Grimacing, Gianavel turned into the darkness of the room. "Why now?
"Inquisitors," Descombie said simply and without tone.
Turning, Gianavel acutely studied the pastor's expression; there was little.
"Rome has launched a new war to bring all of Italy under a united church," the barbe added. "Everyone who belongs to the reformed church— those who are not Catholic—have been declared guilty of heresy. They are to be imprisoned or killed."
"They're not taking prisoners," Gianavel said calmly.
"No," Descombie agreed and was silent a moment. "No, they are not taking prisoners."
The barbe stared at the letters before him, then after a moment rose. He leaned against the mantel, staring down. He did not look at Gianavel, who had become as solid as a statue.
Darkness dominated the room, more powerful, more permanent than both of them together. The barbe stared closely at Gianavel. "So," he said finally. "Even you are frightened."
"For my family," Gianavel confirmed. "For the children, the old ones." He paused. "It is my responsibility to guard Rora. I do not intend to lose any that the Lord has given me to protect."
Descombie revealed no surprise. "All roads leading across the Alps have already been closed by the Marquis de Pianessa. It will be ... difficult ... for anyone to reach Geneva."
Gianavel stared into the flames as Descombie continued, "I think they took the north passages first so that none of us could escape. Then they took the towns and villages in the valley. And they will come here, too."
"When?"
"After today? Perhaps days ... hours."
Raising his face toward the ceiling, Gianavel closed his eyes. He shook his head once, then bowed it again. "Can we send an emissary to the Duke of Savoy?"
"We can," Descombie judged. "But you must remember the Council of Constance. They consider all those of Rora to be heretics, and no faith— no promise—is to be kept with heretics."
"And yet we must try to negotiate, Descombie." Gianavel was visibly agitated. "At the least we might gain a respite. If there is going to be war, I need time to prepare."
Finally Descombie nodded. "Yes, subterfuge will gain us time, perhaps. But they scent blood, and killing becomes easier every time a man kills. They will not wait long before they climb above the Pelice."
Gianavel's countenance lifted, though not with relief. He nodded as he turned to the flames. "Dispatch letters to Captains Jahier and Laurentio.Tell them to recruit as many survivors as possible." His face became grim. "Tell them we'll make a stand at Rora."
"Here?" The barbe seemed surprised. "Why here?"
Gianavel spoke softly, "The mountains where Lucerne, Angrogna, and Rora meet form a natural fortress stronger than any in all of Europe. There are only two means in or out—the Pass of Pelice and the Ravine of Turin. And if we... if we can, we might hold each of them against their greater numbers."
The old man's eyes revealed no fear, though he spoke words a man should speak with fear. "They will attack with twenty thousand men, Gianavel. At the most, we might raise a hundred."
"It's enough," Gianavel said and walked to the door. "We make a stand here, or die. There's no place to retreat to, no place to hide. And they'll kill anyone who surrenders. Just like they killed those people in the valley below."
There was no dispute, but Descombie had a final question. "Do you think we can possibly win?"
Gianavel stared upon the old man with eyes suddenly shadowed and pained. It seemed that he was considering a hopeful reply, but then without a word he turned away...
And was gone.
Vanessa hesitated in the courtyard of Savoy's JL palace to study the severed heads spiked atop the battlements of Turin and the buzzards that soared in the gathering dark. He was still watching when the war wagon containing the Inquisitors—a square, fortress-like black carriage built from the heavy timbers of a ship—thundered through the portico. From where he stood, he regarded Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel as he descended, lifting his robe to avoid soiling it upon the likes of the earth.
Incomel spied Pianessa almost immediately, smiled with satisfaction, and walked forward. He cast a single glance at the battlements before he halted beside the monolithic marquis. "You do excellent work, Pianessa. I wondered what suitable use you would make of those you butchered."
Pianessa shrugged his thick shoulders with indifference. "Hardly a new thing, Inquisitor."
"No," the Inquisitor agreed, "but effective, nonetheless. Actually, it's hard to conceive of a more daunting defense of the Church than putting the heads of one's enemies on a pike. Was that your intention? To defend the cause of the Church?"
