Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  "It is far worse to save your life for the sake of life than lose your life for the sake of Christ."

  They were words spoken quietly, though all heard easily enough. And no one spoke nor moved, until finally a shuffling was heard in the loft— someone out of sight moving for the ladder. Then more shuffling, once the moment ended, and then more began filing from the barn. Finally all had departed, leaving only Bertino, Jahier, Hector, and Aventius.

  Gianavel searched the old man's face; he was simply weary. But there would be no respite from labors now; he would have to persevere. "Aventius, I want you to see to the wounded—all those who need spiritual assistance. Let them know they are not alone—strengthen them."

  "Aye," he nodded, too fatigued for further words.

  With a laugh, Jahier slapped the old barbe on the back, then looked at Gianavel. "Good speech, Joshua. But how do you think they're going to fare when we're attacked again?"

  "The same as any man," Gianavel answered. "Each according to his abilities. Any word from our spies?"

  Jahier shook his head. "We're blind as a bat and deaf as a stone."

  Together they studied the map. Then Gianavel spoke, almost to himself. "Pianessa is no fool. He won't try a direct assault on the pass again." To Hector: "What do you think?"

  Hector sniffed, stepped forward. "Pianessa is cold-blooded, sure enough. But it's not practical to lose men. I'd say he's planning some sort of surprise attack. Probably on three or four fronts at the same time."

  Frustration hardened Gianavel's forehead. "Yes ... that's what I'm thinking. But from where?" No one spoke, and then Gianavel picked up his rifle. "All right. Let's just keep the guards in position while we wait for one of our spies to return. I don't expect we'll be getting much sleep from now on."

  Jahier forced a tired smile. "Like we were?"

  ***

  When the wagon could climb no farther, Blake pulled it far off the trail and cut branches to conceal it from view. He worked furiously for two hours to conceal every sign of his passing, then used a branch to sweep the wheel tracks and footprints.

  He'd paid off his two "priests" long before he reached this high point in the Alps, not trusting them to know the location of his merchandise. Now he had the final responsibility of locating the Waldenses and delivering his cache of rifles.

  He was entirely justified, in consideration of the risks he had already undertaken, in heading cross country and reporting to Cromwell that the rifles had been delivered into the grateful arms of partisans that would send emissaries in gratitude for his munificence. Of course, if the "partisans" arrived at Cromwell's door—not unlikely enough—and appealed for an explanation as to why the Lord Protector had not lifted a finger in their defense, Blake's flourishing trade in England would suffer the harshest of blows, along with his neck.

  He glanced at the sky. The sun was high, but within these towering cliffs, darkness came several hours before sunset. He reflexively checked his pack for a blanket and provisions, having no intention of returning to the wagon tonight—or ever, for that matter. No, indeed, he planned to simply lead these valiant people to their arms, point, and make a stealthy exit. This wasn't his war and he had no intention of joining it.

  As he climbed higher he thought he heard voices in the darkness and crouched beside the trail, listening for a long time. Patience was something he had in abundance, since he was not adept at violence. Of course, he was handy with a cutlass or flintlock when genuine desperation required, but he greatly preferred deception and stealth. Not that he was a coward. He simply thought it foolish for a man to answer every offense with a sword.

  Of course, he believed in God. He absolutely believed in God. But he also believed that God was not so easily understood, nor was God disposed to limitations or rituals or walls or organizations or conventional recipes for spirituality. He had met paupers with greater hearts than kings and priests, and he did not think heaven would be rich without them.

  Sliding through the forest gloom, Blake mused on his life as he often did in these quiet moments. True, he was a thief. That could not be denied. But he never stole from the poor. He did have a sense of honor, after all. Nor had he planned on a life of crime. It had simply happened, so to speak. When war had taken away his home, he had adapted to his new environment. And it was to his surprise as much as anyone else's that he even found himself remarkably accomplished for the task. Much like men became great soldiers or even kings—fate, destiny, luck, whatever—but he was simply a great thief.

