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 instantly 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.
Corbis's face should have naturally reflected fatigue at the onerous work. Instead, it reflected only a rising pleasure. "More prisoners?" he spat, peering from hairless lids.
"No," Incomel responded placidly. "But Pianessa attacks again tomorrow."
"Good. These will not last the night." He waved roughly and guards dragged another prisoner from the crossed bars of a cell, strapping him to the chair.
"Have any renounced?"
Corbis looked across, as though in a daze. "What?"
Glancing at the guard as he stepped discreetly away from the chair, Incomel blinked at Corbis's flat stare. "Have any of the prisoners renounced their heresy and rejoined the Church?"
"Oh," Corbis grunted. "No ... they died."
Incomel paused. "I see."
His gaze passed over the dozens of prisoners huddled in small, motionless positions against the farthest wall, dark eyes gazing at him in various modes of defiance—some strong, some broken. Several of the adults still walked, tending to the wounds of those who had survived Corbis's interrogations. One child lay still in the corner, his eyes covered with a bloody bandage. He did not move.
"There were fifty," Incomel remarked. "I count only thirteen. The rest?"
Corbis shrugged. "Were heretics."
Incomel stepped forward, his face flushed and glistening with perspiration.
"Hear me," he whispered, and at the tone Corbis s dull eyes froze, gazing at a distant wall. "I will not report to the cardinal that I have not a single reformed heretic to show for our labors! So you will satisfy your bestial pleasures elsewhere, Corbis. Not with every prisoner I bring to this palace!"
Corbis blinked but said nothing.
Incomel turned and walked away, hands folded plainly within his cloak. Moving almost too quickly for the dignity of his station, he had almost reached the door at the top of the
stairway when the screams began again.
Long shadows stretched like pyramids across ground hairy with frost, and the scintillating white yielded with a slight crunching as the men of Rora prepared their weapons.
Gianavel had not slept but had moved throughout the camp during the night, encouraging and instructing. He did not wonder that he was still awake and alert when morning rose. He had never slept well in battle, had risen every day of every war to watch the sunrise, to meditate on the execution of grim action, and to accept the end of it before it began. And he had long ago come to peace with one thing. The greatest tragedy was not fighting. It was not having anything worth fighting to keep—no faith, no freedom, no hope.
Gianavel had only to remember the faces of his children and Angela, the peace he knew in his heart when he served God, the freedom he possessed since he would not bow to a man. It was all he needed; he was ready.
Today he held an even newer rifle than the one he'd borne yesterday—a French-made flintlock with better accuracy. He'd cleaned it by pouring warm water down the barrel and swabbing it with a rod and rag. Then he'd cleaned his pistols, four in number, all the same caliber. He was perpetually armed now, and would remain so until this ended. Also, he carried flint, oilskin, a canteen, and other small items he'd need if they were overrun. The intention was to remain prepared to either fight or flee with a split-second's notice.
A line of twenty men stood approximately fifty paces from rock targets placed on a nearby slope.
"Load," Gianavel ordered and watched as they carefully measured and poured powder from the hollowed-out stag horns. They inserted a patch of paper beneath the ball and rammed it tight against the chamber with the rod. When they appeared ready, Gianavel walked slowly down the line, studying each man.
"The first thing you must understand," he explained, "is your weapon. The second thing is yourself. And the third is your enemy."
Gianavel knew that most of them were already accomplished marks-men. The older ones had been forced to defend the valley in more than one war against Germany. But shooting was a skill that dulled easily, and shooting men was never easy.
"There's only one way to learn," he said and angled past the far end of the line. "So pick your target, and see what you can do."
Gianavel did not watch the targets, but he watched the men to see which ones set the stock tight against their shoulder, which ones steadied their breathing and, consequently, the barrel. He also determined which ones jerked the trigger, moving the barrel so that they ineffectually hit the slope. After the smoke cleared, he determined that the oldest were the steadiest—no surprise.
"Reload!" he called out and studied to see how they had positioned their powder horn and ammunition pouch.
The older men carried the horns and pouches high and tight so they wouldn't waste energy searching or even reaching. Nor would the horns bounce when they moved, revealing their position in the dark. The younger carried them on long, fashionable leather straps that rested the horn on their hips, clattering across canteens.
Yes, there was nothing like experience to teach a man that strength in battle was an expensive commodity. Once spent, it was hard to regain; the best remedy was not to expend it.
Veterans had already prepared rucksacks that they kept close at all times. They also kept their weapons with them at all times, and they bore long poniards at their waist even when they slept because they knew a good knife was the indispensable implement for a soldier. If a man lost his rifle or food, he could always regain them with patience and a knife. But if he lost his rifle and his knife, he was as good as dead.
And there was the most important rule of all—always keep it simple. Always, always keep it simple—a simple means of foraging, of building a fire, of navigating. The less complicated it was, the less that could go wrong. The rule, alone, was simple to remember, and it applied to everything.
As Gianavel passed one young man, he pulled a red bandana from the boy's pocket and spoke sternly. "Wear nothing with color! Dress like the forest! And wear only leather! It makes no sound when you brush against branches and leaves! Remember the difference between cover and concealment! Concealment means you can't be seen! Cover means you can't be shot! Always use cover! Always! A man does not need to see you to kill you!"
