Turning slowly, Gianavel stared upon the farmer who had not yet ceased to declare his innocence. He glared at them in turn, again to Gianavel. “W-W-What are you going to do?”
Gianavel stepped back.
“Please,” Silas cried. “Please! Listen to me! I had no choice! They’re going to kill us! They’re going to kill all of us!”
Blake raised his gaze to the side. Each man stood stoic and bitter. Clearly, they were not completely unaffected by Silas’s pleas for mercy, but neither did they make any display of quarter. They exchanged narrow glances, none meeting the other’s eyes.
It was too much.
Not waiting for a response, Silas turned and attempted futilely to escape, but a handful effortlessly blocked his run.
“Silas!” pronounced Gianavel as a judge pronounces doom.
Trembling, Silas slowly turned to face the Captain of Rora. His head shook back and forth as if refusing a confession that would only assure his death. He fell to his knees, and then, with agonizing, painful slowness, he began to weep, continuing to speak about his family, and Gianavel withdrew his pistol.
Even more frightening than the mask of merciless fury Gianavel had worn in combat was the inhumanly cold control.
No one spoke or moved.
Gianavel leveled his pistol at Silas’s forehead. His voice was cold and severe. “What have you told Pianessa?” he asked. “Speak now, man, if you will speak.”
Face contorted in tears, Silas could only shake his head.
“What have you told Pianessa?” Gianavel demanded in a louder voice.
Silas glared about as if trying to find his memory in surrounding foliage. “I … I told him I would meet his men on the Bagnol tonight! I told him I would show him the secret trails through the valley! But I’ve shown him nothing!” He straightened. “I swear before …”
“Do not!” Gianavel shouted. “You have already done evil to your neighbors. Do not do evil to God.”
“Y-Y-You can’t just kill me!”
Gianavel’s flashing eyes and fierce frown contained the storm within. “We have no place to keep you in chains! We have no men to guard you! You would betray us to Pianessa!”
“But I’m a Waldensian! I’m one of you!”
“Yes,” Gianavel grated, “you are one of us. You have also betrayed us! Only by divine providence, Silas, did we discover your treachery!”
Frantic, vivid hope glared about.
“This is murder!” Silas pleaded. “Look at yourselves! You’re committing murder!”
“Only me,” said Gianavel. “It is my decision, and I will bear the burden of it as well as the judgment.” He shook his head. “Silas … if there were any other way…”
“This is murder!”
“It is justice!” exclaimed Gianavel. “Cursed is the man who withholds his hand from shedding blood when blood is required!” He gathered himself, aimed hard. His words came from gritted teeth. “You will feel no pain.”
“But …” Silas began to weep tears of fear and anger, and his words sounded deep as the ocean in their sincerity,” … but my children! What will they do?”
“You have my word,” Gianavel said and nodded long, as if to himself alone. “I will care for your family as I care for my own. Nor will I be alone. All the valley will work together to meet their needs.”
A terrified silence and stillness smothered the small group. Gianavel repeated softly, “Pray to the Lord now, Silas, so that you will bear nothing with you to His throne. And worry for nothing in this world. All is cared for.”
Silas wept as he closed his eyes, and Blake could not help but watch Gianavel. Minutely, almost invisibly, the pistol began to tremble in his strong right hand. Then his jaw tightened and his teeth gleamed in a terrific grimace, and he pulled the trigger.
The shot hit Silas in the forehead and he tilted forward, not backward as Blake expected. He hit the ground with a surprisingly soft thud, and voluminous smoke from the pistol moved slowly across his utterly still body, spread, lifted, and dissipated like a ghost that slowly enshrouded them all.
Gianavel lowered the pistol to his side.
He bowed his head, and for the first time Blake saw fatigue and weariness in everything about him. Now the Vaudois no longer seemed the heroic, larger-than-life figure that overcame catastrophe after catastrophe with prophetic wisdom and courage and strength. Now he seemed only a man—a man who could be wounded like any other man, a man who knew grief like any other man, and who bled like any other man. His face, which Blake had known only to be hard and resolved to defend his people to the death, was no longer fixed with the stoic, inhuman control that characterized him.
The silence that followed was the most dreadful Blake had ever been forced to endure.
Gianavel stood, head bent, eyes tight. Then, slowly, he removed his powder horn and reloaded and recharged the pistol. He did it mechanically and dutifully like a man that, by force of will and discipline alone would not break the rules of war no matter how terrible the rules of war might injure him. Finally he rammed the ball home in the barrel, stoically reset the rod. Then, inexplicably, he stared at nothing as if expecting, or hoping, someone would speak to make what had happened easier to live with or even.. .right. But no one had any words and nothing was spoken, and with deep weariness Gianavel turned and walked softly into the mountain’s dark mossy silence and gloom.
Emmanuel entered the large chambers that Pianessa had secured for planning his next invasion. Maps of the entire valley drawn in the finest detail, though the Duke of Savoy knew no map could match the memories of the Waldenses, were carefully spread on a large oak table. At least twenty high-ranking members of the militia stood nearby, some joined in quiet conversation, others idly sharpening swords or daggers.
As Pianessa spied the young duke, his face lifted brightly. “Enter, Savoy. We were just finishing preparations for the next, and last, attack on this valley.” Pianessa s smile twisted sardonically. “Perhaps you can find a weakness in our plans.”
