Rora (2 page)

Meeting the marquis' amused gaze, Emmanuel spoke with distinct pique. "Do not forget, Pianessa, you are only a general in my army. I am the Supreme Lord of Piedmont." He paused to let that point be established without dispute. "I warn you; be cautious how you address me in front of my subjects."

Pianessa's face was a caricature of a smile. "I forget nothing, My Lord," he answered without fear." You should not forget who trained you in the art of war."

"I do not forget," Emmanuel admitted without praise. "You also taught me that I should tolerate no rebuke. And that I should measure the cost of a battle before I commit myself."

"I did." Pianessa nodded. "So what do you see as the cost of this battle?"

"My conscience."

Pianessa made no attempt to lessen a deep, amusing laugh. "How piquant
... I should have also taught you that a monarch cannot afford a conscience."

"But more practically speaking," Emmanuel continued, "the cost is the lives of virtually all my subjects. Tell me, who will tend to the crops and the villages, the herds and orchards and vineyards, when you finish with your purification of the Waldenses?"

Pianessa was dismissive. "The valley of Piedmont will not go uninhabited, Charles. Immigrants will resettle the land of the Waldenses once we have destroyed them."

"And when will that be?"

Pianessa indulged himself again, wiping the wine from his mouth with a forearm. "Soon enough," he commented finally. "The main of the valley of Piedmont has fallen. Only the Waldenses living above the Pelice remain."

Emmanuel stared long at the huge warrior before him, who always appeared so comfortable—even more comfortable than he was—in the Throne Room. And he knew that if the throne could have been claimed by strength alone, it would have been Pianessa's to claim. But it was an inherited right, and not something that could be won. Besides, Emmanuel had learned that thrones easily won were also easily lost.

"Those above the Pelice," Emmanuel repeated and paused. His saturnine features appeared even more aristocratic with the expression. "You mean those of Rora?"

"And Lucerna." Pianessa belched, then rubbed his chest angrily. "But, yes, mos
tly those of Rora. They also refuse to join the Catholic Church, so the Inquisitors have sentenced them to death."

"For what charge, exac
tly?"

"For heresy."

A moment of stillness followed.

"Heresy," Emmanuel muttered, then chuckled without humor. "You never cease to amaze me, Pianessa."

The marquis' dark eyes brightened with the amusement of a man who spied a monkey bearing the robes and crown of a king, lifting high a jeweled scepter. He laughed.

"Yes?"

"You are a warlord to be feared. You gained your rank by the power of your sword and your own cunning. Yet you bow before these Inquisitors."

A pause, and then a frown slowly set
tled upon the marquis. He stepped closer, upon the very steps of the throne, and stared down over the once boy-king. The marquis' face darkened, eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his brow.

"Hear me, boy," he rumbled. "You hold your throne by the grace of the King of France. If you were to displease him in any manner, he would send a hundred thousand dragoons over the border tomorrow. And the day after that you would be as dead as any of those fools I left in the valley."

Pianessa poised dangerously close, as if daring a response. "Cardinal Mazarin, the regent of Louis, has not interfered with the Inquisitors, who have sentenced to death all the Waldenses who will not renounce their faith."

Pianessa s countenance became heated, fierce and hard with the rule of war. "Not one out of a thousand Waldenses will renounce. And since we cannot imprison them, we must kill them. It is as simple
... as ... that."

Finally Emmanuel found the courage to answer. "Inquisitors don't have the authority to kill, Pianessa. They can only deliver the Waldenses to secular authorities for disposition."

Roaring in mirth, Pianessa threw back his head, his laugh thundering across the huge beams of the high ceiling. He was still laughing when he looked down over at Emmanuel. "Did you learn nothing from me?" he continued. "The Inquisitors decide the fate of this nation and all within it! What would happen if you contested the authority of an Inquisitor?"

Emmanuel remained silent.

Pianessa's hateful strength was like a physical force. Gazing down like some angry god of war, dancing flames inhabited his eyes. His beard shone gray with human ashes.

"
Boy, you sit upon your throne only because the Church has not judged you a heretic. If the Inquisitors decided you were sympathetic to the reformed church, I would be ordered to enter this hall and take your head."

Emmanuel stared up at the beas
tly black image. His voice was barely audible. "And would you?"

In stillness, Pianessa stared a moment longer. Then with a flash of his arm he cast the chalice aside. It struck the steps and tumbled end over end as a head would do until it fell ominously still.

"Some questions should not be asked," the marquis said as he turned away.

***

Gianavel quietly closed the door of Descombie's cottage and stared through the dim light of a single lamp to see the old priest writing, always writing at his small table.

In his fifties, Descombie was a big, heavyset man who appeared even heavier in the gray robe he had retained from his years as a Dominican monk. Now one of the most ardent "barbes," or pastors, of the Waldensian Church, he had never completely shed his severe aesthetic appearance and manners. After living among the villagers of Rora for seven years, he possessed little in the way of material comforts.

Gianavel laid his musket beside the door and walked quietly forward. As Captain of the Guard of Rora, it was his habit in times of danger to visit the pastor late in the night. "Speak to me, Descombie."

Descombie regarded Gianavel s tall, powerful figure grimly and without surprise. He waited until Gianavel stood before him, presenting no indications he would sit. "It has begun," he said, watching Gianavel closely. And when the Captain of Rora did not reply, he continued, "Six thousand in the valley are dead."

Grimacing, Gianavel turned into the darkness of the room. "Why now?

"Inquisitors," Descombie said simply and without tone.

Turning, Gianavel acutely studied the pastor's expression; there was little.

"Rome has launched a new war to bring all of Italy under a united church," the barbe added. "Everyone who belongs to the reformed church— those who are not Catholic—have been declared guilty of heresy. They are to be imprisoned or killed."