Vaguely threatening, Pianessa's dark eyes roamed back to the Inquisitor. He smiled slowly. "Of course."
"And so, have you made arrangements to deal with those living above the Pelice?"
Startling the Inquisitor, Pianessa raised his hand to his forehead and bowed his departure. "Something I must attend to forthwith, Inquisitor. I bid you good night."
Incomel said nothing as Pianessa walked across the courtyard to the stables, sharply returning a salute from soldiers who were drinking outside, and vanished within. Then the Inquisitor looked a last time at the buzzards feasting upon the castle wall, and smiled.
Charles Emmanuel II, standing beside the banquet table, was speaking quietly to visiting dignitaries when shadows of the Inquisitor's bodyguards stopped at the entrance, allowing Incomel to proceed into the Throne Room without the unseemly display.
At the approach, the Duchess Mary Elizabeth, Emmanuel's cousin, regarded Incomel politely. Nor did she move as Incomel closed the final few strides and spoke.
"Your cousin has done great things this day, Duchess. We have pacified the valley, and tomorrow we will climb above the Pelice to deal with those at Rora."
The Duchess Elizabeth folded her hands and replied without either haste or emotion, "History has shown that those at Rora will fight to defend their freedom of conscience, Inquisitor."
Emmanuel's tone was despising. "Those who live above the Pelice— those at Rora—are protected by the ancient treaty, Incomel. They legally possess freedom of conscience and are not subject to the laws of your church."
"Ah yes." Incomel smiled graciously. "You refer to the treaty made with your ancestor, Phillip, which grants all those living above the Pelice freedom of faith." He lifted his hands. "I'm afraid that I have judged that ancient pact to be abrogated, Savoy. No secular authority has the power to overrule the divine edicts of an Inquisitor."
The smile that masked Elizabeth's face was as pale and thin as her skin. "The treaty with Rora has existed for three hundred years, Inquisitor. Are you certain you do not exceed your dominion?"
Incomel bowed. "God has all dominion, Duchess."
Emmanuel poured the duchess a goblet of wine, which she accepted with a minute nod. He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned fully toward Incomel.
"Since my valley is already crippled," Emmanuel began with considerable charm, "tell me—exactly—how you intend to deal with those of Rora. Surely you don't expect me to work in the fields and gather the crops. Or did you forget that the vineyards and orchards of Rora comprise the agricultural wealth of Piedmont?"
"Forgive my timing," Incomel replied as he accepted a goblet of wine, "but it would be impossible to move above the cliffs in winter. And, please, do not unduly concern yourself. God will see to your crops, as He sees to all things. Even birds of the air have nests, as evidenced by the sanctity of these castle walls this very day. And does God not care more for us than for them?"
Emmanuel said nothing.
The duchess smiled coldly. "And what of the vast lands acquisitioned during your recent purifications, Inquisitor? Does the Church also raise its flag over these?"
"The Church is beneficent, Duchess. The land and the king are one. But as long as the king is subject to the rule of the Church, the land is also the responsibility of Rome." Incomel laughed a
lone. "We can't allow heretics to poison their land as they have poisoned the minds of their children, can we?"
"And how many children did you rescue today, Inquisitor?" Emmanuel muttered.
"Over a dozen were sent to El Torre for proper care." Incomel responded, lifting a benevolent hand. "They will be harbored there until more suitable quarters are arranged. Unfortunately, they will not be able to return to their homes because.. .well, what with the tragic conflict of recent days, many of their homes are... no more."
Emmanuel glanced at his cousin, whose contempt for the Inquisitor could not be concealed. He knew that if the decision had not already been made, Elizabeth would have denounced the merciless cruelty of the powerful priest.
"Victor Amadeus was also forced to attack above the Pelice because the Church ordered him to rid Piedmont of heretics," the Duke of Savoy commented. "He said afterward that every skin he took from Rora cost him fifteen of his best soldiers."
Incomel smiled tolerantly. "My Lord, these people are farmers, not warriors."
