***
Emmanuel's servants seemed to retreat from him as he entered his hall, unceremoniously pouring a large goblet of wine and draining it in a long swallow. He refilled the glass, drained it again before pausing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"Prepare a bath," he said hoarsely.
The young girl blinked in bewilderment.
It was Emmanuel's custom to bathe once a month. Only those who had spent time in the Orient, or descendants of those who fought in the Crusades against the Moors, bathed more frequently. But he did not correct his instruction and the girl vanished.
With no one close, yet never completely alone, Emmanuel collapsed tiredly in a tall-backed wooden chair. He lifted a hand to his sweat-and-dust-grimed face. His hand, too, was blackened with dirt and blistered by the reins. Noticing that his legs trembled, he knew he had to move before his fatigue stiffened.
He rose and exited the towering front gates to see Simon, hands folded humbly in the sleeves of his robe, standing on the walkway. Incomel, an unfamiliar aspect of anger on his face, had apparently stopped the inferior monk for an interrogation.
Emmanuel almost passed by, his affection for Simon provoking him to look away from this humiliation, but the late-night tryst with Cardinal Fabio Chigi had inspired his fortitude. He slowly sauntered toward the confrontation.
It is much like swordplay, he thought. Don't plan how you will strike, hut strike quickly. Attack is always better than defense.
He stopped on a step above Incomel and stared down upon the Inquisitor. He had long learned, from no less than Pianessa, that superior height often provided a distinct advantage in these things.
Incomel nodded deeply, face unaltered. "Good morning, Savoy. I was enjoying a pleasant word with my old friend. Am I needed?"
"No," Emmanuel said with a pleasant smile, "not at the moment. I only wanted to observe your ministrations among my servants. As you say, I have much to learn."
Incomel’s smile was bitter. "Of course." He turned to Simon with a deep sigh, as if the energetic dispute was now ended. "In any case, Father, I see no reason why you cannot continue your ministrations to the redeemed heretics. Some are in need of medical attention, though some are beyond earthly concerns."
"Yes," Simon said with contempt. "I know well of those, Inquisitor. I believe Corbis's zeal should be reported to the archdiocese so that he might be rewarded for his ... passion."
"Corbis is content with God’s gratitude alone. I see no reason why the Councilaries should be made aware of our labors. But should I decide, Father, then I will send reports."
"And just what heresies, exactly, has the good Inquisitor discovered through his labors?" Simon retorted.
Incomel glanced casually at the Duke of Savoy, and Emmanuel understood that Incomel was not unaware of his readiness to intercede.
"Scribes have faithfully witnessed and recorded every word of our examinations, Father." He smiled as a brother. "Over a dozen have renounced their heresies and embraced the Church. They have agreed to shave their beards, to go to confession, to acknowledge the sacraments, to attend Mass—"
"To pay gold for the expiration of their souls from hell?" Simon interjected.
Incomel paused. "Yes, that too. In all means, they have agreed to renounce their heresies and embrace what actions will preserve their eternal souls. I'm sure that even you see the benefit of that."
Emmanuel stepped forward. "You have duties to attend to, Father Simon." He calmly held the amused gaze of the Inquisitor. "And I'm sure the Inquisitor has other responsibilities that require his attention."
Simon raised his eyes, but Emmanuel did not blink or acknowledge anything but his sovereignty. The old monk bowed humbly to Incomel. "At your service, Inquisitor."
The Inquisitor nodded and lifted his face to the Duke of Savoy, his gaze as confident and haughty as it had ever been. Emmanuel realized, in the moment, that he would have been shocked if it were otherwise. But there was nothing more to say so he moved into his tower where a hot bath had been drawn. He was expecting a visitor that might change the entire scope of this conflict—an Englishman who might, at last, shake the imperial Inquisitor.
Nor did Emmanuel intend to meet Sir Samuel Morland dressed in riding clothes and dust. No, when Emmanuel greeted the Puritan, he would appear in every aspect the prince he was becoming.
It was about time.
