Rora (38 page)

"I would imagine."

"It is an ancient Order," the priest continued. "It was forgotten for centuries, and even now would not exist but for the fact that the Church is being destroyed from within and without by rampant butchery and corruption. Rome had become a den of thieves and murderers, and until it is reclaimed by men of God, it must be restrained."

He took a deep breath. "Make no mistake, Sir Lockhart: I am a priest. What I do, I do for my Church. But my Church is not a ch
urch of butchers and thieves. It is my mission, if God allows, to return peace to Christendom."

"By any means necessary?"

Victor did not blink. "No ... not by any means necessary. Nor do I operate without accountability." Cardinal Mazarin and others know all my actions and judge them.”

The dark eyes stared upon Lockhart with hypnotic effect. "And I know that I, too, will be judged by the Lord for my actions. It is only with reluctance that I use force. But sometimes force is necessary to
persuade men that gold will do them no good if they’re dead."

A knock at the door broke the trance, and Victor moved quickly to it, listening. There were two more knocks, then three. He opened the door, and a woman entered bearing a plate of cheese, meat, and bread. She carried two bot
tles of wine beneath her arm. With profound reverence she bowed to the priest before departing almost as quickly. Victor closed the lock behind her and returned.

Staring at the plate, Lockhart was surprised that he was famished. Like the fatigue, he had been unaware of it until he saw the food. Victor began to slice pieces from the roast. "Eat well," he said graciously. "You will need your strength tonight."

Lockhart raised his face.

"What's tonight?"

"We give an Inquisitor his last chance at repentance."

***

Alone upon the bluff before the cliff, Gianavel held the note from Pianessa. No one approached him, well aware of the almost palpable aura of sadness. He opened the letter—

“
Captain Gianavel,

I exhort you for the last time to renounce your heresy. This is the only hope you have of retaining the pardon of your prince and thereby saving the life of your wife and daughters who are now my prisoners, and who shall be burned alive. But if you come down from the mountain and renounce your faith, your family shall be freed and you will receive the land and gold and tide of a marquis. Yet if you refuse, such a great reward shall be placed upon your head that even your closest friends and family will finally betray you. And when you are
finally brought living into my presence, there is no torment that you will not suffer before you die.

—Pianessa
”

Utterly alone, Gianavel stood on the mountain.

He slowly crumbled the letter in his hand, stared below the summit over the valley now dark with evening and the dusky horizon where the sun had gone.

Wind, deep but close, gently lifted his cloak, and clouds moved serenely over the face of the cliff. He stood alone until the last light of the distant day was gone and forgotten. Until only stars blazed high in the dome of night like eyes from another universe peering through the night, watching to see what he would do.

And when the invisible cold rose, embracing him in a chill-like death, he stood. And when the rocks about him turned white and soft with frost, he stood. And when the sky grew wet and moist and the moon disappeared behind a deep night, he stood.

But when the night wind began to weep with snow and ice and a misty, mournful tone, Gianavel turned and walked to the summit to stand in the full measure of the cold that kills and the winter
within one’s soul that forever binds bones in a living grave.

***

Blake tossed a stick onto the fire and did not look as Bertino entered the cavern entrance, irritably shaking ice and sleet from his heavy sheepskin coat. The big man knelt beside the fire and warmed his hands, rubbing them fiercely.

Looking up from where he had been drawing a dagger across a whetstone
with a skill that he thought had long deserted him since childhood, Blake asked, "Where is he?"

"He has gone up to the summit," Bertino rumbled, his eyes black pinpoints in his
frost-burned face. "He will, perhaps, not return tonight. I don't know."

"Do you know what the letter contained?"

Bertino nodded. "If Gianavel does not renounce his faith, Pianessa will burn Angela and the girls alive at the stake. Pianessa has given him one day to answer."

There was no means for Blake to truly measure what he experienced at the words. It was not shock or astonishment; he had expected such. Nor was it grief or even sympathy; it was beyond all familiar sensations.

Blake only understood it when he glanced down to study what wetness spread across his wrist. The dagger had run off the stone and sliced open his hand.

He was not curious that he felt no pain.

*  * *

Chapter
21

After a quick trip through the catacombs, Lockhart found himself again inside the Duke of Savoy's palace following Victor, once more attired in complete black, through cobweb-curtained tunnels that faded to black as soon as their lantern passed. But it wasn't until they finally entered a hallway susceptible to random patrols that Lockhart felt vivid fear at possible discovery. He was grateful when Victor found a discreetly located doorway and led him through it.

As Lockhart quietly shut and bolted the door he saw the tall figure of a monk standing with his back to the
m. Then, when the latch closed, the man turned without surprise and moved forward to embrace Victor. He stared at the spectral priest a moment, holding him firmly by the shoulders.

"You are well, my friend?"

Victor nodded. "What have you learned?"

The monk, seemingly for the first time, saw Lockhart standing in shadow. His eyes opened slightly, and he smiled. His tone was pleasant. "And who is this bravado?"

