Rora (3 page)

Incomel bowed. "God has all dominion, Duchess."

Emmanuel poured the duchess a goblet of wine, which she accepted with a minute nod. He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned fully toward Incomel.

"Since my valley is already crippled," Emmanuel began with considerable charm, "tell me—exactly—how you intend to deal with those of Rora. Surely you don't expect me to work in the fields and gather the crops. Or did you forget that the vineyards and orchards of Rora comprise the agricultural wealth of Piedmont?"

"Forgive my timing," Incomel replied as he accepted a goblet of wine, "but it would be impossible to move above the cliffs in winter. And, please, do not unduly concern yourself. God will see to your crops, as He sees to all things. Even birds of the air have nests, as evidenced by the sanctity of these castle walls this very day. And does God not care more for us than for them?"

Emmanuel said nothing.

The duchess smiled coldly. "And what of the vast lands acquisitioned during your recent purifications, Inquisitor? Does the Church also raise its flag over these?"

"The Church is beneficent, Duchess.
The land and the king are one. But as long as the king is subject to the rule of the Church, the land is also the responsibility of Rome." Incomel laughed alone. "We can't allow heretics to poison their land as they have poisoned the minds of their children, can we?"

"And how many children did you rescue today, Inquisitor?" Emmanuel muttered.

"Over a dozen were sent to El Torre for proper care." Incomel responded, lifting a benevolent hand. "They will be harbored there until more suitable quarters are arranged. Unfortunately, they will not be able to return to their homes because.. .well, what with the tragic conflict of recent days, many of their homes are... no more."

Emmanuel glanced at his cousin, whose contempt for the Inquisitor could not be concealed. He knew that if the decision had not already been made, Elizabeth would have denounced the merciless cruelty of the powerful priest.

"Victor Amadeus was also forced to attack above the Pelice because the Church ordered him to rid Piedmont of heretics," the Duke of Savoy commented. "He said afterward that every skin he took from Rora cost him fifteen of his best soldiers."

Incomel smiled tolerantly. "My Lord, these people are farmers, not warriors."

"They are friends and family," Emmanuel muttered with a severe frown. "And they are wise in the ways of war because this world has forced them to become wise. Besides, the mountains surrounding Rora are a natural fortress. Ten men could hold off a thousand in one of those ravines. The problem with persecution, Inquisitor, is that sooner or later the persecuted will fight back."

Emmanuel waited, but Incomel did not reply.

"Do you dispute me, Inquisitor?" the young monarch pressed more loudly, an action that drew the attention of attendants. "Why do you think the Waldenses settled above the Pelice in the first place? They have inferior numbers, it's true, but any fool of a captain will tell you that they have more than a fair understanding of battle. They know every rabbit trail on that mountain. They have powers of communication we cannot match. And they have ... other advantages."

Incomel
’s laugh was the bark of a dog. "What advantages would those be, Savoy?"

"I understand they have a captain...this man,
Joshua Gianavel."

The Inquisitor stared."
And ...?"

Emmanuel's frown was a mask of contempt that made even the Inquisitor take pause. "They call this man 'Great Lion of God,' Priest... I have heard my captains speak of him." The Duke of Savoy grew more composed. "I am young, Incomel. But I am not a fool. If the peasants of Rora regard this man so greatly, perhaps there is a reason. I do not wish to see my army decimated by this war."

The Inquisitor laughed. "That is ridiculous, Savoy. We all know that heretics are a cowardly lot. Which is why they use witchcraft for their powers."

Lifting his arms, Emmanuel agreed with enthusiasm. "Ah yes! Which is why their children have two rows of black teeth! Why their children have a single eye in the middle of their foreheads! And are born with fangs like dogs!"

Incomel did not blink as the Duke of Savoy almost snarled, "Yes, yes, we certainly remember what your predecessors told us, Inquisitor! How the

Vaudois were half-demon and half-human with six fingers on each hand and ears like bats! Or, at least, that is what they maintained until Victor Amadeus sent for these children! Then he discovered,
mon Dieu
, that they were normal children! Precocious and wide-eyed and full of amusing chatter!"

