothing mattered now, nothing save Emma. She was Lothaire’s only heir, and Adelaide knew, at this very moment, evil plots were being hatched. They would come for Emma, oh, they would come.

She made the sign of the cross. Father Warinus was due back from Rome within the week, and she knew the Pope and the loyal nobility were already working to protect her precious daughter.

Adelaide bowed her head.
Deliver us from evil, O Lord. Thy Will be done.

*

Stefano’s ribs hurt when he breathed, and his head ached. Wandering in the wilderness, he tried to stay hopeful, tried to rise above the pain, but visions of the earthquake and its aftermath plagued his thoughts. Why hadn’t he been able to find his apartment in Santa Lucia? Why was the whole street, the whole neighborhood gone? And now the property before him, his family’s farm, stood empty. The surrounding hills and familiar stone outcroppings were still there, but the beautiful, old house had vanished, as had the ancient cherry orchard, the vineyard, and groves of gnarled olive trees.

“Where is my family?” he cried out. Tears streamed down his face. Like a torrent, his anguish poured from him in great, crashing waves, and he fell to his knees, sobbing.

Through his misery, he heard chanting. He turned and saw people and wagons coming down the path. Despite the pain in his ribs, he rose and moved toward them.

A large fellow stepped out in front of the others with a questioning look.

“Thank God, thank God,” Stefano said. “I need help. Please, help me.”

The man removed a knife from his belt and waved it about, then growled something unintelligible – a warning.

Stefano raised his hands. “I am no threat! Please, believe me. I’m from Santa Lucia. What has happened? Have you heard anything? There was an earthquake.”

The stranger lowered his knife, then crossed himself and stared.

Stefano’s arms dropped, limp, dangling.

A woman clothed like a nun approached and touched his forehead, mumbling words with a soothing tone.

He flinched.
My God, she stinks!
Her skin was pock-scarred and her teeth were dark brown, but she continued to touch him tenderly and he quickly relaxed, welcoming the kindness in the gesture.

The cut on Stefano’s head had been throbbing all morning, and his bruised and swollen lip made it impossible to speak clearly. “My side is very painful, too,” he mumbled, tugging at his shirt to expose his badly bruised torso. “I may have broken some ribs. It’s hard to breathe.”

The woman probed his wounds, wiping away blood and dirt from his face and body. The leader, stepping up beside her, pointed to the heavily embroidered crest on Stefano’s blazer and barked a question, “…
Pontifex?
”

Stefano frowned.
He’s speaking Latin? Is he joking?
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I’m not the Pope. Please, just…” Suddenly dizzy, he swayed and toppled.

Several people sprang forward and caught him, stopping his complete collapse, and he was glad when they hoisted him into a wagon. Stefano closed his eyes as it started to move. He felt so tired.

Someone wailed, startling him.

A man with a cross shorn into his close-cropped hair shuffled beside the wagon. Wearing only a filthy loincloth, the penitent was wrapped in chains. Hands clutching a rosary, the man fervently prayed in Latin, “
Pater noster, qui es in coelis: santificetur nomen tuum
.”

Horrified, Stefano stared. There could be no doubt the chains were real, and
heavy
; they had caused open, chafing sores in several places on the poor man’s body.

Stefano closed his eyes again, trying to recall the events that had brought him into this nightmare. There was the tour, the girls – the American – what had happened to her?

Gwen. My… my cousin. Dear Lord, she was so practical when the quake hit. She went out the door just ahead of me.

He had left the church without thinking about her until now. He felt so guilty. Was she injured? Had he abandoned her? Where was she?

Questions without answers made his head throb even more, and he could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. More than anything, he wanted to sleep.

Cries. Ecstatic moans. The penitent’s voice rose to a fever pitch.

Stefano looked at him again.
Oh, God. Where am I?

*

Closeted in a private, second-story room in the visitors’ quarters of the old monastery, Queen Adelaide worried. She paced near a window overlooking the garden, watching the setting sun, her steps restless, quick, and relentless. When would she get news from Rome? When?

With royal soldiers guarding the roads into Pavia, Adelaide and her daughter had spent the week living at St. Peter’s, protected by Holy Sanctuary, yet vulnerable. A realist, she knew Berengar, margrave of Ivrea, commanded a large army, knew also he might dare violate Sanctuary and murder them, too. Berengar would think nothing of risking excommunication and eternal damnation in his quest for power. Even if Pope Agapetus brought the wrath of God against him, he would not care. If that monster could poison her husband, would he not as easily rid himself of anyone else who got in his way? Might he not then install a false pope, an ally in Rome, a puppet who would lift excommunication and recognize him as king?

A knock, and the door creaked open. “Mama, Mama!” Emma’s high-pitched voice echoed from the hall.

Ah, to be an innocent child again, untroubled by the banes of an ungodly world.

Forcing aside her woes, Adelaide smiled as Emma burst into the chamber. The child’s nurse followed swiftly behind, red-faced and huffing as she tried to catch her charge.

“It’s fine, Berta, let her go.” Adelaide opened her arms to Emma.

“Mama, Mama, look! Father Warinus brought me a present.”

“The priest has just now arrived, my lady,” the nurse said with a curtsey, “and will present himself shortly.”

Relieved, Adelaide lifted Emma and then made a show of admiring her new doll. As the little girl continued her excited chatter, Adelaide looked past her, into the corridor. Father Warinus and a tall Benedictine monk stood there, waiting.

