Rora (36 page)

Too late for that now ...

***

When the Vellaro fell, word must have spread quickly, because the other two passes were abandoned and Rora's defenders tried to retreat into the better-fortified section of the village. But Pianessa s troops were following too closely and broke the perimeter before the peasants could secure it with marksmen. Not that it mattered. It was impossible for the Waldenses to forever hold Rora against such superior numbers.

That they had endured so long was miracle enough.

Laughing, Pianessa came forward, seemingly energized by the atmosphere of flame and blood. If he held any regret of the carnage, it was only that there was not more of it. The marquis slowed the final steps then stood utterly still, measuring Emmanuel with that implacable gaze. His smile did not lessen. "What think you, Prince? Do you like the sight of victory?"

Emmanuel looked away
as he answered in a dead tone; "Have your patrols captured Gianavel?"

Pianessa's smile faded the faintest degree. "No, Savoy. But the victory is mine. And Gianavel cannot hide forever."

The moment was strangely still and Emmanuel resisted the fleeting impulse to smile. It was not often that he had seen Pianessa frustrated, and never in battle. Still, it wouldn't do for Emmanuel to express pleasure – not in these dark burning ruins where Emmanuel could be found with his skull split by an "unknown Waldensian."

"Very well," he said and actually backed away from Pianessa before realizing there were far too many witnesses.
With cavalier indifference he mounted and reined his stallion beside the gigantic marquis.

"As long as Gianavel lives, the Waldenses will fight," Emmanuel said with utter certainty. He waited for a reply; Pianessa offered none. "I will await word of his capture at Turin."

Surrounded by bodyguards, Emmanuel took the pass that had been held by Gianavel, toward Turin.

Mercenaries had been clearing a trail through the bodies since sunset but the horses shied and bolted during the long apocalyptic journey through dead men piled in smoking black heaps and dunes and mounds that lined the road into the darkness. The atmosphere so reeked with the coarse stench of burning human flesh and boiled blood that Emmanuel was certain that soon the entire world would be aware of it if they were not already
aware.

Nor would
the world ever forget.

***

No patrols had been sent from the Cave Cassette, though many had pleaded with Gianavel to at least try to determine if Rora had truly fallen. Yet Gianavel only shook his head and said that Rora had indeed fallen and ordered them to remain quiet and still.

He did not have to stress they were not safe
while hiding in a cave in a forest swarming with the marquis' soldiers. They were not even in the mountains where they could use the terrain against their pursuers. And, even worse, many of them were unarmed, having lost weapons in the frantic retreat.

Blake judged that Gianavel
’s analysis was correct—these caverns were a regrettable refuge. If discovered, they were dead men. But they were also anything but defeated. Yes, they had lost Rora. They had lost loved ones and their homes. They were hiding in a cave now, outnumbered and unarmed. But they had not lost their spirit, and spirit, Blake knew at last, was the greatest element in the entire occasion of war.

Strange that the Inquisitors would openly declare intentions to imprison the Waldenses so they could not spread their poisonous beliefs through the land. By the very means the Inquisitors professed to destroy this people, the lie was revealed. It was power the Inquisitors sought to achieve, and not truth. For any man that enchains the body enchains the body alone.

It was, indeed, as Gianavel had told him once.

What chains can hold belongs to man.

The rest is God's.

* * *

Chapter 19

Emmanuel dismounted in the courtyard of the palace and moved with a sense of confrontation for the cell where he'd ordered his guards to imprison the wife and children of Joshua Gianavel.

First, he wanted to question the woman to determine if she might persuade the valiant Vaudois to cease his resistance. For despite Pianessa's contemptuous boas, Emmanuel did not think Gianavel would be so easily captured. Second, he wanted to see for himself what manner of woman she was.

It would reveal something of the man.

The guards opened the door before Emmanuel arrived and he moved downward toward the holding area. It was not a dungeon in the classical sense but it had the same ambiance with torches and scattered straw and chains bolted to the wall.

Emmanuel saw the black-clad Inquisitors standing before a woman wearing a pale blue dress. The woman was on her knees, her hands chained to the wall, as she gazed sullenly at the floor. One side of her face bore a huge welt, and she had smaller cuts and abrasions on her arms. Beside her were three young girls, also chained and bloodied.

Incomel's tone was the tone used for last rites, but he was apparen
tly attempting to persuade her of something.

The Inquisitors bowed deferentially as Emmanuel waded quie
tly into the circle.

Almost immediately the young Duke of Savoy saw that the woman was beautiful, as he'd expected, but her face was badly bruised. He thought briefly of inquiring of her injuries but knew she would not talk. She did not even reveal that she was in pain, though he knew she was suffering.

Incomel did not seem to care for either the woman or her children. He nodded politely to Emmanuel as he continued in a dulcet tone, "Your husband cannot hide forever. Within hours, probably, he will be captured or killed. Why do you resist cooperation? You only injure yourself ... and your children."

