Rora (7 page)

Gianavel frowned, shook his head.

"Our strength does not lie in weapons."

And was gone.

* * *

Chapter
4

The bearded image of Henry IV, one eye slightly larger than the other, gazed ponderously from its rest above the mantel.

Dressed in pantaloons and
bloused shirt, the king stood slightly off-center, a huge pit of darkness carefully positioned over his right shoulder beyond his peacock-feathered hat.

The Duchess Elizabeth looked over the countenance of her boorish relative and wondered if he ever realized the open contempt with which the artist immortalized him. Then she turned her head as a distant panel on the wall swung silently open. There was
the glimpse of a torch-lit corridor beyond, and then the light vanished as a huge form emerged from the hidden passageway.

Pianessa walked forward without a smile or sound, and Elizabeth lifted a glass of wine that he accepted stoically before collapsing in a cushioned chair. The gray ash that lay upon his armor was as heavy as the gloom that surrounded him. He said nothing as the duchess walked to where she could observe his face more clearly.

Releasing a deep breath, Pianessa shook his head. "It seems my late wife's reward grows further away by the moment," he muttered. "I knew the Vaudois might be difficult to kill, but nothing like this."

The duchess dipped her finger into her chalice and spoke over her shoulder. "The Marchioness de Pianessa knew how to stir your strength, my love. But the treasure she bequeathed cannot be claimed until you've killed every Waldensian in the valley."

"Yes," the marquis muttered. "Even in death she molests me."

Elizabeth chuckled. "But she is dead now, my dear, and the valley is yours to rule."

"Beneath your cousin, of course."

With only the slightest clink of glass, the duchess refilled her chalice. "France supports the kingdom of the House of Savoy in order to prevent war with the Spanish, so Emmanuel must rule."

"True," Pianessa replied, "but Emmanuel is too young to deal with the Waldenses."

"Really? How so?"

Pianessa gestured wearily. "Too many wars against the Waldenses have made them wise. If I attack, they will retreat along the trails and caves—their rope bridges and secret lifts. And the mountains provide a strong defense—narrow approaches where men must be bunched together with no good means of retreat. Once it begins, retreating will be ten times more difficult than advancing."

He paused, mumbled, "I once saw an entire battalion caught on the Castelluzo after dark. I was with them, but I secured myself to a crag with my belt, remained awake, and weathered the night. But almost a thousand men perished in falls before sunrise
. In truth, the mountain has killed more men in this valley than all the wars combined."

"Do I sense fear, my dear?"

With a grunt, Pianessa continued, "It’s not like the old days, Elizabeth, when the Vaudois only threw rocks and stones or shot arrows at us from trees. Now they have cannon and muskets. And ten good men with cannon can defy a thousand in one of those ravines." He became grim. "In many ways they have the advantage."

"My love, you have never been defeated. How could the
Waldenses possibly withstand your siege?"

"Sieges are won by thirst and starvation, my dear, and the Waldenses have plenty of food and water." Pianessa debated. "Yes, if they are in a strong position, this captain of theirs—Gianavel—can hold off ten times his number for months. Even years."

He leaned back into the couch, more pensive. "A hundred years ago, cannons could reduce any wall. But then the Italians, and then the Spaniards, learned how to build angled bastions with walls forty feet thick that can resist ten thousand shots. And the Waldenses have walls of solid stone hundreds of feet thick. They have the mountain itself." He took another sip, stared into the flames. "No ... brute force will not conquer the Waldenses. Especially not with this man to lead them."

There was a long silence as Elizabeth read the marquis' face. Her eyebrows
rose slightly. "You know this man?"

Silence lasted for a moment, and Pianessa frowned. "I encountered him three years ago at the Bat
tle of Pinerola."

"Emmanuel said you commanded brilliantly in that bat
tle."

"For a time, yes. But the Huns finally broke our line. We were too scattered, and they had depth—depth is always preferable to length." He sighed. "They crushed a single section of our line and cut us into two armies. In
truth, we might have lost the day if the Waldensian reinforcements had not arrived when they did."

"My cousin also said that you gave the Waldenses credit for turning the tide of battle," Elizabeth said, watching the marquis carefully. It was seldom that the feared monarch shared credit for his victories.

"Yes," Pianessa muttered. "The Huns attacked through the Monte del Cuerpo—twenty thousand dragoons on horseback. All our positions were overrun. I myself was almost killed." Pianessa's brow hardened. "And then a man came over the barricade with only a dagger and sword but I knew from his coat of arms that he was a Vaudois."

For a long time, Pianessa was silent. He sighed, shook his head once. "Never have I seen a man fight as he fought. He killed Huns like dogs, dropping them where they stood, one after the next, and somehow retook our demi
-cannon. Then he swung them around to fire into our own position."

His eyes opened wide. "I thought he was either a traitor or a fool until I realized it was our only hope. The battle was lost. We were going to die anyway, if events didn't change. So I joined him, and we fired blast after blast into their rear guard."

"Why would you do that?"

"A basic rule of war, my dear. If your enemy outnumbers you, separate them and fight one piece at a time." He nodded. "Yes, the Vaudois
are wise. And even in the chaos of battle he does not forget wisdom. He is a worthy adversary."

Elizabeth was listening intently. "This is the same man who defeated your troops today?" "Yes."

The duchess waited a moment more, then strolled with flowing, aristocratic poise across her bedroom.

"Can this man be bought?"

Pianessa shook his head. "Doubtful." The Waldenses refuse to betray their neighbors even when we torture them. They have been raised to endure persecution. They prepare for it their entire lives. So when one is captured and.. .questioned.. .they are fully resolved to die with their secrets. I've seen it time and again. Today we burned six hundred of them at the stake and not a single one renounced." He seemed truly stunned as he took a deep breath. "Incredible ..."

