Rora (42 page)

Swirling his great blade in a quick circle, Pianessa stepped into a bloody arena that left the two of them virtually alone to decide this war. And the marquis seemed to enlarge in the moment, his arms and shoulders swelling with barbaric strength.
The black hair along his head and neck rose like the hackles of a wolf.

“
At last!” Pianessa whispered, eyes gleaming. “The great prince of the Vaudois! I’ve already made the acquaintance of your wife and children!”

Gianavel said nothing, made no display of courage or cunning as he came forward. Blake half expected some words—some act of defiance, something said in hate
. But all that was said was said by Gianavel’s clear and remorseless purpose.

With movements as pure and deadly as his aspect, Gianavel closed the final stride. He made no display of preparing for complex swordplay but at Gianavel
’s first move his swordplay was complex beyond anything Blake had ever seen or even imagined.

Gianavel lunged terrifically, almost fully committing himself to a direction of attack—almost. But his right foot dragged, keeping him in contact with the ground.

Pianessa did not catch the last move or didn’t have time to doubt the attack and his broadsword was flung on a course to intercept the saber. But as the blade rose, Gianavel bunched, bringing his hilt close to his body so that the blade fell short of Pianessa’s block and Gianavel straightened in a second lunge. His saber flashed beneath the block and speared Pianessa in the shoulder.

Shouting with rage and surprise, the marquis swung his blade in a backhand blow that would have killed—any of his blows would have killed if they had connected—but it was too late. The Captain of Rora had already leaped outside striking range and watched almost with contempt as the blade sailed through empty air. Then Gianavel lunged forward again and slashed down, striking Pianessa
’s knee.

The marquis turned into the blow and leaped to close the gap, and it seemed to be what Gianavel had expected. Almost before Pianessa had committed himself to the move, Gianavel had pinned Pianessa
’s sword arm and blade against his body.

Face-to-face they struggled, neither willing to be the first to retreat because the first to retreat had the disadvantage of retreating and avoiding a blow, whereas the one who held his ground only needed one quick twist to hurl his sword.

Both Pianessa and Gianavel knew the rule. Neither would be retreating from this contest of brute strength. Both held the other’s armor, keeping his opponent close, their other hands wrapped around their hilts.

Straining, Gianavel bent forward, preventing Pianessa from using his superior weight. Pianessa surged, attempting to throw the Vaudois off-balance. But Gianavel turned into the twists, hurling Pianessa
’s weight much farther and harder than the marquis expected or wanted, removing his advantage in size.

Suddenly Gianavel
’s boot slipped on the wet ground soaked even wetter with blood and Pianessa seized the advantage. His sword rose a mere six inches, enough to clear his hand from Gianavel’s hold, and he tried a hard shortcut.

The Captain of Rora knew it was coming and surged forward, his shoulder colliding with the marquis, and the blade hit a glancing blow from Gianavel
’s cheek. Instantly blood erupted from the cut and Gianavel didn’t care to wipe it away. He retreated just outside contact range of the blade and bent, breathing heavily.

Pianessa laughed and swept out with his sword, flinging blood in a wide crescent.
“Is this the man who defended Rora in their fight against persecution?” he cried.

Blake saw that Pianessa, too, had somehow been cut in the last exchange—blood flowed from his lip and cheek.

Pianessa frowned, circling slowly. “You certainly fight like a man, Captain. Let’s see if you die like a man.”

Gianavel
’s eyes were dead. He said nothing. His concentration was complete.

Pianessa
’s hate was as heavy as the heart of a star. “You should have watched your family burn as I did, Captain. Your children screamed for you but you did not come.”

At that, Gianavel
’s mouth turned in the faintest frown. Minutely, his hand shifted on his blade. Then Pianessa’s hand tightened on his sword—he saw the signal of an attack. Blake wanted to break the moment, to warn the captain of Rora he was being goaded into a trap, forsaking his skill and cunning.

Gianavel lunged, fully committing himself to a line of attack, and Pianessa read every movement, every direction of the eye, every shift of weight however small, and his sword flew outward in a lunge that blasted Gianavel
’s sword aside and plowed across Gianavel’s ribs, plunging out his back. They stood face-to-face…

Gianavel
’s teeth were clenched in pain and …
control
!

Upon the face of Pianessa was shock—even surprise—and then blood erupted from his mouth. He caved inward—into his armor, it seemed— falling slowly, like an avalanche in black, to his knees. And then Blake saw Gianavel
’s left hand—the hand he had not seen—release the hilt of a dagger buried deep in Pianessa’s heart.

