It occurred not so long ago when Cromwell suspected betrayal by select members of the body. Still wearing his nightclothes, he stormed into the midnight meeting of England's ambassadors and seized command to send a hundred horrified and appalled emissaries fleeing for their lives. The next morning, a quick-witted secretary hung a sign in the front window: "Building empty, open for Lett."
And thus was born yet another epic tale to be told and retold in the chronicles of Oliver Cromwell. How much was truth and how much was enhanced by enemies was impossible to divine, but safe to say that the Lord Protector had, almost single-handedly, altered the course of England. And, as ever, his rage was born from his most deep-seated commitment—a commitment even greater than his patriotism. For even as Cromwell's devotion to England was titanic, his devotion to God was equally so. And for years, it was well known, the great Lord Protector had sought a final war so that he might die as he'd lived, fighting for a righteous cause in the name of God.
None of Cromwell's exploits or convictions was unknown to the Scotsman as he shifted the Spanish sword at his waist. He rested his hands on the cushioned scarlet arms of the chair and measured the wrath that boiled not far beneath the surface of the great commander.
"I would only like to know why you requested my services and not those of another," Lockhart asked calmly. "I am primarily a soldier, not a man of intrigue."
Cromwell paused to light a cigar—despite judgments of those outside their religion, Puritans relished their tobacco and port—and dismissed a long stream. He held the ember delicately, more like a priest than a soldier. Then he leaned back, seeming to form his entire dialogue before he spoke the first word.
"Sir Lockhart, you were taken into my protectoral family through your marriage to my niece, Robina. But make no mistake—many are within that circle. I choose you because you have proven your courage and fidelity and worthiness on the battlefield. You are a Scot of an honorable house and respected by both commoner and nobility for your wisdom and physical courage. You are also a man of great native intellect and gifted with powers of intuition that I consider invaluable. And, most importantly, you have earned my trust."
Sir Lockhart nodded. "Honored, My Lord."
"Three weeks ago," Cromwell continued as if that were obvious, "I received alarming rumors of war in the valley of Piedmont. Are you familiar with these people—the Waldenses?"
"Yes, My Lord. I know of the Vaudois, as the French call them. They are an ancient people and, despite persecutions within Italy, well respected and received by our Church."
With a satisfied nod, Cromwell explained, "I do not know what grim tragedy may have befallen these people, whose only offense is refusing to renounce the Christian faith that they have held for centuries, but my best reports indicate severe massacres and slaughters of almost biblical proportions."
Lockhart did not mask his concern. "For centuries the Catholic Church has striven to destroy the Vaudois, My Lord, because they do not accept the regency of the pope."
"I have told Admiral Blake to design a plan of invasion," Cromwell said flatly.
Sir Lockhart's eyes flared before he managed to suppress the bad form.
Standing solemnly before the hearth, Cromwell folded both hands behind his back in a composure that would belie the most believable tale of his infamous wrath. He spoke with profound somberness and quiet conviction. "This is your task, Sir Lockhart. Catholic France is losing her war with Spain. Meanwhile, the Catholic Church is winning its war with the Waldenses. I propose that we change the destinies of both wars with a single gambit." Cromwell stared down his prominent nose. "A gambit that you, alone, must play."
After a pause, Lockhart glanced over his shoulder.
"Never do that," mumbled Cromwell. "If you wish to become invisible, move to where everyone can see you and smile at everyone you greet."
Lockhart smiled. "Of course, My Lord."
"Your task is to journey alone to France. You are to make acquaintance with Cardinal Mazarin, who is both mentor and master of the boy-king, Louis XIV. You are to somehow convince Cardinal Mazarin that he must intercede on behalf of the Waldenses and force the Duke of Savoy to end his war."
Sir William Lockhart didn't blink. "Somehow?"
Cromwell's outburst of laughter lightened the atmosphere like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yes, my boy—somehow. But I shall not leave you marooned. Let me tell you how to achieve this."
"Please."
