Rora (18 page)

Milton was rapt. "What incentives?"

"An alliance."

"An alliance," Milton repeated. "What manner of alliance?"

Sir Lockhart paused. "My Lord believes that France will be more disposed to aiding the people of Rora if England will support their war against Spain."

Milton chuckled merrily. "An allianc
e with France to defend the people of Piedmont in exchange for subduing the barbarous covetousness of the Spanish! Yes ... generous scales, indeed."

"In any case," the Scotsman continued, "if we can persuade the cardinal to intercede with the Duke of Savoy, then we believe Savoy will have sufficient leverage to refuse the mandates of the Jesuits and these Inquisitors who are so obsessed with the Waldenses."

The old man's lips moved as they did when he dictated his long verse to one of his daughters, his eyes wide and staring, beholding what only he could behold. He nodded his head and said, "Sufficient to stand," he murmured, "sufficient to stand, those possible to fall. How stands Cardinal Mazarin against Parliament?"

"Lord Cromwell believes Mazarin is without any true resistance inside France. But, certainly, the Italian cardinals and noblemen will object to his intervention.
The fate of the Waldenses is not a direct interest of France and Paris has never been kind to Louis."

Milton grumbled, "No, not kind, seeing as they sought to have him starved, hunted down by dogs, and buried alive. No, Sir Lockhart, Louis, though only a boy, holds hatred for them in equal measure
to his devotion toward Mazarin, who protected him during the Fronde." He added slowly, "Yes, Louis will have no objections to whatever Mazarin decides because he is wise enough to love knowledge he does not yet possess. Mazarin, the cunning old man, is our hope. We must intercede forcefully, but wisely, in his court."

Milton's hand finally settled on the cloaked arm of Sir Lockhart. "Are you prepared for this task?"

Accustomed more to a cavalry charge than sinister intrigues and spy games, Sir Lockhart replied firmly, "I am ready. I do not know what may befall me on the way, but if I reach the court of Mazarin, I am committed to doing all that I may do."

John Milton patted the arm. "Good, good. Now I understand why Cromwell chose you for this task. But let me share a few insights, since I have seen divers means in similar junctions." He raised a hand. "Do not be quick to speak, but let others exhaust their ideas and knowledge first so that they may not later claim your ideas as their own. Do not invite insult, but challenge insolence, especially if it is from a nobleman."

"Why?" asked Sir William. "Is it not better to be discreet and patient when we play these games?"

"If you represent a threat, yes," said Milton. "But your position is one of persuasion and not coercion." He raised both hands to frame his explanation. "Remember, Mazarin is surrounded by men who jealously guard their position and influence. And if they feel you represent a threat to their continued power, they will challenge you. But you must forcefully repulse any indignation, even a haughty gaze or an imperious temperament. If they sense you are uncertain, either with your authority or your resolve, they will attack like jackals that smell blood. Despite what assistance they offer, you must trust no one."

Sir Lockhart paused. "It is tragic that wars are won by such deception. I am not disposed to such deceit."

"If a man's heart is pure then it will be pure with or without your trust." Milton said the words as if reading from a page. "If they truly want to assist you, and you cooperate not a whit, then they will not cease to help you. But if their motivation is impure, they cannot thwart your actions—they will not know them."

"Yes, I understand."

"Also," the poet continued, "take nothing except what little you will deliver to Mazarin."

"Not my letters of instruction?"

"No, nothing. If you are caught—"

"But I have diplomatic pouch!"

Milton sternly shook his head. "If a man will sell his soul for a loaf of bread, for how much less will he sell the soul of another?" There was no reply from the Scot. "Remember; you must trust no one! Memorize your instructions, burn the letters and scatter the ashes!"

Sir Lockhart hesitated only a moment. "Very well."

It appeared as if the explosive eruption of emotion had drained the poet's spare energy. He hesitated a long time, lips tightening, curling, as if in debate. Finally he leaned forward, head erect, face set like stone. "Now for the most difficult," he said strangely

"Yes, sir?"

"Always sin stands against law," the poet began slowly. "Since the beginning, it has been thus. But understand me in this, just a moment, for it will be your aid in days to come. All men sin. The holiest are not immune from the touch of what lies within the hottest heart. Nor are my loftiest thoughts more sublime than the lowliest imagination that ever lifted an iron stylus. One cannot turn to God but that he first turn from what enslaves him, and all men that know God have turned to Him."

The poet petitioned for patience. "I beg you; listen a moment. My meaning is not as clear as I shall make it." He licked his lips, then, "Beware any man that does not confess to you that he has known the blackest sin. If he does not know that his heart also is black, then he will regard yours as less than his own. Such a man will presume himself your master and will subject you to the distribution of knowledge in accordance with his own designs."

