Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  Morland frowned over the weapon. "How many innocent men, women, children and, perhaps, elephants did you expect to take out with your blunderbuss, Master Rich?"

  The youngest Puritan smiled and bowed, hands uplifted. "Self-preservation is a subject close to my heart, gentlemen." He straightened. "I was trusting Providence that neither of my colleagues would be in front of my weapon when it was, in the utmost desperation, discharged."

  The Reverend Barnes who, at sixty, was by far the oldest, grunted, "I doubt I would be complaining about a touch of grapeshot as long as it preserved my life. Not that I wish to witness such an experience."

  The smile quickly escaped Morland s face as he went to the open window and stared over Turin. It was only in the plains beyond the city that Morland had been moved to shock, then tears, and then a wrath that he had never dreamed possible as he'd ridden through fields of the butchered Waldenses.

  He had not expected the travesty of so many bloating bodies unburied, the innumerable severed arms and legs, and the butchered, unidentifiable body parts strewn like so many tree limbs through grass and meadow. Even more ominous were the wide blood trails that so frequently marked streets and roadways and then disappeared into fields or forests, leaving the witness of torment unknown.

  Knowing that he had passed no living human being in that entire great valley was enough to measure the totality of this war, though he twice caught a glimpse of something moving furtively in distant trees. He thought it might be children, probably terrified and starving. And on both instances he had ridden to the wood line, searching and calling gently, but the anticipated pathetic images had not emerged from the gloom. Only silence had hovered beneath the busy hum of the forest day, and he had ridden on.

  Morland turned from the window. His two companions were waiting with disciplined patience. Even Master Rich seemed willing to suffer indefinitely—evidence that, beneath the colorful facade, the young Puritan was quite serious.

  "We have no choice," he declared.

  Glances were exchanged.

  The Reverend Barnes' brow rose as he crossed his arms on his chest. "A man might read a hefty tome into that comment, brother. Would you care to elucidate?"

  "It means that we must continue to take descriptions of the passes and the valleys," Morland replied. "Clearly, the Inquisitors have a vise on the government, here."

  "No surprise," mumbled Reverend Barnes as he poured them three glasses of a rich, red wine. "What did you expect?"

  Morland began to pace. "I expected atrocities, but not horror. I thought the age had passed when such things—such butchery—was committed in the name of God."

  "There are wars that are regrettable," said Barnes and paused. "And there are wars that are evil. I have never seen a war that was wholly right."

  "No," muttered Morland. "Nor I."

  "So," Barnes asked, "which is this?"

  Morland was solemn. "I call it evil, Reverend."

  "Aye," the older man agreed.

  "Which means we must proceed with My Lord's plan."

  "Which is?"

  "Scout out the country." Morland resumed his pace. "Make detailed notes of the roads, the passes. Obtain as much information as we can for an invasion."

  Master Rich froze. "You're serious?"

  "Of course he's serious, boy," said Reverend Barnes.

  "Of course I'm serious, boy," Morland muttered.

  Rich took a heavy sip of wine.

  "These Jesuits and Inquisitors must be stopped! If not, this war could spread across the entire continent!"

  Reverend Barnes mused. "Possible ... Unlikely, though."

  "What men may do in one country with impunity, they will attempt in another with opportunity." Morland stopped in stride. "We have just emerged from an age where conflict with the Church meant instant death. Lord Cromwell has no intention of allowing this tyrannical and unashamed intolerance to spread to the shores of England." In thought, he leaned upon the table. "There are two dangers. One, Savoy may realize we are not here simply to plead the cause of the Waldenses. In that case," he added simply, "we will be murdered. Second, if these Inquisitors consider us a genuine threat to their cause, they might incarcerate us as spies."

  "Neither works for me," said Master Rich dully.

  With a glance Reverend Barnes remarked, "Don't worry, Master Rich, you're too fond of dancing for the Almighty to throw you in the stockades."

  The young Puritan laughed.

  "Very well," continued Barnes calmly. "What is your plan, then? Further surveying of the countryside? Do you wish to attempt contact with the Waldenses?"

