Rora (29 page)

The marquis lifted an arm as if the priest were an old comrade-in-arms.
“Inquisitor!” he boomed and Emmanuel knew now why Pianessa was so animated. The marquis staggered slightly and took a long swallow of wine, then bowed to indicate the Inquisitor’s noble rank and station. “We have royalty among us!”

Unaffected, Incomel approached until he stood over the map. He seemed to understand well enough, then looked to the marquis.
“So this will be the last contest with these peasants?”

The black gleam in Pianessa s eyes glinted.
“Aye, Inquisitor, nothing but death before you. Imagine all the souls you’ll have rescued from the flames of perdition!”

“
Insolent fool!” Incomel snarled in a startling display of emotion. He moved around the table until he stood face-to-face with Pianessa. He raised his hand to stop his guards from approaching, but Pianessa never cast them a glance as he laughed silently.

“
This will not end with this war, Pianessa! You have tested the patience of my office long enough! There will be rights to wrong when this is over!”

“
Indeed?” Pianessa smiled. “I look forward to that tryst, Inquisitor.” He laughed recklessly. “Indeed …”

With a curse Incomel spun and moved from the room in a ghostly, silent sweep that seemed disturbingly unnatural. When he was fully gone, Emmanuel looked placidly at the marquis.

He laughed again. But the cold, deathly gleam in his dangerous gaze had darkened with anything but laughter.

* * *

Chapter 15

Blake felt an amazing lightness as he crossed the final rope-bridge to reach the highest part of the mountain. Although the ascent was much easier this time, it didn't much matter because he had been moving for two days and a night, and at this point, everything was difficult. His fatigue was so great that he felt himself floating on his feet.

He was glad that he hadn't been required to help carry the rifles and ammunition from the wagon. He wouldn't have made it a quarter mile with anything heavier than his head. Even unburdened, he was assisted by the Waldenses at crevice and ladder as he stumbled or leaned upon knees, catching his breath.

Although the air was not noticeably thinner, it seemed to have a distinct effect. But the highlanders didn't seem winded as they hiked mile after mile, and Blake began to wonder if he was getting too old for this. He was not old by any means—some of the men almost tripled him in years—but, then again, age could not be completely measured in years.

Gianavel was certainly in his fourth decade, though he seemed younger in the suppleness of his stride and his seemingly endless endurance, for he
revealed no more fatigue when they finished than when they began. He also seemed to have an older man's stoic patience and calm, for he was neither irritable nor critical, despite the physical obstacles they had overcome and the traumatic events of the day. The battle itself would have been disturbing enough, but the death of Silas was almost too much for Blake himself to handle. He could only imagine what emotional distress Gianavel had suffered and still suffered.

He had learned quickly that the Waldenses were an uncommonly courteous and kind people. Almost to a man, once he had been accepted, they shared their food or water with him. And after they arrived back at the ridge, the old man, Hector, had handed him a bottle of wine, bread, and cheese.

The English flintlocks he'd smuggled into Piedmont were noticeably finer than the French muskets, so Blake took a moment to explain the double-set triggers and the rifled barrel. He also explained elevation and windage screws, loading weight, and provided a good estimation of accuracy and range.

In the last case was a uniquely beautiful flin
tlock apparently custom designed for someone of royal rank. Exquisitely plated with antique blue steel, it had a patchbox emblem of England on the oak stock and had an adjustable sight marked to three hundred meters. Blake did not even think rifles could throw a round so far, but the maker of this firearm had high hopes.

Gianavel tested it on the side of the mountain and was openly impressed that it did, indeed, reach almost a quarter mile with the right load. A quick inspection revealed that the rifling was twice as tight as the rest, immensely improving accuracy, and also immensely more difficult to forge. Whoever had ordered the rifle had spent a considerable sum on its construction. And Blake wondered if the weapon had been crafted for
Cromwell himself. If so, Cromwell had certainly known of its delivery to the Waldenses—another hidden key of his passionate endorsement of their cause.

The sun had almost completely descended when Gianavel handpicked forty men and told them to acclimate to the rifles until they lost the light. Within moments the mountainside echoed with a cacophony of blasts, and smoke flowed lazily from the jagged arena of rock to the waving green sea of foliage below.