Gazing down, Emmanuel anticipated that she would not speak, and he was not disappointed. With a soft blink she shifted her gaze to her children who were staring intently, terrified and trembling.
The mother shook her head sadly and one of them began to cry. Emmanuel could not deny his pity, though Incomel seemed glacial and alien.

The Inquisitor spoke
again, and loudly; "If you refuse to renounce your faith, you will be burned."

He waited for a
reaction; there was little.

The woman was already beyond fear. And the children, perhaps, did not fully understand the implication. Bowing her head, the woman closed her eyes.

"Where will he hide?" the Inquisitor questioned. "You can at least say something to reduce your suffering. Speak and I will be merciful. Refuse, and both you and your children will burn."

The children clutched at one another and began to cry with choking, restrained sobs. With her head bowed, the mother was the semblance of a white marble Madonna.

Nothing.

As Incomel stepped forward and opened his mouth once again, Emmanuel spoke somberly, "Leave her be, Inquisitor."

Stunned, the Inquisitor turned to stare at the Duke of Savoy, but Emmanuel cared nothing for the wrath blazing in those imperious eyes. Making little sound, he knelt before what he now knew was a great woman—a woman of dignity and grace and, most of all, of courage and a kind of strength the Inquisitor would never understand.

Her face was angelic, though her eyes revealed the first faint signs of the harsh wind and cold of the Alps. Her long blond hair was unique for a Waldensian, and though Emmanuel could not determine the color of her eyes, he imagined they were the palest shade of blue.

Still she revealed nothing and Emmanuel sensed that she was utterly exhausted. But neither she, nor her children, could sleep as long as they were chained. Emmanuel half turned his head to a guard.

"Unchain them."

Incomel took a step. "What!"

"They cannot escape," Emmanuel said calmly. "Unless your intention is to torment them, Inquisitor, I see no reason for them to be kept in chains."

"Torment is a trusted means of questioning heretics, Highness."

"She will not reveal where her husband is hiding, Incomel. Quite probably, she doesn't even know."

"Perhaps I should be the one to decide what she does and does not know," Incomel said tightly. "The children will eventually talk, I assure you. They are not as uncooperative."

Gazing upon the woman, Emmanuel shook his head. "I think there's been enough killing for the day, Priest. If Pianessa doesn't capture Gianavel,
we have other prisoners you can question." Emmanuel paused. "This one will not betray her husband."

Incomel projected the same cold gaze he held during interrogations and Emmanuel saw nothing human in it—no patience, no mercy, no compassion. It was like a glacier come to life to look upon fragile human flesh with nothing but eons of frost and frozen rock behind it and there was nothing to connect the two.

Angela Gianavel's hands fell to her waist, and the chains collapsed with a startling clang. Then the children were free and they crawled quickly and silently into their mother's embrace. She held them close and they wrapped their arms around one another.

To the young Duke of Savoy, it was a tragic sight.

Slowly, Emmanuel rose from his crouch and gazed down a moment longer. He spoke to the guard without looking. "See that they have blankets and hot food—whatever they require. I do not want them to suffer."

"Yes, My Lord "

"She is a prisoner of the Inquisition," Incomel said tightly. "What gives you this right?"

Brow hardening, Emmanuel turned a gaze upon Incomel. The priest revealed no fear. It was a moment that Emmanuel could easily lose with so many witnesses, for as he well knew
that his person was not above the power of the Church.

"My throne gives me the right, Inquisitor. In case you have forgotten, only the government, and
I am
the government has the right to kill. You may condemn. And that is all you may do in my kingdom."

Incomel
’s chest fell as he released an angry breath. If he had dared to speak, he would, doubtless, have condemned Emmanuel.

Without another challenge Emmanuel mounted the long steps to the tower door, where he paused to look back.
The Inquisitors were standing in a close circle, apparently discussing something of grave importance. Emmanuel surmised it was probably a protest. He didn't care. It was enough for now that they did not openly defy his authority. And he knew something else.

No matter what his woman said or did
– no matter what
he
said or did (for he would only be overruled by a higher authority) – this woman and her children would be dead within days.

***

Standing in the darkness of this tower inside this castle located somewhere inside Piedmont, Lockhart mused over the bizarre chain of events that had brought him to this uncanny situation.

It had been four days since the climactic meeting with Mazarin, and upon leaving that tryst, Lockhart had been in the company of a grim, dark man who said little, expressed only courtesy and kindness and was uncannily adept at avoiding militias.

As he led Lockhart from one desolate, mysterious country manor to another where they received fresh horses from equally mysterious attendants, they were confronted with not a single challenge, finally entering Piedmont.

