Rora (27 page)

As he sat, Lockhart noticed the chair was of the highest craftsmanship and wondered how much longer such works of art would be readily available in the world. In France, as in every other country of the Continent, the culture of mass production was eradicating this pride in perfectionism.

"I suffered no overt attacks," Lockhart replied finally, "but I wouldn't say my journey was 'uneventful.'"

"Oh?" Mazarin closed both hands on the cushioned arms. "I hope you were not inconvenienced."

Something in the tone alerted Lockhart's combat instinct almost as if he sensed something moving in a faint treeline—not sight, exactly, more of glimpsing a ghost passing in a mist. "There was an incident in a tavern outside Saint Etienne du Rouvray," he remarked while watching the priest closely. "I don't know if I was a target."

Mazarin laughed. "It would be encouraging to say that there was nothing sinister about that incident, my friend. But I'm afraid you were, indeed, targeted for.
.. ah, mischief."

For a moment Lockhart pursed his lips. "Mischief," he repeated. "Then I suppose that was
your man?"

Mazarin nodded.

Lockhart was impressed in more ways than one. "I owe you a great debt."

"I did only what I would have you do unto me."

"The man who attacked me?"

"Is dead."

“I see.”

Lockhart was accustomed to treachery—daggers in the dark, the bodies hidden, secrets protected—and he was a bit surprised that he felt uneasy. He figured it was because he was so cavalierly discussing murder with a priest. "Did your man happen to determine the identity?"

Mazarin shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. We know only that he spoke with an Italian accent—possibly Sicilian—and bore French-made weapons. He had no notes, no evidence."

There was a moment as Lockhart appreciated the breadth of what had happened behind his back at the tavern. He felt a soldiers honor demanding him to say, "I have no doubt that your man saved my life. Please give him my gratitude."

Again the cardinal smiled. "He is only a man quietly dedicated to restoring peace to Christendom, my friend. But, sadly, in protecting the sheep, you must sometimes kill wolves."

Reflexively, Lockhart glanced at the curtained balconies. He hoped the cardinal had not noticed his nervousness, but one look into those glistening, obsidian eyes confirmed that the old priest missed nothing at all. "I didn't know these were such perilous times for you, Holiness."

"On the contrary," Mazarin responded, and like a shift of clouds before the sun, his eyes darkened, "these are perilous times, indeed." He peaked his hands slightly beneath his face and spoke carefully, "For instance, consider the purpose of your visit."

Lockhart didn't blink. "Which is?"

"My young friend," the priest said knowingly, "you are here to plead the cause of the Waldenses. Doubtless, you are prepared to offer me a considerable price for my intercession."

Lockhart was absolutely certain that his aspect neither confirmed nor denied.

Mazarin nodded. "Yes—as I suspected. Please do not be surprised, Sir William. I have spent many decades developing my system of spies and informants. If I were a boastful man I would say that it is second to none. But, in simple truth, I know a great deal about your assignment, including the treaty you're prepared to offer."

"I see," Lockhart replied. "Well, then, I suppose there's not much I can say that hasn't already crossed your mind."

With a warm laugh Mazarin reclined more fully. "I enjoy rendezvous such as this, Sir William. They are far more honest, in my estimation, than negotiations on a battlefield where men often say what they do not mean because the threat of immediate death inspires all manner of half-truths." He laughed. "Yes, here there is just you and I. We are under no pressure to conceal or even distort the truth, so either one of us can simply walk away from any unpleasantness. But let us delay the inevitable. Why don't we simply speak as men?"

"I invite it, Holiness."

"So do I," he laughed. "In fact, it is something I enjoy far too infrequently. Tell me; would you like to know why men fight so passionately for the cause of Christ?"

It was a moment before Lockhart could choose a response. "I've always wondered about it. I assumed it was for love of God, something like that."

"No, Sir William, not for love. It is for fear."

"Fear?"

"Yes," Mazarin commented. "Fear."

Lockhart gazed strangely about the room, then back to the priest. "The fear of what, Holiness?"

"The fear that they are not in control, Sir William—the fear that they never will be."

At that, simply enough, Mazarin settled. "The Inquisitors must target what threatens their power. But they cannot search without hate, for what is more reasonable than to hate what we fear? What is more reasonable than to hate what keeps us from feeling secure in our place?" Mazarin turned his head to gaze toward the empty street. "A man says; 'I am threatened by death—let us kill it.' So he kills the face of death he has placed on someone and considers himself to be enlightened enough to declare that death is, at last, dead. But the truth is this; men kill in the name of God to deny their fear of death."

