Blake shook his head and distracted himself by studying the panorama of sunrise, remembering how the sky had been paling for hours. It was amazing, he'd often thought, how a man in the woods could see the sunrise coming for hours and hours before the sun crested the edge of the world.
He was grateful that the air was warming. He'd almost frozen last night, his feet like blocks of wood, as he tried to find some hidden means up the mountain. Now he understood more clearly why the Waldenses were so difficult to defeat. It was always cold in these heights, and men did not fight as well in the cold.
It was obvious to Blake that the Waldenses were stout fighters. Every man he saw was armed with pistols and rifle and sword. He'd also seen a wild variety of older weapons—blunderbusses with wide, flared barrels, dangerous-looking flintlock pistols, numerous crossbows, and curious homemade weapons that he couldn't define and didn't fancy pulling the trigger on, either.
In a moment the captain returned, accompanied by a big man dressed like a catholic monk—Descombie was his name. With a warm smile, Descombie spoke a single sentence in splendid Spanish and waited. Blake shook his head. Descombie spoke grammatically perfect German. Blake shook his head. Descombie raised empty hands and smiled. "English?"
Blake hesitated. He had wondered what he would do when this moment came. Truth seemed like a good idea, but truth had never been his first choice in similar situations, so he was, by reflex, loath to use it. Still, few alternatives came to mind.
He stood dramatically.
They leaped back, lifting rifles.
Appearing utterly fearless, Blake drew himself to his full height. Something told him his only chance lay in boldness.
"My Lord Protector," he projected in the French-German dialect of the Waldenses, "the Prime Minister of England and Defender of Christ, Oliver Cromwell, has sent me here to fight beside the noble Waldenses! And if you be those people, I declare myself your ally!"
Captain Jahier squinted.
Blake's posture put his trust in God.
"Kill him," said Jahier.
Blake blanched. "Wait!" he shouted as hands lifted him from the ground, carrying him toward a wall. "I've got guns! I swear on my mother's grave! I'm a gun smuggler! It's the truth! Dear God, you can't just kill me!"
The men carrying him began loudly droning something like an Irish funeral dirge. Blake saw a wall as high as a man, saw more men standing with rifles at port arms.
"Proof!" he shouted. "I have proof! I have rifles!"
Jahier shook his head. "Nay, Pianessa would sacrifice ten crates of rifles to lure us from the Castelluzo."
For the first time in his life, Blake knew true, full-blown panic. He squirmed to escape, but they held him against the wall. Obviously he was to be shot dead like a dog, and yes, yes—of course he deserved it! That's not the point!
They tied him to the wall.
"English rifles?' he cried. "Surely this Pianessa has no access to the finest English rifles?"
"Yea, he does."
Blake stared in horror.
Jahier commanded the firing squad: "Ready."
Descombie raised his hand compassionately toward he who was about to be compassionately shot.
"Aim!"
Soldiers shouldered their—
"Soldiers!" Blake shrieked. "Soldiers! I know where their soldiers are camped! They're inside your valley! I can lead you to them! They have provisions! Weapons!"
The firing squad exchanged glances.
"I can take you to them!" Blake continued quickly. "Surely you want to know where they are camped!"
Jahier's brow was hard in concentration.
Blake attempted to make his eyes and face as transparent as possible. He'd never tried the truth, but then he'd never faced a firing squad. It seemed as if Jahier studied him forever before he tilted his head to a young soldier.
"Gianavel," he said.
The soldier raced up a slight slope and in seconds descended beyond the crest. The rest of the men seemed to relax, and Blake knew he'd purchased a reprieve, if nothing else. He did not know who this Gianavel was, but he was prepared for anything.
Studious, Jahier sat on a stump, arms crossed. He appeared content to study Blake's pale, swearing visage for hours and hours. Oddly, it occurred to Blake that the cold still howled across the peak, but he was not cold at all. He looked at the one called Descombie.
"Priest!"
"Eh?" Descombie grunted, suddenly attentive. "I am a barbe, sir. A pastor, as you English would call it—not a priest. No man stands between God and another man."
