Rora (15 page)

"'Remember that this very race of people threw itself upon the protection of your grandfather, King Henry IV, who was most friendly disposed towards the Protestants when the Duke of Lesdiguieres passed victoriously through their country, as affording the most commodious passage into Italy at the time, he pursued the Duke of Savoy in his retreat across the Alps. The act or instrument of that submission is still extant among the public records of your kingdom, in which it is provided that the Vaudois shall not be transferred to any other government, but upon the same condition that they were received under the protection of your invincible grandfather."

Almost reverently, Fabio Chigi laid the parchment upon the desk. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and stood with head bowed.

"Sublime loftiness," pronounced the cardinal. "John Milton sometimes falls to mere eloquence
. But his casual nature is the magnificent. He can convince when conviction is needed, but it is his unique power to astonish."

Emmanuel released a breath, unaware that he had withheld it for so long. He required a moment to recover from the soaring eloquence that had dominated the chamber.

"Cardinal Mazarin is not unaware of your plight. You should receive an official transcript of this letter one week after it is accepted by Louis." Chigi paced again toward the hearth. "Your plan should be this; you must silence the most influential and powerful of the Inquisitors. Then you must—"

"And how do I do that?" asked Emmanuel.

The cardinal shook his head. "I don't have the answer to every dilemma, Savoy—use your imagination." As Emmanuel stared, Chigi continued, "Yes, you will silence the Inquisitors. Then you will note the extreme cost of this war to Cardinal Benedict and declare that you can no longer afford such foolishness. You will also reason that, should hostilities against the Waldenses continue, Cromwell will likely invade Piedmont and remove your kingdom from Italy's domain."

In stillness, Fabio Chigi measured the plan. "And so
you will silence the Inquisitors and use the excuse of a depleted treasury and the threat of an invasion by Cromwell against Cardinal Benedict. Mazarin will protect you from Benedict. Even Rome cannot remove your kingdom with Cromwell involved, and the Waldenses will be preserved." He was studious. "Quite simple, really, as intrigues go."

"How do you know I will be able to use Cromwell?"

"Because you receive a visitor on the morrow."

Emmanuel's voice was softer. "Who?"

"His name is Sir Samuel Morland. He is an ambassador of Cromwell and, like Cromwell, a Puritan. Morland has recently passed through the territory of the Swiss. He also will bring a petition from Cromwell penned by Milton. But what it contains, exactly, I have not discovered."

"I'm shocked."

Cardinal Chigi lifted a hand. "Unfortunately, my operatives, while dedicated, are not ubiquitous."

Only flames invaded the silence as Emmanuel gazed solemnly out the scarlet-draped window to the starless expanse beyond. It was odd that the sky was so devoid of light. But everything was dense and obscure, blending into inseparable gray.

"I doubt that Cromwell will invade," Emmanuel said quietly. "He would risk war with the French, and he has not long finished his war against the Irish." He became studious. "No, Cromwell will not invade."

"Perhaps," said Cardinal Chigi, bringing his fingers together in a pyramid, "perhaps not. But you miss the point, my boy."

Emmanuel sighed. "What's the point?"

"The strength of a threat is not in whether it will be executed. The strength of a threat is in whether you
r enemy
believes
it will be executed." Chigi smiled, letting that settle. "Cardinal Benedict’s ambitions reveal him, Emmanuel. He mercilessly exterminates the Waldenses, but for what reason? Never in history have these poor mountain people been a danger to anyone—not even to Rome. Indeed, left to themselves, they are peaceful, industrious, and almost utterly devoid of corruption. So what do they possess that others desire? Certainly not political influence. What else remains?"

"Wealth." Emmanuel shrugged. "Everyone knows that the Waldenses, while they are not rich, are prosperous because of their agriculture. They work hard. Their valleys are fertile. They always have plenty to pay taxes."

"So why doesn't Cardinal Benedict end this war for a large sum of gold coin?"

Emmanuel stared back. "I don't know. Why doesn't he?"

With a laugh, Fabio Chigi bent forward. "There are two means of satisfying a man's greed, Savoy. The first means—give him all the gold he desires. But, as you know, that becomes expensive. The second means is far easier to accomplish."