At least the aged cardinal was not subject to the same base motivations as those who persecuted others for their faith. But Lockhart didn't know if the old man was disposed to bring an ending to such persecution or merely philosophize about it. He waited as Cardinal Mazarin took a slow sip of wine.

"It seems in the spirit of this age men use the love of humanity to mask their fear of God," Lockhart began. "I am
privileged that you speak to me without hidden or selfish interests. But my mission is dangerous, my enemy is great, and my cause is just. I want to know if you will help me."

Mazarin's brow hardened as he gazed toward the fireplace. His august head, silhouetted by scarlet flame, held a profound majesty that Lockhart had never seen, even in kings.

"Pope Innocent is dying," he began thoughtfully, "and maneuvers have begun for election of the next archbishop. Consequently, the cardinals are striving to outdo one another to forge a united Church—a single Church for a single country. The Waldenses worship according to the Reformation, so the cardinal’s reason that the Waldenses must be destroyed."

All of the elements together made a formidable enemy. Lockhart shook his head. "What else?"

Mazarin sighed. "Well, the Church is fast losing lands and tides to the Reformed Church. So, much like a thief caught in the act, it resorts to violence to take what it could not take by deception."

"It's not going to work."

"Oh, certainly it will work to a degree," Mazarin commented. "Tyranny always works to a degree. The sword has its own reason, and it cannot be denied. But the sword also has no friends, and those who trust in it often learn their trust was misplaced." He crossed his legs, pondered even longer. "This wrongful war against the Waldenses has several solutions. One, England can invade Piedmont."

"Not a good option."

"Second, there is murder."

Lockhart mentally considered possible targets, but, actually, he didn't know who was vital and who wasn't. Only someone intimately familiar with the internal politics of the situation would be able to make that call.

"I suppose you have a plan?" he asked blandly.

Utterly relaxed with the question, Mazarin tapped fingers on the cushioned arm of the chair. "Well, in truth I have not given it much thought. There is always the usual—a few generals, perhaps a marquis, an Inquisitor or two."

"I'm not certain that My Lord could be convinced of the wisdom of murdering priests. He has a highly developed sense of personal honor." Lockhart added as an afterthought, "Not that he can't be provoked ... to such things."

The cardinal nodded. "The third option, then, is that the Inquisitors are bribed to declare a treaty."

"For how much?"

"I would estimate a value equal to whatever they will gain if they win this war."

Lockhart shook his head. "No, My Lord would not be willing to pay such a price to murderers simply so they will cease murdering. He will invade first."

"As I presumed," the cardinal nodded. "Which leaves you with the last option."

"Which is?"

"The Waldenses," he answered and waited for Lockhart to respond; he didn't. "The only other hope is that the Waldenses make this war so expensive that Cardinal Benedict calls off his Inquisitors and the papal army."

An interlude stretched as Lockhart considered the possibility. From what he understood, the Waldenses, though passionate and determined, were utterly outgunned and outnumbered thousands to one in the kind of doomed last stand one rarely sees. Lockhart knew his face revealed his skepticism.

"I don't think that's a realistic option."

Mazarin's black eyes didn't waver; he spoke with a tone of quiet confidence. "Do you know of this man, Joshua Gianavel? The one these Waldenses consider their prince?"

Lockhart hesitated. "No."

"Yes," the priest continued slowly and pondered for a moment with a suddenly strange gaze. "From what I understand, Gianavel is like those that the Almighty raised up in the Old Testament to lead Israel to victory over their enemies. He fights at the front and is apparently a great general of men. He knows no fear, and his courage has inspired all his people. If Gianavel falls, all of Rora will fall. But as long as Gianavel lives, the Vaudois will fight."

Looking away, Lockhart estimated the potential size of Pianessa's militia. "This man, Gianavel, has no chance." He hesitated. "I don't doubt your words, but there's no way Gianavel can defeat Pianessa's army."

"Not alone, no."

That was the crux. Lockhart saw it easily because Cardinal Mazarin had made it easy. "Explain, please."

