Rora (37 page)

Finally they rounded a corner and the huge mouth of a cave gaped before them. Although immense, Blake did not think it could be seen from the valley. And even if it could, a half-dozen men with rifles could hold off a thousand on this trail, since only one man could approach them at a time and even then he would need to be as surefooted as a mountain goat and possess nerves of steel.

Within a half hour they were inside a gigantic cathedral cavern where they laid blankets and built fires to cook deer they had killed on the way. The flames could not be seen this deep in the cave and the smoke could not be detected against surrounding clouds.

It was only then that Blake finally approached Gianavel, sitting quie
tly beside a fire with his boy, Jacob, asleep on his chest. The captain did not raise his gaze as Blake knelt, nor did he speak.

Blake duplicated the solemn air, for he had learned the reason for the captain's grief. He spoke slowly, "I'm sorry about your wife and children, my friend."

Gianavel nodded tiredly.

Blake waited, then, "Perhaps we can still rescue them."

Finally the Vaudois responded, "Perhaps ... but to reach them we'd have to fight our way through Pianessa's entire militia."

"Then we will fight," Blake heard himself say and was instantly aware that he included himself in this war.

He had never included himself in a war—not even for England, not even when he had been a critical element in that war. Yes, he had fought. He had fought for profit or to escape prison or, even, sometimes for the sheer excitement. But he had never fought with his heart and had never cared for the outcome. But now he cared so much he could not restrict his concern to mere words.

Gianavel was pensive. "I will not throw away any man's life to save my own, or even
... for the lives of my family. If there were any chance I might rescue them, I would dare anything; I would endure anything. But we do not have the men to assault Turin."

That was indisputable, but Blake searched. "Perhaps we can find some secret way into the fortress."

With a nod, Gianavel considered it. "Doubtless, there is some secret passage we do not know about. But to discover it, we would have to risk a standup fight. It is one thing to make a stand where you have a slight chance of victory. It is another to invite a fight when you have no chance at all."

Tilting his head tragically, the patriarch of the Vaudois gently caressed his son's head.
The boy's breaths were heavy. "I have a child that I must protect, and I cannot protect him if I throw away my life in a doomed attempt to reach my wife and daughters." He was silent, then, "But for him, I would fight my way inside Turin or die in the attempt. But I cannot abandon him."

There was no doubt in Blake's mind what Pianessa would do to them. Just as he knew that the marquis would first use them, if possible, against Gianavel. Although he did not reveal it, Blake was stunned by a future far too terrible to contemplate.

Gianavel would not—could not—surrender because everything in his life would be proven a lie. The hope and faith he had fostered in his children, his wife, and his people, would be worthless.

If Gianavel were right, and if God did, indeed, require a man to embody what he believed, then even death could not win in this dark hour. And if Gianavel were wrong, if God did not require a man to live as he believed, then those who judged and those who were judged were meaningless alike,
and God was not God. If life with God did indeed overcome death, then death did not ultimately matter. If death did indeed overcome all life, then life did not matter because death was then the end of all things.

No, Blake shook his head, no
... that is not the truth.

Everything within Blake told him that that was not the truth. Man was not born to incalculable suffering only to be conquered, in the end, by death.
That was not the life he sensed within himself—even when it had been a life barely worth living.

For the first time Blake truly understood that all of life hinged on this one single question. Why endure a life of incomprehensible suffering only to die a meaningless death?

If that was reality, then suicide was the only rational decision.

And he didn't see
this persecuted people standing in line for that.

***

Standing silently at the foot of the bed, Lockhart stared in fascination as Victor moved up to Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy, and touched him gently on the shoulder. Only when Savoy rolled over with a gasp did Victor place the keen silver dagger at his throat.

Emmanuel said nothing as he stared at Lockhart, unwilling to look within the cowl of the man holding the dagger.

He genuinely surprised himself when he refused to reveal fear. Apparently, some part of his mind had prepared for this, nor did he expect to survive. But he would at least send a message to Incomel or Pianessa—it didn't matter which, arrangements had been made for both—that they, also, were not long for this world.