"Which is?"

"To threaten the loss of what gold he already possesses."

Emmanuel considered it. "Threaten the loss of the gold he already possesses
... And how, exactly, do I accomplish that?"

The aged cardinal became more sober. "You are not alone, Savoy. The Waldenses themselves must play a part in his drama. They must frustrate Pianessa
’s army. They must make this war too expensive—even for you."

Emmanuel seemed as if he'd aged ten years in aspect and tone. "So, even if I wisely play my part, it still comes down to the Waldenses."

Grave, the cardinal nodded.

"Yes," Emmanuel muttered.
"And so this man, Gianavel—outnumbered a thousand to one—must hold Rora against Pianessa s army until Cromwell's invasion looms on the horizon. Then I must silence the Inquisitors and pray that Mazarin will protect me from Benedict. And this war shall have an ending."

Fabio Chigi smiled with compassion.

"Now you understand the game you play, Emmanuel.... I suggest you play it well."

* * *

Chapter 7

Gianavel did not know from what decimated corners of Piedmont the people came, but they came in great numbers, bearing blankets and clothes and provisions—some with freshly killed cattle, sheep, or antelope, others with weapons.

Watching from the second floor of Hector's home where Angela had moved their belongings to be out of the path of new arrivals, he estimated the refugees at two hundred men, women, and children. Most had fled with what little they could carry.
Their pale, haggard faces and bloodied feet testified to what suffering they had endured to reach this place.

The Alpine peaks, even in summer, were unforgiving. The calcite cliffs could easily slice through shoes and even boots. And the huge slopes allowed no place to bind the bleeding, which resulted in long bloody paths that ascended from view, the remains of those who struggled across the crest. The mountain had no allies, and past wars recorded more men killed by the cliffs themselves, caught in a sudden storm or darkness or avalanche, than by cannons and bullets.

In 1554 an entire battalion of French pike-men, intent on destroying the Waldenses, became lost on the face of the Castelluzo and were almost entirely destroyed before daybreak. The story of the horror that befell them as men began to panic, precipitating avalanches of entire platoons, remained a cautionary lesson to all invaders. And since that event, army after army had avoided a direct onslaught against the cliffs, knowing prudence would allow a better occasion.

Watching the arrivals, Gianavel was concerned about a report that criminals, and even select Vaudois, had been handsomely paid to lead a surprise attack upon Rora along the little-known trails. But he could detect nothing over
tly suspicious or curious about the stragglers.

Still, as a precaution, he had ordered all those who possessed the knowledge and ability to navigate the trails to serve as scouts. Sent out in pairs, they encircled the valley, each independent of the other. None knew the others movements, none could take authority over the other, and all were watching the next, insuring that no one betrayed their planned paths of retreat.

Now he had only to organize and train the army God had given him and fight what battle came. Brooding, he turned from the window to Angela and said nothing as he walked to the bed and collapsed onto his back, arms outstretched.

Resting a hand upon his chest, Angela lay beside him. Her voice was subdued. "Are you afraid?"

Eyes narrowing at the ceiling, Gianavel sighed. "Yes ... I'm afraid."

"No one believes that you know fear," she added. "They call you the 'Lion of God.'"

Gianavel pulled her closer. "If a commander is afraid, his men sense his fear and lose heart. If a leader fights boldly and without fear, his men take courage from his courage."

"I wonder, sometimes," she whispered,
"why it has to be you? Why does the man I love, the father of my children, have to be the one to stand against this ... this darkness."

Gently, Gianavel tightened his arm around her shoulders.

"It isn't fair," she said.

Silence lengthened.

"No," Gianavel said quietly. "It isn't."

"I wish I had some answer to all my questions."

He shook his head minutely. "There's no answer to any of this—not that I can see." He paused. "The cause of suffering ... If men do not suffer, then they don't know hope. If they don't know hope, then they don't know faith. And without faith they don't come to know God. But the Earth is sufficient for hardship. It doesn't need the assistance of man. So I say that suffering caused by man is evil, because it has no higher purpose than man himself."