"They are friends and family," Emmanuel muttered with a severe frown. "And they are wise in the ways of war because this world has forced them to become wise. Besides, the mountains surrounding Rora are a natural fortress. Ten men could hold off a thousand in one of those ravines. The problem with persecution, Inquisitor, is that sooner or later the persecuted will fight back."
Emmanuel waited, but Incomel did not reply.
"Do you dispute me, Inquisitor?" the young monarch pressed more loudly, an action that drew the attention of attendants. "Why do you think the Waldenses settled above the Pelice in the first place? They have inferior numbers, it's true, but any fool of a captain will tell you that they have more than a fair understanding of battle. They know every rabbit trail on that mountain. They have powers of communication we cannot match. And they have ... other advantages."
Incomel’s laugh was the bark of a dog. "What advantages would those be, Savoy?"
"I understand they have a captain...this man, Joshua Gianavel."
The Inquisitor stared." And ...?"
Emmanuel's frown was a mask of contempt that made even the Inquisitor take pause. "They call this man 'Great Lion of God,' Priest... I have heard my captains speak of him." The Duke of Savoy grew more composed. "I am young, Incomel. But I am not a fool. If the peasants of Rora regard this man so greatly, perhaps there is a reason. I do not wish to see my army decimated by this war."
The Inquisitor laughed. "That is ridiculous, Savoy. We all know that heretics are a cowardly lot. Which is why they use witchcraft for their powers."
Lifting his arms, Emmanuel agreed with enthusiasm. "Ah yes! Which is why their children have two rows of black teeth! Why their children have a single eye in the middle of their foreheads! And are born with fangs like dogs!"
Incomel did not blink as the Duke of Savoy almost snarled, "Yes, yes, we certainly remember what your predecessors told us, Inquisitor! How the
Vaudois were half-demon and half-human with six fingers on each hand and ears like bats! Or, at least, that is what they maintained until Victor Amadeus sent for these children! Then he discovered, mon Dieu, that they were normal children! Precocious and wide-eyed and full of amusing chatter!"
Emmanuel's smile vanished as he closed his arms to his sides. "Which is why he banished your colleagues from the palace, Inquisitor! I mean, the great Victor Amadeus could not very well tolerate Inquisitors incapable of telling five fingers from six, could he?" The reigning Duke of Savoy leaned into his words and his meaning. "Heretics seem a bit too popular around here if you ask—"
"My Lord," the Duchess Elizabeth said suddenly, touching his arm. "If you will pardon me, my guards have been waiting to speak with you about my journey to Pinerola."
Bending his head, Emmanuel settled. And Elizabeth leaned closer, grasping his arm more firmly. "Thank you, cousin. Now, would you be so kind as to insure that my guard is prepared?"
Without any semblance of fear, Emmanuel regarded the Inquisitor. Then, with a tight smile, he bowed. "Another time, Inquisitor."
Incomel was ice. "At your service, My Lord."
Emmanuel strode across the hall and began to instruct Elizabeth's bodyguards. More impatient than usual, his voice carried as the duchess gazed upon the Inquisitor, who seemed not to notice the glacial regard.
"It would be unfortunate for your cousin, Duchess, if he seemed to contradict any of my—"
"He is the Duke of Savoy, Inquisitor." Elizabeth's words and her tone were unmistakably firm. "He is the Supreme Lord of Piedmont, and you will hold him as such."
Incomel bowed. "Of course. And I do apologize, Duchess, if the Duke of Savoy finds even the faintest displeasure in dealing with the Waldenses. I'm sure you realize the dangers of a house divided?" He paused to silence. "Well, the danger is that any house divided against itself cannot stand."
Mary Elizabeth de Medici smiled at last. "We are alone, Incomel. You have no image to protect."
The Inquisitor stared. "My substance is what you behold, Duchess. I have no image at all."
"Really?" Elizabeth s eyes widened mischievously. "The Duke of Savoy's serving girls inform me otherwise."
Incomel would have started if there had not been others watching. Even as it was, he stared with ferocity at the duchess. His jaw tightened as he spoke again. "You would be burned alive if another had heard those words."