***
Jahier unconsciously stroked his beard, and Gianavel rested upon a log, leaning against a stable wall. Surrounded by lieutenants and mayors and the ragged militia, they had already discussed the first two battles. Jahier had asked questions about terrain, ordnance, cavalry, and siege engines until he seemed satisfied with his knowledge. Then he focused long on Gianavel and asked, "So what's the plan?"
Gianavel didn't blink. "We have a choice?"
"No." Jahier shook his head. "Not that I see."
"Then we fight."
"A defensive war? Not a good idea."
"We don't have enough men to meet them on the open field. We have to hold the ravines and the passes."
With a wistful sigh, Jahier rose from his repose. "Very well." He turned to a table spread with hand-sketched maps. "What I say, I say so that you shall not repeat."
The youngest were ordered to leave, and when barely a dozen remained, Jahier began, "On the same day that the five hundred marched against Rora, a group of us, serving as deputies of our villages, were attacked at La Torre. We had gathered for a peace conference, but your village was not represented."
Gianavel sighed wearily, crossed arms on his chest. "I did not allow anyone from Rora to attend."
"Why not?"
"Because I suspected a trap."
"Then you were correct," Jahier confirmed. "Pianessa spoke of the fighting that had occurred during the past weeks. He blamed it on his captains, saying they had misunderstood his orders to pursue a few fugitives into the mountains. He asked politely that we open the passes so that his troops could finish their arrests and promised his own men would guard each village. They would sleep under the same roofs, share the same bread, guard us with their lives."
Gianavel bowed his head as Jahier continued.
"As Jean Leger warned, Pianessa was lulling us to sleep so he could gain the upper passes. And after he had achieved his objective, he struck." A tragic pale passed across his visage. "By some prearranged signal his soldiers rose from their beds in village after village and slaughtered those who had welcomed them into their very homes. I ... I will not describe what followed."
Gianavel was stoic.
"In any case," Jahier spoke to the others, "those of us trapped inside La Torre drew into a tight square and managed to kill the first wave. Then we broke clear of the courtyard and reached the stables. We stole horses and killed anyone who got in our way, but it wasn't by much that we reached the portico." He sighed, as if returning to the exhaustion of that battle. "We evaded their cavalry in the needles of Angrogna and moved east. But as we came closer to Rora we saw entire forests of crucified men, women, and children."
"Pianessa’s cunning is equaled by his ruthlessness," Gianavel said without emotion.
Staring a moment at the comment, Jahier asked, "You feel nothing for those we have lost to Pianessa's treachery?"
Almost imperceptibly, Gianavel shook his head. "I feel less for them than for the living because their suffering has ended." His dark, burning eyes alone hinted at the passion. "What else did you see?"
"Troops," Jahier said brusquely. "Lucerna is only two miles wide, but it's guarded by at least two thousand dragoons. Only a gypsy can crawl through the line."
"Can we fight our way through if we stay in the mountains?" Gianavel asked.
Jahier studied the map. "I doubt it. We'd be too strung out. And there are too many places where the trail can be bombarded with artillery. They could kill a good number of us, or even destroy the trail with an avalanche. Then we'd have to dig in."
None spoke for
a moment.
"No," Gianavel said finally, "if we dig in, they'll beat us to death with artillery. And they'll eventually overwhelm a small rear guard, which is all we could manage on a trail." He stared over the village. "How many men do we have today?"
"Eighty, maybe. Some are too young to be counted, but they'll do all right as re-loaders, if that's what you're thinking."
"That's what I'm thinking," Gianavel said.
Jahier leaned heavily forward. "Joshua, listen to me." He waited until Gianavel gave him his full attention. "We don't have enough men to retake the passes and secure the valleys. Piedmont is lost. And soon Rora will be lost. Our only chance is to try to cross the Alps, maybe on the lesser-known trails, and make Geneva. The Swiss will accept us. They've always been our allies."