A knock at the door.

Gianavel arose. "Come."

The door swung open and Aunt Felice stood with hands at her sides. She smiled. "
Boin matin, signore
. Captains Laurentio and Jahnier have arrived."

Gian
avel nodded. "Tell them I'll be down in a moment."

"
Oui
." The old woman quietly closed the door. As her footsteps descended on the stairway, Gianavel donned his saber, two flintlock pistols, a dagger and ammunition pouch. He slid a long poniard into each knee-high boot and a belly pistol into a leather harness inside his left sleeve. Last he lifted his necklace—a golden cross suspended on a leather strap— around his neck.

With Angela, Gianavel knelt beside the bed, firmly holding her hand. Eyes closed, he prayed, "Lord, give me lucidity of thought to do rightly.
Guard me from snares laid by my enemies so that I will not dishonor you. Protect my dear Angela and our children from our enemies. And if it be Thy will, bring an end to this fighting. Amen."

"Amen," said Angela and then she hugged Gianavel fiercely and longer than usual. "I love you," she whispered.

Gianavel held her for as long as he could allow and then gently pulled her arms from his neck, cupping her face close with both palms. "I'll always come back to you."

Angela closed her eyes as Gianavel stood and pulled her up, and together they walked from the room and into the rising cacophony of the room below.

***

The chorus of colliding voices quieted immediately as
Gianavel appeared on the balcony. All eyes fixed on the captain. Gianavel took his time to gaze over them, seeming to measure the voices and aspects. Then without a word or gesture he moved down the bannister and stepped onto the floor where he boldly extended his hand to a man with long blond hair and thick barrel chest.

The man wore the old-fashioned heavy plate armor of a crusader on his chest—armor sligh
tly scarred but well maintained—and stood a half-head taller than the Captain of Rora.

Gianavel smiled. "It's good to see you,
Jahier."

Jahier's beard lifted in a hearty smile. "Good to see you too, Joshua." The smile slowly faded. "I heard of yesterday. I am sorry. I suppose there's no need telling you that Pianessa has encircled you from Turin to Carboneri, ten thousand strong. We barely slid through ourselves—not a stunt I'd try twice."

Gianavel didn't even glance at those surrounding them, listening to every word. "It's a long ride from Campignola. Eat first, then we'll talk. How many men came with you?"

"Forty with the will to take part in the suggestion of war and who don't fear the blood," Jahier muttered as they reached the door. "Half have experience with cannon and musket.
The others are young, but no younger than you and I when we first wielded a sword."

Their dark silhouettes blocked out the cube of white that filled the doorway, lightened their outlines as if they were stepping beyond the earth—a single step, two, and they were gone.

***

Emmanuel's servants seemed to retreat from him as he entered his hall, unceremoniously pouring a large goblet of wine and draining it in a long swallow. He refilled the glass, drained it again before pausing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Prepare a bath," he said hoarsely.

The young girl blinked in bewilderment.

It was Emmanuel's custom to bathe once a month. Only those who had spent time in the Orient, or descendants of those who fought in the Crusades against the Moors, bathed more frequently. But he did not correct his instruction and the girl vanished.

With no one close, yet never completely alone, Emmanuel collapsed tiredly in a tall-backed wooden chair. He lifted a hand to his sweat-and-dust-grimed face. His hand, too, was blackened with dirt and blistered by the reins. Noticing that his legs trembled, he knew he had to move before
his fatigue stiffened.

He rose and exited the towering front gates to see Simon, hands folded humbly in the sleeves of his robe, standing on the walkway. Incomel, an unfamiliar aspect of anger on his face, had apparently stopped the inferior monk for an interrogation.

Emmanuel almost passed by, his affection for Simon provoking him to look away from this humiliation, but the late-night tryst with Cardinal Fabio Chigi had inspired his fortitude. He slowly sauntered toward the confrontation.

It is much like swordplay, he thought. Don't plan how you will strike, hut strike quickly. Attack is always better than defense.

He stopped on a step above Incomel and stared down upon the Inquisitor. He had long learned, from no less than Pianessa, that superior height often provided a distinct advantage in these things.