"Tell your Inquisitor General that I have already made arrangements," the young duke said with remarkable hate. "He will not live long enough to enjoy his victory."

Unmoving, Lockhart stared down from shadow. "Do I look like the accomplice of an Inquisitor, Savoy?"

Emmanuel s eyes narrowed. He took a sharp breath as the knife moved slowly away from his neck.

"Then speak," he said at last. "What do you want?"

"Your life, Savoy."

Lockhart stepped to the very foot of the bed.

Emmanuel's eyes flared, then set
tled as Lockhart continued, "You are engaged in an evil war against the Waldenses. We are here to petition you for an ending."

"To petition?" the Duke of Savoy glanced at Victor and did not seem to like what he saw. "A phantom holding a dagger
at my throat is an unusual petition."

"We wish for you to understand our sincerity." Lockhart waited for a reply; there was none. "We will speak to you for a few moments, Savoy. Then we will leave you in peace. If you do not heed my words, then we will return. I hope you understand."

Emmanuel's jaw tightened. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no importance," said Lockhart. "What is important is that you find some means of ending this war against the people of Rora."

"It's not my war."

A hard tone—the young prince had courage.

Lockhart nodded once. "I know—you are obeying the Inquisitors and the Jesuits."

"So why do you threaten me?"

"Why?" Lockhart's face bent forward. "Does the Duke of Savoy, Supreme Lord of Piedmont, not have the strength to disobey a handful of Inquisitors?"

"It's not the Inquisitors I fear," Emmanuel answered. "It's Rome and Spain. If I move to protect the Waldenses I will undoubtedly be invaded and my throne will be taken. How can I protect the Waldenses then?"

"You will be invaded in any case, Savoy!" Lockhart moved forward. "Cromwell is prepared to send ten garrisons into Piedmont if you do not desist from this persecution! Sir Morland has already designed the invasion!"

The words noticeably disturbed the young monarch, but he did not seem surprised. "So, if not Charles of Spain, then Cromwell..." His frown was bitter. "Either way, I am doomed."

"No," Lockhart said firmly. "You are not doomed, Savoy, because Mazarin has vowed to protect you. And when you move against the Inquisitors he will—"

"Move against the Inquisitors?" Emmanuel almost rose. "Are you insane? How can I move against the Inquisitors? And how could Mazarin protect me? Incomel would kill me!"

"Fool of a child!" Lockhart came down the edge of the bed and grabbed Emmanuel by the hair. "Do you think we will
not
? This isn't about kingdoms, Savoy! It's about life and death! For as surely as the Waldenses have died
you
will die if you don't do as we say! To defy the Inquisitors is
possible
death! To defy us
is certain death
!"

Emmanuel's voice trembled. "You would be murderers."

"Yes! And I accept that! And don't think we cannot reach you!"

Emmanuel grimaced at Lockhart's grip. Then Lockhart released him and stepped back. "This is your only warning, Savoy. Find some means
to end this war."

"How?" Emmanuel grated.

"Change those who command the army and you will change the army! If you change the army, you change the war! Who is most critical to this fight?"

"The Inquisitor."

"Which Inquisitor?"

"His name is Incomel. He is the Inquisitor General. A second one, Corbis, also has great authority."

With only a slight turn of his head, Lockhart looked at Victor.

The Assassini nodded.

"What will happen if we eliminate these Inquisitors for you?"

"Then there is only Pianessa."

Lockhart looked at the Assassini once more, but Victor did not move. "Pianessa is a more difficult matter," he muttered. "I don't know if we can reach him."

"You have to reach him," Emmanuel said. "I cannot restrain Pianessa now."

Silence lengthened.

"We'll see," Lockhart responded as he began to back away. "How much time will you require?"

"If the Inquisitors are killed, perhaps very little. I won't know until I try."

"Then we will kill your Inquisitors, Savoy. After that, you have three days."