  He had already determined that this war between the Marquis de Pianessa and the Waldenses would be more of the same—another religious war over the Ultimately Unknowable with both sides condemning the other for their colossal stupidity amid accusations of heresy and blasphemy hurled like cow dung until everyone appeared very much the same color. One side would be as vicious as the other, all thoughts of nobility and righteousness flung to the wind as soon as the first bullet was thrown.

  Finally convinced of the forest s emptiness, Blake crept from concealment and stepped soundlessly in the open. He searched everything that could be seen, but the trail was winding and narrow. Though he could not see far enough ahead to inspire any confidence, nothing was without risk. Cautiously, he began to work his way up the path, acutely alert to both wildlife and sounds alien to the forest.

  He had learned a long time ago that bird and fowl were the best means of determining the presence of others in the forest. A man might not be able to see another man, might not be able to hear him. But fowl had the predictable tendency to chatter and create a general racket when a possible threat was beneath them. By watching the trees, he felt fairly confident that the only threat they observed was him.

  That was when he rounded the corner and saw the heads ... heads from children no more than twelve years old, all hung from the branches of trees.

  Strolling before the table, upon which sat an exactingly detailed map of the Pelice, Pianessa seemed particularly buoyed. He nodded his head steadily as he studied a ridge of mountains that crested the border of the valley of Rora. He pointed to a particularly steep encirclement on the map.

  "The Castelluzo is climbable." He nodded. "Even in the dark, we can slip an entire regiment up that face. If they can reach the ridge before sunrise, we can surround Rora during the night and attack at dawn. They will exit their huts to find themselves put upon before and behind. There will be no place to flee." He stood back, distinctly pleased. "Yes ... a good plan."

  Captain Mario squinted over the map, as if unable to understand Pianessa's plan, as the marquis turned. "Captain Mario? I'm sure you would like another attempt to attack the village. What are your sentiments?"

  Mario did not raise his face. "I will lead the attack," he said quietly. "I want this man's head."

  "Oh no," Pianessa countered calmly as he poured a fresh chalice of wine. "No, Captain, the great Gianavel's head cannot be taken by you or any of your men. You must capture Gianavel alive.''

  At that, Mario slowly raised dark eyes. "What?"

  Draining half the chalice at once, Pianessa laughed as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He gestured to Incomel and Corbis, positioned nearby. "The good Inquisitors have need of Captain Gianavel. They are obliged to save his soul."

  Pianessa's laugh was solid with contempt. He smiled at Incomel, who yet seemed moody from his confrontation with the Puritan. "Is that not correct, noble Inquisitor? You must rescue Gianavel's soul before you sever his head from his body?"

  "Do not concern yourself with matters beyond your understanding, Pianessa." Incomel’s voice was unemotional. "The Church concerns itself with matters far greater than the sword. Perhaps"—He raised an eye— "you will do well simply to succeed in your next campaign."

  The barb was not lost upon the marquis, though a challenge was instantly returned. "Perhaps, Inquisitor. Which is why you must escort me into the field."

  Incomel's face was as unyielding and frozen as a marble mask.

 
; "You see," the marquis continued as he again took up his chalice, holding forth from his place, "I have decided that perhaps my last two excursions failed because we did not have God on our side. What my army truly needs are the prayers of mighty men of God like Moses who can pray down a great victory by stretching out their staff" over the mountain." The marquis waited a moment. "Does God not fight with you, Inquisitor?"

  "Of course He does." Holding a cold gaze for a heartbeat, Incomel turned away. "I shall have several of the Jesuits and Inquisitors venture into the field with your army, Pianessa. But forgive me if I am unable to personally accompany you."

  "Why is that, Inquisitor?"

  "Affairs of the Church, of course."

  Pianessa’s teeth gleamed.

  "Of course."

  Incomel said nothing more as he walked across the heavily stilled chamber. When he was fully gone, Pianessa leaned both hands on the map, staring down with a slowly settling frown. After a moment he turned his head to a nearby sergeant major.

  "Duncan," he said.