  "That is already being undertaken," Sir Morland muttered. "Lord Cromwell has sent an ambassador to them. A man skilled in covert manners."

  "Who?" asked Rich.

  Sir Morland waved. "Sufficient to say My Lord is using someone diabolically skilled at subterfuge." He paused, as if stunned by his own admission. "A heathen, actually, of outlandish criminal cunning and unholy powers of deception."

  His words assumed the tone of the most reluctant respect. "A madman, in truth, who can scarce conceive of any such thing as decency or morality or—"

  "No," whispered Reverend Barnes.

  "A reprobate scoundrel, by my word, who would steal his very mother's bones from the grave and sell them to buy flowers for a harlot! A man who would—"

  "No!"

  "Yes!" Sir Morland pronounced.

  "It is Blake!"

  ***

  Once actually accused of selling cemetery plots aboard a ship at sea, Robert "Blackjack" Blake had no qualms with his reputation—gunrunner, gambler, con artist or ruffian, he was politely tolerant of those who deemed his chameleon-like profession to be the lowliest of criminals and thieves.

  Indeed, he had never actually been convicted of any crime whatsoever, hence he considered himself a businessman. Yes, perhaps a businessman engaged in questionable businesses, but he had no feuds with any government or church, save the uncultured Spaniards and the intolerant Catholics. Besides, he was unfailingly kind and generous to the poor, to orphans and widows and the sick. And, the way he saw it, if you loved the poor, the sick, orphans, and widows—if you made a sincere effort to not overindulge in drink or carnal pursuits, one might stand a chance at the Judgment.

  He had never been the least impressed with the Church. He had known more than one Protestant reverend prone to brutalizing the poor sheep of his flock, and nothing could increase the furious retributions of the Catholics when someone muttered disagreement. Hence he found it more expedient to wear a number of hats that he would appropriately tip to the appropriate hat, only to change it quickly enough if winds changed. In an age where a point of view could be punished by death, he found it practical for a man to hold more than one point of view.

  Through cunning and generous donations he had friends in every country from his native Transylvania to Ireland and could traverse almost any territory without proper papers simply by relying upon his underground network of safe houses, salaried soldiers, priests thankful for his gifts to the treasury, and equally thankful brothels.

  While he was yet a youth, working as a spy in the camps of the Turks, he had learned that loyalty and obedience shared the same portion of the brain. But it was far easier to inspire a man with gold than a righteous cause. A useful bit of knowledge, but it did present problems. Indeed, he had accumulated great wealth on a regular basis but it was so thoroughly taxed through his system of informants, spies, the usual collection of mercenaries, generals, priests, politicians, and harlots that he rarely retained a substantial piece for himself.

  C'ais le guerre ...

  His current activity involved smuggling the most recently designed flintlock rifles from France to England, an adventure that had rewarded him quite handsomely until he had been recruited—nay, shanghaied—by three grim and implacable captains of Lord Cromwell. The subsequent "dialogue" held in the catacombs beneath Whitehall was far less negotiation than ultimatum, and b
efore evening he was aboard a ship loaded with military hardware.

  As prudence required, he had surrendered choice commodities to speed his travels—namely precious kegs of aged Irish whiskey. He had also reluctantly promised his future services on a stunt of meager profit to a coalition of monarchs. And, in a particularly dire moment in which he stood to lose not only his cargo but also his life, agreed to a temporary treaty with a competitor. Doubtless, posterity would record that lamentable moment as the low point of an otherwise distinguished criminal career, but such were the cosmic vagaries of life.

  His instructions, detailed by Cromwell and ominously explained by his captain, were exceedingly precise. He was to smuggle a shipment of two hundred flintlock rifles and pistols as well as swords and daggers through Switzerland. Then he was to "somehow" penetrate the security forces of Piedmont and proceed by any means possible above the Pelice and to the lair of the Waldenses, who were at war with the Marquis de Pianessa.

  Presented in his cell with the opportunity to perform the task for the sake of "England and all Christendom," Blake had reckoned it beneath a man of his criminal renown. But upon entering the tightly guarded Alps, he realized reaching the Waldenses with his shipment intact would require a bolt—nay, a masterstroke—of criminal genius. Fortunately, it was not the first time he had been so challenged.

