Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  "It's been ten years," Pietro replied. "I wouldn't volunteer if this gray beard didn't give me an advantage."

  Gianavel turned to the rest. "Remember: When they find you in the field, accuse them of being Waldenses before they accuse you. They will not be so quick to attack when they are defending themselves against the same charge. Then, after the confusion and accusations die down, join them peacefully.

  "Once you discover their plan of attack, assume a guard post and desert it during the night. Once you are in the mountains, stay on the secret trails and return to us as quickly as possible. Remember the password and use it. Don't be killed by our own guards." He stared at each of them. "Are you certain you wish to undertake this task?"

  Each man nodded.

  Gianavel returned it. "Be as cunning as serpents. To practice deceit in war is our duty, and God will honor your courage." He turned to Jahier. "Are they equipped?"

  "Uniforms and weapons."

  With a last look, Gianavel said, "Push hard to reach the lower level of the valley before dawn. If they see you descending the mountain, they'll kill you no matter what you say."

  Without further discussion they lifted weapons and in moments were swallowed by surrounding night. Not even their footsteps could be discerned in the heavy cold of the shelter, and Jahier shook his head.

  "It is a dangerous gambit," he growled to Gianavel. "If one of them is captured, they may talk."

  Gianavel shook his head as he changed the flint in his musket. "We need information."

  "Why?"

  "Because Pianessa won't make the same mistake again. Next time, he'll divide his attack and try to make us divide. We need to know where they'll be hitting us."

  "True," agreed Jahier, then gazed solemnly over Gianavel. "And what of you, Joshua?"

  Gianavel lifted his gaze, said nothing.

  Uncharacteristically solemn, Jahier said, "You have responded to this war from the first as if you've waited for it all your life." He paused thoughtfully. "I have been a captain for as many years as you. I have always been prepared to fight, even as you. But it still took me hours to accept the fact that war had come. You accepted it as though you were expecting it."

  There was a long pause and Gianavel sighed. "I don't know. I've never forgotten the war that almost killed us when we were children. I vowed never to let it happen again—not to my children, nor yours." He paused, frowned. "I've always been ready for it."

  Gianavel gazed across the camp. "You know, reading the Scriptures so many of those nights... I cannot remember a single night that I didn't pray for the strength to do what I'm doing now. But, even then, I somehow knew that I would." He shrugged. "I hoped that God had not revealed to me a prophecy. I hoped that it was only my mind, or my fear." He looked again at Jahier. "I feared this fight, brother. I have always feared this fight. But I will do what God has prepared me to do."

  Jahier did not blink as Gianavel picked up his rifle and walked away. "It's not by courage that I fight—it's faith."

  ***

  Hector was hard at work with heavy wads of small round balls crammed into a waxlike mixture that Bertino had lifted from a barrel with a wooden spatula that was as wide as an oar. Faces black and grimy with sweat and soot, they labored with uncommon patience and grace, moving steadily as oxen beneath a plow.

  Gianavel glanced at their besmeared visages and said nothing, but his face tightened in a smile because Bertino's eyes were two oceans of white staring from a moon of black. The big farmer leaned forward on his arms, wiped a black forearm across a black face. '"Tis work here, boy, I tell you, for nothing."

  Gianavel laughed, studied the short lines of grapeshot, all divided by weight for the demi-cannon, the ten-pounders and forty-pounders. He estimated no more than a hundred shot. "You're doing well, brothers, but is that all?"

  Bertino bent his face. Said nothing.

  "The ordnance wagon was loaded with solid shot," Hector said quietly. "We're having to make the grapeshot one at a time." He hesitated, lips moving in silence. "We'll have a thousand by morning."

  "What about balls?"

  "A thousand."

  "Hold the grapeshot until they're on top of us," Gianavel said. "And have experienced men on the cannons. How are the bastions progressing?"

  Hector nodded, "Well enough. Pianessa's boys won't be able to hide or dig a ramp. If they're going to breach the wall, they'll have to come straight over the top." He hesitated, cocked his head. "I tell you, boy, that'll be butchery."