"Yes!" Blake gasped. "I couldn't have put it better myself!" He swallowed, trying to calm. "Look at me! Can you not see truth in my eyes? Do I look like I'm lying?"
"No," said Descombie plainly. "You do not look to be lying. But that is not for me to decide."
Blake remembered. "Gianavel?"
"Yes."
Blake searched the slope, but no figure rose on the other side, approaching. He tried to relax, knowing it would do no good to panic. But he'd been in more favorable situations. He tried not to consider the possibility that this was Gods justice for not being more circumspect in his life. But if the command to "aim" was given once more, he knew he'd spend his last seconds trying to make a quick and truncated peace with the Almighty.
Then a figure came over the hill.
Tall and powerfully built, the man wore a white shirt with loose sleeves. His chest was wide and deep, and his face was angled and sharp, like a predator. He wore a belt of pistols across his chest and a dagger and sword. But his eyes captured Blake's attention. They were immensely stern and powerful, absolute in their control and confidence. Gray and opaque like a leopard's, they were also intelligent in a way that searched out truth quickly and decided without regret.
The man stopped before him, staring down.
"Speak," he said.
Blake hesitated. "You are Gianavel?"
"I am Joshua Gianavel."
The gray eyes searched Blake's with a purity of thought or purpose or ... or certainty ... that Blake had never quite seen in another man. He didn't know, truly, what to say. But truth seemed to outweigh all other considerations.
"I'm a gun smuggler," he said with eyes of total honesty. "I am not a holy man or a soldier or even a good man. I was hired by Cromwell to bring arms to your people. I smuggled them across your valley! They're hidden in a wagon, south of this mountain. I will take you there. I am not lying! Please! You must believe me!"
The man named Gianavel revealed nothing for, what seemed to Blake, an agonizing long time. As he turned away he cast a look toward the one named Jahier. "Cut him down."
"Yes!" Blake cried. "You believe me!"
Gianavel turned back with that steady, certain gaze. "Make no mistake, sir. I will not shed innocent blood because it displeases the Lord. But if you are lying, I will kill you. Do you understand?"
Rubbing his wrists as the ropes fell free, Blake declared, "Yes! Absolutely! I understand!"
Without another word Gianavel walked up the cliff, highlighted against the rising sun, and was gone.
***
It was certain that Cardinal Mazarin, Prime Minister of France, was a man supremely learned in diplomacy.
As Lockhart entered through the hidden portal, the cardinal revealed no signs whatsoever of existing tensions between England and France. And Lockhart projected the same air, quietly closing the doorway as if he'd done it a thousand times. He casually laid his coat and cane, which the priest almost certainly knew was a weapon, across a chair. But to demonstrate that he was not a fool or, even worse, an amateur, he retained his pistol.
Mazarin gave no evidence that he considered the pistol any more intrusive to this tryst than his crucifix. He raised his glass in a toast spoken in Latin, and Lockhart courteously repeated the words that he did not understand.
"I take it that your journey was uneventful?" the cardinal said as he gestured to a matching set of plush chairs, allowing Lock
hart to select his preference.
Lockhart waited until the older cardinal seated himself, assuring the aged priest that he was not willing to completely abandon protocol. He would respond to graciousness, yes, but would not mistake courtesy for cooperation.
As he sat, Lockhart noticed the chair was of the highest craftsmanship and wondered how much longer such works of art would be readily available in the world. In France, as in every other country of the Continent, the culture of mass production was eradicating this pride in perfectionism.
"I suffered no overt attacks," Lockhart replied finally, "but I wouldn't say my journey was 'uneventful.'"
"Oh?" Mazarin closed both hands on the cushioned arms. "I hope you were not inconvenienced."
Something in the tone alerted Lockhart's combat instinct almost as if he sensed something moving in a faint treeline—not sight, exactly, more of glimpsing a ghost passing in a mist. "There was an incident in a tavern outside Saint Etienne du Rouvray," he remarked while watching the priest closely. "I don't know if I was a target."
Mazarin laughed. "It would be encouraging to say that there was nothing sinister about that incident, my friend. But I'm afraid you were, indeed, targeted for. .. ah, mischief."
