Rora (22 page)

"The Castelluzo is climbable." He nodded. "Even in the dark, we can slip an entire regiment up that face. If they can reach the ridge before sunrise, we can surround Rora during the night and attack at dawn. They will exit their huts to find themselves put upon before and behind. There will be no place to flee." He stood back, distinctly pleased. "Yes ... a good plan."

Captain Mario squinted over the map, as if unable to understand Pianessa's plan, as the marquis turned. "Captain Mario? I'm sure you would like another attempt to attack the village. What are your sentiments?"

Mario did not raise his face. "I will lead the attack," he said quietly. "I want this man's head."

"Oh no," Pianessa countered calmly as he poured a fresh chalice of wine. "No, Captain, the great Gianavel's head cannot be taken by you or any of your men. You must capture Gianavel alive.''

At that, Mario slowly raised dark eyes. "What?"

Draining half the chalice at once, Pianessa laughed as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He gestured to Incomel and Corbis, positioned nearby. "The good Inquisitors have need of Captain Gianavel.
They are obliged to save his soul."

Pianessa's laugh was solid with contempt. He smiled at Incomel, who yet seemed moody from his confrontation with the Puritan. "Is that not correct, noble Inquisitor? You must rescue Gianavel's soul before you sever his head from his body?"

"Do not concern yourself with matters beyond your understanding, Pianessa." Incomel’s voice was unemotional. "The Church concerns itself with matters far greater than the sword. Perhaps"—He raised an eye— "you will do well simply to succeed in your next campaign."

The barb was not lost upon the marquis, though a challenge was instan
tly returned. "Perhaps, Inquisitor. Which is why you must escort me into the field."

Incomel's face was as unyielding and frozen as a marble mask.

"You see," the marquis continued as he again took up his chalice, holding forth from his place, "I have decided that perhaps my last two excursions failed because we did not have God on our side. What my army truly needs are the prayers of mighty men of God like Moses who can pray down a great victory by stretching out their staff" over the mountain." The marquis waited a moment. "Does God not fight with you, Inquisitor?"

"Of course He does." Holding a cold gaze for a heartbeat, Incomel turned away. "I shall have several of the Jesuits and Inquisitors venture into the field with your army, Pianessa. But forgive me if I am unable to personally accompany you."

"Why is that, Inquisitor?"

"Affairs of the Church, of course."

Pianessa’s teeth gleamed.

"Of course."

Incomel said nothing more as he walked across the heavily stilled chamber. When he was fully gone, Pianessa leaned both hands on the map, staring down with a slowly settling frown. After a moment he turned his head to a nearby sergeant major.

"Duncan," he said.

Taller than Pianessa himself, but not nearly so heavily constructed, the red-bearded Duncan looked more Scottish than Italian. Yet he also appeared to be a seasoned commander. He seemed neither cruel nor hesitant to be cruel, and equally indifferent.

"Yes, sir?"

"Assemble in the plain southwest of the Vellaro." Pianessa was forced to modify his habit of tilting his head over a subordinate as he addressed the sergeant major. "I want every man equipped with pikes, but I also want one full company of musketeers." He became studious. "These Waldenses seem to be marksmen, and they prefer to hit from the cover of trees and rocks. If we cannot hit them as readily as they hit us we'll be decimated before we breach their walls."

"Understood, sir."

"Also," Pianessa added thoughtfully, "have the first company comprised mostly of cannon fodder."

The sergeant major grunted. "Yes, sir. We still have some of the Irish. They were not completely killed. And we have a thousand prisoners from El Torre."

"Very well; put Cromwell's criminals and those from El Torre in the first company. We will climb the Castelluzo tomorrow night—there is no moon—in three battalions. The first will be the Irish and the second comprised equally of musketeers. Once we reach the summit, we'll separate to enclose the valley in the dark. We attack at dawn."

"Very good, sir."

"You are dismissed." Pianessa turned to Mario and stared for a somber, grim moment. "And you will lead the first regiment, Captain Mario. I know you wouldn't want to miss the fiercest fighting! And surely you want to ingratiate yourself once more into the good graces of the Duke of Savoy, whom you have so miserably failed ... twice."

Mario's lips came together in a tight line. Finally he managed, "Yes, sir. I will personally take this man prisoner."

"Do that," Pianessa replied, but the faint smile faded with the last word. "You are dismissed."

"Thank you, sir."

Pianessa refilled his chalice and enjoyed a moment of solitude before he turned his head, as he so often turned it in battle, sensing something that only a born warrior would sense. But in the solemnity of his castle, the tilt of his head was far more threatening. He beheld Incomel standing in the shadow of a corridor, staring. The Inquisitor revealed no regret or fear that he had apparently been caught spying. Pianessa lifted the chalice, smiled.

"To your God, Inquisitor."