"And Pianessa?"

Startling Lockhart,
Victor whispered his only words, "God will see to Pianessa."

The comment, seeming to come from darkness itself, froze Emmanuel. His entire form solidified in a fear beyond trembling. He did not look at the priest.

Lockhart finished, "Do you have any questions?"

"Just one."

"Speak."

"How did you get in here?"

Lockhart lifted a hand, and Victor's hand closed the black rag instantly over Emmanuel's mouth, his other hand holding his head. The young Savoy struggled for only a few seconds before his hands fell limp, and Victor laid him gently back upon the bed.

The priest reached Lockhart's side, and Lockhart asked, "Will he remember?"

Victor nodded once, and then Lockhart followed the dark priest through the doorway and into the shadows.

* * *

Chapter 20

Blake turned as tow exhausted scouts emerged from the thin trail that led to the cavern. One fell before others could support him and they rushed to wineskins hanging beside the entrance as Gianavel watched, stoic and silent.

Selected because they had been skilled enough to penetrate Pianessa's camp earlier, they'd departed in the night to see if it were possible for Gianavel and a small team of men to attack Turin and rescue his wife and children.

The incredible tension held until one finally lowered a wineskin, gazing long at the Captain of Rora. With sorrowful eyes, the man shook his head. Blake watched Gianavel's expression. There was only the faint tightening of his jaw. His eyes remained grim.

The second scout managed to catch his breath. "We might be able to slip across the cliffs and evade the patrols. But Pianessa has pulled almost his full militia back to Turin. A snake c
an’t crawl through."

Gianavel's concentrated, then said, "What if we were in Pianessa's uniforms?"

The scout shook his head. "No one, uniformed or not, is getting through the portico."

It was as if Gianavel expected the news. Still, he was not defeated. He paced back and forth, shaking his head.

Bertino grimaced angrily and growled, "Let us take someone that Pianessa values! Then we can threaten him in the same means he intends to threaten us!"

All eyes turned to Gianavel.

The patriarch of Rora stared at the big man a long time. Clearly, he was considering it. Then the anger seemed to fade. "No," he said. "We will not shed innocent blood."

There was a curtain of pause like an act closing.

"If we were to shed innocent blood even in battle, the Lord would be displeased." Gianavel’s face and tone were tragic. "How much more will He be displeased if we shed innocent blood for our own purpose?"

No one answered, but Bertino's fists clenched as he stepped forward. Still, seeing the certainty and command in Gianavel's gaze, the big farmer did not challenge. He turned away, muttering.

Without any expression of pain or frustration or even regret, Gianavel walked to the edge of the cliff. Nor did he make any display of bitter disappointment or even grief.

But no one approached him to find the truth.

***

Impressed that he had arisen much like usual, only later, Emmanuel was sedately consuming a plate of cooked almonds as Pianessa strode into the Great Hall. The marquis appeared clean and remarkably refreshed in body and soul and wore the same armor as the day before, but it had been polished and oiled.

Pianessa laughed as he poured himself a flagon of wine. "It is a good day, Savoy. I don't think that a single Waldensian remains in the valley." He winked. "Alive, that is."

Emmanuel didn't deign to ask about Gianavel. Obviously, Pianessa had not captured or killed the Vaudois. If so, he would have walked into the hall carrying Gianavel's head in his hand. He was also curious to see if the marquis would bring rise to the subject on his own.

Pianessa swallowed a long drought of wine, gazed unblinking upon the Duke of Savoy. "Do you not wish to know about the great Gianavel?" he asked mildly.

Emmanuel shrugged, chewed more almonds.

"He has escaped us," Pianessa said flatly. "Our best reports indicate that he is somewhere in the Alps."

"It will be hard to capture Gianavel in the mountains, Pianessa. He was raised on those
goat paths."

The marquis refilled his wine. "I don't intend to pursue the Waldensian into the hills, Savoy. I have his wife and children—Gianavel will come to me
, now."