Blake watched curiously as Gianavel walked a distance apart, finally rising on a slope. Following the captain, he watched as Gianavel knelt alone on the side of the slope, nearly hidden in the shadow of a giant oak with boughs that bent somberly in the dusk like one weeping with the grief of another, mourning with he who mourns. And he watched the cold hillside until the sun was gone and solid dark separated one man from another, and still the captain had not come down from the hill.

Others ate and drank and by twos and threes began to retire
. Then Blake began to feel sleepy and warm beside the fire and lay on a comfortable bed of furs. When he awoke the next morning the hillside was bright and the tree was alone in stark light. Then he looked beside his bed and saw that the rifle with the ornate patchbox emblem had been stood carefully beside his bed in the night.

And Gianavel was gone.

***

Angela awoke and knew not why.

It was morning outside, but it was yet early, and she had worked almost through the night, not able to rest until it was almost dawn. She shouldn't have risen so early, but she thought of Gianavel.

As if she could see the ridge of the Castelluzo from the window, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stood. She saw him before her mind could realize what she had seen and lifted an arm in sharp exclamation. But instantly she fell silent, staring in horror at the man who led Rora.

Motionless, Gianavel sat in a cushioned chair against the wall. His shirt was blackened by blood and soot. Blackened hands rested upon his knees against his black trousers. His head was bent with profound melancholy, his hair swept back carelessly from his forehead. He stared at nothing, yet he stared. He did not move, save for the soft shirting of the folds of his shirt, and the whole of him inhabited a tragic desolation of spirit that seemed beyond human consolation.

Angela took a hesitant step.
"Joshua ...?"

Gianavel blinked once, then inhaled deeply and released. He didn't look up as he wearily shook his head. Angela rushed to his side, falling to a knee to stare up in the dark, tragic gaze and saw the kind of pain that broken men know. His eyes softened as she grasped his hand, and he blinked. Angela had never seen him like this and hid her shock. And she knew that no words would be adequate to quell whatever gloom his spirit had not been able to defeat.

Finally he lifted his face, shook his head slowly. He seemed to search the room as he whispered, "Such things must be done ... in war. The people need someone ... to defend them. And not all have the power to do the things that must be done."

Angela listened, waited, watched.

"I ... have power," Gianavel said bitterly. "The power to change the scope of this war ... to do what must be done. It would be easy to say that I don't, but that would be a lie. So I decide between good and evil, and enforce my will. And men die."

For a long time he paused.

"If there were only someone to tell me ... that I am right."

Angela looked at the hand upon hers. She turned her palm over and held it, placing both hands over his. Holding it tightly, she said,
"I have seen this hand touch with such gentleness. I have seen it wipe away the tears of a child. I've seen it work day and night to feed your family." She paused. "I have never seen it do wrong."

Gianavel hovered on the words.
"It is hard, sometimes, to know what is wrong. And I wonder how severely the Almighty will judge us for what we cannot know."

Gently, Angela reached up to touch his brow. "Not as hard as we judge ourselves, Joshua."

He said nothing more as she embraced him. Then she helped him to the bed and removed his boots and shirt, and he lay back on the feather mattress, and she lay beside him.

Almost immediately he was asleep, and she didn't remember falling asleep with his arm around her shoulders as the street below them began to shuffle and clatter with those who yet lived.

***

Pianessa had the bizarre air of hunger, as if he hungered for war as substantially as other men hunger for bread and meat, as he strolled amid the cavalry in the courtyard. He jubilantly greeted Emmanuel with an upraised hand.
"Savoy!" he hailed. "I hope you're prepared for a few days in the field!"

"I'm ready," Emmanuel replied with far less enthusiasm. "Did you see the Puritans last night when they departed?"

"I can't say that I did." Pianessa dismissed their departure as cavalierly as their arrival, but Emmanuel knew better. The marquis had monitored every movement, every word of the Puritans. What he did not personally observe, his spies reported to him.

Emmanuel looked over at least two hundred heavily armored horses and dragoons armed with rifle and lance. All commanders had plans at the onset of a battle, but a good commander—like Pianessa—would quickly abandon such plans if they weren't working. If Emmanuel had learned anything from the marquis, it was resourcefulness.