"You speak of Cardinal Mazarin?"

"Perhaps," the poet replied. "I do not know this man. I only know his kind, and you venture into regions unknown where even the smallest mistake can bring an unexpected and violent end. You are not skilled in the means of intrigue, so you must trust what you know of yourself." He paused. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Good, then listen more. You know that you hide these dark vices of your heart because, like a thief that has been caught, you are ashamed. So, too, do other men. They are not different from you. Do not be deceived.

“
Cardinal Mazarin's cloak covers more than his holy signatures. Whether he knows the humility of repentance and, thus, the true cardinal allegiance to the Lord of All the Earth is unknown, nor can any man know for certain. But the greatest ally you can have in your mission is a man who understands the darkness that presently bleeds on the battlefields of Rora—an ally who has committed such evil acts in the past and repented in ashes, this man is your greatest friend. Who better than their former king knows the mind of these soldiers? Who better, also, to confound their purposes and intents? And who else would know less fear of them, since he was once a king in their camp and has returned, brokenhearted, to the feet of Christ?" As he finished, the poet fell still.

A fog of silence subdued the room.

"Very well," Sir Lockhart said finally and then he stood and shifted his Spanish blade. "Now, sir, I must bid my leave. I seek to travel in the deepest hours of night when brigands and patrols have chosen to harbor themselves from the cold."

"Anything I might offer?"
John Milton asked, and the Scotsman paused at the door.

"Thank you, my friend. But you cannot give courage; I must find that in the night. Farewell."

"Farewell," said the poet.

Reality more alive than sight surged through the room as the door swung and then shut, and John Milton sat alone in the suddenly cold room where a candle yet burned—a candle he could yet see surrounded by a fog and darkness.

And he wondered of it, this candle that did not surrender to the attack of fog and night and cold. And he knew what that candle knew, and gazed upon it strangely, as he could still gaze. Though weak and alone, it burned. Though threatened by the gathering dark, it burned. Though it had no cause for hope—like himself, like Cromwell, like the Waldenses—it burned, refusing surrender.

He nodded his head, words finding themselves out of him, though he did not try to speak.

"May the Lord give us the strength ... to endure."

* * *

Chapter 8

Aperitifs were accepted graciously by Sir Samuel L. Morland and his assistants—both quiet men that Emmanuel had come to regard as solemn, unarmed bodyguards.

Table conversation had quickly spiraled toward the interference of the Catholic Church in the administration of Emmanuel's government yet Incomel made no effort to approach. Instead, he scrutinized every word and gesture, particularly those of Sir Morland, who moved from vague inquiries into the well-being of the kingdom, to this "wrongful aggression" against the Waldenses, and finally the "murderous intolerance of these Jesuits and Inquisitors."

Pianessa, strangely, had no argument with the Puritan when it came to the subject of military tactics and even religious intolerance. Despite the fact that they were like midnight and morning in justifying war itself, they agreed on strategy and tactics.

In fact, such was their agreement that Emmanuel wondered if Morland was purposely demonstrating to Pianessa that his true battle was not with him. As the conversation progressed from siege warfare to artillery to modern
firearms, Sir Morland expressed his respect for Pianessa's perspectives and more than once proved himself more than his equal.

Both deemed musketeers less than useless against cavalry and agreed that ditches, crosscut like a chessboard, were the best defense against a mounted charge. They agreed that the greatest advantage of modern flin
tlock rifles lay in mass fire and not with individual soldiers picking off solitary targets. They agreed that artillery fired point-blank into a square of pike-men was the best means of breaking the formation. And it was Sir Morland himself who admitted that Berwick was the only English fortress built to withstand modern artillery as it was the only one built trace
italienne
, and everyone knew that Italians pioneered modern military construction.

Finally they rose from the table and formed a small circle near a tapestry of a battlefield littered with fallen soldiers, the victors little more than dead men themselves. It was, curiously, a damning statement on the madness of war.

"Without question," Sir Morland finished, "all of Europe will soon be constructing cities and castles according to Italy's inventions of angled bastions and sunken battlements. The ancient traditions have been rendered all but useless."

With respect, Pianessa nodded. "But England, I must admit, has the finest gunsmiths with better inventions every day, it seems. I only wish our gunsmiths would more quickly adopt the bored barrels for improved accuracy."

Only by the thinnest presence of mind did Emmanuel not turn when Incomel interrupted the conversation. "It seems the English ceaselessly prepare for war, Sir Morland."

All eyes turned.

Incomel bowed, subservient. "Forgive me. I was only musing that your Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, is both respected and feared for his willingness to use his garrisons."

