Rora (31 page)

Well spoken, thought Lockhart, but added nothing to the words—he didn't have to. If the Puritan were utterly
alone in the world with his conviction, he would ask no one to join him.

Evening had faded to dark, and Lockhart found himself following the growing sounds of traffic. Paris had the unique quality of being far more alive during the night than the day. But the thought reminded him that he would soon be venturing through those busy streets for another nocturnal tryst with Cardinal Mazarin.

Before attempting to convince that great mind that even France would be served by a treaty with the Waldenses, he needed a stone-solid point-by-point argument. Mazarin was far too wise to use his political power rashly. The cardinal understood that power was a precious commodity— something to be used sparingly and with the clear understanding that, once used, inevitably created either a new ally or a new enemy. Worse, neither may be desired, even though the purpose of the power is accomplished.

It was growing late.

Sir Morland had served his purpose and then some. He had reconnoitered Piedmont and learned all that needed to be known to launch an invasion. But things would not take that route if Lockhart could succeed in his task.

Without question Mazarin could bring the full force of his office to bear on the war and probably bring an end to it. But Lockhart had not yet found the proper combination of elements to compel him to do so. Perhaps, he wondered vaguely, because they did not exist. Or, perhaps, because he simply was not realizing them.

He looked hard at the Puritan. "What will happen in the next few days?"

Sir Morland's mouth turned down. "From everything I observed, Pianessa will mount a massive attack against the valley. He will probably divide his forces and spread the lines of Rora.
Then he will simply pour more men into a gorge than the Waldenses can kill." He paused. "The only advantage the Waldenses have is that they have not yet lost a pass. But when that happens ..."

Abrup
tly falling silent, Sir Morland became grim. "When that happens, Pianessa will kill them all."

Lockhart turned from the map and table. He walked slowly across the room, arm folded across his chest, one hand over his chin. He halted with his back to the Puritan. "How many people have been killed thus far?" he asked finally.

Sir Morland took a moment. "Six thousand or so. It is impossible to know for certain. Some say two thousand—some say four. All I know is that the population was about six thousand men, women, and children and only a few remain alive." His face hardened. "You do not want to know what I have seen."

Lockhart spun back. "Indeed! I want to know exactly what you have seen!" He walked forward with discovered purpose. "In fact, I want you to tell me the worst of what you saw in Piedmont. Withhold nothing. That is an order."

"What I have seen would make Nero weep," said the Puritan stoically.

"Precisely," Lockhart said as he sat and raised hands before his face. "And those are the atrocities I must know."

"Why?"

"Because Cardinal Mazarin has no political reason to save these people, my friend. So I must offer him a different reason."

"You think horror will compel him to intercede?" Sir Morland s eyes darkened. "Very well. Then I will tell you of horror. I will tell you what monstrous acts have been committed against these people under the Inquisitor's banner and in the name of God. And when it is done you will certainly command me to never speak of it again."

And Sir Morland spoke of the unburied dead and the crucified, of bodies hung in trees and heads stacked like coconuts, of torture and mounds and dunes of ashes where souls were surrendered to the flames because they would not deny the Lord. And as he spoke Lockhart expressed nothing. Not because he was not shocked, and not because he wished to hear more of death and mutilation and torture of astonishing cruelty. No, he listened and expressed nothing because he did not want to lose the desolate and terrible melancholy welling within him more powerfully with each descriptive word—a melancholy he would bear with him to the palace of Cardinal Mazarin.

Yes, he would repeat this evil tale word for word. And he would see if somewhere within the breast of the aged priest still beat the heart of a man of God.

***

Staring down over the valley, Gianavel was not surprised at how clearly objects could be detected in moonlight. He had long ago learned that moonlight was equal to daylight as long as you could determine shading and size, and since sound seemed to travel so much better in the cold, distance was easily learned.

Studying the shadowed trail, he estimated that it would be almost impossible for Pianessa's men to steal upon them in the night. Not only were scouts positioned along the pass with torches hidden within clay pots, which would be broken at an attack, but the last half mile was littered with gravel and broken stone. Anyone who climbed it during the night could be heard a half hour before they arrived.

This site, at least, was secure. And Gianavel had full faith in Jahier and Laurentio, who were every bit as competent, though they had radically different styles. Jahier was boisterous and daring and inspired his men with enthusiasm. Laurentio was more of a strategist and insured a hundred times over that each man understood the simplest instructions. Jahier was creative and mercurial and was gifted with the ability to quickly seize the narrowest opportunity. Laurentio was by far the best in meticulously preparing for every contingency laying plan upon plan until every conceivable situation had a planned response.

He longed to descend into the valley to check on Angela and the children. But he would be unable to leave this summit for days or, perhaps, weeks. But he couldn't allow himself to feel emotion in it.

He turned his mind to tasks at hand.

The bastion was fully ten feet high and thick enough to withstand rifle fire and perhaps even cannon fire for a while.
The walls were angled to provide shots along the wall, killing men in platoons. Stakes were set at the crest and base. A ditch angled in a "V" with cannon at each high point had been dug behind the wall. If Pianessa's men breached the wall and entered the ditch, the cannons would be discharged, killing along the length. Nor was there a danger of hitting one another in crossfire.

Gianavel studied every facet of the defense. He could think of no way to improve it, but he resisted the sudden anxiety that shot from his heart at
thoughts of the coming conflict. Once this battle began, there would be no retreat. Even if they managed to kill five thousand of Pianessa's men, the marquis would not withdraw.