***

Dressed as somberly as the night before, the Puritans approached along the parapet with Sir Morland at the tip of the black wedge. But unlike yesterday, they were carrying sabers and flintlo
ck pistols in the style of gentlemen of the crown. Apparently what had not been deemed acceptable by English prudence at a dinner was allowed for a day s excursion on the battlefield.

Emmanuel was similarly armed with a specially forged saber and a flintlock pistol. He wore rough riding clothes more suited for hunting because some half-reflex inspired him to dress in the same dark tones as the Puritans. He had to admit that the grim attire did lend an air of profound and serious authority.

Sir Morland bowed. "Your Highness," he said correctly, not disregarding protocol even though he was here for a dispute, “I pray you rested well."

"Yes," Emmanuel lied and glanced at the old man, Barnes, and the younger one, who was barely older than himself. "I'm sorry," he said, "but we never had an opportunity to converse last evening."

"The duchess was quite fascinating," said the older one with a curt bow. "I am Reverend Barnes and this, as you doubtless remember, Your Majesty, is Master Rich. We want to thank you for your hospitality and graciousness, and I anticipate an encouraging exchange of ideas with you this evening."

At Master Rich's precise bow, his boot heels clicked. "At your service, Your Majesty."

Emmanuel didn't miss the fact that Master Rich declined to venture beyond what was obviously a prearranged comment. Doubtless, he was accompanying the older Puritans to learn how matters of this nature were resolved, not to resolve them.

"We are honored," Emmanuel said and gestured to the courtyard where a half
dozen stallions were already saddled. "I ordered the Master of Arms to have a selection of mounts so that you might choose one suited to your temperament. Please ..."

It only required a moment, as they were all experienced horsemen, and Sir Morland selected a fiery young Arabian with huge hindquarters. Shaking its midnight mane against the scarlet run, the stallion seemed to somehow match the black aura of the Puritan. And once he mounted the saddle, Sir Morland was indeed the image of grim doom, black cloak lifting above the glossy blue-black of the stallion, his sword—a long, straight saber much thinner and lighter than Pianessa
’s—angling with a glint of silver. Even more, Sir Morland presented the clear impression that he was not unaccustomed to bearing weapons upon a steed.

Emmanuel had been the first to saddle and waited patiently until all were ready. He raised his hand to a sergeant and sixty-six mounted musketeers.

The troop opened the gate and rode out of the courtyard, waiting in the field. They would ride close behind the Duke of Savoy through the day.

With a tilt of his wide-brimmed hat, Sir Morland nodded. "At your pleasure,
Your Majesty."

As they cantered toward the portico, Emmanuel glanced at the Puritan, who masterfully sat his saddle. "And just what do you wish to see, Sir Morland?"

Sir Morland paused. "An interesting question. But I do not think I shall see what I wish to see, Your Majesty."

Emmanuel did not need to ask. Yet he could not stop himself from commenting, "There is far more to Piedmont than death, Sir Morland. We are not always at war."

"No," the Puritan acknowledged, "you are not." He leaned upon the saddle horn. "In fact, Your Majesty, I believe that, left to your own devices, you would not presently be at war with the Waldenses. Further, I believe you are, at the core, a good and decent monarch, and you are protective of all your subjects. But that does not change the fact that war has come, and that it is a war that should end quickly."

Emmanuel was silent, then asked, "And how would you suggest that I do that, Sir Morland?"

"I do not know," said the Puritan, "but I know God will not be mocked. Not by any army of this age. Your Highness, nor an army of any age to come."

* * *

Chapter 11

Lockhart was grateful that his trip to Paris had been largely uneventful, not that he'd been exposed to the more barbarous elements of society for it to be otherwise. No, his greatest danger was—and remained—the possibility that the secret purpose for his visit had been discovered, and that he'd been targeted by assassins. He was encouraged by his belief that competent assassins were not as common as many believed and that nothing was more common than incompetent assassins.

Not only did unqualified killers routinely botch the job, leaving the target hotly disposed to retaliation, they inevitably talked under torture and exposed not only their clients but those not even remotely associated with the venture to accusation. In the end, a hundred heads would roll like coconuts for the stupidity of two or three upstarts who lacked the good grace to at least find an assassin qualified for the job. Nevertheless, Lockhart took every possible precaution. It's not that he feared death so terribly; he simply feared dying stupidly.

And yet there had been a disturbing event in a small tavern near Crastel that he still did not understand. It had begun quietly enough; an obscure argument between two Frenchmen over some imagined slight. But it escalated quickly to blows, and then the tavern lamp was smashed to the floor and the room plunged into darkness. Lockhart had immediately chosen escape and had been moving for the rear exit, thrusting others out of his way, when he sensed rather than heard someone moving directly toward him with a purpose other than escape.