For the first time, Mazarin leaned forward, folding hands in his lap. His blood red ring stood out boldly against his olive-hued skin and black cassock. "If you are fortunate, my boy, Gianavel will continue to make this war very expensive for the marquis. Then, once the cost greatly outweighs any potential gain, the Duke of Savoy will be able to legitimately recall his forces. Unless, of course, these particular Inquisitors have the fortitude to accuse Savoy of disloyalty."

"Why can't Savoy deal with these Inquisitors on his own terms?" Lockhart waved his hand in frustration at the window. "Inquisitors die every day."

"It is possible," Mazarin agreed, "but to eliminate an Inquisitor is dangerous and difficult, indeed. And quality assassins are hard to find. As you already know."

Cardinal Guilio Mazarin rose and strolled slowly across the room, one hand cupping his chin, the other arm folded across his black vestment. "Timing," he murmured.

Lockhart looked back. "Timing?"

"Yes, Sir Lockhart, timing." He strolled back with equal gravity. "Three things must converge—a prolonged siege by the Waldensian partisans, an adamant refusal from the Duke of Savoy to sacrifice his treasury and troops to a futile cause, and the elimination of these Inquisitors who demand the conflict. If these facets come together at the same time, it will force an ending. And I can protect Savoy from the wrath of the Church."

"Perhaps, Holiness. But your plan depends on this man, Gianavel, being able to withstand Pianessa s army long enough for the other two factors to come into play. And I find that ... doubtful."

Mazarin did not noticeably react. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But I have a feeling that this prince of the
Vaudois will not fall easily."

"Why do you say that?"

Mazarin's eyes were suddenly unreadable.

"If God did not fight beside Gianavel, my boy, then Gianavel would have already been destroyed. And if God fights with him, then all the combined armies of the earth will not be able to bring Gianavel down from his mountain."

* * *

Chapter 14

Halfway down the mountain, Blake ceased to be shocked at the complex pathway of ladders, nets, and ropes that the Vaudois used to traverse the cliffs. But it was an elaborate, even inspired, system. And he became more and more aware of how ultimately resolved these peasants were—as well as how desperate.

Though they hurled themselves across the spidery rope causeways without blinking an eye, Blake had to reckon himself already dead before he mustered enough courage to abandon solid ground. Not only did the bridges and rappels appear sparsely secured, they tended to stretch over chasms of exceeding depth. Indeed, it was an intelligent system of defense along the same philosophy as a moat. Without a bridge, an army was forced to march impoten
tly around the castle walls. With these ladders and hidden ropes, Pianessa was forced to march around this mountain.

As the hours passed he regarded these highlanders, as well as the implacable Gianavel, with more respect. Blake was a veteran of two wars between the French and the heathen Spanish. Even as a child he survived the siege of Romania by the Turks who, to put it mildly, were no better
than the barbarous Spanish. And he had fought beside the puritanical Parliamentarians when his facilities as a spy had been required. Indeed, he had seen all manner of soldier from gentleman to knight to the most savage barbarian with human bones woven in braided hair, like the abominable Spanish. But he had never seen such a striking combination of priest and warrior as the Waldensian.

Rarely did Gianavel speak to those following him—there was no need. Through either routine or some kind of highland knowledge passed by blood from father to son, they negotiated cliffs and chasms with little or no instruction or comment. Only when a complex action deviated from routine did Gianavel give step-by-step orders, which they followed faithfully and without question.

Although their captain was obviously not a priest, he somehow seemed to hold a priest’s solemn gravity and calm. And the men seemed to regard him as holy or revered, often departing his presence with the slight, deferential bow one might offer a monk. But he was clearly a soldier—a warrior—and the unearthly presence that embodied him was overlaid with a warrior aspect.

Finally they descended into a smooth fissure by means of a rope ladder that was immediately withdrawn, just as most of the ladders and ropes had been withdrawn. Blake stared up as the tethers disappeared beyond the edge, secured by a boy who possessed the disturbing temerity to crawl over the cliff with the agility of a lizard.

When they finally exited the wall by crawling out a very narrow cave-like opening that was all but hidden by low shrubs, Gianavel immediately entered a thick wood line, and no man made more sound than a squirrel as he followed. As always, the captain led at the front, never using scouts or point men as expendable cannon fodder, as every other commander Blake had known did by routine.