  Taller than Pianessa himself, but not nearly so heavily constructed, the red-bearded Duncan looked more Scottish than Italian. Yet he also appeared to be a seasoned commander. He seemed neither cruel nor hesitant to be cruel, and equally indifferent.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Assemble in the plain southwest of the Vellaro." Pianessa was forced to modify his habit of tilting his head over a subordinate as he addressed the sergeant major. "I want every man equipped with pikes, but I also want one full company of musketeers." He became studious. "These Waldenses seem to be marksmen, and they prefer to hit from the cover of trees and rocks. If we cannot hit them as readily as they hit us we'll be decimated before we breach their walls."

  "Understood, sir."

  "Also," Pianessa added thoughtfully, "have the first company comprised mostly of cannon fodder."

  The sergeant major grunted. "Yes, sir. We still have some of the Irish. They were not completely killed. And we have a thousand prisoners from El Torre."

  "Very well; put Cromwell's criminals and those from El Torre in the first company. We will climb the Castelluzo tomorrow night—there is no moon—in three battalions. The first will be the Irish and the second comprised equally of musketeers. Once we reach the summit, we'll separate to enclose the valley in the dark. We attack at dawn."

  "Very good, sir."

  "You are dismissed." Pianessa turned to Mario and stared for a somber, grim moment. "And you will lead the first regiment, Captain Mario. I know you wouldn't want to miss the fiercest fighting! And surely you want to ingratiate yourself once more into the good graces of the Duke of Savoy, whom you have so miserably failed ... twice."

  Mario's lips came together in a tight line. Finally he managed, "Yes, sir. I will personally take this man prisoner."

  "Do that," Pianessa replied, but the faint smile faded with the last word. "You are dismissed."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Pianessa refilled his chalice and enjoyed a moment of solitude before he turned his head, as he so often turned it in battle, sensing something that only a born warrior would sense. But in the solemnity of his castle, the tilt of his head was far more threatening. He beheld Incomel standing in the shadow of a corridor, staring. The Inquisitor revealed no regret or fear that he had apparently been caught spying. Pianessa lifted the chalice, smiled.

  "To your God, Inquisitor."

  ***

  Dressed as somberly as the night before, the Puritans approached along the parapet with Sir Morland at the tip of the black wedge. But unlike yesterday, they were carrying sabers and flintlock pistols in the style of gentlemen of the crown. Apparently what had not been deemed acceptable by English prudence at a dinner was allowed for a day s excursion on the battlefield.

  Emmanuel was similarly armed with a specially forged saber and a flintlock pistol. He wore rough riding clothes more suited for hunting because some half-reflex inspired him to dress in the same dark tones as the Puritans. He had to admit that the grim attire did lend an air of profound and serious authority.

  Sir Morland bowed. "Your Highness," he said correctly, not disregarding protocol even though he was here for a dispute, “I pray you rested well."

  "Yes," Emmanuel lied and glanced at the old man, Barnes, and the younger one, who was barely older than himself. "I'm sorry," he said, "but we never had an opportunity to converse last evening."

  "The duchess was quite fascinating," said the older one with a curt bow. "I am Reverend Barnes and this, as you doubtless remember, Your Majesty, is Master Rich. We want to thank you for your hospitality and graciousness, and I anticipate an encouraging exchange of ideas with you this evening."

  At Master Rich's precise bow, his boot heels clicked. "At your service, Your Majesty."

  Emmanuel didn't miss the fact that Master Rich declined to venture beyond what was obviously a prearranged comment. Doubtless, he was accompanying the older Puritans to learn how matters of this nature were resolved, not to resolve them.

  "We are honored," Emmanuel said and gestured to the courtyard where a half dozen stallions were already saddled. "I ordered the Master of Arms to have a selection of mounts so that you might choose one suited to your temperament. Please ..."