"They're not taking prisoners," Gianavel said calmly.

"No," Descombie agreed and was silent a moment. "No, they are not taking prisoners."

The barbe stared at the letters before him, then after a moment rose. He leaned against the mantel, staring down. He did not look at Gianavel, who had become as solid as a statue.

Darkness dominated the room, more powerful, more permanent than both of them together. The barbe stared closely at Gianavel. "So," he said finally. "Even you are frightened."

"For my family," Gianavel confirmed. "For the children, the old ones." He paused. "It is my responsibility to guard Rora. I do not intend to lose any that the Lord has given me to protect."

Descombie revealed no surprise. "All roads leading across the Alps have already been closed by the Marquis de Pianessa. It will be
... difficult ... for anyone to reach Geneva."

Gianavel stared into the flames as Descombie continued, "I think they took the north passages first so that none of us could escape. Then they took the towns and villages in the valley. And they will come here, too."

"When?"

"After today? Perhaps days
... hours."

Raising his face toward the ceiling, Gianavel closed his eyes. He shook his head once, then bowed it again. "Can we send an emissary to the Duke of Savoy?"

"We can," Descombie judged. "But you must remember the Council of Constance. They consider all those of Rora to be heretics, and no faith— no promise—is to be kept with heretics."

"And yet we must try to negotiate, Descombie." Gianavel was visibly agitated. "At the least we might gain a respite. If there is going to be war, I need time to prepare."

Finally Descombie nodded. "Yes, subterfuge will gain us time, perhaps. But they scent blood, and killing becomes easier every time a man kills. They will not wait long before they climb above the Pelice."

Gianavel's countenance lifted, though not with relief. He nodded as he turned to the flames. "Dispatch letters to Captains Jahier and Laurentio.Tell them to recruit as many survivors as possible." His face became grim. "Tell them we'll make a stand at Rora."

"Here?" The barbe seemed surprised. "Why here?"

Gianavel spoke softly, "The mountains where Lucerne, Angrogna, and Rora meet form a natural fortress stronger than any in all of Europe. There are only two means in or out—the Pass of Pelice and the Ravine of Turin. And if we... if we can, we might hold each of them against their greater numbers."

The old man's eyes revealed no fear, though he spoke words a man should speak with fear. "They will attack with twenty thousand men, Gianavel. At the most, we might raise a hundred."

"It's enough," Gianavel said and walked to the door. "We make a stand here, or die. There's no place to retreat to, no place to hide. And they'll kill anyone who surrenders.
Just like they killed those people in the valley below."

There was no dispute, but Descombie had a final question. "Do you think we can possibly win?"

Gianavel stared upon the old man with eyes suddenly shadowed and pained. It seemed that he was considering a hopeful reply, but then with-out a word he turned away...

And was gone.

Vanessa hesitated in the courtyard of Savoy's JL palace to study the severed heads spiked atop the battlements of Turin and the buzzards that soared in the gathering dark. He was still watching when the war wagon containing the Inquisitors—a square, fortress-like black carriage built from the heavy timbers of a ship—thundered through the portico. From where he stood, he regarded Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel as he descended, lifting his robe to avoid soiling it upon the likes of the earth.

Incomel spied Pianessa almost immediately, smiled with satisfaction, and walked forward. He cast a single glance at the bat
tlements before he halted beside the monolithic marquis. "You do excellent work, Pianessa. I wondered what suitable use you would make of those you butchered."

Pianessa shrugged his thick shoulders with indifference. "Hardly a new thing, Inquisitor."

"No," the Inquisitor agreed, "but effective, nonetheless. Actually, it's hard to conceive of a more daunting defense of the Church than putting the heads of one's enemies on a pike. Was that your intention? To defend the cause of the Church?"

Vaguely threatening, Pianessa's dark eyes roamed back to the Inquisitor. He smiled slowly. "Of course."

"And so, have you made arrangements to deal with those living above the Pelice?"

Star
tling the Inquisitor, Pianessa raised his hand to his forehead and bowed his departure. "Something I must attend to forthwith, Inquisitor. I bid you good night."

Incomel said nothing as Pianessa walked across the courtyard to the stables, sharply returning a salute from soldiers who were drinking outside, and vanished within. Then the Inquisitor looked a last time at the buzzards feasting upon the cas
tle wall, and smiled.

Charles Emmanuel II, standing beside the banquet table, was speaking quie
tly to visiting dignitaries when shadows of the Inquisitor's bodyguards stopped at the entrance, allowing Incomel to proceed into the Throne Room without the unseemly display.

At the approach, the Duchess Mary Elizabeth, Emmanuel's cousin, regarded Incomel politely. Nor did she move as Incomel closed the final few strides and spoke.

"Your cousin has done great things this day, Duchess. We have pacified the valley, and tomorrow we will climb above the Pelice to deal with those at Rora."

The Duchess Elizabeth folded her hands and replied without either haste or emotion, "History has shown that those at Rora will fight to defend their freedom of conscience, Inquisitor."

Emmanuel's tone was despising. "Those who live above the Pelice— those at Rora—are protected by the ancient treaty, Incomel. They legally possess freedom of conscience and are not subject to the laws of your church."

"Ah yes." Incomel smiled graciously. "You refer to the treaty made with your ancestor, Phillip, which grants all those living above the Pelice freedom of faith." He lifted his hands. "I'm afraid that I have judged that ancient pact to be abrogated, Savoy. No secular authority has the power to overrule the divine edicts of an Inquisitor."

The smile that masked Elizabeth's face was as pale and thin as her skin. "The treaty with Rora has existed for three hundred years, Inquisitor. Are you certain you do not exceed your dominion?"