"And why would he do that?"

"Because I have sent a message to him," Pianessa lifted his chalice. "I believe we shall see Gianavel before tomorrow evening."

Emmanuel was not convinced of anything but Pianessa's ruthlessness. "You truly believe this man will surrender?"

"If he wants to preserve the lives of his wife and children, then yes, Gianavel will come down from his mountain, Savoy. He will come in order to save their lives, but I've also given him ... other incentives."

"Indeed," Emmanuel mused. "What kind of incentives?"

"What all men want, Savoy. Gold, land, the title of a prince."

Emmanuel was amazed that Pianessa did not understand this man. No, Gianavel would not come down from his mountain for gold, or land, or the title of a marquis. For, in Gianavel's mind, there was nothing on this earth greater than what was beyond it. Emmanuel's words were calm, certain, and quiet.

"Gianavel is already a prince, Pianessa. He will always be a prince. Nor is his kingdom something you or I could ever bestow upon him, for it is not of this world."

With the bark of a laugh, Pianessa cast the rest of the wine in the flames. He set the chalice down sharply on the table and did not look at Emmanuel as he turned away.

"We shall see, Prince."

***

Angela raised her head as the monk bent, silent and unassuming. He did not look into her eyes or attempt to gain her attention. Instead, he began to lay soft white gauze wet with some unknown herbs on her cuts. He finished shortly and then repeated the same procedure with the girls, asking them gently if they hungered, if they were cold or uncomfortable. He nodded repeatedly, listening more than speaking.

Angela watched him closely, always aware of the guards who had allowed this one captor to approach. Finally she began to speak and found her voice dry and cracked.

"My husband ..."

The old monk paused, head down, his cowl covering his face. He did not lift his gaze and spoke with such softness that even she could barely catch the faint reply.

"Lives ..."

Angela closed her eyes, leaning her head back. She breathed deeply and then lowered her face again. She somehow knew that communication was not allowed, but only a few words
...

"What will they do?" she whispered.

The monk shook his head.

It was all she could gain, and she smiled as she looked upon the children. They were terrified, yes, but they were striving to be so very brave. She had to look away again before tears came into her eyes, because she knew their fate.

Then the monk finished and carried the bowl of bandages and ointment with him. But before he left their presence he turned back and slowly blessed them with his rosary. His next words were clear and distinct, as the guards could not un-ring a bell.

"Fear not the one who can destroy the body, but the one who can destroy the soul."

Angela bowed her head.

***

The spies whom Victor used to hide them within Turin amazed Lockhart not only by their scarcity but in their wordless, emotionless reactions to
Victor’s comings and goings.

When they had finally entered the stable of a blacksmith after hiding in a half-dozen safe houses, the burly, balding man had simply reached out to grasp some hidden lever and a concealed portal opened, then closed silently behind them.
Victor said nothing as they entered the stable and nothing as they departed, and then they moved down a long stairway to some underground chamber that had yet another door on the far side. Lockhart noticed that a massive iron bolt secured it from within.

So, they were well hidden and not without an escape route, if necessary.

With a mild flourish, Victor discarded his cloak. He hung the black vestment upon a hook and removed his sword belt and pistol. Last, he shed the thin black gloves and turned to the cold hearth. He began piling dry straw and twigs as he spoke over his shoulder, "The smoke will be channeled through the furnace above. In a little while someone will arrive with food and wine."

Lockhart could not help but ask, "The man upstairs?"

"Condemned by the Inquisition," Victor replied, undisturbed. "The charges were as false as the witnesses, but he was sentenced to death. Fortunately, we managed to smuggle him from Calais before his execution, and now he assists us."

Contemplative, Lockhart nodded. "I see why you do not doubt their loyalty. They have nothing to lose but their lives."

"It not the Assassini that they fear "Victor tossed a larger stick on the small blaze. "Their lives, as they knew them, ended because the Church wanted their land. They had two choices—to suffer death by burning or accept our help and begin new lives. We provided them with new identities, new homes. We do not ask their assistance. They provide it freely."