Incomel nodded deeply, face unaltered. "Good morning, Savoy. I was enjoying a pleasant word with my old friend. Am I needed?"

"No," Emmanuel said with a pleasant smile, "not at the moment. I only wanted to observe your ministrations among my servants. As you say, I have much to learn."

Incomel
’s smile was bitter. "Of course." He turned to Simon with a deep sigh, as if the energetic dispute was now ended. "In any case, Father, I see no reason why you cannot continue your ministrations to the redeemed heretics. Some are in need of medical attention, though some are beyond earthly concerns."

"Yes," Simon said with contempt. "I know well of those, Inquisitor. I believe Corbis's zeal should be reported to the archdiocese so that he might be rewarded for his
... passion."

"Corbis is content with God
’s gratitude alone. I see no reason why the Councilaries should be made aware of our labors. But should I decide, Father, then I will send reports."

"And just what heresies, exactly, has the good Inquisitor discovered through his labors?" Simon retorted.

Incomel glanced casually at the Duke of Savoy, and Emmanuel understood that Incomel was not unaware of his readiness to intercede.

"Scribes have faithfully witnessed and recorded every word of our examinations, Father." He smiled as a brother.
"Over a dozen have renounced their heresies and embraced the Church. They have agreed to shave their beards, to go to confession, to acknowledge the sacraments, to attend Mass—"

"To pay gold for the expiration of
their souls from hell?" Simon interjected.

Incomel paused. "Yes, that too. In all means, they have agreed to renounce their heresies and embrace what actions will preserve their eternal souls. I'm sure that even you see the benefit of that."

Emmanuel stepped forward. "You have duties to attend to, Father Simon." He calmly held the amused gaze of the Inquisitor. "And I'm sure the Inquisitor has other responsibilities that require his attention."

Simon raised his eyes, but Emmanuel did not blink or acknowledge anything but his sovereignty.
The old monk bowed humbly to Incomel. "At your service, Inquisitor."

The Inquisitor nodded and lifted his face to the Duke of Savoy, his gaze as confident and haughty as it had ever been. Emmanuel realized, in the moment, that he would have been shocked if it were otherwise. But there was nothing more to say so he moved into his tower where a hot bath had been drawn. He was expecting a visitor that might change the entire scope of this conflict—an Englishman who might, at last, shake the imperial Inquisitor.

Nor did Emmanuel intend to meet Sir Samuel Morland dressed in riding clothes and dust. No, when Emmanuel greeted the Puritan, he would appear in every aspect the prince he was becoming.

It was about time.

***

Jahier unconsciously stroked his beard, and Gianavel rested upon a log, leaning against a stable wall. Surrounded by lieutenants and mayors and the ragged militia, they had already discussed the first two battles. Jahier had asked questions about terrain, ordnance, cavalry, and siege engines until he seemed satisfied with his knowledge. Then he focused long on Gianavel and asked, "So what's the plan?"

Gianavel didn't blink. "We have a choice?"

"No." Jahier shook his head. "Not that I see."

"Then we fight."

"A defensive war? Not a good idea."

"We don't have enough men to meet them on the open field. We have to hold the ravines and the passes."

With a wistful sigh, Jahier rose from his repose. "Very well." He turned to a table spread with hand-sketched maps. "What I say, I say so that you shall not repeat."

The youngest were ordered to leave, and when barely a dozen remained, Jahier began, "On the same day that the five hundred marched against Rora, a group of us, serving as deputies of our villages, were attacked at La Torre. We had gathered for a peace conference, but your village was not represented."

Gianavel sighed wearily, crossed arms on his chest. "I did not allow anyone from Rora to attend."

"Why not?"

"Because I suspected a trap."

"Then you were correct," Jahier confirmed. "Pianessa spoke of the fighting that had occurred during the past weeks. He blamed it on his captains, saying they had misunderstood his orders to pursue a few fugitives into the mountains. He asked politely that we open the passes so that his
troops could finish their arrests and promised his own men would guard each village. They would sleep under the same roofs, share the same bread, guard us with their lives."

Gianavel bowed his head as Jahier continued.