The duchess cradled her wine in both hands. "But, surely, even Rora has criminals imprisoned at El Torre. If you promised them full pardons, they might prove beneficial as spies
... or, even, as assassins ... for the right price."

Pianessa smiled wryly. "My dear, you think I have not considered this, also?"

She broke into laughter.

"Yes," Pianessa continued, "I've dispatched a rider to El Torre with orders to search for anyone familiar with the mountains." He gazed moodily into his empty goblet, as if suddenly uncertain what he beheld. "I will destroy the Waldenses. But I must do it quickly."

"Why?"

"Because if others see that my throne can be successfully defied, I'll soon have no throne to rule. And neither will you."

Elizabeth turned and stared. Her voice took on a sudden edge. "That will never happen, Pianessa."

"No?" Pianessa steadily held her gaze. "Who will you lead, Duchess, if
no one follows? A king is only a king, my dear, as long as the people allow him to be king."

Her dark eyes remained controlled, but her voice was subdued. "Then what is your plan?"

With a sigh, Pianessa replied, "Tomorrow I will send a thousand of my mercenaries up the mountain. Before I commit myself, I want to further test the resolve of these people."

"You do not expect to win?"

"No, my dear, I expect to lose. But it is a necessary sacrifice in order to know their strength. And I would rather lose a thousand men than ten thousand."

Elizabeth laughed with mock anxiety. "A guilty conscious?"

A corner of Pianessa's mouth hooked in a smile. "Hardly, my dear. The mercenaries are doomed with or without my assistance. If not in this battle, then the next, or the plague. Or in some drunken brawl over some diseased harlot." He chuckled. "Few soldiers are worth more than the horse that bears him."

Elizabeth came closer. "Of course not, Monsieur de la Marquis." She placed her goblet on the table. "Any fool can be one of your soldiers. But only a stallion can carry them into battle, and a stallion has needs that must be satisfied."

Pianessa stared over her.

"Indeed."

***

Howls
hideous, rhythmic, and horrifying even to him ended as Incomel descended into the depths of the Prison House of Turin, a subterranean world crowded by those accused of heresy.

Prisons for heretics were termed
murs
and were distinctly different from formal prisons. For one thing, they were remarkably lacking in structure and schedule. Prisoners, men and women, were generally free to roam about the grounds unsupervised and were largely prisoners only in the fact that they could not leave.

Interrogations were done chiefly with carefully orchestrated questions and documents meant to deceive the prisoner. If the prisoner could be "led," as it was described, into an inadvertent admission of guilt, then that was taken as evidence of a crime. It made little difference whether the accused understood the pattern of questioning or even the questions themselves. And those who bandied words more wisely than the Inquisitors were encouraged by the use of physical pain to not be so circumspect and careful. But even torture had limitations; it was commonly accepted that a prisoner resolved to die for his faith could not be coerced by physical suffering, however hideous.

False testimonies were another tactic.

Seated before the prisoner, the Inquisitor would lazily leaf through a thick manuscript of "confessions and witness reports" as the prisoner watched. The Inquisitor was to remark, quite casually, that the abundance of evidence clearly supported all accusations against the prisoner, so why did the prisoner continue to refuse cooperation? Denial, it was ominously inferred, would only lead to great physical suffering.

The danger in this involved the prisoner requesting names of witnesses or specifics of a crime. Since the testimonies were false, any answer by the Inquisitor would betray the ruse.

Also, the Waldenses, in particular, should never be allowed a quick death, for they were grimly resolved to die for their faith and considered their death martyrdom. Killing them only gave them what they were willing
to accept and encouraged the rest to resist. So the most infinitely painful torture chambers were utilized.

The Prison House of Turin contained perhaps the most terrible of all Inquisitional tortures—
the Fosse
.

Coming into wide usage during the fourteenth century, it was originally a series of cells in the dungeon of the Paris Chatelet. But, in effect, a
Fosse
was a single room in the shape of an inverted cone without fresh air or light. Prisoners were lowered into it by rope through a hatch in the floor. Half-filled with water, a
Fosse
was so small that one could neither stand nor lie down. Submerged hip-deep in the fetid cones, it took only a few days before the prisoner’s flesh began to rot, leaving bloody rags that soon turned black with gangrene. Then fever and delirium would infect the brain and the prisoner would erupt with wild and incoherent statements until they purposefully drowned themselves in their blood or their hearts failed from the strain.

There were fourteen of the cones in the dungeon, and they were all filled.

Glowing red braziers held pools of fiery coals across the full width of the underground chamber. The bellows were worked by prisoners chained to walls. Severed limbs were heaped in a pile amid wide sheets of skin that had been stripped from the living, and bodies not yet destroyed were stacked like wood against the far wall.

Incomel was sweating almost instan
tly in the smothering atmosphere that burned his nostrils regardless of how shallow he breathed the noxious air heavy with the stench of charred flesh. He avoided limbs that had been torn, not severed, from at least a dozen prisoners and moved gingerly aside as Corbis finished with another. As the broken man slumped forward, he reached out to Corbis with blackened stumps that had been arms—arms that erupted with fresh blood at the fall. His hideous shriek was cut short by Corbis's boot.

Sweating profusely, Corbis wore only a short smock and the tight, sleeveless harness of a blacksmith. It was obvious that his enormous girth was not comprised of copious fat like so many other monks, but rather that his arms and legs were unnaturally hard and thick, like the quarters of a bull. His belly, straining against the thick leather harness, revealed only a tight curving gut that hinted of great power stored between the thick thighs and wide, barreled chest. His neck was a wide stump that supported his strangely bald head.