On his knees, Pianessa stared at the blade as if his mind had not yet realized that he was defeated. He gazed dumbly at the dagger, then reached up slowly to grasp it. Then, even more slowly, he raised his face to the Captain of Rora.

Almost invisibly, Gianavel’s shook his head. And for the fraction of a second, Blake thought he beheld tragedy there, in his face – as if this war had been so much waste—as if even this … had been so much waste—and at such a precious, irreplaceable price.

Like a tree
, the Marquis de le Pianessa fell forward, leaning against Gianavel’s stoic form. Then he slid off the Captain of Rora and to the side, landing face down in the mud.

Groaning, he curled into the posture of a man who was ultimately defeated—a man who was defeated in spirit even more than he was defeated in the flesh.

Across the compound, the marquis’ soldiers were dead or dying. Those who’d survived were fast disappearing into distant trees, unarmed and wounded. And the Waldenses, who seemed as numerous as when the battle began, had secured the gate.

Gazing across the compound, Gianavel
’s eyes revealed neither victory nor defeat. With the end of this battle, as with the end of every battle, he would command the men to kneel. And then he would recite to them the fifteenth Psalm, and they would stand.

Frowning, Gianavel sheathed his sword.

Blake felt so much that he felt nothing at all.

It was finished.

Emmanuel raised his face as a terrified monk stood in the open front doorway of his Great Hall. The monk did not enter and would not unless the Duke of Savoy bid him come.

The Duke of Savoy waited, finding some manner of cryptic pleasure in the monk
’s obvious terror. He glanced toward Father Simon, who revealed nothing at all.

“
Come,” Emmanuel ordered at last.

The monk came quickly, as if he would be relieved to deliver the words and be as quickly gone. He halted before Emmanuel and bowed.
“It is … Noble Incomel, My Lord.”

Emmanuel waited.

The monk whispered, “He is murdered!”

The monk stared as if expecting some
kind of emotional reaction from the Duke of Savoy. After all, it was not often that an Inquisitor was killed inside the palace and never without some dangerous inquiry from the Citie del Vaticano.

With a gesture Emmanuel remarked,
“And has this murderer been apprehended?”

Confusion flushed the monk
’s face. “No, My Lord. Not yet. But the second Inquisitor is dead, also. The one from Pope Alexander.” His hands locked. “What will we do?”

Emmanuel
laughed, shocking the monk. Then he stated with a smile, “Call out the Sergeant at Arms. See that everyone is detained and questioned. Have the Inquisitors record the answers. But advise them that they will touch no one else in my kingdom.”

The m
onk hesitated and then turned and ran down the long hall and out the guarded portal. Leaning against the mantel, the Duke of Savoy looked upon the old priest. “You knew?”

Somber, Simon nodded.
“He was … my friend.”

That was
a curiously tragic note to mark a victory.

Emmanuel cast his wine into the fire, turned, and walked silen
tly across the hall, past his throne and to the open courtyard. Slowly he mounted the stairway of the battlement and searched the city and forest that surrounded his palace that was finally his in truth.

So much death
…

Though ravaged by war, he knew greatness would return to Turin, and then the people, though it might require years and years for them to rise up and repopulate the land. But they would bear more children. They would rebuild what had been destroyed.
They would plant new crops. They would pray together and work together. And he hoped that both tyrant and hero would be remembered by the world, because what had happened here was too great to not be remembered.

Here, one of the mightiest military machines the world had ever known had been defeated by the power of faith and courage—by the faith and courage of a man who had inspired that same faith and courage in his friends. And, gazing over the war-torn land, Emmanuel knew that Simon, from the very beginning, had been right.

“Slaughter the Waldenses until the hills are bleached by their bones, Savoy. Slaughter them till your hand freezes to your sword and you cannot let it go, and the Waldenses will number like locusts. Because you cannot destroy their faith, Savoy, and their faith is their life …For what is created by the spirit cannot be destroyed by the flesh.”

Emmanuel nodded.
“Yes…”

Wisdom learned too late.

He wondered if the world would remember.

* * *

EPILOGUE

Quietly, Lockhart closed the door and entered the room where the old poet worked—even now worked on what would be his masterpiece.

Paradise Lost
, he called it.

Lockhart knew the old man
had heard him though the pen did not hesitate, nor did John Milton raise his head. With a faint smile, the Scotsman walked forward, staring down.

It had been years.

Cromwell, whose stout courage and spirit had helped still the massacre of the Waldenses, was dead. And Cardinal Mazarin, whose faith and love for all people of all faith, was also gone. There were few now who knew what had happened in Piedmont. But the poet would not let it go; he would make the world remember.