He had turned to see the man—big, a true manhandler—almost on top of him with a long dagger low in his fist. Lockhart's hand had immediately closed around the flin
tlock at his belt but in the chaos he wasn't certain that he would even have time to fire when something else of equal strangeness happened.

Lockhart caught only a glimpse of a shadow—a man dressed totally in black and who moved with a panther's sinuous strides—as the man collided hard against his attacker.

The man who was a mere step from spearing Lockhart through the heart was flung to the side like a broken tree limb and in the next breath the shadow moved into the crowd and was gone.

It happened so quickly that Lockhart was not certain what he had seen. Then, standing pistol in hand, he slowly became convinced that he was no longer in danger. The tavern was virtually abandoned, and in the stillness Lockhart moved forward and bent over the man who had held the dagger. He had been stabbed through the heart.

No time for questions.

Lockhart had hastily exited the building, found his horse, and vanished into the night. He did not know if he had seen what he believed he had seen. He knew only that the big man had moved upon him with a purpose deadly and certain until the second man entered the fray. And then the second man vanished as quickly as he appeared, leaving a dead man in his wake.

Never had Lockhart seen a man killed so efficiently. It was as if the night itself had reached out and struck the ruffian and with the silent sweep of darkness vanished again, leaving the viewer uncertain whether he had seen anything at all.

***

Alone in his room, Lockhart cleaned his pistol and rifle, swabbing out the barrels with warm water while keeping a second set of pistols loaded and primed.

In addition to cleaning them every night, he had long ago adopted the habit of firing them in the morning to insure they were continuously tested and freshly loaded. He'd seen men die dry-firing a pistol they'd loaded only two days before. He had no intention of making that his last mistake on earth.

He turned his mind to more inevitable events and studied the street below his third-floor chamber. Only a few Parisians littered the walkway, not enough to accomplish some riotous stunt even if they wished. Yet he could not shake the—he hated to use the term—"creepy" sensation that clung to his back.

Gazing across the street, he mentally ran through the rudimentary lessons of spying. Never alter your schedule, never do anything out of character, never look over your shoulder, never whisper in the presence of others, never confess to anything, for your accusers may be bluffing, never carry incriminating papers. It was best not to be seen, but if you are seen, then advertise your presence. And Lockhart had invented his own particular technique for deception—it was a measure of true genius to appear far too stupid to be dangerous.

The mostly empty street made it far easier to detect surveillance. There were no elements of militia in sight other than random patrols and official guardsmen. The weather was fair, and the evening was coming apace. From what he could observe, all the basic advantages were present for a covert midnight run to reach the house of Cardinal Mazarin, which is what Cromwell specifically instructed him to do.

He was not, by any means, to attempt to reach the cardinal during the day, because Mazarin was still much hated and feared by too many within his own government. Although Mazarin had defeated his enemies during the revolution, such men do not easily forget defeat. Even now they would execute swift vengeance, for whatever vague cause, if they had enough to call a tribunal. And the French had never been severe about evidence or testimony, which is why so many heads had rolled not five years ago.

Now, at last, there was a sense of permanent government, but governments were comprised of people, and people were not permanent. King Louis, still a child, had the advantage of having survived the revolution, and when he came to manhood he would, doubtless, not forget the reign of lawless terror that almost drove him from the throne, nor those who caused it. Lockhart did not doubt that some battles would be finished only after Louis came into his own, so to speak.

He lowered the curtain and turned into the chamber.

It was opulent and spacious, as everything in Paris seemed to be. He'd decided that the French considered largeness synonymous with grandiosity. But, personally, he was a man of conscript taste and considered it somewhat capricious.

His legs had ceased trembling from the deep fatigue of riding, but Lockhart was profoundly weary. He moved to the thick feather bed and was careful to once again ram the ball home in his pistol and recharge the pan with fresh powder before propping it upright on the dresser. His rifle, similarly
charged, stood upright beside the headboard, and his saber and dagger hung from the post. He did not particularly anticipate an attack in the few hours he had to rest. But he was a professional, and there were rules. And once a man began to break the rules, either by complacency or laziness, he was doomed.

As he lay down, Lockhart wondered about this Cardinal Mazarin. Wondered if the intrigue-shrouded priest
would see the convoluted political benefits of interceding for the Waldenses, or perhaps do it simply because it was right. Or, then, perhaps the legendary Mazarin would order him shot as a spy.

He decided not to dwell on that scenario. He was in this now, and returning to England with a confession of cowardice was not an option. So, as he had so often done in bat
tle, he considered himself dead anyway. It was for peace of mind but also for survival. The conviction allowed him to sleep and behave without undue concern, which was as dangerous as too much concern.

Sleep descended before he closed his eyes.