With a quick twist of his head, Gianavel directed attention to the raggedly dressed men and women, the hundreds of children. "And how can we protect all those people with less than a hundred men?" He waited; there was no answer. "Holding a position with the advantage of terrain is one thing. Leading a large group over the Alps is another. We'd need three times as many men to guard a retreat."
Jahier stared, eyes clear and solemn.
"I don't like it either," Gianavel said with faint anger. "But we don't have the men."
Bertino broke in, "Are you saying an army cannot take us as long as we stay in the mountains?"
"Any position can ultimately be taken," Gianavel responded, then gazed over them. "But here we have the advantage of terrain. We don't have heavy artillery, but then they can't really bring up their artillery. And the ravines only allow them to send ten to twenty men at a time."
Jahier was not encouraged. "If they have a commander willing to throw enough men into the slaughter they will come faster than we can kill them. And, sooner or later, they'll figure that out."
"Yes," Gianavel agreed, "but what choice do we have? Here, at least, we have a chance. If we're caught in the open field, we have no chance at all."
"Gianavel, we don't have enough ordnance to kill a hundred thousand men."
"Then we'll scavenge," Gianavel answered. "We'll ambush their supply wagons and take their ordnance." His eyes burned more fiercely. "The people are willing to endure, and that's the most important thing. And Pianessa’s mercenaries might tire of the slaughter."
***
Gianavel walked slowly down the stable, studying each face, and he wasn't certain they were convinced of anything at all.
Yes, they knew they were fighting for their lives—the youngest of them knew that—but he didn't know if they knew the true reason for this war. And if a man was set to die, he did not need to die for a reason unknown.
"This isn't about religion!" he said loudly. "It's about greed! If you can pay enough gold to ransom your life, then you might live! But if you can't pay, then you'll die because your gold is your land! And before the Inquisitors can claim your land, they must kill you!"
In silence no one moved.
"Pianessa believes he can wage this war in secret." Gianavel's tone betrayed an anger greater than his soul. "He thinks no one will know of his atrocities and crimes! But I believe this war will be shouted from rooftops! I believe the Swiss, the French, even the English will know what cruelties are being inflicted in this valley!"
"And if they do?" Jahier asked.
Gianavel answered without hesitation. "When Savoy and the Inquisitors know that others are watching, they will fear."
"But how long before that happens? A year? Six months? This may be over in days." Jahier was not convinced. "Even hours, Joshua."
"Yes," Gianavel agreed, "it might. And we might well die before intervention arrives. But we know our lives are secure, do we not?" He waited. "I will not yield, because I fear renouncing God will cost me what God has promised to me. I will not renounce my faith—neither I, nor my wife, nor my children. And if we must die, then we will die. There are greater dangers than death."
A pause, and Jahier nodded. "Jeremiah knew of suffering." With a deep sigh he lifted his sword and sheathed it. "Very well, but if we're going to fight, there'll be no chance of an orderly retreat. If we lose even one of the defiles, we will be too scattered to reorganize."
Gianavel walked to the maps and visibly bore the terrible responsibility that was his and his alone.
Never had so few defeated so many. And even if they were superior in battle, they could still be defeated from within. Morale, spies, and betrayals would play greater and greater roles as the siege intensified. Possibilities and impossibilities rose like waves out of the sea of his concerns, and he shut down the storm entirely. Worse-case scenarios could not prevent him from focusing on the real and immediate.
"Let tomorrow worry of itself," he murmured.
Staring down at the map, he noted three defiles wide enough to allow ten to twelve men abreast. There were seven well-known paths where men could move in single file. But there were only two paths protected enough for a retreat.
First, the larger defiles had to be guarded by platoons—thirteen men each. Second, the seven well-known paths had to be guarded by two pair of scouts—four men who could continue musket fire in tandem. And each man would have three boys reloading.
Men not guarding the defiles and the trails would build gabions— shoulder-high earth-walls with cannon ports that would provide protection from light artillery, which was all Pianessa's troops could haul to this elevation.
Gianavel looked at Hector. "You're familiar with the architecture of the fortress of Metz? The manner in which they built the earth walls of the castle?"