With almost preternatural alertness Gianavel guided them unerringly through the forest, tending to move along the lowest ground where the running water and rotting loam covered the sound of the steps. But when fowl or forest denizen raised its voice, Gianavel would stand and study the commotion for as long as it took, insuring himself through some keen wilderness instinct that it was not a trap. Only after being satisfied would he move again; nor did he appear to feel fatigue as Blake felt fatigue. But then he had traveled through the entirety of last night and had not rested except for a short-lived stint before a firing squad.

After an hour of slow progress, Gianavel froze once more. He had reached the section of woods that Blake had described, but Blake was intrigued that the Waldensian could separate—even remember—the details of this section of the forest from those through which they’d already passed.

Silhouetted against a jagged circle of light, Gianavel stood with head bowed, intense and concentrated. He listened, studied the entire scheme of sharply cut hills without studying anything specific, watched the fowl, listened longer. If Blake had not known better, he would have suspected that he was simply afraid to move farther. But he knew this man was not afraid. He had seen nothing in the stalwart Vaudois that even hinted of fear.

In silence, they stood a long time—so long that Blake noticed the sweat freezing beneath his shirt. Then with a slight tilt of his head, Gianavel motioned for him to approach. When Blake stood beside him, he quietly asked, “What direction did they take?”

No question about whether this was the right location. No question about whether Blake was certain. But when Blake thought about it, if he
could answer the question that was asked, he had answered the other two, also. With certainty, Blake pointed to a sharp knoll.

As if it confirmed what he already suspected, Gianavel seemed to search the very air for a sign of the soldiers. He began moving forward almost at the same moment Blake caught the scent of smoke—a campfire. Even Blake noted the carelessness.

If he had been the one to lead a group deep into enemy territory, he would have insured that his men were dressed like natives, ate, drank, and smelled like natives. There would have been no campfires smoking, and they would have moved only at night. During the day they would have brushed out their tracks and buried themselves inside a cliff. The cavalier attitude of this group indicated an inexcusable lack of training or a tendency toward overconfidence that was guaranteed to bring doom sooner or later.

With minute hand signals, Gianavel directed the men to disperse and they began to scatter along the edge of the camp. And as they crept stealthily forward Blake learned a few lessons about moving silently in the forest.

Blake noticed the Waldenses never chanced a piece of uncertain ground but would make a wide detour, however inconvenient, to avoid what was dry and brittle. Also, they never stepped horizontally on a stick but rolled their foot from one end to the other, smothering it. And they set down their feet toes first, like Gypsies who, as everyone knew, were natural thieves. But most importantly, they moved with an all-but-infinite patience—inhuman patience. Blake could easily imagine them suspiciously studying ten feet of ground for hours—even days—before chancing it. The rule was simple; do not move until you are certain.

It took Gianavel two very slow hours to bring them to the perimeter of the camp.

Crouching in thick rhododendron, Blake saw what he’d expected to see—thirty men with horses tethered, two mobile demi-cannon, a wagon loaded with mortar and gunpowder, and another wagon for provisions. A tent was established for the captain or lieutenant, and a small war conclave was ensuing.

Resisting the impulse to back away from the camp, Blake barely shifted his weight to move behind a tree where he might not be—

Crack
.

Gianavel
’s head spun at the split-second Blake looked down to see the broken branch protruding from both sides of his boot. As he raised his face in surprise, the Waldensian whirled, and a sentry shouted and raised his rifle, aiming.

Gianavel fired from the hip, not bothering to raise his rifle, and the sentry
’s reflexive shot mushroomed into the trees. Gianavel leaped forward, drawing a pistol to shoot another man, and was inside the camp. Not hesitating to see if the others were following, Gianavel snatched up the second man’s rifle and fired it directly into the powder wagon. Blake saw him swing his aim and had one split-second to spin away raising hands over his head. He never heard the rifle as the air about him and the forest itself surrendered to the blast.

Blake was only aware that he had lost his feet and was lying on the ground, coughing and squinting against the blinding sting of gun
smoke and dust. He managed to gain his feet as the captain speared an attacker on his sword and tore it loose to whirl the blade horizontally, slashing another’s throat. Before the man hit the ground, Gianavel ripped the pistol from his waist and raised it to fire in the same breath.

Bat
tle erupted with shocking savagery, and Blake leaped desperately aside as unidentified combatants surged past him through the forest, twisting in grotesque embraces with daggers rising and falling, stabbing in crimson collisions until one crumbled with swords, rebounding from sword or stone in scattered whirlwinds of furious howls and curses flung with hissing vehemence and hate.