Elizabeth's smile was sweet; her teeth were steel. "I suppose you will want Maria again tonight? She seems to be your favorite."
Incomel’s breaths were short and sharp. He seemed unable to speak and the silence would have lasted forever had not Elizabeth closed it with her words. "Your secrets are safe with me, Inquisitor. Only remember one thing." Her eyes were shards of ice. "My cousin is not a boy, though he is younger than me, and I am not old. You may do what you want with the Waldenses; they are not my highest concern. But you will not threaten Emmanuel."
"He cannot deny my orders, Duchess."
"He will not deny your orders, Inquisitor. But with this man, Gianavel, leading them, the people of Rora will fight for their freedom of faith. And Emmanuel knows it is a battle his treasury can ill afford. So I advise you: Express no pleasure at his loss."
A still pause.
"I foresee no difficulties," Incomel stated. "I will leave the attack upon Rora to Pianessa. He is a ruthless barbarian, a man or war. And I trust ... things better left unsaid ... shall remain so."
"Of course."
Incomel was a statue as the duchess turned and walked across the hall where Emmanuel was tersely instructing her guards, clearly in charge of his kingdom.
***
Pianessa's rugged face reflected the fire of the furnace as he watched the last blows of the hammer forge his new sword. The blade was fully four feet in length and carved down the middle with a deep groove for blood flow, which allowed an easier draw when embedded in flesh. And although it was two inches wide, the edge was finely tapered for lightness, allowing him to wield it one-handed with the grace and agility of a rapier.
Unlike the two-handed Scottish claymore, whose true strength had been its massive weight that was easily capable of denting plate armor to shatter flesh and bone together, Pianessa's weapon held the finest razored edge. From steel smelted again and again and beaten thin and folded and beaten again, it had also been forged with tin so that it could strike another sword, bend without breaking, and retain its edge. Indeed, Pianessa had painstakingly overseen every aspect of its creation, from the deep angle of the edge, which greatly eased sharpening, to the two-handed hilt.
The blacksmith lay the glowing steel upon an anvil, hammering again to flake off the carbon. And with each blow the steel resounded with a sharper ring. Even now it appeared perfect, the blade running smooth and straight. But it would not be ready until it was sharpened and polished and wrapped with the micarti and leather hilt that had been carefully carved to accommodate Pianessa's broad grip.
"How much longer
, blacksmith?" Pianessa shouted to overcome the bellows of the furnace.
Sweating and grimacing, the blacksmith lifted the steel before his face, staring along its length. "It should be ready by the morrow, My Lord!" He examined it from every angle, allowing light to shift along the angled gray edge. "A finer blade I've never forged! It’s light as a saber with twice the size and strength!"
Fortunately for the blacksmith, Pianessa was clearly pleased as he walked out of the stable and was soon in the militia tavern. Smoke from herbs smuggled from the East floated in heavy halos over couches and tables, making everything formless and without depth. Drunken gamblers slouched in crude chairs, muddy boots stretched before them as dice and coins rattled and dropped to be raked in a pile amid loud curses and harsh, pitiless laughter. Men with eyes like sharks watched from pillows thrown against walls. Some lay as the dead, while some lay wary and indistinct amid mud and weapons as others stumbled over their prone and unmoving shapes.
Ignoring them all, Pianessa approached a grease-faced, stoutly built man seated near the rear exit. Wearing a double-folded cuirass, the man seemed prepared for battle even inside the tavern. Then he seemed to sense Pianessa s monolithic image separating from the gloom and raised his face. A smile split the wild red beard as he leaned back.
Pianessa was the first to speak. "Captain Mario!"
After a halfhearted salute, Mario gestured to the wine, women, and games. "Care to share the spoils of heretics, Pianessa?"
Pianessa cast a small sack of gold upon the table. Its sudden, dominating presence seized Mario's attention.
"You ride tomorrow!"
Unable to restrain his greed, Mario stood as he tore open the bag. He didn't finish counting the gold coins before reckoning it enough. When he raised his face, the Marquis de Pianessa was already departing.
"Pianessa! There's no one left to kill!"
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