For a moment Lockhart pursed his lips. "Mischief," he repeated. "Then I suppose that was your man?"
Mazarin nodded.
Lockhart was impressed in more ways than one. "I owe you a great debt."
"I did only what I would have you do unto me."
"The man who attacked me?"
"Is dead."
“I see.”
Lockhart was accustomed to treachery—daggers in the dark, the bodies hidden, secrets protected—and he was a bit surprised that he felt uneasy. He figured it was because he was so cavalierly discussing murder with a priest. "Did your man happen to determine the identity?"
Mazarin shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. We know only that he spoke with an Italian accent—possibly Sicilian—and bore French-made weapons. He had no notes, no evidence."
There was a moment as Lockhart appreciated the breadth of what had happened behind his back at the tavern. He felt a soldiers honor demanding him to say, "I have no doubt that your man saved my life. Please give him my gratitude."
Again the cardinal smiled. "He is only a man quietly dedicated to restoring peace to Christendom, my friend. But, sadly, in protecting the sheep, you must sometimes kill wolves."
Reflexively, Lockhart glanced at the curtained balconies. He hoped the cardinal had not noticed his nervousness, but one look into those glistening, obsidian eyes confirmed that the old priest missed nothing at all. "I didn't know these were such perilous times for you, Holiness."
"On the contrary," Mazarin responded, and like a shift of clouds before the sun, his eyes darkened, "these are perilous times, indeed." He peaked his hands slightly beneath his face and spoke carefully, "For instance, consider the purpose of your visit."
Lockhart didn't blink. "Which is?"
"My young friend," the priest said knowingly, "you are here to plead the cause of the Waldenses. Doubtless, you are prepared to offer me a considerable price for my intercession."
Lockhart was absolutely certain that his aspect neither confirmed nor denied.
Mazarin nodded. "Yes—as I suspected. Please do not be surprised, Sir William. I have spent many decades developing my system of spies and informants. If I were a boastful man I would say that it is second to none. But, in simple truth, I know a great deal about your assignment, including the treaty you're prepared to offer."
"I see," Lockhart replied. "Well, then, I suppose there's not much I can say that hasn't already crossed your mind."
With a warm laugh Mazarin reclined more fully. "I enjoy rendezvous such as this, Sir William. They are far more honest, in my estimation, than negotiations on a battlefield where men often say what they do not mean because the threat of immediate death inspires all manner of half-truths." He laughed. "Yes, here there is just you and I. We are under no pressure to conceal or even distort the truth, so either one of us can simply walk away from any unpleasantness. But let us delay the inevitable. Why don't we simply speak as men?"
"I invite it, Holiness."
"So do I," he laughed. "In fact, it is something I enjoy far too infrequently. Tell me; would you like to know why men fight so passionately for the cause of Christ?"
It was a moment before Lockhart could choose a response. "I've always wondered about it. I assumed it was for love of God, something like that."
"No, Sir William, not for love. It is for fear."
"Fear?"
"Yes," Mazarin commented. "Fear."
Lockhart gazed strangely about the room, then back to the priest. "The fear of what, Holiness?"
"The fear that they are not in control, Sir William—the fear that they never will be."
At that, simply enough, Mazarin settled. "The Inquisitors must target what threatens their power. But they cannot search without hate, for what is more reasonable than to hate what we fear? What is more reasonable than to hate what keeps us from feeling secure in our place?" Mazarin turned his head to gaze toward the empty street. "A man says; 'I am threatened by death—let us kill it.' So he kills the face of death he has placed on someone and considers himself to be enlightened enough to declare that death is, at last, dead. But the truth is this; men kill in the name of God to deny their fear of death."
At least the aged cardinal was not subject to the same base motivations as those who persecuted others for their faith. But Lockhart didn't know if the old man was disposed to bring an ending to such persecution or merely philosophize about it. He waited as Cardinal Mazarin took a slow sip of wine.