Some eyes widened with fear as Gianavel walked the line. Then he focused on the youngest—a boy of perhaps fifteen who tightly clutched his rifle, fingers white with tension. Gianavel paused before him, his voice loud enough to carry. "Put on your gloves!"
The boy started. "Sir?"
"Your gloves!" Gianavel said and waited while the boy struggled to pull gloves over each hand. Then, fingers stiff and insensitive, he trembled as Gianavel walked behind him. "Load and fire!"
Fumbling with the heavy stockings, the boy managed to uncap his horn, poured far too much powder into the barrel, needed twice as long to work the rod, and spilled even more powder charging the plate. He was fumbling awkwardly with his grip when he fired, and the shot went high and wide, completely missing the target.
The boy staggered, waving at the huge cloud of smoke that blocked his vision. Then, coughing, he stepped back in line. It took only a glance to know he was humiliated.
Gianavel firmly gripped his shoulder, no condemnation. "That's how you'll feel when you fire a shot in battle." He patted the boy on the back, then filed past the rest of them.
"In battle nothing will feel as it feels now. Your fingers will feel like sticks! Your feet will feel like blocks of wood! Everything will seem dull and thick! Like you are fighting underwater!" He paused, insuring they were listening closely. "It has nothing to do with fear! It is only your body preparing itself for battle! Don't fear it and it will fade! But if you fear it—if you think something terrible and strange is happening to you—then it won't go away! Your fear will keep it with you!" He looked at each man in turn. "I have seen a hundred battles, and I have felt the same every single time! Every time! But I know what it is and it does me no harm! Be strong! Remember what it is and it will fade!"
Gianavel glanced again at the hill, back at the boy. "It's a better shot than I made when my father made me do the same thing," he nodded.
The boy smiled, still uncertain, as Gianavel continued, "How do you fight a hundred men?" He waited until Bertino shouted from the far end, "One at a time!"
Gianavel gave a hearty laugh. "Exactly! One at a time. He walked on. "You think they are like the elephant! And they are! But even an elephant can be eaten one bite at a time!"
He spoke louder, watching them closely. "If ten men attack you at the same time, you must move quickly, hit fast and keep moving! Make it so they can only come at you one at a time! If you're fighting outside, put the sun at your back! If that's not possible, keep the sun on your right! Make them retreat! Make them back up! And don't give them time to look around! Try to gain the highest piece of ground and shout when you strike! It frightens your enemy and encourages you!"
One man spoke, "What about fighting inside buildings? Going room to room?"
"In buildings," Gianavel answered, "always fight with the door to your back or to your right! Make sure there is nothing behind you and that there is free space to your left! Chase the enemy to your left and don't give him time to look around to see what's in the room! Make him trip! Make him fall! Use the entire room to your advantage!"
He could see their spirits rising. "What do you see coming against us? Siege engines? Cannons? Brooms and dragoons and cavalry? A dragon?"
No one answered.
Gianavel paused, his voice falling low and controlled. "Once you have had one or two clashes with the dragon, you will know that they are but men. They live like you. They bleed like you. What will hurt you will hurt them. Yes, they have siege engines—mortars and cannons and cavalry. So do we! They have men with rifles! So do we! They have their cause! So do we! But they fight for money! We fight for our families and our freedom to believe! For a salvation no man can take from us!"
/>
Standing before them, the Captain of Rora said slowly, "Only if a man fears death ...can death conquer him."
Along the line there was silence, stillness.
Bertino's stout visage lifted slightly, watching Gianavel with hard eyes, a grim frown. The others, too, were solemn and unmoving, watching steadily.
Slowly Gianavel nodded. "Take a platoon into the pass," he spoke to Bertino. "You know what to do."
"Oui!" Bertino caught his rifle. "Come," he said to those around him. "We have work to do."
In a moment they dropped over the crest of El Combe, moving for the forest where they would drop trees and boulders into the pass itself, making it more difficult to climb. They had prepared avalanches and half-hewn trees that could be dropped on entire battalions as well as powder-kegs that could destroy dozens at once.
Gianavel knew they would need every advantage when this battle was joined. He had overlooked nothing, he hoped, but there was no way to be certain. Nothing was so small that it could not be used to an advantage; a man needed only to keep searching. But all he could do for the moment was continue to search.
"Again," he said and stepped through the lines to stand behind them. "In battle you'll only shoot half as well as you shoot in practice, so practice must be perfect! Again and again and again!"
Steadily, they fired.
Steadily, targets fell.
*
Chapter 5
Roasted pheasant warmed before the hearth as Gianavel JLJ leaned his rifle beside the door and entered their cottage. He caught Jacob in his arms and lifted him high as the girls also rushed forward and embraced him. When he looked at Angela again, he was stunned to feel how her smile made this moment seem as though it was all there was in the world, and that the rest was only a bad dream from which he'd awakened.
Unaware of how tired his legs were until he sat, Gianavel wearily stretched out his arms and embraced the children again. Then, smiling, Angela walked forward and collapsed on the couch, crushing the girls against Gianavel's chest. Muffled screams and laughter lasted until Angela leaned back, feigning surprise.
Rora Page 6