Hands once more at his back, Cromwell began to pace. "Mazarin was defeated in his bid for pope by the Italian cardinals, who jealously aligned against him. He has no love for Italy.
"His recent war against the nobles of France during the Frond also gives him no love for his country. So Mazarin's first and greatest loyalty is to Louis, whom he loves like a son. Therefore his chief concern is the security of his throne. And this is what you will use to our advantage."
After a still pause, Lockhart ventured, "You propose an alliance with France to defeat the Spanish?"
Cromwell paced steadily. "France does not possess the fleet to defeat the Spanish Armada. Mazarin is no fool. He has negotiated enough peace settlements to know he is doomed. Therefore, he will consider what England's Royal Navy can achieve for him."
"For a price," Lockhart offered.
Cromwell waved off any concern. "The good cardinal is a practical man; he knows he must give if he is to receive. And this is what we shall offer. If Mazarin will exert his considerable influence to persuade the Duke of Savoy to end this war against the Waldenses, England will align with France to defeat the Spanish Armada. We shall have what we want and the good cardinal shall have what he wants."
"What if Mazarin objects because the Vaudois are not the children of France and technically not his responsibility?"
"They are children of God," Cromwell said more sternly. "Think of what has befallen these people! And if it befalls them, it can befall us! There is no reason why this religious persecution cannot spread beyond the borders of Piedmont, and that is a danger that threatens us all.
"Think, my boy; the Crusades began with a noble cause, but that cause was quickly lost amid competing interests for land and dynasties. And after they betrayed God, the Crusaders were struck down and strewn across the desert like chaff, obliterated by the combined hosts of the South." He became abruptly still and delicately touched his forehead. "I am not reluctant to admit, Sir Lockhart, that even many of my own campaigns have been impure because of questionable national interests that I had to oblige in the course of political process. Even worse, I remember the guilt and regret that engulfed me the morning after the Battle of Drogheda when I saw a living baby at the breast of its dead mother"
Like a tide trapped within a cove, churning the surface white with competing currents, Cromwell's face flushed with conflicting emotions, and his eyes glazed with a faraway vision or memory. "Believe my words, boy: What a man bears from the battlefield can be tenfold the horror of the battle itself."
In utter stillness, Lockhart followed every grimace, even seemed to follow every thought that plunged through the dark and fiery mind. Finally he spoke as soldier to soldier. "Even when a man bears the sword for God, My Lord, only God knows the destiny of it."
Cromwell smiled wryly, then leaned forward, staring across the polished floor to the Scotsman. "But never, my son, have I ever seen a more righteous cause than what is before us today. The Waldenses have surrendered their land and their allegiance to the Duke of Savoy. In all ways, they are his loyal subjects. Only their faith remains, and for this ... men will kill them."
Lockhart revealed nothing as Cromwell added, "How, pray tell, can you destroy a man's faith?"
Morose, Lockhart shook his head.
"You cannot," the Lord Protector of England intoned. "You can only destroy the man, and then all those who know him or know of him. Then you burn his home and hope you have completely erased his memory from the land. And yet this is not a single man. This is an entire nat
ion—an entire nation sentenced to death simply because they refuse to surrender their faith to the Catholic Church."
Silence hushed the room as neither man moved. Then Cromwell spoke gravely. "So what will you do, my son? What must be done must be done in secret without history to honor the true measure of your sacrifice. The wounds you may suffer will not be rewarded by pensions. Your courage will not be rewarded by advancement. No, in this, the only honor you receive shall be from God."
The muscles in Lockhart s jaw tightened as he turned his face toward the flames, considering. Then, as if in amazement, he shook his head. But Cromwell was smiling when he raised his gaze.
"I accept," he said.
***
Incomel’s agitated pacing provoked a sadistic laugh from Pianessa. Replacing the wine bottle on the banquet table, the marquis seemed far less disturbed by today s defeat.
Torches outside the Duke of Savoy’s palace burned the pale color of frost in a soundless, utterly black night without sky or stars. Rather, it was as if the darkness began here and expanded infinitum to swallow sound and light without returning even the faintest echo or shadow in response. While within the Great Hall itself, the least sound seemed fragile and false, and every torch seemed to flicker for strength.