As one attacker rushed forward, Blake raised his hands to show he was unarmed, but his attacker kept coming. Then a shot cracked at the edge of the camp, and the man staggered away and to the side, holding his neck. Blake spun to see Gianavel hurl the smoking pistol into the face of another attacker before the Waldensian drove his sword through the man
’s chest.

Already Blake could see that the Waldenses had gained the advantage, having caught many of the men unarmed but for a pistol and sword. But the heavily prepared contingent at the tent put up strong if unorganized resistance as men do when their formation but not their lives have been lost, and Gianavel was in the thick of it, virtually alone and moving quick to make a hard target. Evading and striking, he hit man after man with more than lethal force to kill fast and kill again until a squad staggered over the dead and dying to reinforce him. Other members of the besieged band were isolated in the forest on random errands and hurled
water skins and food aside to flee, but they were cut down by marksmen before they cleared the closest ridge.

Over a red tide of the dead, Gianavel surged into the captain
’s tent and out the back again, grappling with a man who wore the insignia of an officer.

Face-to-face they fought with daggers, each evading and lashing out only to slip another slash as the opponent
’s blade returned, but it was Gianavel who pressed the fight, cutting the captain a half-dozen times before his blade disappeared into the chest.

The Waldensian didn
’t pause before he tore it free again and twisted, his body lengthening into what would have been a lunge with a saber, to sink the dagger to the hilt behind the man’s collar. At the huge geyser of blood, Gianavel twisted to the side and drew the blade clear, doing incalculably more damage drawing the knife than he had done with the thrust. His leap carried him to arm’s length, where he landed on balance and poised.

Although superior in number, Pianessa
’s troop was dead within five minutes of fighting that seemed to Blake like hours. At the end, the Vaudois had not lost a single man, and thirty-three of the militia lay dead. In the sudden stillness that followed, several Waldenses turned to glare at him, and Blake fully expected to be next.

He had not intended to give a warning to Pianessa
’s troops, but he had. Then Gianavel stood on the far side of the camp. His shirt was vastly bloodied, but Blake knew it was not his own. Although Gianavel had not swarmed across the camp like the rest, his share of the fighting had been decidedly heavier because he had been caught in the open and set upon by the soldiers like a wounded bear set upon by wolves. The fact that he had survived at all said all that needed to be said.

Then Gianavel spied Blake, and Blake felt a thrill of fear. But the angry commander only shook his head and wiped his dagger on a dead man
’s cloak. He sheathed it with a frown and then paused to catch a heavy breath before moving into the tent.

Strangely, though he was acutely aware of the opportunity, Blake did not seriously consider escape. No one was near him, and he could have, perhaps, faded into the forest unseen. But as he measured what he had seen of Gianavel s mercy against what he had witnessed of his fury, he knew he was not in danger.
This man could kill him, yes—like lightning. But he had a reverence and respect for life that seemed profoundly antithetical to his position as a commander.

In a way, the Captain of Rora
’s honor was not unlike demonstrations of battlefield mercy Blake had seen from the Puritans. But the Puritans were, on the whole, an unreasonable—even unpredictable—lot. For instance, they might hang a man because of a chance remark muttered against the Almighty in the heat of battle that he instantly regretted but too late. Then again, they might display casual unconcern, for whatever theological reasoning, at wanton looting and pillaging or even what Blake considered rampant murder.

Gianavel exited the tent holding a handful of papers. Others gathered around him, and then Blake found himself emerging from the forest. As he stood in the sunlight, he glanced at the nearest Vaudois, appropriating new boots from one who no longer required them.

“You!” Gianavel called. “Come here!”

Blake
’s heart leaped. He saw the captain staring hard at him; his fighting fury had not quite dissipated. “Me?”

“
Yes!”

Humble as a beggar without knees, Blake moved to Gianavel and stood before him, hands folded at his waist. Gianavel thrust forward a handful of notes.
“What do you make of these?”

Blake studied the letters; they were printed in Ecclesiastical Latin and bore the signature of
… an Inquisitor.

Without revealing his alarm, Blake analyzed the notes, translating as best he could beneath the impatient gaze of the surrounding Waldenses. He took pains to not raise his face to behold the eyes of these men who had just killed so many and had not yet wiped the blood from their weapons. When he was certain of a rudimentary translation, he looked tentatively into Gianavel
’s gray gaze.