"Oui. Earth works well enough, but there's a problem."
"What problem?"
"Well, when a breach is finally made, the dirt tends to run out, making a right tidy slope for the heathen to climb." Hector's eyes widened—he was glad to be included. "Angled bastions are better if we can organize the manpower."
"Angled bastions?" rumbled Jahier. "How do they work?"
Hector drew a ‘ W’ image in the dirt. He pointed to the tops of the ‘Vs.’ "Cannon are placed here so that they can fire along the entire length of the wall. That way, the enemy can't mass at any point without being exposed to fire."
Gianavel appeared impressed. "Very good. How thick should the walls be?"
"As thick as we can make them," Hector said flatly "Dirt's the best material to stop iron cannonballs. But if the soldiers get close, they can dig out a slope right quick. The best defense against that is thickness and height." He pointed to the pass. "The ledge, there, gives us a good five feet of rock for a sturdy foundation. We can heap another five feet of dirt in a few hours."
Gianavel drew a deep line right behind the Vs. "Dig a trench behind the bastions and set cannon at one end. If they breach the walls, they'll drop into the ditch, and we'll fire grapeshot at close range. Not much of an advantage, but some."
Raising his gaze, Hector responded, "We'll have more advantage than you know, Captain. The only weakness to angled bastions is artillery. And if they can't bring up artillery we can fire down the wall all day with deadly effect."
Gianavel nodded and looked at Hector as he lifted his rifle. "You take charge of construction."
"Oui."
"Everyone works, even children strong enough to lift a spade or pick. The rest will minister to the wounded." He turned to Jahier. "Do you want to organize platoons?"
Whatever doubts Jahier may have harbored appeared to have been completely dismissed. "Oui, I'll organize platoons. They can sleep at their stations, leaving a watch. Then, when they return, they'll be able to work on the gabions."
Gianavel stared over the compound. "I'll pick twenty-eight men to guard the trails and assign them three re-loaders each. The re-loaders can carry food and water."
Throughout the village, peasants bore food, clothing, even the wounded. Several of the barbes were ministering with the disconsolate. Gianavel shook his head and spoke so that only Jahier could hear. "It's an evil thing ...
but I see no other choice."
"There's not one," the second captain finally confirmed. "You are right. The entire village in a retreat would be caught in the open. Surrender is only rewarded by death. So we either stand our ground and win, or stand our ground and die."
Whatever passed across Gianavel's face was like a cloud blown across the sky on high winds. There was dusk, a slight shading of light or hope, and then it was gone to utter clarity of purpose. His nod was solid. "Let's get on with it."
"Oui," Jahier said.
As he stepped outside the stable, the captain was instantly calling for everyone to arm themselves like men and prepare for the fight of their lives, for wolves had at last come to the door.
***
"Riders!" shouted a palace sentry.
Emmanuel raised his face to see the soldier outlined against the white wispy clouds of the late afternoon sky. His arm was uplifted, pointing into the far distance, indicating that whoever it was not yet close. The Duke of Savoy waited as Captain of the Guard descended and crossed the square in quick strides, bowing curtly.
"Three riders, My Lord," he gasped. "They wear no coat of arms that I can see. What are your instructions?"
"Let them pass," Emmanuel muttered and noticed guards massing along the wall, staring into the distance. He wondered if they thought it was a rogue attack by the Waldenses. If so, they had responded seriously enough.
Word of Pianessa's defeat, down to the finest detail of who was killed and how, had obviously spread through the entire militia so that even a cook could recount the battle in horrendous and dramatic detail. Emmanuel himself had overheard chamber maidens discussing the devilish barbarity of the Waldenses. For it was widely reported that they severed the heads of their victims and made garments from their skins and danced all painted with blood beneath the moon chanting satanic charms to protect them from the forces of the Church.
Emmanuel turned and climbed the stairs, turning his head to a scribe who accompanied his every move. "Find Pianessa and tell him we receive visitors tonight. And order the kitchen to prepare a feast pleasing to an Englishman."
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