  Gianavel moved to the lip of the ridge and surveyed construction. Fifty men and women were laboring in the dark with shovels and picks and barrels of rock and dirt. Working steadily and strongly without comment or complaint, they had raised the wall ten feet.

  Dropping into their midst, where the heaviest stones were being lifted to ring the highest section of the bastion, Gianavel relieved a worn and weary villager. And at Gianavel's smile the man laughed and stepped aside, allowing the Captain of Rora to lift the stones to the rim, where others lifted them still higher, stone upon stone.

  With patience and enduring strength they worked, building the defense higher and higher, and then someone began to sing—someone not so distant, but out of sight. It was a woman, her voice beautiful and convinced and strong, and she sang for only a moment before the voices of children joined.

  And then almost at once it spread along the line—each man, woman, and child taking up the song that praised their true stronghold, their omnipotent Redeemer who would allow neither demon, nor angel, nor principality nor power, nor height nor breadth, nor any other power to separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus the Lord.

  ***

  Charon, the black-cloaked embodiment of Death who ferried the souls of the dead into Hades, would not have been more cryptic than the silent boatman who ferried Sir William Lockhart across the English Channel.

  The shores of France loomed black against midnight blue, a wide expanse of stars that had not been visible as Lockhart exited the heavily guarded corridors of Whitehall, nor the humble abode of John Milton, and Lockport thought he could hear waves crashing against the sandy white shore. Many times he had made this journey, both in war and in peace, but never so alone, or feeling so alone.

  He hoped to move past militia posts with his diplomatic pouch and foresaw no violent challenges, since every precaution had been taken to insure secrecy. But inside Whitehall, where Cromwell resided, the perpetual intrigues of Parliament made secrets expensive to purchase, and even then, they were held with questionable currency.

  Lockhart lifted his head at the thunderous shore and saw the moonlit foam—streaks of white reaching into darkness above a rushing roar— sooner than he expected because he was almost too keenly registering the most minute stimuli.

  The boatman signaled the shore still a hundred yards off, and Lockhart saw a horse waiting. He could not see the face of the man holding the reins, but he appeared to be alone. Lockhart glanced again at the boatsman so static and vigilant in the stern. His eyes were wide and his face alight with the white light of the moon and still he had said nothing.

  Lockhart repressed a mild laugh.

  No, he thought, neither would I say anything if I had been summoned in the middle of night by the Captain of the Royal Guard to ferry a mysterious government agent across the channel, then paid handsomely to forget the journey before dawn. The gold in my pocket and the ominous consequences of careless words would be sufficient stimulus for an indifferent memory.

  Bending his head, Lockhart felt the pouch at his waist.

  Cromwell's seal upon an unconcealed diplomatic pouch was his greatest guarantee of reaching Paris unharmed. But it could also attract the greatest danger by inspiring curiosity and suspicion. If an attack came, Lockhart was certain it would come without warning and without quarter because they could not risk letting him live.

  His hand slipped upward to the varnished mahogany hilt of his flint-lock pistol. The barrel was full
y twelve inches in length and forged from Damascus steel appropriated in Blake's raid at Dunkirk. It was bored for accuracy, as the French did for sporting rifles, and fired a single .50-caliber ball. The pommel of the hilt was capped with a solid steel spike the length of his thumb. An odd accouterment, it was true, but hardly noticeable and perfect for staving skulls in a pinch.

  His sword was Spanish—Toledo steel, forged and re-forged to lighten the blade and purify it to a point where the steel would bend with an impact and straighten again. He was comforted by the certainty that he was greatly skilled at fencing but such knowledge was, ironically, a two-edged sword. When one becomes extremely adept at killing one also becomes aware of how easily one can be killed.

  Fortunately, modern weapons had made hand-to-hand combat almost a thing of the past. Since the invention of guns it was almost unknown for battles to be settled by blows as in days of old. But this, also, had its curse. Now men kill too often because guns have made killing too easy. No longer did men need courage or hard skill gained from years of discipline and training. Now, with a coward s finger and a ball of worthless lead a kingdom could be claimed.