  It only required a moment, as they were all experienced horsemen, and Sir Morland selected a fiery young Arabian with huge hindquarters. Shaking its midnight mane against the scarlet run, the stallion seemed to somehow match the black aura of the Puritan. And once he mounted the saddle, Sir Morland was indeed the image of grim doom, black cloak lifting above the glossy blue-black of the stallion, his sword—a long, straight saber much thinner and lighter than Pianessa’s—angling with a glint of silver. Even more, Sir Morland presented the clear impression that he was not unaccustomed to bearing weapons upon a steed.

  Emmanuel had been the first to saddle and waited patiently until all were ready. He raised his hand to a sergeant and sixty-six mounted musketeers.

  The troop opened the gate and rode out of the courtyard, waiting in the field. They would ride close behind the Duke of Savoy through the day.

  With a tilt of his wide-brimmed hat, Sir Morland nodded. "At your pleasure, Your Majesty."

  As they cantered toward the portico, Emmanuel glanced at the Puritan, who masterfully sat his saddle. "And just what do you wish to see, Sir Morland?"

  Sir Morland paused. "An interesting question. But I do not think I shall see what I wish to see, Your Majesty."

  Emmanuel did not need to ask. Yet he could not stop himself from commenting, "There is far more to Piedmont than death, Sir Morland. We are not always at war."

  "No," the Puritan acknowledged, "you are not." He leaned upon the saddle horn. "In fact, Your Majesty, I believe that, left to your own devices, you would not presently be at war with the Waldenses. Further, I believe you are, at the core, a good and decent monarch, and you are protective of all your subjects. But that does not change the fact that war has come, and that it is a war that should end quickly."

  Emmanuel was silent, then asked, "And how would you suggest that I do that, Sir Morland?"

  "I do not know," said the Puritan, "but I know God will not be mocked. Not by any army of this age. Your Highness, nor an army of any age to come."

  *

  Chapter 11

  Lockhart was grateful that his trip to Paris had been largely uneventful, not that he'd been exposed to the more barbarous elements of society for it to be otherwise. No, his greatest danger was—and remained—the possibility that the secret purpose for his visit had been discovered, and that he'd been targeted by assassins. He was encouraged by his belief that competent assassins were not as common as many believed and that nothing was more common than incompetent assassins.

  Not only did unqualified killers routinely botch the job, leaving the target hotly disposed to retaliation, they inevitably talked under torture and exposed not only their clients but those not even remotely associated with the venture to accusation
. In the end, a hundred heads would roll like coconuts for the stupidity of two or three upstarts who lacked the good grace to at least find an assassin qualified for the job. Nevertheless, Lockhart took every possible precaution. It's not that he feared death so terribly; he simply feared dying stupidly.

  And yet there had been a disturbing event in a small tavern near Crastel that he still did not understand. It had begun quietly enough; an obscure argument between two Frenchmen over some imagined slight. But it escalated quickly to blows, and then the tavern lamp was smashed to the floor and the room plunged into darkness. Lockhart had immediately chosen escape and had been moving for the rear exit, thrusting others out of his way, when he sensed rather than heard someone moving directly toward him with a purpose other than escape.

  He had turned to see the man—big, a true manhandler—almost on top of him with a long dagger low in his fist. Lockhart's hand had immediately closed around the flintlock at his belt but in the chaos he wasn't certain that he would even have time to fire when something else of equal strangeness happened.

  Lockhart caught only a glimpse of a shadow—a man dressed totally in black and who moved with a panther's sinuous strides—as the man collided hard against his attacker.

  The man who was a mere step from spearing Lockhart through the heart was flung to the side like a broken tree limb and in the next breath the shadow moved into the crowd and was gone.

  It happened so quickly that Lockhart was not certain what he had seen. Then, standing pistol in hand, he slowly became convinced that he was no longer in danger. The tavern was virtually abandoned, and in the stillness Lockhart moved forward and bent over the man who had held the dagger. He had been stabbed through the heart.

  No time for questions.

  Lockhart had hastily exited the building, found his horse, and vanished into the night. He did not know if he had seen what he believed he had seen. He knew only that the big man had moved upon him with a purpose deadly and certain until the second man entered the fray. And then the second man vanished as quickly as he appeared, leaving a dead man in his wake.