It was a mood that suited Pianessa. He smiled as he sipped from a tall glass of red wine that cast shifting scarlet hues—a complex, alternating spectrum, all the color of blood.
"You seem surprised, Inquisitor," he muttered to Incomel. He nodded also to Corbis, who also stood in his usual mute, piggish posture. "Rather unbecoming for a man of war."
Incomel's anger was transparent. "I am not a man of war, Pianessa. I am a man of the Church. And you are the general of this idiotic campaign. What are you going to do?"
One side of Pianessa's mouth curled. "I was waiting for you to give orders. Is this not a holy war?"
"It is a war fought by men for the glory of God," Incomel answered bitterly. "The Waldenses must be destroyed because they corrupt the entire valley with their witchcraft and Manichaean doctrines. Already we have lost members of the Church to this madness." He walked farther. "And now we have lost a thousand men."
"At least," Pianessa commented mildly. "But that isn't the worst of it, Inquisitor."
Incomel froze. "What's the worst of it?"
Stone sober, Pianessa lifted the wineglass and tilted it before his face as if searching for what else might lie within its scarlet hue. "The worst of it, Inquisitor, is that now I must order the entire militia of Piedmont into the field."
"What is so terrible about that? Perhaps that's what you should have done from the beginning."
The smile faded slowly from Pianessa's face. "I thought," he spoke slowly, deliberately, "that it was a shepherd's responsibility to defend his sheep against wolves. But you sound more like a wolf."
The Inquisitor's chest rose with indignation.
Brooding, Pianessa muttered, "You know something, Priest?"
"What, Pianessa?"
"I don't believe that I believe in your God."
Incomel's eyes flared; Corbis turned his hairless head toward the Inquisitor General.
Pianessa laughed. "Oh, I believe in God, Inquisitor. I just don't believe in the God you profess. In fact, I would say that you are much more a politician than a priest."
What the marquis had said, if there had been three witnesses instead of two, was punishable by burning at the stake. But, though peasants could be executed without legal procedure, the same could not be done against a monarch. Calm, Pianessa waited as Incomel's instinct for self-preservation bitterly censured his words.
"You are a heretic, Pianessa," the Inquisitor said finally. "You are a godless man who will drown in his own blood. That is the portion of your cup."
Pianessa pursed his lips, considerate. "The portion of my cup ... And what will be the portion of your cup, Inquisitor?" He waited; Incomel said nothing. "What will be your reward when the Waldenses are slaughtered from one end of this valley to the other? What great treasure will you find, Inquisitor, on Gianavel's mountain, when you roll away the stone?"
Incomel's jaw tightened.
"Let me tell you a secret, Inquisitor. You will find nothing but those Scriptures you quote so often." The Marquis de Pianessa waved vaguely. "Yes, yes, Gianavel will die and you will claim the land. But the land will be here long after you and I return to dust, and who will possess it then?" Pianessa's eyes narrowed, calculating and merciless.
"Why don't you tell me," said the Inquisitor coldly.
Pianessa laughed out loud at Incomel's pale expression. "The Waldenses will possess it, Priest. Kill the Waldenses until your hand freezes to your sword. Kill them until the hills are bleached by their bones and they will return, Priest. They will always return."
"How do you know this?"
"How do I know?" Pianessa laughed. "Your church has tried to destroy the Waldenses for centuries, and for centuries the Waldenses have endured." He gestured to the darkness of the ceiling. "You would do better to forbid the stars from the sky than to forbid the Waldenses from their land. Some things are and will remain so. And a wise man knows when not to kick against stones."
Incomel s gaze was like crushed ice sliding into the sea, flowing out to smother everything about it. "On my word, you will die a horrible death, Pianessa," he pronounced.
"By your hand?"
"No."
"By God's, then?" Pianessa lifted both hands as if in supplication. "Tell me, Inquisitor, why does your God not strike me down as I speak? Is it because He does not have the might? Or because the words I speak are true?"