  Slowly the shore drew closer, and Lockhart reached into his boot, pulling out two small bags of coin. His other boot contained a long dagger and keys of indiscriminate make that would supposedly master all known locks. But, as he was experienced with lock picks, he planned to prudently avoid their necessity. Stalwart courage and an accurate pistol were good— an open window and a fast horse were better.

  As the ship grounded, Lockhart took a moment to scan the beach and saw only what he expected—nothing.

  He tossed a coin bag to the still silent boatman and went over the stern, seeing the pale, flat slates beneath the white tide. He had time for thought as he descended, and then he walked quickly from the surf to the man holding the reins of a large white stallion. He was pleased, as he reached it, to recognize that it was a full-blooded Arabian, bred for stamina and endurance, the perfect beast to bear him across the road to Paris.

  Moving quickly—more from suppressed fear than logical need— Lockhart mounted the stallion and turned it immediately away from England and into the darkness.

  *

  Chapter 9

  Emmanuel stood alone on the broad mezzanine that bordered the palace. The evening's dramatic confrontation between the Puritan and Inquisitor had certainly not disappointed. But he knew nothing was over; it had only begun.

  The courtyard bristled with more activity than usual for this time of night. One woman was carrying a tightly wrapped bundle of sticks on her shoulder, a few men loitered around the inner wall as if planning a revolt, and the blacksmith shop was fully alight with lantern and torch. The cacophony of voices and the sharp ring of a hammer pounding steel against an anvil reminded Emmanuel that every soldier with a sword had been honing and cleaning his blade for yet another charge against the defiant Waldenses.

  In truth, Emmanuel admired this man—Gianavel—and, in general, the Waldenses as a people. They had always served him faithfully and were industrious and diligent tradesmen and craftsmen, renowned for their fastidious inclination to collect coinage. Some even called them misers but they were not misers. They had simply developed, through the long centuries of persecution, a tendency to seek financial security.

  Nothing wrong with that, he mused. Indeed, he wished that all the diverse peoples within his kingdom were so inclined to make his treasury infinitely stronger. In fact, the Waldenses reminded him of the occasional Jew he had encountered.

  The Jews, too, were fastidious with a coin and had practically invented the idea of window displays, advertising, regular supply schedules and specialty shops. Like the Waldenses, they were also close-knit and suspicious and tightly regimented. They had social mores and codes of conduct that Emmanuel found convoluted, complex, and, frankly, somewhat bizarre. But he did not deny that they were both skilled and wise. Nor did he have any disputes with them; they were too profitable to despise. And the wheels of every kingdom needed the lubricant of gold to run smoothly.

  Staring toward the blacksmith s, he remembered what Simon had taught him about the unquenchable hatred that seemed to burn against the Jewish people. Monarch after monarch had been set upon their destruction, and monarch after monarch had died, and Israel remained. Then he thought of David, who conquered the fierce Moabites, the Gadites, and the feared Amalekites. And, doubtless, the Hebrew would have conquered the entire world—there was no one left to defy him—if the Lord had not told him to sheath his sword.

  Always, among these people, God seemed to raise up a man of obscure origin who was destined to defend them from their enemies.

  David ... or Gianavel, he thought.

  Both of them ... men who were the most dangerous of enemies, men who embodied a purpose greater than themselves.

  Outnumbered thousands to one, virtually alone against armies of incalculable power, nothing to fight with but their sword, nothing to live for but their faith—two men who stood virtually alone against the mightiest military machines the world had ever known. And though Gianavel or David would fall upon their faces before the Lord, neither would kneel to any earthly kingdom, neither would surrender to any foe. Even when their doom was assured, they placed their trust in God, and they defied and fought ... and they won.

  For years the Waldenses had stood courageously against the Catholic Church. But never had they waged a war of this scope and power, defying the combined might of two armies, that of Piedmont and the Church itself in a grim and terrible last stand when all hope for victory seemed madness. But now they were, and Emmanuel grudgingly respected them for it.

