Rora (17 page)

Sir Samuel Morland intoned, "I bring greetings from My Lord, Sir Oliver Cromwell, to Your Majesty, and bid prayers and blessings upon both yourself and your kingdom."

"I am honored to receive such esteemed envoys from the great Lord Protector of England," Emmanuel said, a respectful nod. "My kingdom stands ready to serve."

"Spoken as a true prince," Sir Morland responded as he handed his hat and cloak to a servant.

When the cloak was removed, Emmanuel was intrigued to see that the Puritan was not armed. Not even an ornamental dagger, usually worn among soldiers, girded his wide black belt of polished leather. But Puritans had no quarrel with violence or force. They were, in fact, reputed to be adept at battle when it was necessary. That Morland had consciously chosen not to wear a weapon could mean many things. But Emmanuel had no time to ponder the possibilities. He rose and lifted an arm to a serving table and Morland fell into stride beside him.

Sir Samuel Morland was a formidable figure. He retained a soldier’s bearing, straight and crisp, every crease and edge sharp and disciplined. He was larger than Emmanuel by far with a farmer's strength but not so massive as Pianessa. His face was angled with a long goatee and his mouth was down-turned at the edges, allowing the appearance of one accustomed to physical pain or emotional hardship. He revealed little in his stoic composure and countenance, and his movements were spare and economical.

Emmanuel presented a table of wine. "I am not certain of your customs," he said with apology
, "so we prepared a wide selection of our finest wine and port. We also have water."

"Wine is welcome,
Your Majesty."

Morland accepted a silver goblet that had been set for the special occasion. "Thank you. It has been a long journey from France but we were content to sleep in stables often enough in want of an inn."

Emmanuel wasn't certain but it seemed the Puritan had wasted no time raising the purpose of his visit. If so, it had been done smoothly and without accusation.

"Yes," the young duke said, accepting another goblet, "I'm afraid the war has interrupted the normal condition of my kingdom." He grimaced sligh
tly. "Hopefully, the fighting is almost over."

Incomel and Corbis, dressed in black with silver vestments that looped behind their necks and descended to the floor, stood placidly to the side, hands folded. Corbis's gaze was directed at nothing the Duke of Savoy could discern. But Incomel, the image of pries
tly repose, focused on the Puritan as if he were a viper.

Sir Samuel Morland seemed not to notice either the gaze or the Inquisitor at all. He turned his back without a second glance and strolled along a wall lined with the weapons and armor of past generations and dynasties of the House of Savoy. "You are a noble descendent of a noble house, Your Majesty. Your kingdom and ancestry are respected, and I consider myself honored to visit you, even in this dark hour."

"I am humbled, Sir Morland."

"Nay," the Puritan commented,
"it is I who should be humbled." He lifted his goblet. "A finer history of courage I have never seen. No wonder that your line has retained its kingdom when so many have plotted to overcome it."

"Yes," Emmanuel said, warming to the Puritan, whom he knew had a purpose and would reach it in time. For the moment he would appreciate the accompaniment of such a man before unwanted matters intruded.

Seldom did he have an opportunity to speak forthrightly with men of gravity and respect, to explore and appreciate their character and wisdom. Most often, he was forced to discern what putrid lies were veiled by flattery and what use envoys meant to make of him if they could.

Although the Puritans were condemned often enough as emotionless drones of the English Church, Emmanuel judged that Morland would definitely speak in the proper moment and manner and would not lie when he did.

Glancing over his shoulder, Emmanuel noticed that Morland's attendants stood in quiet conversation with the Duchess Elizabeth who had chosen on this occasion to station herself as a mere adornment—a royal and astonishingly beautiful tapestry behind the regal throne of her cousin. He knew that Elizabeth, with her encyclopedic knowledge of families and national policies, could entertain guests for weeks without a single uncomfortable moment. Listening politely, the two Puritans stood with heads slightly bowed, the backs bent at the waist in something of a deferential bow.

Yes, cultured men
...

Sir Samuel Morland noticed Emmanuel's glance. His sudden smile was all the more comforting because the severe face seemed so unaccustomed to the expression.

"The duchess is a remarkable woman," he said. "My envoys were anxious to the point of rebuke for a chance to converse with her." He chuckled, causing Emmanuel to smile. "I thought it prudent to remind them of manners of court."

Emmanuel laughed loudly, drawing the attention of attendants. "You uphold your reputation, Sir Morland. You are, indeed, as intelligent and composed as I was told."

"You are gracious," Morland laughed as they turned to walk along the back wall of the hall, where the greatest relics were displayed. "My Lord Cromwell wishes you good health and prosperity," he added. "I have come to deliver many words of encouragement."

Sir Morland raised eyebrows at Emmanuel's short-lived smile. "I am here also because of the war, Your Majesty" he added. "You know, of course, there are many matters that we must discuss. I have brought a letter from My Lord that is to be read only by yourself in strictest confidence."

Morland produced a folded parchment and delivered it to Emmanuel. The letter revealed little sign of travel and the burgundy-colored wax was firmly stamped with the impressive seal of Cromwell.

"Not all contained within the letter is suitable for those outside your circle of advisors," Morland added with gravity. "I'm certain, Your Majesty, that you understand the weight of such matters."

"I do." Emmanuel slid the letter into the chest pocket of his robe. "Advise Lord Cromwell that I am thankful for his attention and I will observe the strictest confidence."

Morland nodded, then looked as servants entered the hall bearing platters of grapes, fruit, nuts, beef and bread, and finally an enormous iron tray of roast beef.

"Ah," he said with far greater expression,
"'tis far more than I expected, Your Majesty."

"Far less than deserved, Sir Morland."