Victor gestured for Lockhart to approach and he did so with faint caution. The monk raised his empty hand in the air, folded it back within his sleeve. "I am Father Simon."

"I am Sir William Lockhart of England. I come on a mission from My Lord Oliver Cromwell to do what can be done to stop this persecution of the Waldenses."

The monk named Simon did not express surprise. Rather, he suddenly sat at the table, as if he were dreadfully weary. Then his placed both hands flat against the roughhewn wood and spoke in a low tone.

"This is the situation as I understand it, my friends. Rora has fallen. Many have been kille
d on both sides. Pianessa apparently lost as many as seven thousand men – mostly Turks and mercenaries and prisoners released from the stables of Turin. Virtually all those holding the village were killed. The wife and children of Captain Gianavel were captured."

"And Gianavel?" asked Lockhart.

"He cut his way through Pianessa's troops and escaped into the mountains carrying his infant son. Pianessa has sent him a letter indicating terms of surrender."

"What terms?" responded Lockhart.

"Gianavel has one day to come down from the mountain. If he refuses, then his wife and daughters will be burned alive at the stake. Also, if he comes down, he will receive the title and the land of a marquis."

Victor spun and glared
out the moonless window. "They have not even been formally tried by the Inquisition!"

"The Inquisitors are not willing to wait for trials," the monk responded. "They want the head of Gianavel. They are willing to break any laws, civil or ecclesiastical, to gain it."

Victor took a single quick step across the room, moving like a phantom. His cloak opened like huge black wings. "Where are the woman and her children being held?"

"In the dungeon," was the reply, and then the old man shook his head. "There are no passages, Victor. You would have to attack a contingent of guards."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

For the first time since Lockhart had known him, the priest seemed to shudder with anger. His teeth parted in a snarl. His black hair rose in hackles like a wolf. His voice was hoarse and cold. "Is Incomel responsible for this slaughter?"

"The same who condemned you at Languedoc."

Once again, Lockhart deemed Victor's silence, his stillness, far more terrifying than his actions. His piercing gaze beamed upon the old man. "Is Corbis with him?"

"Where the dead are found," Simon said bitterly, "there the
eagles will gather. But be wise, Victor. It is not your place to exact revenge for what they did to you."

Victor's words were terse. "It is not revenge."

Simon looked without surprise upon Lockhart. "And so Cromwell himself intervenes. I did not think England's Lord Protector would be able to remain aloof – not when the peace of all Christendom is threatened."

"He is not alone," said Lockhart.

"No, I did not believe that he was. But neither Cromwell nor Cardinal Mazarin can openly interfere in this war without risking war with Spain."

"We're here to insure that does not happen." Lockhart looked again at Victor. "What else do you need to know?"

Victor seemed to return from where he had been. "What precautions does Incomel take?"

"Every precaution."

"Guards?"

"No less than six." Simon stared upon the Assassini without fear. "It is impossible for you to reach the Inquisitor General, my friend. Even together, the two of you would stand little chance. Once the alarm is raised, all of Pianessa's guards would respond."

Victor did not move. "What about Corbis?"

After pondering it, Simon answered, "Corbis is, perhaps, within your reach. He spends most of his time in the dungeon, torturing the
Waldenses. But he is vulnerable when he returns to his room." He sighed deeply. "Even demons must rest."

"For the final time," Victor muttered and moved forward. "When do they burn this man's wife and children?"

"If Gianavel does not surrender? Tomorrow."

Victor swept past Lockhart and listened closely at the door. He gazed once more upon the old man. "Spend tonight in the company of your enemies."

Simon nodded. "Worry not. I will be engaged in a debate with Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel when Corbis is sent to defend himself before the Almighty."

Without another word or glance or gesture,
Victor slipped through the door and Lockhart pulled it shut quietly behind him. In another thirty seconds they were again hidden and the Englishman felt the distinct thrill of fear as he followed the phantomlike specter of Victor quickly through the corridors.

Silent and black and spectral, the priest moved with a sense of doom and dark purpose—Death stalking the world of the Living, come to claim what was his.

***

"You're insane," said Emmanuel.

His words were equal parts fear and rage but he knew the fear was hidden well enough. Nor would it do well for the Inquisitor General to know it existed at all.

Having taken to inhabiting the cas
tle only in the presence of six or more Inquisitors and papal guards, Incomel no longer indulged surreptitious conversations. He did not allow anyone to approach him closely enough for a whispered threat, nor did he say anything that was not faithfully recorded by scribes in one of the large, leather-bound tomes that were to become the official record of this "pacification."

Emmanuel felt confident that he knew what was recorded within those pages, just as he was fairly certain that it had no more relation to the truth than fairy tales or the eyewitness accounts of the blind.

Incomel, chin on hand, stared placidly at the Duke of Savoy from his chair. He had remained still and silent since Emmanuel entered, berating him for his obviously illegal decision to burn the woman and her children alive at the stake. Not only was it impossible for Incomel to have organized a tribunal to hear any witness accusations of Angela Gianavel, there had, in fact, been no accusations and no witnesses. Further, to sentence someone to death for heresy or witchcraft was the right of a tribunal. But to actually execute the punishment of death was the solitary right and power of the governing civil authority.