To always remember...

As Lockhart smiled, John Milton tilted his head. He gazed at the pages as if he could see them. "They believe I am a foolish old man," he said and then laughed. "Perhaps they are right.... I write in darkness. I cannot even see...what I say."

Still smiling, Lockhart pulled a chair and sat. "The world would be fortunate to be so foolish, old man."

Though Lockhart was gray now, he had become what he had been destined to become—a noble Englishman.

For a moment John Milton shut his eyes, as if in earnest prayer, then spoke. "Who will ever believe that the Waldenses secured their future in a manner more worthy than kings?" He laughed gen
tly. "Who will believe that Gianavel, that great Patriarch of the Waldenses, defeated the mightiest army in Europe with only a handful of poor peasants and children? Perhaps no one...? But so that men will never forget the power of his faith and courage and his own resolute will, I have written these words."

The old man needed no eyes to read what he had written with his own hand and his own passion. As he spoke, his voice grew strong.

"'Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold. In Thy book record their groans, who were Thy sheep, and in their silent fold slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled mother and infant down the rocks. Their moans, the vales redoubled on the hills, and they to Heaven....'"

John Milton took a heavier breath and smiled fain
tly. "I pray those days will be remembered when men must once again choose whether they will stand for what they believe. I pray that Joshua Gianavel and those great heroes of the faith who stood beside him will be taken for example ... And the saints of the Lord will know that any battle can be won ... if they believe."

"I believe," Lockhart said quie
tly as he leaned forward, placing a hand on the old man's arm. "Tell me the rest."

As his eyes saw something that was not yet before them, John Milton leaned back. "Pardoned by the Duke of Savoy, Joshua Gianavel was
henceforth exiled to Geneva where he and his son lived the rest of their long years in peace and prosperity. But yet another great massacre was to follow, a massacre that left virtually no Waldenses alive in their valley."

The poet's voice was no less than prophetic. "And as the castaways were fleeing toward Geneva—naked, starving, and hunted—word reached Gianavel, who yet lived. And the Prince of the Waldenses gathered with him six strong men as in times of old to meet the refugees in the wilderness.

"Pursued by ten thousand soldiers of the Duke of Savoy, the wounded Waldenses reached the border at last. Their strength was as nothing. Hope was a ghostly veil before their graves. And, caught only moments before they would have reached safety, they would die as the rest had died. And then ..."

Lockhart didn't move. "And then?"

John Milton's eyes opened even farther, seeing what no one else had yet seen. "And then seven men appeared on the horizon." He stretched out a hand. "Only seven men, child. But the entire army of Piedmont saw the man who stood in the center of the crescent. He was old, white-haired, and surely his strength had diminished though his greatness had not. And as Gianavel stared upon the beast, ten thousand strong ... the beast stayed his hand from killing. And those who had been persecuted ... were set free."

Lockhart stared upon the old man, whose face shone with such light.

"And then the commander of the army of Piedmont looked upon the low hill where Gianavel had stood. Looked once more to see the silhouette of that great warrior whom God had used to defend His people. Yes, looked for the man who by faith and courage defeated what no one believed could be defeated."

Rapt, Lockhart whispered, "And then?"

With a smile, the poet bowed his head.

"And then
... Gianavel was gone."

***

Old and gray, now, Blake turned and watched the children playing, free and happy. It was a simple thing, he knew, but such a price had been paid for this freedom. He watched them arguing over a piece of coal, over who had actually won it. He laughed.

As an Elder of the Waldenses, Blake could have stood and set
tled the matter without dispute. But life was not so simple, and children must learn. Yes ... they must learn that the world is a place forever filled with conflict and confusion. But it can also be filled with courage and wisdom and faith and love—and victory—if they seek the Lord with all their heart.

He raised his face and closed his eyes and remembered all that had passed as he often did now with the weight of his age settling heavier upon him. For more than half a century had passed, and Gianavel, his great friend, old and full of years, was dead.

Shoulder to shoulder and against the tide they had stood and won a victory greater than any one of them could know, though he often prayed that the world might understand one day. For what had been won was far greater than villages or valleys or kingdoms or even the now silent bones of heroes lost to time.

With a sad smile Blake remembered the words of Gianavel—words spoken in that dark night so long ago as Gianavel's wife and children, cruelly bound by chains, were sacrificed to flames. For, from the very beginning, Gianavel had been right.

What chains can hold belongs to man.

The rest is God's.