"Aye," said Sir Samuel Morland, and Emmanuel thought he caught a gleam in the Puritans eye,
"in a world where the poor are so cruelly victimized by the rich and powerful, Inquisitor, it is a great thing that My Lord defends the poor."

The Duchess Elizabeth stretched out a slender arm, her gown clasped deliberately at her wrist, allowing the transparent silk to suspend like an angel's wing. "Please, Inquisitor, I do not believe it would violate your vows to be courteous."

With a curt bow, Incomel approached, politely raising a hand to decline an offered aperitif. Then he faced Sir Morland, Pianessa, and the duchess.

Morland's two escorts stood stoically to the side, heads demurely bent, hands clasped behind their backs. Emmanuel sub
tly turned to have his goblet refilled and did not reenter the circle as Incomel arrived to hover on its edge.

"Allow me to formally admit myself," the Inquisitor said as he bowed. "I am Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel, and I wish to welcome you within these walls. But how unfortunate you would arrive during our efforts to pacify the Waldenses."

"Indeed," Samuel Morland said, inclining his face toward the priest. "But I do not call large scale murder pacification."

Incomel remained composed. From the utter lack of surprise at Sir Morland's comment, Emmanuel knew th
e Inquisitor had expected a confrontation and was prepared as he answered, "The Waldenses are a dangerous and uneducated people, Sir Morland. It is best to leave methods of their pacification to those who bravely bear the battle."

Morland's black vestments seemed to suddenly warm the atmosphere about him. "Forests of crucified men, women, and children are not the product of battle, Inquisitor."

Incomel's smile was tight. "I would suggest Lord Cromwell worry himself with England's own pacification of the Irish. The Duke of Savoy has the Waldenses well in hand."

"Does he?" Morland cast Emmanuel a respectful glance, then back upon the Inquisitor.

"I'm not certain what you mean," Incomel stated.

"I mean, Inquisitor, that since I entered Piedmont I have seen atrocities so barbaric that Nero, Genghis Khan, and the late Vlad Dracul would be ashamed that they did not invent them. Heaven surely stands in mute horror, and the universe itself grinds to a halt to behold what monstrous acts of widespread murder you have committed against the Waldenses. What is it that you seek to gain?"

Incomel revealed only cold concentration. He had tolerated much during his reign in the valley, but never had he been addressed in such a manner. The fact that Sir Morland was clearly beyond his reach seemed to add ice to his eyes.

"Is this evaluation of a war that does not, in any manner, involve territories of England the purpose for your visit, Sir Morland? Or did Lord Cromwell secre
tly send you to scout out routes for an invasion of the Duke of Savoy's kingdom?"

Incomel's words provoked an adrenaline rush in Emmanuel because if Sir Morland confirmed that Cromwell was, indeed, considering invasion, Emmanuel's station required him to intervene. If Morland denied that Cromwell intended to invade, Incomel would inform Cardinal Benedict and the threat could no longer be used.

But Sir Morland was wise; he would not reveal his cards whether he truly held them or not. "Does the Inquisitor observe generals at my side? Does he, per chance, observe navigators? Or does he observe simple men of God pleading for religious tolerance?"

"I have not yet seen a demonstration of tolerance by Lord Cromwell," Incomel answered. "Indeed, I have heard of Catholic churches burned and Inquisitors hunted down like dogs. Even of treasuries looted while English constables watched."

With a thoughtful frown, Sir Morland bent at the waist. "Believe not half what you see, Inquisitor, and none of what you hear. Be assured that My Lord has cast his shield over all the Catholic basilicas of England. None have been burned."

"And our Inquisitors remain untouched?"

Sir Morland shook his head. "Not entirely, no. Some Inquisitors did, indeed, overestimate the patience of their flocks. We had an incident in Dowry where an Inquisitor was himself locked up in the stocks in which he'd punished those not generous enough to his treasury. But after he concluded he may have been too hasty in judging so many guilty of witchcraft he was released without harm."

"I call it heresy!" Incomel said, unblinking and immobile. "Those who attack an Inquisitor attack Christ
! Those who resist an Inquisitor incur the judgment of God!"

A dark scowl hardened the Puritan's brow and his mouth turned down. He held his stillness before he spoke. "It is one thing to sentence a man in absentia to death, Inquisitor. It is another to deliver him to the hangman."

Incomel remained passive. "You speak of this heretic of the Waldenses— Gianavel."

"Yes," Sir Morland answered with a hard nod. "I speak of this great prince of the Waldenses."

"Already a tale begins of this man who single-handedly kills thousands to save his poor, defenseless village from cruel Inquisitors." Incomel grimaced. "How romantic."

"No war should be remembered as romantic," said Sir Morland somberly. "But it should be remembered so that it is not repeated."