"We'll camp seven regiments at Giovanni," Pianessa said. "It's close enough to Lucerna and the Pass. Another thousand will camp east of Bagnol. We'll move mortars within range during the night and attack at dawn." His teeth gleamed in a wild smile. "Are you ready for a bloodbath, Prince?"

Emmanuel pulled on his gloves.

"Let's get on with it, Pianessa."

Laughing, Pianessa walked back into the courtyard and within moments was shouting for his commanders to take charge of assigned battalions.

As the day warmed, Emmanuel rode toward Giovanni, both amazed and disturbed by the thousands upon thousands of soldiers spread across the countryside like locusts, all gathering at the indomitable mountain that seemed to be held by one man.

True, Gianavel had many behind him—he was not alone. But he was their prince, their champion, and Emmanuel had never seen, or even heard, of a man leading such a small number to victory over such odds. Even if Rora finally fell to this overwhelming force, the Duke of Savoy was certain that history would bequeath upon Gianavel the victory.

Nor would men ever believe that it actually did require twenty thousand soldiers to defeat one hundred peasants who chose a tiny village in the Alps to fight one of the most heroic and defiant last stands in the history of the world.

***

There was no mistaking the alertness that had galvanized the camp above the Castelluzo. The air hummed with hectic details of troop movements, and everyone with sufficient strength rushed to and from the barricades, building the walls higher or piling cannon shot and powder. Several had descended down the Pass itself and were chopping trees to fall across the trail.

Blake had seen the adrenaline surge of battle before and walked to the stable where the blond captain, Jahier, was speaking to a small group. When he was done, the men loped into different directions.

Blake spoke from his place beside a stall.

"Have you seen Gianavel?"

Jahier s brow lifted at the question. "
Oui, mon ami
. He left before daybreak. I'm in charge until he returns." He set to sharpening his sword. "What are your plans, English? Perhaps Pianessa would let you leave the mountain, if you tried."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Blake muttered. "What I saw coming up the mountain tells me that Pianessa isn't taking prisoners."

Although Jahier said nothing, the look in his eyes revealed that he wouldn't, either. He spoke with a touch of dread. "If you're going to stay, you might want to be armed. I don't think Pianessa's soldiers will be asking friend or foe if they breach the walls."

All the grisly war stories Blake had ever heard in smoky taverns rose to the fore—dark scenes of blood and fire, of butchered bodies that would not die and heads spiked on swords and lances. Some of the scenes were so horrible that Blake could not reckon them to reality because he could not imagine men doing what they claimed to have done. But they would, and they did, and the captain was right. He might as well fight.

Within a stall Blake saw an armory of weapons and stepped into it. He already had a rifle, but he selected several pistols, insuring that they were all the same caliber. Then he found belts, a sword of adequate quality, and four daggers. He'd carry two on his belt, one in each boot.

Blake was profoundly realistic. They stood no chance against the full Militia of Piedmont joined with the entire Catholic army. If they killed a man with every bullet, they wouldn't have enough bullets to kill every man. And it made him think again of Gianavel; what could compel a man to take such a defiant yet also such an utterly doomed last stand? What could Gianavel possibly win?

He thought of the rifle that had been laid beside his bed during the night. Imagined the captain descending the hill, moving silently, leaving it...for what reason? To show Blake that he was trusted now? To, perhaps, inspire him to take courage? Against Pianessa?

There was no knowing, and it didn't matter. Before tomorrow night this mountain would be bathed in blood—dark rivers of it that would flow like water beneath the moon. It would be alight with fire—spiraling cones that lifted human ashes into the night, consuming all that could be consumed. Men would be fighting through the dark, swirling in lone conflict as if battle on a larger scale did not exist, not knowing if they were winning or losing, killing to the last.

Anyone who chose not to take up a sword would die the same as those that did.

Fights like this did not leave survivors.

***

Alone in a stable, Gianavel turned up a bucket of frigid water and let it drench his entire form. He was not shocked. He had often removed his
clothing and bathed with cold water in the strongest winter wind that would dry his body before he could don his clothing once more, as it did today.

He had bent to lift his rifle when he saw Hector bearing a basket load of trays and plates. The old man seemed little diminished by the long days and even longer nights of battle. He nodded curtly as Gianavel donned his belt and blade and set the bucket beside the stall. With a low groan, he rubbed his back, staring at Gianavel. His words were low.