  Obtaining the robes of a deceased Inquisitor whom some say was poisoned, he purchased the cooperation of two comrades to pose as priests. Riding within the "Inquisitor's Coach," as it was known, with the secured firearms under the boards at his feet, they made the journey across the mountains relatively unchallenged by Catholic military forces.

  It helped that Blake was quick to suspect "the intervention of Lucifer" at the slightest delay with carefully calculated expressions that hinted of a possible mental unbalance.

  Indeed, he learned, there was nothing more terrifying than an unhinged Inquisitor beholding demons whispering in yon ear or one who might abruptly smell the presence of the devil within this man's cloak or that. Who stalked about the campsite alert to "blasphemies," or who, for whatever incomprehensible reason, suspected virtually everyone of being in danger of the fires of hell.

  It was not with a little relief that the soldiers abandoned him in the valley of Piedmont after hastily participating in yet another communion, Blake intoning solemnly atop a disguised crate of rifles.

  But the journey across Piedmont had been more difficult and involved innumerable changes in direction and purpose to confuse random patrols more than willing to offer him more safe passage. But, no, he pronounced, he would rely upon the omnipotent power of the Almighty, thank you, and would not despise the Most High by trusting in musket balls and cannons and gunpowder and the corruption of the flesh that withered and faded like grass ...

  By now he could deliver the speech with effortless perfection. Nor could he say that it was the first time he had preserved his life in such a manner. Indeed, this was not even the first time his talents had come into use by England's Lord Protector.

  Cromwell usually relied upon an established military man with a flair for friendship to execute covert missions. But his Lordship was not above stooping down to pick up a weapon, so to speak. And Blake had repeatedly proven himself adept at "appropriating" things, as Cromwell so tactfully termed it.

  The Pass of Pelice rose toward a huge gray monolith of a mountain, or what seemed a mountain, with a huge cave visible even from the valley floor. And it was there that he first encountered a patrol also accompanied by priests.

  Watching from the gun-portal of the coach, Blake quickly donned his Inquisitor's cloak and chanced a quick shout to his two "priests" to halt the wagon. In a flash he decided...

  When in doubt—Attack.

  He heard a guard. "What is this riot?"

  Blake waited, then, "What's this!"

  He threw open the door of the coach and stood angrily, glaring at an amphitheater of fearsomely armed guards.

  "Who is in command of this rabble?" Blake shouted and spied a seasoned sergeant major.

  The sergeant bowed respectfully. "I'm sorry, Father, but—"

  "But you have reason to defy the authority of an Inquisitor General?" Blake challenged. "What is the meaning of this?"

  Obviously, the sergeant thought the meaning was clear. The land was at war. Everyone was in danger, and what in the blazes was an Inquisitor doing out here in the middle of—

  "You cannot answer?" Blake pronounced. "If you speak the truth, why can you not answer?"

  The sergeant was struck. He glanced at the priests, and one quickly spurred his horse forward and dismounted. Blake descended from the coach and extended his hand. The priest, not an Inquisitor, knelt and kissed his ring. "You honor us, Father."

  "Yes," Blake murmured. "Rise and speak. What is the meaning of this inquiry that delays my passage?"

  The priest humbly folded his hands.

  "War, Father, the land is ..."

  "War!" Blake shouted as he lifted his arms. "Of course there is war! There is always war!" He pointed to the mountain that he sincerely hoped belonged to the Waldenses.

  "There is the devil!"

  Horses shied at the great, enraged voice that suddenly trumpeted with such biblical wrath, and in fear many of the soldiers blessed themselves. The first priest, a Jesuit, reached out to gently pull Blake's arm, pleading with him to not invoke the name of the evil one.

  Seizing the moment, Blake raised the scepter taken from the hand of the dead Inquisitor and monumented the posture Moses had surely taken at the Red Sea.