Emmanuel rested at the end of the long table with Morland and his envoys on his right and the duchess on his left, engaging them all in pleasant conversation while Incomel stood apart, watching stiffly.

For the most part Emmanuel enjoyed the meal in peace and almost chuckled when he thought about what would soon happen after the meal when the Puritan and the Inquisitor stood face-to-face, each defending worlds at war in the name of the same God.

And then he wondered of the letter contained within his coat—a letter from Oliver Cromwell that surely petitioned him to cease this suppression of the Waldenses. Indeed, he hoped that the letter did more than simply petition, but Emmanuel was not limited to the dull truth. If the letter did not threaten outright invasion, then Emmanuel's scribes would make it so. It would be yet another reason for him to bring a hard ending to this war.

Suppressing a smile, the Duke of Savoy wished Cardinal Fabio Chigi could have seen how well he was learning to play the game.

***

He was old. He was alone.

It was an age of sorrow that he beheld, because all his great wisdom was trapped in the blind corridors of his mind—the only place now that his knowledge, memories, words, and thoughts could arise and walk and live.

No one could record what he alone could see. Nor could his hands draw the majesty of that panorama anymore so men might know what God had allowed him to know for so many years.

The black melancholy rose up again within him, a curtain of darkness that made his blindness all the more terrible, and he bowed his head to pray, but he could not pray. He frowned and wondered; why had the Almighty removed the purpose of his life before removing life itself? For now he was useless, utterly useless, though he had avoided that snare from his earliest days.

Before he lost his ability to see, he should have died. For now he was like Samson without his strength—like any other man, or even less, for he had once known greatness. How could he endure this pale existence? Was his strength the strength of stones that he should not long for death? That he should not despise his own flesh?

A knock at the door.

He turned his head, gazing.

Strange that he could still see men, though everyone considered him completely blind. But he could see, though not as other men see. He could see the whiteness of the sun, could sometimes discern shades of letters, sensing the black on white. He could even see the forms of men if the light was sufficient and he was not too fatigued. But he could not see what he wished to see. He could not see the words he would write with his pen, nor those he had once written.

"Enter," he said.

He heard the door open, felt the cold rush of night wind, caught the scent of rain and fog. Although it was not raining, it would rain before morning, and the fog felt like floating wet silk, weightless and ghostly, against his flaking skin. He had become far more sensitive to these invisible things since these comprised his world now.

The door was closed, latched.

Steps approached, the figure still unannounced, and for a moment he felt a twinge of fear, wondering if this was the moment he had come to dread or, sometimes, desire.

"Who is it?" he queried.

"Monsieur Milton, it is I, William Lockhart."

John Milton—hailed as one of England's greatest and, he knew as well, one of her most despised poets—stretched out his hand as the treelike form of Sir William Lockhart walked closer and sat, laying what seemed to be a letter-sized pouch on the table.

John Milton had been waiting three days for Lockhart to arrive with letters from Cromwell, Lord Protector of England, concerning the persecution of the Waldenses. Milton had prepared his own letters that would be included in the hazardous package the Scotsman would bear with much peril to France.

Carefully feeling for the bottle of port, Milton found the glass he had prepared. "Please, Sir Lockhart
..." He gestured, hesitated, then, "When are you leaving?"

"Within the hour," answered Lockhart as he poured a glass and drank. "But there are a few more precautions I must take before I cross the Channel."

"Ah," said John Milton, "do you use a military vessel?"

"No, sir, a private contractor."

"Good. Yes, military men have too much ambition to be trusted. And these are opportune times to profit by betrayal."

Sir Lockhart answered, "My journey to reach you was dangerous in more ways than one. By Lord Cromwell's instructions, I avoided both the musketeers and regular militia."

"Wise," Milton nodded. "Yes, very wise. We have too many enemies, both in England and France, who would thwart this plan. But tell me; how is My Lord Cromwell?"

"He is as well as can be expected," said Lockhart. "But I fear his old wounds, body and soul, afflict him. His trembling comes and goes, his fevers grow more frequent." Solemnly, the Scotsman paused. "I fear he has fought his last campaign."

Milton bent his head.

"Yes," he muttered, "all of us, it seems. But perhaps the Lord has delivered to us one last, great task that we must complete—to defend the people of Rora. Do you have the letters?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do they request?"

Even in the vague fogginess of his curse, Milton could discern Lockhart leaning forward. "There are two letters with my personal instructions," the Scot stated. "One additional letter is addressed to Louis, the boy-king. And one letter is addressed to Cardinal Mazarin, written in Lord Cromwell's hand."

"Yes," John Milton nodded, "this is good." He stared a moment, ponderous. "Men may not believe that we took such a part in so great and just a cause, and yet the letters I have written will attest to my hand, if they survive. Nor shall Lord Cromwell's activity on behalf of the Waldenses go unremembered. But, still, this is the age of tyranny and we do not know what men may say of us after we are gone."

Sir Lockhart was noticeably still, and Milton fell suddenly still, then tilted his head. "You are afraid, boy?" There was no immediate response, but John Milton could hear the deep pull of breath, its hushed depth.

"The task," the Scotsman admitted, "is difficult."

"Describe it to me," Milton said and was immediately struck at how his language had changed and continued to change month by month now. It was the blindness, he knew, that caused him to substitute "describe" for "explain," and had constructed within him a new fondness for clandestine meetings where outside noises and voices, even the whisper of soft footsteps, would not detract from his complete concentration.

"Lord Cromwell has written precise instructions," Lockhart answered. "I am only to approach Cardinal Mazarin at night and by prearranged hours. I am not to venture outside our embassy during the day so as not to initiate suspicions. And I am to make cordial inquiries, then petitions
. And if these do not succeed, incentives."