Rora (26 page)

It took him two hours to make his way to the palace of Mazarin, and it was nearly midnight when he arrived. He studied the sentries at the eastern gate, watching for any sign of betrayal, but there were no extra troops, no wagon nearby. Streetlights were conspicuously subdued, and a long stretch of grass to the palace itself was unlighted. All of it together made this an opportune place to enter unknown, or an opportune place to be murdered without witnesses.

Lockhart made no appearance of stealth, except perhaps for a slightly rapid stride, as he approached the gate. And before he had even crossed the street, a guard turned and unlocked the gate and stepped back, looking quickly down both ends of the street. Lockhart said nothing as he entered, almost at a slight run, and did not stop at the entrance. He let the guard catch up on his own, and they moved steadily through the dark until they came to another door, also unlit.

No guards were visible, and Lockhart entered, feeling the thrill of covert activity, wondering why he had been out of it for so long. He was in his place, here—secret rendezvous in the night, betrayals and conspiracies and plans to topple nations, all executed by men whose wisdom and courage was the rubric of legend. And it was so radically different—and to him, superior—to the battlefield where men displayed such great courage and skill, only to be cut down by a stray bullet.

No, indeed, in this world of shadows and assassins, where the quick-witted and quick were separated from the dead by the most finite edge of intelligence and instinct, a man could change the course of a war if he possessed keen skills and the grace of God. But not even God protected a man from his own stupidity. After all, a man could not blame God if he were shot climbing out a window in broad daylight.

The guard locked the door, causing Lockhart to quickly scan the open doors around him. By reflex, his hand settled on the flintlock at his waist. Then a short, stout woman with quick, busy eyes half emerged and signaled, and Lockhart was led up the stairway to the door of a very small chamber that he suddenly realized was part of some hidden passageway. With an assuring pat on his arm, the woman closed a door that blended perfectly with the wall beyond.

He was alone.

It was one of the moments that came frequently in the life of a spy— alone and in unfamiliar territory, not certain what to do next but knowing every gesture and word would be severely judged. If he appeared inept, they might assume he had little intelligence and thus little bargaining power. If he appeared overly cautious, he would display insufficient character to be considered an equal. Then again, if he did not take precautions, it was far too easy to come to quick death.

He determined it was best to be fairly cavalier about life or death; at least that would establish courage. But he would remain cautious—no reason to
tempt fate. And as for appearing inept, he would simply speak little and attentively follow the cardinal.

Holding the cane in his right hand, he boldly opened the door and stepped without hesitation into a gigantic chamber opulently furnished with luxurious scarlet arrangements. The blood-hued satin covered the walls to the height of a man
’s chest, and above it they glowed white from immense candelabra positioned throughout.

He saw the figure of a man, royal red robe descending to brush the floor, golden crucifix displayed prominently on his chest, his long dark hair immaculately combed. His eyes, even darker and somewhat amused, beamed as he turned. He graciously raised a glass of red wine.

"Sir Lockhart," smiled Cardinal Guilio Raimondo Mazarin, Prime Minister of France and perhaps the most powerful man in Europe. "I was hoping that you would join me."

***

Although his hands were tied behind his back, a noose was tight around his neck, and his two Waldensian captors were not slow to use their bayonets on his buttocks, Blake wasn't dead yet.

They had asked no questions, and Blake had not yet communicated his intent. Nor had he revealed that he could speak the curious French-German dialect of theirs. Best, he thought, to play no hand at all until he could play one that was decisive.

He raised his face as a tall, heavily armored man with blond beard and long blond hair arrived. With a faintly hostile air, the man—Captain Jahier, they called him—said nothing as Blake's young guards repeated the adventure of capturing this fool who came shambling through the forest like a blind man.

Captain Jahier did not seem persuaded. After studying Blake closely for another moment, he quietly commended the young sentries for their diligence before dismissing them. Then he called for two much older guards to take charge of the prisoner. One of the guards, thick shouldered with a neck like an ox, laughed as he gazed down at Blake. The other, at least sixty with a white beard and soapy eyes, placed a foot on Blake's bench and spat tobacco juice. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, grinned maliciously.

Blake shook his head and distracted himself by studying the panorama of sunrise, remembering how the sky had been paling for hours. It was amazing, he'd often thought, how a man in the woods could see the sunrise coming for hours and hours before the sun crested the edge of the world.

He was grateful that the air was warming. He'd almost frozen last night, his feet like blocks of wood, as he tried to find some hidden means up the mountain. Now he understood more clearly why the Waldenses were so difficult to defeat. It was always cold in these heights, and men did not fight as well in the cold.

It was obvious to Blake that the Waldenses were stout fighters. Every man he saw was armed with pistols and rifle and sword. He'd also seen a wild variety of older weapons—blunderbusses with wide, flared barrels, dangerous-looking flintlock pistols, numerous crossbows, and curious homemade weapons that he couldn't define and didn't fancy pulling the trigger on, either.

In a moment the captain returned, accompanied by a big man dressed like a catholic monk—Descombie was his name.
With a warm smile, Descombie spoke a single sentence in splendid Spanish and waited. Blake shook his head. Descombie spoke grammatically perfect German. Blake shook his head. Descombie raised empty hands and smiled. "English?"

Blake hesitated. He had wondered what he would do when this moment came. Truth seemed like a good idea, but truth had never been his first choice in similar situations, so he was, by reflex, loath to use it. Still, few alternatives came to mind.

He stood dramatically.

They leaped back, lifting rifles.

Appearing utterly fearless, Blake drew himself to his full height. Something told him his only chance lay in boldness.