Subtly drawing attention, Corbis took a silent step forward as Sir Morland continued, "Yes, Inquisitor, I have seen the blackened bones of those surrendered to the flames. You think you have committed your crimes in secret, but all men will know what you have done. Nor does God turn His gaze from the suffering of these people. His hand will yet deliver them from yours."

Incomel turned a step, remembered himself, and faced down the Puritan once more. "You come uninvited into our land.
You dare to accuse me of provoking this war. You are fortunate that you are beyond my reach, Sir Morland."

The Puritan s hard gaze cast all illusions of court underfoot. "But I am not beyond your reach, Inquisitor. Order your apprentice, here" —he gestured to Corbis, his hairless lids half-closed—"to lay hands on me.
There is more than one way by which a man may meet God."

Incomel blinked as though dazed by an unexpected blow.

Watching closely, Emmanuel did not think it curious that Pianessa only passively observed the encounter. None of the marquis' interests—namely his throne and treasury—were in discussion. And his contempt of the Inquisitor was apparent. Indeed, imbibing a slow sip of wine, Pianessa could have been lazily watching clouds.

Morland was a living, breathing monument to why Puritans were regarded as cold and severe and controlled, but he was not emotionless.

Indeed, the anger that sharpened his countenance was warlike and barely bound. Although he hinted at no physical response, he nevertheless seemed quite capable, in the moment, of seizing the priest and dragging him down the hall to a doom unknown.

"Hear me, Inquisitor," the Puritan said. "The world will know of the horrors you have delivered to these people, whose only crime is refusing to join your church. Which is no crime."

"It is God's war, Sir Morland."

The Puritan winced. When he spoke, his words were grim and restrained. "Hear me, man:
The Almighty will not forever suffer you to blaspheme the Holy Spirit."

Baring teeth, Incomel stepped back. His hands grasped the sides of his robe as if he would shake the dust from it. "If this was—" His mouth snapped shut, then he spat, "You are fortunate this is not Rome!"

Morland's countenance hardened as anger flooded over the edge of his control. "Perhaps. But it is not Rome." The Puritan's frown was solemn. "And perhaps it is you who are fortunate."

Trembling, Incomel turned, but some bizarre desire to depart with his dignity intact turned him again toward the Puritan. He did not close upon Sir Morland's space but hovered just outside, like a spider hesitantly testing to see if its prey were indeed dead before it leaped.

"You are a fool to think that you can threaten the Church, Sir Morland! Nor should you arrogantly presume you could win a war against us!"

Pianessa broke in, muttering as he raised his goblet, "Actually, Inquisitor, with the Vaudois fighting beside them, the English could take Piedmont within a week."

"King Louis would not tolerate such an assault!" Incomel almost shouted and turned fully toward the Puritan. "Is this the true purpose of your visit, Sir Morland? To threaten us? You fail! This war is an instrument of God!"

"Is that how you understand war?" asked Morland more quie
tly, but also more threatening. "I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I don't see war as an instrument of God."

"And yet you have killed men in war."

Morland nodded. "I have killed men in war, it's true. Sometimes a man must stand against other men. We hope and pray that we are right, but only God knows."

"Were you present at the Battle of Drogheda, Sir Morland, when Lord Cromwell took the city for the glory of God?"

Morland s somber aspect became more subdued.

"Ah," Incomel smiled, "then you were present when your godly Parliamentarians stormed the walls and put five thousand men, women, and children to the sword? You were there when your valiant Puritan soldiers set three Catholic churches ablaze with the congregations trapped within? Burning them alive?"

The Puritan's eyes glazed as if beholding something terrible and haunting. "It was an evil day," he answered, fearfully calm. "Once we breached the walls, the men could not be restrained. They ... we ... put the town to the sword."

"Even women and children?" Incomel pressed.

Lines in the Puritan's face deepened. "It is a grim rule of war that in battle men sometimes commit acts that they remember with guilt and remorse. And no man, even the holiest, is above it. Flesh is flesh, and flesh will sometimes fail."

With a faint bend of his head, Sir Morland continued, "At Drogheda, the rules of the siege were clearly understood by Sir Arthur Aston, yet he refused to surrender and killed a great number of officers and men. Once we breached the walls, it was too late for him to ask for quarter. The men, including even My Lord Cromwell, were incited to wrath.
What happened is a tragedy many good and strong men must bear for the rest of their lives."

Incomel
’s condemnation was embodied in his stance. "I'm sure the inhabitants of Drogheda appreciate your regrets, Sir Morland." He stared a moment more, then released a hard breath as he turned to the Duke of Savoy. "And now, Your Majesty, I must beg your leave."