That alone was incredible. But what Lockhart found even more incredible was Victor's knowledge of patrol patterns—the time, place, number of troops.
When Lockhart, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, asked what Victor's profession happened to be, he said only that he had once been a priest. But no more needed to be said; Lockhart knew enough to guess the truth.

He did not doubt that Victor had once been a priest any more than he doubted that the scars he bore on his wrists were from the racks of the Church. So, yes,
Victor had been a priest and, like hundreds of other priests, had voiced disagreement with the hierarchy. He was then tortured, recanted, and was now in the secret service of the formidable Cardinal Guilio Raimondo Mazarin for a purpose unknown. But Lockhart was far less inclined now to doubt the existence of the Assassini.

For hundreds of years legends had been told of a secret sect of priests within the Catholic Church silen
tly dedicated to protecting the Church from its enemies. Although the Church had repeatedly denied the existence of the Assassini, the legends had never quite assumed the dusty mantle of history. For every few years, it seemed, an unexpected death or inexplicable change in national policy would once again save the Vatican, and whispers would begin of shadowy agents of God who simply came and went, and someone died while they were here.

If Victor had not already saved his life inside France, Lockhart might have well refused this stunt on the grounds that it was the height of insanity to travel through a war-torn land with a consummate assassin to a destination unknown.

It was one thing to slip through the night to nocturnal meetings with Mazarin. It was another to attempt to penetrate the very heart of this land and convince the young Duke of Savoy of the dangers he would encounter if this war continued. Quite probably, Savoy would not even care to entertain the conversation. For all Lockhart knew, the young prince was far too terrified of the Inquisitors to risk disobedience, which is what made this war possible.

But, as Mazarin had said, wars are won in the spirit. If critical elements changed, then perhaps Emmanuel would find the purchase to defy the monumental powers he had not yet defied.

Victor emerged in utter silence from darkness, but Lockhart was by now accustomed to the spectral comings and goings. Always the priest moved with a black ghostly air that was wholly unearthly. Not even the folds of his cloak made any sound as he would shift or slide in a new direction without warning and apparently without reason. But, as Lockhart had discovered, there was always a reason.

Inevitably after Victor moved into or out of shadow, some guard or peasant or soldier or someone else would eventually pass the way. Of course, they would not see Victor standing so close, nor would they hear him when he moved away.
Often Victor appeared to move with startling speed but he never actually moved physically fast. And it was a while before Lockhart understood the nature of his stealth.

Victor would move as he
perceived
the movements of another so that he had already taken a step in the proper direction before they even stood or turned. He did not have to move physically fast because his ability to anticipate oncoming movement or read some faint intent of another was so highly attuned. He seemed to know what they were going to do before they did it, so he moved ahead of time to deal with it. The overall effect was that he seemed to fade in and out without risking a quick step that might reveal his presence.

Lockhart did not attempt to be so perceptive.
He simply followed the priest with as much stealth as he could manage, not even attempting to duplicate his ghostly, soundless strides.

The moccasin-like boots
Lockhart had been presented were more than sufficient to muffle his steps. In truth, he was afraid that if he altered his steps too much he might lose balance and consequently expose their presence. With the thought, Lockhart wondered how Victor would deal with it. The answer—he'd probably kill him and leave him there—was unsettling.

Finally they reached a section of the corridor wall that was thinner and smoother than joining sections. As he had done at several earlier junctions, Victor removed a small vial from his cloak and smeared oil on
four cobwebbed iron hinges. After rubbing them tightly for a full minute, he then lifted the dusty latch. As the priest pulled the portal inward, as Lockhart anticipated, the Scotsman saw a richly furnished room burning brightly with candelabra.

As Lockhart moved into the room, after the priest, he beheld a young man asleep on a large feather bed. His saber and pistol belt hung over the iron bedpost and he wore the clothes of a huntsman.

Lockhart felt that he should have been amazed that he had been brought almost entirely across this land within a period of four days, or that they had slipped unseen and unheard past hundreds of guards and Inquisitors and servants. But he had watched and learned too much from Victor to doubt the priest’s cunning and skill.

Nor was he amazed that Victor had brought him without a single incident into the
very bedchambers of Charles Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy, Supreme Lord of Piedmont.

***

With Gianavel in the lead, some seventy survivors of the battle of Rora climbed higher into the Alps. They moved in single file, each bearing a load of blankets or weapons or provisions and none complained or even seemed to weaken as they walked through the night.

As usual, Blake did not know where he was, but, strangely enough, neither did anyone else seem to know this area of the mountain. Only Gianavel, moving without hesitation, held an aura of confidence as he selected narrow ledge after narrow ledge, carefully picking a path along the Castelluzo.

Nor was it difficult to guess why this area of the mountain was avoided. After glancing off the last ledge—a sheer drop of six thousand feet to the valley floor—Blake had resolutely determined to look no more.