"My Lord Protector," he projected in the French-German dialect of the Waldenses, "the Prime Minister of England and Defender of Christ, Oliver Cromwell, has sent me here to fight beside the noble Waldenses! And if you be those people, I declare myself your ally!"

Captain Jahier squinted.

Blake's posture put his trust in God.

"Kill him," said Jahier.

Blake blanched.
"Wait!" he shouted as hands lifted him from the ground, carrying him toward a wall. "I've got guns! I swear on my mother's grave! I'm a gun smuggler! It's the truth! Dear God, you can't just kill me!"

The men carrying him began loudly droning something like an Irish funeral dirge. Blake saw a wall as high as a man, saw more men standing with rifles at port arms.

"Proof!" he shouted. "I have proof! I have rifles!"

Jahier shook his head. "Nay, Pianessa would sacrifice ten crates of rifles to lure us from the Castelluzo."

For the first time in his life, Blake knew true, full-blown panic. He squirmed to escape, but they held him against the wall. Obviously he was to be shot dead like a dog, and yes, yes—
of course he deserved it
! That's not the point!

They tied him to the wall.

"English rifles?' he cried. "Surely this Pianessa has no access to the finest English rifles?"

"Yea, he does."

Blake stared in horror.

Jahier commanded the firing squad: "Ready."

Descombie raised his hand compassionately toward he who was about to be compassionately shot.

"Aim!"

Soldiers shouldered their—

"Soldiers!" Blake shrieked. "Soldiers! I know where their soldiers are camped! They're inside your valley! I can lead you to them! They have provisions! Weapons!"

The firing squad exchanged glances.

"I can take you to them!" Blake continued quickly. "Surely you want to know where they are camped!"

Jahier's brow was hard in concentration.

Blake attempted to make his eyes and face as transparent as possible. He'd never tried the truth, but then he'd never faced a firing squad. It seemed as if Jahier studied him forever before he tilted his head to a young soldier.

"Gianavel," he said.

The soldier raced up a slight slope and in seconds descended beyond the crest. The rest of the men seemed to relax, and Blake knew he'd purchased a reprieve, if nothing else. He did not know who this Gianavel was, but he was prepared for anything.

Studious, Jahier sat on a stump, arms crossed. He appeared content to study Blake's pale, swearing visage for hours and hours. Oddly, it occurred to Blake that the cold still howled across the peak, but he was not cold at all. He looked at the one called Descombie.

"Priest!"

"Eh?" Descombie grunted, suddenly attentive. "I am a barbe, sir. A pastor, as you English would call it—not a priest. No man stands between God and another man."

"Yes!" Blake gasped. "I couldn't have put it better myself!" He swallowed, trying to calm. "Look at me! Can you not see truth in my eyes? Do I look like I'm lying?"

"No," said Descombie plainly. "You do not look to be lying. But that is not for me to decide."

Blake remembered. "Gianavel?"

"Yes."

Blake searched the slope, but no figure rose on the other side, approaching. He tried to relax, knowing it would do no good to panic. But he'd been in more favorable situations. He tried not to consider the possibility that this was Gods justice for not being more circumspect in his life. But if the command to "aim" was given once more, he knew he'd spend his last seconds trying to make a quick and truncated peace with the Almighty.

Then a figure came over the hill.

Tall and powerfully built, the man wore a white shirt with loose sleeves. His chest was wide and deep, and his face was angled and sharp, like a predator. He wore a belt of pistols across his chest and a dagger and sword. But his eyes captured Blake's attention.
They were immensely stern and powerful, absolute in their control and confidence. Gray and opaque like a leopard's, they were also intelligent in a way that searched out truth quickly and decided without regret.

The man stopped before him, staring down.

"Speak," he said.

Blake hesitated. "You
are Gianavel?"

"I am Joshua Gianavel."

The gray eyes searched Blake's with a purity of thought or purpose or ... or certainty ... that Blake had never quite seen in another man. He didn't know, truly, what to say. But truth seemed to outweigh all other considerations.

"I'm a gun smuggler," he said with eyes of total honesty. "I am not a holy man or a soldier or even a good man. I was hired by Cromwell to bring arms to your people. I smuggled them across your valley! They're hidden in a wagon, south of this mountain. I will take you there. I am not lying! Please! You must believe me!"

The man named Gianavel revealed nothing for, what seemed to Blake, an agonizing long time. As he turned away he cast a look toward the one named Jahier. "Cut him down."

"Yes!" Blake cried. "You believe me!"

Gianavel turned back with that steady, certain gaze. "Make no mistake, sir. I will not shed innocent blood because it displeases the Lord. But if you are lying, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Rubbing his wrists as the ropes fell free, Blake declared, "Yes! Absolutely! I understand!"

Without another word Gianavel walked up the cliff, highlighted against the rising sun, and was gone.

***

It was certain that Cardinal Mazarin, Prime Minister of France, was a man supremely learned in diplomacy.

As Lockhart entered through the hidden portal, the cardinal revealed no signs whatsoever of existing tensions between England and France. And Lockhart projected the same air, quietly closing the doorway as if he'd done it a thousand times. He casually laid his coat and cane, which the priest almost certainly knew was a weapon, across a chair. But to demonstrate that he was not a fool or, even worse, an amateur, he retained his pistol.

Mazarin gave no evidence that he considered the pistol any more intrusive to this tryst than his crucifix. He raised his glass in a toast spoken in Latin, and Lockhart courteously repeated the words that he did not understand.

"I take it that your journey was uneventful?" the cardinal said as he gestured to a matching set of plush chairs, allowing Lockhart to select his preference.

Lockhart waited until the older cardinal seated himself, assuring the aged priest that he was not willing to completely abandon protocol. He would respond to graciousness, yes, but would not mistake courtesy for cooperation.