Emmanuel had not approved such an action, yet four stakes in the courtyard were being heaped about with loosely tied armloads of dry brush and planks. A glance at the place of execution lent the impression that they were preparing to burn Satan himself.

"Well?" Emmanuel leaned forward. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Incomel lifted his chin from his hand, then gestured at a scribe. "Please read for the Duke of Savoy the confession of Angela Gianavel, as well as the unanimous judgment of five Inquisitors that she is to be purified by flame."

Emmanuel did not have the heart to hear it. It was one thing to know that hundreds, even thousands, had been killed in this war. It was another to look one in the eyes before she was burned alive for what was not a crime.

"No," Emmanuel shook his head as the scribe began to read, yet the scribe did not cease bleating words.

Shocked, Emmanuel turned upon him with. "Are you a fool? I said No! Read another word and
you
will be the one who burns!"

Incomel was vividly alert to anything that might condemn Emmanuel— words that would remove him from his throne as surely as a sword cut. Frowning, the Duke of Savoy stared into the Inquisitors eyes
and separated each word: “This war nears an end, Inquisitor."

Incomel smiled. "Yes, Savoy, it does
. Because now Gianavel will come down from the mountain. He will come for love, for mercy, and for the lives of his wife and children. But he will come. And when he does, this great prince of the Waldenses will be defeated."

Without another word Emmanuel spun and snatched a water bowl and slammed it upon the Inquisitors desk.
The violent movement actually startled Incomel, though he recovered quickly enough.

Slowly the Duke of Savoy pushed up his sleeves. He dipped his hands once into the water and then cast it intentionally across the pages of confessions and witness statements, running the ink like blood. Staring Incomel in the eyes, he said, "Th
e blood of this forged and false confession is on your head."

The Inquisitor would not condescend to rage in the presence of others
but his breath was strained and his eyes glowered as Emmanuel spun and departed the chamber, his own guards falling in closely behind him.

Just as Incomel had taken to prowling
the castle only with armed protection, Emmanuel had done the same. He had even considered placing them within his chamber to prevent another visit from the priest. But he had a premonition that guards could not ultimately protect him from the man who knew more about this palace than Emmanuel himself.

Emmanuel's face opened in surprise as he encountered Simon in the doorway. The old priest had an armload of books and documents and appeared ready to stay awhile. It was not simply unusual. It was shocking
. And Emmanuel had suffered enough shocks.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.

Simon did not forget their customary demonstration of courtesy and respect. "I have scheduled an inquiry with the Inquisitors," he replied humbly and bowed. "I am certain that I will occupy them long into the night, as is my right."

Emmanuel did not understand but he sensed rather than saw something concealed within the priest's intention. Simon did not look him direc
tly in the eyes—unusual—nor did he seem angered to be in the presence of the Inquisitors, also unusual. Whatever his true cause, Emmanuel knew it was not to debate make-believe testimony cast at make-believe trials.

It was none of his concern.

Emmanuel moved past the old priest toward where Pianessa was stabled, enjoying the bacchanal delights of victory.

If only to understand the true depth of his dilemma, Emmanuel would know
the marquis’ mind.

***

Corbis, his utterly bald head and hairless face greased with sweat, lovingly shoved the heated iron into the brazier. His eyes were alight, as if he received vivid pleasure from being so close to the white-hot steel. His voice was a whisper, as if he spoke only to himself.

"Is that all of them, Sergeant?"

Corbis received no answer and turned his cannonball head toward the ashen guard. "Sergeant? Is that all of them?"

The sergeant's mouth opened in an effort to reply. His eyes did not move from the ghastly carnage before him—carnage that glowed incredibly red
though the flesh had been scorched black.

Once it had been a man, yes.
What it was now, after attempting to escape the patient, thorough interrogation of Corbis through the entire day and night, could not be easily determined.

The guard managed, "Yes, Inquisitor."

Corbis calmly cast his blood-soaked harness aside and washed his arms, face, neck, and chest with a bucket of steaming water. Then he moved carefully, almost daintily, through the grisly aftermath of the long afternoon.

"Have your men clean this up," he murmured, lifting his skirt to pass over the blood. "I cannot fancy such filth."

"Of course, Inquisitor."

The Inquisitor tenderly treaded a high path over the remains of what had been human beings and ascended the wall-anchored stone stairway. At the portal, two guards fell in behind him and the door was quie
tly, almost solemnly, shut.

***

Pianessa was not nearly so drunk as Emmanuel expected when he finally gained entrance to his chambers. But the marquis was enlivened enough to respond inappropriately to the Duke of Savoy's unexpected intrusion.

Reclining upon a chair amid a roomful of harlots and drunken military commanders and badly trained musicians, Pianessa focused on Emmanuel with distinct contempt.

"So ... the boy-king would confront me on the eve of my victory celebration." Pianessa gave no indication that he noticed Emmanuel's equal contempt. He bowed without rising, arms outstretched. "Enter, My Prince, and join the festivities."