“Please, do come in, Father,” she said formally and then she allowed herself to grin. “Ah, it is good to see you, Father! Please, come in. Your journey was surely exhausting. Berta, please see that food and wine are brought at once. And who is your friend, Father? Who is your friend?”

*

How could Gwen avoid spending the evening in conversation with them? She couldn’t risk messing this up. The more time she spent alone, the better.

Father Warinus walked in and bowed to the queen, while the servant, Berta, lit a few candles, then hustled from the room. Gwen hid in her cowl and surreptitiously watched Queen Adelaide and her little girl. The child’s fingers twirled and pulled at the honey-blond locks, newly escaped from her mother’s translucent blue veil. A circlet of amethysts and gold wreathed the queen’s head. It caught the candlelight and sparkled.

Adelaide was beautiful and quite young. Gwen decided she must be in her late teens. Like Alberto Uzzo, the queen gave off an aura of world-weariness and perhaps something more; the exuberance of her greeting seemed over the top. Gwen sensed Adelaide’s worry by the faint wrinkle between her brows, by the flash in her blue eyes as she clutched her daughter, as if letting go would separate them forever.

What was going to happen to these two? Gwen couldn’t recall, and wished she had paid more attention to Adelaide’s history. But if she knew, would it make things any easier?

“My lady, this is Brother Godwyn, come from Britannia,” Father Warinus said. “He speaks our tongue but fitfully, although he improves with each day. He does, however, excel at Latin.”

“Britannia… I see.” Adelaide nodded to Gwen. “Welcome, Brother. Perchance you know of the Benedictine, Dunstan of Glastonbury? I have corresponded with the good friar. My husband,” the wrinkle in her brow deepened, “wished to invite him to visit our court, but, alas…” Her voice trailed away in a sigh.

“Greetings, Queen Adelaide.” Gwen mimicked Warinus’s bow. “I, er, I have only heard of Brother Dunstan.” Gwen wanted to stop the interview fast, and thrust out her bandaged hand. “I would beg your forgiveness. I received an injury and must change the dressing. Is there a place where I might…?”

“Merciful Lord, I am sorry for your injury, Brother.” The queen put down her child and started toward Gwen. Her gown of pale blue silk rustled as she moved, giving off a sweet floral scent. Her femininity made Gwen feel grimy, and she sighed inwardly. What she wouldn’t give for a bath and to get her own identity back.

Adelaide peered at her bandage. “Is the flesh corrupted?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, it simply needs a new dressing, and I would also like to do my devotions.”

“Of course you would. I’ll have someone take you to the guest quarters straight away. Worry not about your hand. I shall have an elixir of wine and honey sent that mends wounds quite well.”

Berta and a serving man arrived with food and drink, and the queen gave her instructions to Berta, adding, “If you please, see to our goodly monk, that he might have his privacy.”

“Thank you.” Gwen bowed again and followed Berta downstairs to a small bedchamber.

At the door, Berta looked up at Gwen, assessing. “Good Brother, if you find this pallet bed too small, we might look for a longer one in the morn.”

Gwen smiled and waved her off. “Oh, it will be fine.”

Berta excused herself, but returned almost immediately, holding a rough cloth. “Brother, please allow me to remove your sandals, that I may wash your feet.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Gwen protested.

“But, Brother, it is our wish and our duty––”

“No, thank you,” Gwen replied. “I’ll take care of myself.”

Grumbling, Berta snapped her fingers at servants waiting in the hall. Soon, Gwen was surrounded by the queen’s kindness: the honey-wine medicine, fresh bandages, a large basin of hot water, a clean undertunic, food, and ale.

When everyone had left, Gwen relaxed and sighed, relieved to be alone for the first time in days. After more than a week of living rough, of pain and heartache, this modest room felt luxurious, its comforts welcome.

She washed and changed, redressed her wounds, and then ate ravenously. With a yawn, she curled up on the cot, her eyes closing almost at once. That night, she slept more soundly than she had in years.

*

Berengar’s hunger pangs gnawed as he rode at the head of a long column of men and horses, his sights on Pavia. He knew he could not take the luxury of stopping for a morning meal before entering the town, and he scowled at the mud, thick and sticky, flung everywhere by plodding hooves, coating everything it hit. He looked up at the clearing skies. At least the cursed rain had finally stopped.

Grime filled his eyes, nose, and mouth, doing nothing to improve his mood. But it was his son, Adalbert, riding beside him, who really turned his temper on end.

“I have fought for years to arrive at this position,” Berengar growled as he grabbed his wine skein. He took a mouthful, swished it about, and then spit. “We are within reach of the prize, and yet you choose to turn away from our plans? How do you explain such addled thought?”

“I simply have no desire to wed a woman who is sullied,” Adalbert responded peevishly. “Why don’t
you
marry her?”

“Do not be insolent with me, boy,” Berengar sneered. “Have you forgotten your mother so easily? Would you have me put Sweet Willa in a convent? See the marriage annulled? Ha! I would like to hear
that
conversation. And if I choose annulment, as you seem to suggest, then you shall become illegitimate with a stroke of the pen. Is this what you wish?” Berengar leaned toward his son, barely able to control his voice. “You would not be fit for a life of poverty. No, you will do as I say and marry Adelaide. And you will beget as many children on the bitch as you are able! She has already proved fertile, so it should not be difficult, even for you.”