Emmanuel's smile vanished as he closed his arms to his sides. "Which is why he banished your colleagues from the palace, Inquisitor! I mean, the great Victor Amadeus could not very well tolerate Inquisitors incapable of telling five fingers from six, could he?" The reigning Duke of Savoy leaned into his words and his meaning. "Heretics seem a bit too popular around here if you ask—"

"My Lord," the Duchess Elizabeth said suddenly, touching his arm. "If you will pardon me, my guards have been waiting to speak with you about my journey to Pinerola."

Bending his head, Emmanuel settled. And Elizabeth leaned closer, grasping his arm more firmly. "Thank you, cousin
. Now, would you be so kind as to insure that my guard is prepared?"

Without any semblance of fear, Emmanuel regarded the Inquisitor. Then, with a tight smile, he bowed. "Another time, Inquisitor."

Incomel was ice. "At your service, My Lord."

Emmanuel strode across the hall and began to instruct Elizabeth's bodyguards. More impatient than usual, his voice carried as the duchess gazed upon the Inquisitor, who seemed not to notice the glacial regard.

"It would be unfortunate for your cousin, Duchess, if he seemed to contradict any of my—"

"He is the Duke of Savoy, Inquisitor." Elizabeth's words and her tone were unmistakably firm. "He is the Supreme Lord of Piedmont, and you will hold him as such."

Incomel bowed. "Of course. And I do apologize, Duchess, if the Duke of Savoy finds even the faintest displeasure in dealing with the Waldenses. I'm sure you realize the dangers of a house divided?" He paused to silence. "Well, the danger is that any house divided against itself cannot stand."

Mary Elizabeth de Medici smiled at last. "We are alone, Incomel. You have no image to protect."

The Inquisitor stared. "My substance is what you behold, Duchess. I have no image at all."

"Really?" Elizabeth s eyes widened mischievously. "The Duke of Savoy's serving girls inform me otherwise."

Incomel would have started if there had not been others watching. Even as it was, he stared with ferocity at the duchess. His jaw tightened as he spoke again. "You would be burned alive if another had heard those words."

Elizabeth's smile was sweet; her teeth were steel. "I suppose you will want Maria again tonight? She seems to be your favorite."

Incomel’s breaths were short and sharp. He seemed unable to speak and the silence would have lasted forever had not Elizabeth closed it with her words. "Your secrets are safe with me, Inquisitor. Only remember one thing." Her eyes were shards of ice. "My cousin is not a boy, though he is younger than me, and I am not old. You may do what you want with the Waldenses; they are not my highest concern. But you will not threaten Emmanuel."

"He cannot deny my orders, Duchess."

"He will not deny your orders, Inquisitor. But with this man, Gianavel, leading them, the people of Rora will fight for their freedom of faith. And Emmanuel knows it is a battle his treasury can ill afford. So I advise you: Express no pleasure at his loss."

A still pause.

"I foresee no difficulties," Incomel stated. "I will leave the attack upon Rora to Pianessa. He is a ruthless barbarian, a man or war. And I trust ... things better left unsaid ... shall remain so."

"Of course."

Incomel was a statue as the duchess turned and walked across the hall where Emmanuel was tersely instructing her guards, clearly in charge of his kingdom.

***

Pianessa's rugged face reflected the fire of the furnace as he watched the last blows of the hammer forge his new sword. The blade was fully four feet in length and carved down the middle with a deep groove for blood flow, which allowed an easier draw when embedded in flesh. And although it was two inches wide, the edge was finely tapered for lightness, allowing him to wield it one-handed with the grace and agility of a rapier.