"It seems in the spirit of this age men use the love of humanity to mask their fear of God," Lockhart began. "I am privileged that you speak to me without hidden or selfish interests. But my mission is dangerous, my enemy is great, and my cause is just. I want to know if you will help me."
Mazarin's brow hardened as he gazed toward the fireplace. His august head, silhouetted by scarlet flame, held a profound majesty that Lockhart had never seen, even in kings.
"Pope Innocent is dying," he began thoughtfully, "and maneuvers have begun for election of the next archbishop. Consequently, the cardinals are striving to outdo one another to forge a united Church—a single Church for a single country. The Waldenses worship according to the Reformation, so the cardinal’s reason that the Waldenses must be destroyed."
All of the elements together made a formidable enemy. Lockhart shook his head. "What else?"
Mazarin sighed. "Well, the Church is fast losing lands and tides to the Reformed Church. So, much like a thief caught in the act, it resorts to violence to take what it could not take by deception."
"It's not going to work."
"Oh, certainly it will work to a degree," Mazarin commented. "Tyranny always works to a degree. The sword has its own reason, and it cannot be denied. But the sword also has no friends, and those who trust in it often learn their trust was misplaced." He crossed his legs, pondered even longer. "This wrongful war against the Waldenses has several solutions. One, England can invade Piedmont."
"Not a good option."
"Second, there is murder."
Lockhart mentally considered possible targets, but, actually, he didn't know who was vital and who wasn't. Only someone intimately familiar with the internal politics of the situation would be able to make that call.
"I suppose you have a plan?" he asked blandly.
Utterly relaxed with the question, Mazarin tapped fingers on the cushioned arm of the chair. "Well, in truth I have not given it much thought. There is always the usual—a few generals, perhaps a marquis, an Inquisitor or two."
"I'm not certain that My Lord could be convinced of the wisdom of murdering priests. He has a highly developed sense of personal honor." Lockhart added as an afterthought, "Not that he can't be provoked ... to such things."
The cardinal nodded. "T
he third option, then, is that the Inquisitors are bribed to declare a treaty."
"For how much?"
"I would estimate a value equal to whatever they will gain if they win this war."
Lockhart shook his head. "No, My Lord would not be willing to pay such a price to murderers simply so they will cease murdering. He will invade first."
"As I presumed," the cardinal nodded. "Which leaves you with the last option."
"Which is?"
"The Waldenses," he answered and waited for Lockhart to respond; he didn't. "The only other hope is that the Waldenses make this war so expensive that Cardinal Benedict calls off his Inquisitors and the papal army."
An interlude stretched as Lockhart considered the possibility. From what he understood, the Waldenses, though passionate and determined, were utterly outgunned and outnumbered thousands to one in the kind of doomed last stand one rarely sees. Lockhart knew his face revealed his skepticism.
"I don't think that's a realistic option."
Mazarin's black eyes didn't waver; he spoke with a tone of quiet confidence. "Do you know of this man, Joshua Gianavel? The one these Waldenses consider their prince?"
Lockhart hesitated. "No."
"Yes," the priest continued slowly and pondered for a moment with a suddenly strange gaze. "From what I understand, Gianavel is like those that the Almighty raised up in the Old Testament to lead Israel to victory over their enemies. He fights at the front and is apparently a great general of men. He knows no fear, and his courage has inspired all his people. If Gianavel falls, all of Rora will fall. But as long as Gianavel lives, the Vaudois will fight."
Looking away, Lockhart estimated the potential size of Pianessa's militia. "This man, Gianavel, has no chance." He hesitated. "I don't doubt your words, but there's no way Gianavel can defeat Pianessa's army."
"Not alone, no."
That was the crux. Lockhart saw it easily because Cardinal Mazarin had made it easy. "Explain, please."
For the first time, Mazarin leaned forward, folding hands in his lap. His blood red ring stood out boldly against his olive-hued skin and black cassock. "If you are fortunate, my boy, Gianavel will continue to make this war very expensive for the marquis. Then, once the cost greatly outweighs any potential gain, the Duke of Savoy will be able to legitimately recall his forces. Unless, of course, these particular Inquisitors have the fortitude to accuse Savoy of disloyalty."
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