***

It was a depressingly short journey to the outskirts of the valley of Rora, hardly more than an
hour’s ride, and while they were yet miles away, Emmanuel had detected black plumes of smoke. He knew that the largest measure of the butchery had been completed days before, and that only those "above the Pelice," as it was called, remained. But he still feared what dreadful display of ruined creatures they might encounter by accident.

He'd had the foresight to send patrols ahead of their carefully selected route, insuring that no ghastly displays would be encountered. But such precautions were only adequate for what was here when the patrols passed, not what happened to wander from the forests afterward. He felt slight
relief that there had not yet been any events that would galvanize the Old Testament indignation of Sir Samuel Morland.

He glimpsed Morland pointing once again toward the Castelluzo. "These mountains that I have observed for hours—they mark the perimeter of Rora?"

Cantering beside the Puritan, Emmanuel replied, "It's their western boundary."

"Is there a pass?"

"A trail begins on the far side of the River Pelice." Emmanuel recalled the stiff angle of the climb and added, "It reaches the summit after a very difficult ascent, then descends rather comfortably into the valley beyond."

The Puritan studied the mountain range.
"Yes ... a natural fortress."

Emmanuel admitted, "Their valley is quite inaccessible, particularly when they are defending the pass."

"This pass is the only access to their land?"

"No." Emmanuel pointed to the west. "A ravine, probably no more than four miles in length but exceedingly difficult to climb. It leads from El Torre and almost immediately enters the mountains. As I said, it's a difficult climb, but it presents a far more difficult descent. More men have been killed descending than climbing."

"Interesting," the Puritan remarked with the gaze of a soldier. "Yes, God has provided them a great defense. I understand why your first two attacks against the village were repulsed."

Emmanuel felt no impulse to defend Mario's stupidity, but neither did he think it prudent to slight Pianessa's capabilities. In this uncertain situation, the fact that Pianessa was indeed a brilliant general was more advantage than not.

"Pianessa did not expect such a spirited defense," he said, attempting to sound offhand. "I believe he has summoned his finest officers to deal with the situation."

It was then that what Emmanuel had dreaded finally occurred— occurred with a stunning white drama that caused his entire reality to change, as if a curtain were lifted on a stage, revealing a wasteland beyond burning with black slag and volcano-like plumes of fire. He heard the Puritan charge his horse, and Sir Morland was riding before him, his right hand descending to spur the stallion forward.

The Puritan s black cloak swept up, blocking the ghastly image of whatever poor creature had stumbled from the forest. It was difficult to determine, exactly, what it was because Emmanuel caught only the briefest glance of a red, humanlike thing emerging from the forest gloom, covered in blood with hands outstretched to the sky, mouth silently screaming in what had once been a face that had once had eyes.

***

When Gianavel entered Hectors house he found Angela dressing the wounds of a farmer Gianavel had known all of his life. The man's arms and face were heavily bandaged, and he was calm and silent. Only a slight rising of his chest gave evidence that he was still alive.

Bending, Gianavel kissed Angela on the cheek, and she reached up to take his hand. But she didn't immediately turn to him. Instead, she said softly, "They killed his wife and children. He suffered his burns trying to save them." He gently placed a hand on the old man's forehead. "They're the fortunate ones."

Almost soundless, Gianavel sat on the bench behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her again, then she placed her hands on his, leaned her head back. He caught the scent of tears and sensed that she was close to collapse.

Movements and sound were subdued within Hector's house, as if any disturbance would only further stress the wounded. Those attending the suffering, including an old woman long known for her expertise in herbal remedies, moved quietly from cot to cot. On the far side of the room a still body was carried into the day, no words spoken.

"He would have been forty years old next month," she said, then looked across the room. "Pavel, there in the corner, was a carpenter. They cut off his hands and cauterized the wounds so he would not die before they could torture him to death. But he escaped and some others brought him here in a wagon."

She sighed, looked over the entire room. "They are not casualties of war.
They're people ... like us. They love and fear. They suffer pain like anyone else. I think men can only do these things when they no longer think of people as human beings."

Gianavel waited, but she said nothing more. He tightened his arms around her. "You're strong," he said quie
tly. "You can endure this."

She didn't smile. "Can I?"
There was a long pause filled with sorrow. "I wonder what kind of life we will have when this war ends, if it ever ends."

"There will be an ending."

"And how do you know that, my love?"

"There is an end to all things," Gianavel said. "Even war." He took a deep breath, released it slowly, thoughtfully. "There is a price men are not willing to pay for hate."

"I don't see that, Joshua," she said. "I only see these people tortured and killed by other people who have no pity or remorse. They're savages." She paused. "Is that what life is? Constantly fighting like savages to stay alive?"

Gianavel shook his head, silent.

"Promise me, Joshua."

"Promise you what?"

"Don't let them do this to me. Promise that you will not leave me like this." She collapsed back against him. "Death would be better than this. At least in death we will be with God and have peace. This world is not worth this suffering."