As the blaze gathered strength, the Assassini stood and moved across the room. It seemed very much as if he began the fire for Lockhart's benefit and not his own.

"Only someone who freely gives his loyalty can be trusted," he added, briefly pausing to insure that the door was secure. "In this, as in anything else, if someone is forced to fidelity, then they will likely betray you the first moment no one is watching. Or, as Cardinal Mazarin says, character is what a man does in the dark."

Lockhart laid his cloak across a chair. "Yes, My Lord Cromwell says the same. He also tends to say that your revered cardinal is an effete snob."

Victor laughed. "The cardinal says your Lord Cromwell is a well-dressed basket of fruit."

"Mutual admiration," Lockhart mused. He was surprised that he had not noticed his fatigue until now. "My Lord does
, indeed, respect the cardinal. I just don't believe that he likes him personally."

The priest understood. "It is a curious thing that great men agree on values while disagreeing on personalities." He poured two chalices of wine. "And it seems a
common malady of the great."

The wine was deep, rich, and heavy—almost intoxicating by its sheer aroma. Lockhart studied the chalice as if it were responsible.

"These people make fine vintage."

"The Waldenses," Victor remarked, "are
renowned for their winery as well as their orchards and crops. They are farmers, mostly. But they make excellent clothing and embroidery."

There was the trace of familiarity in the priest's voice as he spoke of the Waldenses. Lockhart had not noticed such a tone before and studied the severe, angled face.

"If I may ask," he ventured, "how is it that you came to be a quiet defender of the Church, Father?"

Victor revealed nothing—did not even reveal that he had heard the question.
Then he released a deep breath, blinked tiredly. It was the first sign of weakness or fatigue Lockhart had observed.

"Does it matter?" He smiled wanly. "My story is no different from the blacksmith's or even the Waldenses'. I was condemned to burn after refusing to testify against another priest. He burned, and I was only saved by my
village, which rioted much like Waldenses and drove the papal guards out before they could light the wood at the base of my stake. Cardinal Mazarin encountered me during the Fronde, and the rest …”

He shrugged, then actually laughed—a strangely comforting tone. Lockhart could, all of a sudden, imagine that Victor had once been a much beloved priest. He pondered how many hundreds—nay, thousands
of innocent people had been convicted of witchcraft or heresy and imprisoned or killed over the past century. And yet the power of the Inquisition was finally fading. Indeed, it was virtually eradicated in England, where Cromwell had imposed severe penalties for the condemnation of English citizens by any church or assembly.

In
the Valley of Piedmont, alone, the Inquisitors ruled with an iron fist that broke all civil laws, even the laws of the Church.

He thought of the Duke of Savoy,
who had been so remarkably reasonable and even calm during their unexpected visit.

Without question Lockhart had expected a more dynamic response. But Savoy had retained admirable composure, considering guards were stationed just outside the door. A young man of lesser intellect might have easily panicked and chanced a quick cry, his fear overwhelming his judgment. But Emmanuel had handled himself in a manner worthy of respect.

Lockhart passionately hoped his drama had persuaded Savoy that they would indeed return to make good on their threat. But Lockhart had no spirit for killing the young prince. Even what little he had said and done had required his full cold measure of control. He did not know if Victor would carry through on the promise.

Somehow the priest seemed to read his face and spoke with a
compassionate expression; "You think of Savoy?"

Raising his eyes, Lockhart did not deny it. "What will you do if he does not obey?"

Victor solemnly shook his head. "That is not my decision. My mission was to deliver the warning."

"But surely you have some idea," Lockhart said with more force. "You have done this before."

"I have killed, yes, but never in revenge. It is not my purpose to kill men, Sir Lockhart, but to save them. Yet in a land where murderers outnumber victims, a man must be as cunning and as deadly as a serpent."

Lockhart could not deny that much. "How many like you are sent on missions and never return?"

"Many," the priest said simply.