Unlike the two-handed Scottish claymore, whose true strength had been its massive weight that was easily capable of denting plate armor to shatter flesh and bone together, Pianessa's weapon held the finest razored edge. From steel smelted again and again and beaten thin and folded and beaten again, it had also been forged with tin so that it could strike another sword, bend without breaking, and retain its edge. Indeed, Pianessa had painstakingly overseen every aspect of its creation, from the deep angle of the edge, which greatly eased sharpening, to the two-handed hilt.

The blacksmith
lay the glowing steel upon an anvil, hammering again to flake off the carbon. And with each blow the steel resounded with a sharper ring. Even now it appeared perfect, the blade running smooth and straight. But it would not be ready until it was sharpened and polished and wrapped with the micarti and leather hilt that had been carefully carved to accommodate Pianessa's broad grip.

"How much longer, blacksmith?" Pianessa shouted to overcome the bellows of the furnace.

Sweating and grimacing, the blacksmith lifted the steel before his face, staring along its length. "It should be ready by the morrow, My Lord!" He examined it from every angle, allowing light to shift along the angled gray edge. "A finer blade I've never forged! It’s light as a saber with twice the size and strength!"

Fortunately for the blacksmith, Pianessa was clearly pleased as he walked out of the stable and was soon in the militia tavern. Smoke from herbs smuggled from the East floated in heavy halos over couches and tables, making everything formless and without depth. Drunken gamblers slouched in crude chairs, muddy boots stretched before them as dice and coins rattled and dropped to be raked in a pile amid loud curses and harsh, pitiless laughter. Men with eyes like sharks watched from pillows thrown against walls. Some lay as the dead, while some lay wary and indistinct amid mud and weapons as others stumbled over their prone and unmoving shapes.

Ignoring them all, Pianessa approached a grease-faced, stoutly built man seated near the rear exit. Wearing a double-folded cuirass, the man seemed prepared for battle even inside the tavern. Then he seemed to sense Pianessa s monolithic image separating from the gloom and raised his face. A smile split the wild red beard as he leaned back.

Pianessa was the first to speak. "Captain Mario!"

After a halfhearted salute, Mario gestured to the wine, women, and games. "Care to share the spoils of heretics, Pianessa?"

Pianessa cast a small sack of gold upon the table. Its sudden, dominating presence seized Mario's attention.

"You ride tomorrow!"

Unable to restrain his greed, Mario stood as he tore open the bag. He didn't finish counting the gold coins before reckoning it enough. When he raised his face, the Marquis de Pianessa was already departing.

"Pianessa! There's no one left to kill!"

Pianessa spun on his heel. "There are those above the Pelice, Captain! Those at Rora!"

Mario scowled. "The sheepherders?"

"Heretics!"

"Heretics!" Mario erupted with laughter that continued for a long moment before he sobered. "You have lost your mind, Pianessa! Those fools at Rora are not heretics!"

"The Inquisitors have promised fifty pieces of gold to the captain who leads the attack," Pianessa pronounced.

Mario stared with confusion; it didn't last.

"Really," he muttered and raised a single gold piece to examine it in the dim light. "Well, then, heretics they are."

***

Dawn broke the color of silver, silhouetting Gianavel alone in the open doorway of the cottage. He stared over scattered rags of snow and tiny pebbles that cast long shadows like knives from the low, rising orb that looked like the head of an angry god gazing over a sea of shattered ships littered upon a reef.

Frost gave white hair to the earth, then began to glow gold and crimson as the moment stretched. The cold wind was low, but no dust rose to its caress, and the planet was still and quiet before him. His eyes were crescents of ice around sad wells of black that fell into the depths of something unseen.

Then a sound behind him.

Small shuffling feet ...

Gianavel smiled as he turned and saw a tiny figure standing alone in a nightshirt splashed with gold from the rising sun. He shut the door and walked forward, lifting small feet from the cold floor, warming the body with his own. Then he sat upon the couch, pulling Jacob's head into his chest.

The fire was ablaze again, feeding on the chunks of dry wood Gianavel had cast upon the glowing red embers from the night before. The cold retreated at the color of flame, and the room was wrapped in walls that contained a combined safety.