  Emmanuel saw a lantern was set aglow in his cousin's bedroom. He stared for a moment to discern shadows but knew Pianessa was there, that he was always there late at night.

  He felt nothing about it. His cousin's life was hers. He did not care whom she chose as a suitor as long as it did not threaten his inherited kingdom. And although Pianessa was indeed a ruthless monarch, he could not inherit the House of Savoy; therefore he was not a threat.

  If, perchance, he did become a threat, Emmanuel had already set in place certain assurances that Pianessa would not long enjoy his victory. For upon Emmanuel's murder a faithfully harbored fortune in gold would be paid to an unknown apothecary whose knowledge of poison was almost supernatural. Nor had Emmanuel been slow to insure that the sorcerer was safely in his pocket, and not Pianessa’s. Such men were necessary allies because they were too dangerous to be enemies.

  Emmanuel glanced again toward the blacksmith's. The sounds continued but were not so cluttered as before. Soon all those who had spent the long night sharpening their swords would raise them once more against Rora.

  Against Gianavel ...who was waiting.

  Emmanuel wondered if any of them would return.

  ***

  Pianessa set the bottle on the table and stared at the wine a moment before raising the glass for a long swallow.

  "I've never seen you drink so heavily," Elizabeth said in a tone neither worried nor condemning.

  Pianessa arched a corner of his mouth as he gazed at her. "I am attempting to drown my fear of the Vaudois."

  Saying nothing, Elizabeth walked forward as the marquis collapsed on the couch. His eyes were narrow black slits, unfocused and vaguely angry

  "I do not understand this man," he muttered at last.

  "This Puritan?"

  "No. This man—Gianavel."

  "What about him, my love?"

  "He ... disturbs me."

  Elizabeth's hand rested on Pianessa's collar.

  "This Waldensian's religion is everything to him," Elizabeth said. "You've seen such men before."

  The marquis' brow hardened, as if he could see some terrifying image standing before him—an image with which he was not accustomed. "Soldiers have similar weaknesses—fear, hunger, pain. I know how to break men. But I do not understand ... this man. I don’t know how to break him."

>   As the duchess stared in silence, Pianessa mumbled strangely, "I wonder if God raised up this man to defend his people."

  There was a stunning interlude in which only the duchess blinked. Her voice was quiet. "I didn't think that you believed in God, Pianessa."

  Utterly without humor, Pianessa laughed. "Do you truly think one who has watched so many men die could not believe in God?" He smiled. "No, my dear, I believe in God. It's just that, until now, I believed all His people were sheep. They were not soldiers. They were not even men. But this man ... he fights like someone who has spent his entire life preparing for war ... I don't understand ..."

  Watching acutely, Elizabeth touched his arm. "Gianavel is just another man, my love."

  Pianessa frowned. "Is he?"

  Saying nothing, Elizabeth watched as Pianessa suddenly stirred himself, as if embarrassed, and rose to pure another goblet of wine. His stature was oddly bent.

  "Yes," he said with a harsh laugh. "Just a man."

  Elizabeth reached up to grasp his hand as he approached. "And he will die. Like any ... other ... man."

  Pianessa's frown deepened.

  "Yes..."

  ***

  Even more morose than usual, Sir Samuel Morland laid his flintlock pistol upon the cabinet of his room. He had carried it during dinner just as his two colleagues, the Reverend Troy Barnes and Virgil Rich, a distant relative of the colorful Puritan Parliamentarian Robert Rich, the Earl of Warwick, walked into the room.

  Solemnly Sir Morland turned to the Reverend Barnes and Master Rich, who were bent over a wide variety of weapons they had concealed. He counted two daggers, three pistols and what appeared to be a maiden's slender poniard.

  Master Rich, with a faculty for flair inherited from his charismatic uncle, suddenly pulled out a palm-sized blunderbuss. Concealed within his sleeve, the weapon most closely resembled a fortified pistol with a flared barrel. The port was almost an inch wide and fired a tightly packed ball of grapeshot.