  "I behold innumerable angels battling with yon dragon!" Blake thundered. Face contorted with Old Testament prophecy, he pointed to the sergeant major. "Do not speak! Say nothing of my journey! For God has hedged me in with angels to prevent the evil one from discerning my location and destination!"

  Struck by fear, several of the soldiers hastily dismounted and stood quietly, hands folded. They glanced nervously at one another as if uncertain whether to stand or kneel.

  "Kneel!”thundered Blake.

  Even the priests flew from their saddles and hit their knees, and Blake stood over them, his terrible arms stretched in agony, face uplifted to the sky.

  "You fight with the hand of God on your shoulder!" Blake bellowed and then paused to listen to "divine instruction." He grabbed the closest priest, who flinched. "Do you have the power to defeat the evil one?"

  The priest opened his mouth—

  "God has given me the power!" shouted Blake. "And for this reason God has sent me! Pray!"

  All prayed.

  Finally there was only silence, and Blake gazed down, the most sublime of smiles upon his emotion-charged face. His words were barely audible. "Do you understand?"

  Blake knew that he did not understand. He was fairly certain the priests did not understand. He was absolutely certain the sergeant did not understand.

  "I understand," the sergeant whispered.

  Blake held the sergeant's face, weeping tears of joy.

  "Yes ..."

  With a dramatic sweep of his priestly cloak, Blake turned and mounted his wagon and they stood. Then he spun and raised a hand with grave authority, and they knelt again. Blake closed his eyes and almost made the mistake of using his egregious Latin.

  "The hour is at hand! Pray God delivers me safely to my destination! Pray for your souls and for all the souls around you! I shall return!"

  Blake spun toward his purchased priests.

  "Onward!"

  With finality he hit the interior wall and then peered narrowly through a gun port to see if his scheme had worked. It needed only to last long enough for him to clear this valley.

  The sergeant had turned to one of the priests. His head was turned in the opposite direction, shaking from side to side, and the priest was nodding solemnly. In moments they mounted, and five minutes later Blake felt the first faint tendrils of relief.

  If his fortune continued he'd locate the Waldenses be
fore nightfall and his job would be finished. But he had no idea how he would make it out of this war-torn plain. He'd worry about that when the time came.

  One catastrophe at a time.

  *

  Chapter 10

  Emmanuel was tired of waking in the dark, tired of lying in the shroud of shadows for long, dark hours until he felt himself growing dark with them, and finally rose to watch the faintest early dawn.

  Watching it as he had watched it every morning recently, he wondered what he was truly thinking and feeling, because he no longer slept peacefully. In fact, he could not remember sleep.

  Now, every night was a visitation of familiar images that did not yet have a name and which he did not yet understand. He only knew that they were bloody and horrid, that he was somehow their prisoner, and they would not let him go. He sensed that he was doomed, not because he was guilty but because he could not explain his innocence.

  He had hoped after the first several nights that they would fade, as most dreams tend to fade, but they did not fade. They returned every night, sometimes the same, sometimes different, but always with the same unknowable message or meaning. Then he would awake half-rested, half-exhausted with his head aching from the ceaseless, unending visions.

  He wondered if his fitfulness was somehow related to the Waldenses. His ancestors had warred with the Waldenses, also provoked by the Church to destroy the "heretics." He wondered if they, too, might have been haunted night after night by incomprehensible images of death and suffering that caused them to awake fearful and confused. He wondered if he was simply weak, or if the dreams were more than dreams.

  Even as he considered it, he knew he could know no answer. If he could ask Simon, he knew he would receive some cryptic warning about God speaking to men in their dreams. But he did not need old Simon to warn him of that. It was a familiar superstition of the age: Dreams were the domain where both angels and demons battled with men.

  He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead where the headache seemed to reside.

  Enough...

  He loathed rising early and "administering" to affairs of his kingdom before midday. There was simply something surly about listening to noblemen wax pompous about imagined slights or indulging the cold Jesuits who continuously complained about the evil spread across the land by the Waldenses. He greatly preferred roaming the grounds or practicing fencing or archery. He was, in fact, an excellent archer and regularly defeated Pianessa's bowmen during hunts.