Frustration was checked, but Incomel's words were openly venomous. "You are a barbarian."
Pianessa's laugh was like a demon's bark. Then he cut it short as Corbis stepped forward. The monk's white, hairless face and head were like a dolphin's snout twisted in a horrible scowl, and he approached to within a pace of Pianessa, who remained utterly motionless and calm.
Amused, Pianessa cut his eyes to Incomel. "Can Noble Corbis not speak for himself?"
"I speak," interjected Corbis in a surprisingly high-pitched nasal tone, almost a whine. "You err, Pianessa."
Pianessa casually set his wineglass to the side, leaned back into his throne. Then he crossed his legs and smiled. "Please, Inquisitor, explain to me why men of God must rely upon men of war for their kingdoms."
Corbis stepped still closer. "You err because you believe you are beyond our power. But not even you are beyond us. Not you, nor the duchess with whom you have had. .."
Erupting from his throne, Pianessa instantly towered black and mythic and horrifying, dominating the vastness of the Great Hall by the force of will alone. Corbis cried and staggered as Pianessa s armored right hand lashed out to close on the Inquisitors thick forearm. His bellow descended with him as his knees buckled and Pianessa s iron fingers dug deeper and deeper, mercilessly grinding flesh and tendon against bone and still the fingers closed like a vice, his arm and shoulder immovable as a monument at Corbis's convulsive writhing.
The marquis' teeth gleamed savagely as he bent close over the helpless Inquisitor and whispered, "What happens, Inquisitor, when a man of war resists a man of God?"
Corbis's mouth hung in a silent scream. Pianessa's teeth parted like the fangs of a lion. "This is the only strength that matters!" he roared. "By the strength of my sword I gained my throne! Never think to take it from me! Do you understand?"
Corbis nodded quickly, mutely, and Pianessa turned his smoldering gaze upon the second Inquisitor. Incomel seemed content to ignore what could not be cured. Then Pianessa threw Corbis's forearm back, as if sullied by the touch.
"I will destroy Gianavel without the help of your God, holy man. I will destroy Gianavel with twenty thousand soldiers who will storm his mountain and kill everything that lives. And when the Waldenses are gone from this kingdom, Inquisitor, you had best be gone, as well! Remember my words."
Incomel did not blink.
With hands folded placidly within his sleeves, he stared unaffected over Corbis, who yet cradled his forearm and rocked mutely.
Not deigning to cast the Inquisitor another glance, Pianessa growled as he mounted his throne and collapsed, as if he'd enjoyed a good laugh. He nodded and smiled. "You are correct, Inquisitor. I am indeed a barbarian, but I conceal it from no one. And you are a whitewashed tomb. But what will you do ... yes, what will you say when the tomb is opened for all men to see?"
Without expression Incomel turned, and with steps cautious and soundless, he walked slowly down the long hall that terminated at the double doors and faded into the gloom.
Moaning, Corbis, too, rose and stumbled slightly as he retreated to a side exit. He made little more sound than a mouse as he opened and closed the door and was gone as well.
Only after the most distant retreating footsteps were gone did the Duchess Elizabeth visibly hover on the edge of shadow.
Pianessa did not turn his head toward her. "You saw?"
In almost perfect silence, she approached. "Priests who worship gold, and not God, are not unique enough to despise, my love. They are certainly not worthy of your wrath."
Pianessa's hands folded before his face, supporting his chin with elbows set solidly on his ironwood throne. His gaze was fixed on some nebulous cell of shadows.
"They are dogs," he muttered. "Holy men who depend on others to do their killing for them. They are not like this man—this Gianavel—who is willing to fight and die for what he believes." After a moment, he added, "A very dangerous man ..."
Elizabeth considered the strange comment a moment, then, "Why do you say that, Pianessa?"
"Because he truly believes."
"But he is only one man," Elizabeth protested. "How can he win a war that involves thousands upon thousands? This is not like old times when a brave soldier could change the tide of battle by the strength of his sword. As any other man, he will fall if he is shot. "
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