His plan of attack would focus on pouring more men into this ravine than they could kill. Pianessa's reputation, perhaps even his kingdom, was imperiled, and men were ultimately expendable to preserve it. Also, when the Waldenses were destroyed, Pianessa would inherit the treasure bequeathed by his late wife, and that fortune would more than rebuild his shattered army.

Gianavel spied the Englishman—Blake—teaching a few of the younger men how to tie their gear so they could move more quietly. Gianavel felt chagrined that he had not taught them, himself—it was certainly a needed lesson. But he had been distracted with many preparations and had trusted and prayed that others would pick up what he lost, would fill in the gaps he had forgotten.

A sense of peace settled as he watched them adjusting their canteens and powder horns and pistols, moving them so they wouldn't clatter against one another.

Always God will provide a way ...

Winter wind moved heavily on the ledge, and Gianavel half turned his face at the biting cold. As always, the mountain froze during the night, only to thaw at late morning.

It was Pianessa's advantage that his men would pass the night in relative comfort in the valley near Pinerola that even now burned with innumerable bonfires. Gianavel and his men would have to fight off the cold till morning, burning energy and strength.

As Gianavel stepped down from the ledge, he felt a premonition—a sensation of the future—that seemed to come more and more often these days. He did not know if it was the Spirit or his own fears, but he thought he glimpsed a terrible darkness before him—a darkness where the dead were piled in mounds and dunes with lifeless arms frozen outstretched toward a sky as black and soundless as the grave, eyes forever open and forever unseeing at the base of some sharp-edged dusky ravine that drained endless blood from some higher place.

Gianavel frowned at the sensation.

Thirty men and boys against three thousand hardened soldiers – professionals who lived only to fight.

In his heart he felt rising words from which he took comfort: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."

If the words had been sufficient for Israel's Joshua ... they were sufficient for Joshua Gianavel.

No, he thought, as he gazed somberly over the pass,
the fact that he fought would not be his eternal witness ... but that he fought without fear.

***

Lockhart had repeated all that the Puritan had described and Cardinal Mazarin had listened patiently, not even moving until he finished. Now they gazed upon each other in stillness and Lockhart could not say what he beheld in those obsidian eyes.

With an expression of deep-felt but restrained grief, Mazarin slowly lowered one hand, rubbing his chin with the other. He stared across the chamber toward the blazing logs in the hearth, but did not seem to see them. "And so," Lockhart finished, "now you know."

Still, Mazarin did not respond. Nor did he avert his gaze from the flames. Lockhart felt a wave of concern that he had overstepped the priest's tolerance but he had seen no other option.

France had no political interest in Piedmont. Quite simply, Cardinal
Mazarin would interfere because he decided it was the right thing to do, or not. Nor was Lockhart anywhere near so foolish as to assume he could persuade the old man. Mazarin was far too intelligent and his morality was far too complex for Lockhart to debate or even understand.

Finally the older man spoke, "You have given me cause for great grief. Yes, I agree—a hard end should be brought to this persecution. But what you ask
... is difficult."

Lockhart said nothing.

"I have fought many battles in my career," Mazarin added. "Some within the church, some without. I have battled kings and prime ministers, the Citie del Vaticano, my fellow cardinals ... even the people." He released a heavier sigh. "But I have never challenged the power of the Inquisition."

The power of the Inquisition itself was a blind zone for Lockhart. He decided to keep his responses as mild as possible. "Does the Inquisition have the authority to resist you?"

"Oh yes," Mazarin laughed without enjoyment. "Indeed, the Inquisition has the power to arrest me and kill me if the local government cooperates. But I made proper arrangements some time ago to insure that that would not occur."

"What kind of arrangements?"

Mazarin gestured. "Oh, the same as with a king or an ambitious general. You simply make relevant parties aware that dramatic actions have dramatic consequences. Yes, they may kill you, but they will certainly not live long enough to enjoy the victory. No man is quick to take a stand if it guarantees his doom."

It was a moment before Lockhart spoke, curious as to why it occurred to him. "Except Gianavel."

At the name, Mazarin looked fully at Lockhart, nor did it seem done by decision.

"Yes," he nodded. "Except Gianavel."

Lockhart had learned to reach the implacable cardinal's eyes. And when they focused on him steadily, like twin black suns, he knew the old priest was deep in a complex process of thought that was impossible for him to communicate. It was more than two minutes before Mazarin spoke; Lockhart had not looked away.

"My friend," he began with an air of genuine charity, "allow me to speak freely."

"Please."

"In the beginning, the Inquisition had a good and noble purpose," Mazarin commented, much like a history professor. "I will not go into specifics; noble intentions crushed underfoot for power are not rare enough to be tragic."

Mazarin rested both hands on the arms of his chair and spoke with a presence he might have held thousands. "A tree is known by its fruit, so the end of a thing is greater than its beginning. The Inquisition began in light but was overcome by the night. It does no good to lament ruined opportunity. One must make a new opportunity and not repeat his mistakes. Fortunately, all things are possible with God." He paused, then laughed. "Doubtless, you wonder where I am proceeding."

"The thought did cross my mind," Lockhart admitted.

The cardinal smiled, folding his hands beneath his face. "You enter this fray for the sake of the Waldenses, Sir Lockhart, or because of your loyalty to Lord Cromwell?"

For a moment, Lockhart pondered his true reason. "I've seen enough killing in the name of God, Cardinal."

If Lockhart had been forced to guess, he would have said that the cardinal was pleased. "Your eyes do not lie, which is good. Heroic moral fortitude will make your task easier."

Lockhart didn't blink. "My task?"