Emmanuel shook his head politely as he stared down at the table and almost instantly understood the flags and wooden markers strategically placed beside the Castelluzo, the Bagnol, and the Vellaro. It was a three-pronged attack with a crafty sense of design by Pianessa. Clearly, he valued depth of length of line and was pouring heavy troops reinforced by artillery into the three weakest points of defense. Emmanuel studied the notes but saw no indication of how many men would be required for the attack. He had not forgotten the pardon for prisoners he had signed at Incomel s request.
“I suppose you found quality soldiers in my prisons?” he asked mildly.
Pianessa laughed gustily as he sliced a huge red slab from a roast. He sheathed his dagger without cleaning it, wiped his fingers on his chest.
“Indeed, Savoy. We have almost twenty thousand eager recruits ready to storm the bastions of Rora. A full pardon from the dungeons of El Torre can inspire amazing loyalty in even the most miserable and wretched of murderers, rapists, thieves, and traitors.” He raised a hand for indulgence. “Worry not, Duke—a special regiment of the very worst are assembled to charge the cannons. I doubt you will be troubled by their lives when the battle is done.”
Studying the map another moment, Emmanuel saw the details of the attack. Approximately ten thousand would cross the forests from Bagnol and climb the mountain range on the east of Rora. Another three thousand would once again try to force the Pass of the Pelice, where they had been twice repelled. The last eight thousand troops would climb the trail that led upward from Lucerna, a deep-cut ravine with a steady enough path for ascent but bordered with bluffs high enough to cripple or even kill if a desperate last handhold was not gained.
Three distinctly separate attacks—the Pass, the Bagnol, and the Lucerna. Almost twenty thousand soldiers trying to take a valley more than fifty miles in circumference defended by less than two hundred men. The aspect of what manner of battle this would be was horrifying.
The
Waldenses would not surrender, neither would Pianessa’s troops give them the opportunity. Once the battle was joined in that jagged chessboard of hills, it would be dagger or sword to the death, no quarter asked, none given. Neither side would know how well the battle was faring because no man would be able to see more than a few feet; so none would fight less fiercely even if their forces were already defeated.
Emmanuel had a vague vision of blood running the depth of that valley as high as a horse’s bridle, covering the Earth. His expression must have caught the eye of the Marquis de Pianessa.
“Savoy!” He slapped Emmanuel on the back. “Is this not what you wanted? Victory?”
Emmanuel heard the sound of cavalry in the courtyard beyond and turned to behold hundreds of dragoons. Clearly, Pianessa intended to overrun Rora’s perimeter with a mass of bodies, hurling men into that hell until they were simply too innumerable to kill.
Pianessa pointed to the map. “This is the Pass where Gianavel has defeated us on two occasions. I am certain I don’t need to remind you.” A smile. “But I think I have discovered a weakness in our earlier attack. Although it appears sturdy enough, it will be far less defensible if we crawl over the ridges in groups of three or four. That will force them to disperse their cannon shot, and several of the teams should be able to slip through.” He stared down, pondering. “We should lose no more than a third of our forces to storm their bastions. After that we will be inside the valley, and they have no stronghold to retreat to. We’ll go farm to farm and village to village until we’ve killed them all.”
Incomel appeared in the doorway, always with the facility of appearing when Pianessa’s gusto reached a peak. But he had taken to not appearing without a cadre of minor Inquisitors, as if to make a show of force. It revealed weakness, but Incomel obviously saw the changing tide. It was lasting too long and becoming too expensive in terms of both men and money. It was one thing to endorse the inexpensive destruction of a small village. It was another to provoke a war that depleted Savoy’s sizable treasury.
The marquis lifted an arm as if the priest were an old comrade-in-arms. “Inquisitor!” he boomed and Emmanuel knew now why Pianessa was so animated. The marquis staggered slightly and took a long swallow of wine, then bowed to indicate the Inquisitor’s noble rank and station. “We have royalty among us!”
Unaffected, Incomel approached until he stood over the map. He seemed to understand well enough, then looked to the marquis. “So this will be the last contest with these peasants?”
The black gleam in Pianessa s eyes glinted. “Aye, Inquisitor, nothing but death before you. Imagine all the souls you’ll have rescued from the flames of perdition!”
“Insolent fool!” Incomel snarled in a startling display of emotion. He moved around the table until he stood face-to-face with Pianessa. He raised his hand to stop his guards from approaching, but Pianessa never cast them a glance as he laughed silently.
“This will not end with this war, Pianessa! You have tested the patience of my office long enough! There will be rights to wrong when this is over!”
“Indeed?” Pianessa smiled. “I look forward to that tryst, Inquisitor.” He laughed recklessly. “Indeed …”
With a curse Incomel spun and moved from the room in a ghostly, silent sweep that seemed disturbingly unnatural. When he was fully gone, Emmanuel looked placidly at the marquis.
He laughed again. But the cold, deathly gleam in his dangerous gaze had darkened with anything but laughter.
*
Chapter 15
Blake felt an amazing lightness as he crossed the final rope-bridge to reach the highest part of the mountain. Although the ascent was much easier this time, it didn't much matter because he had been moving for two days and a night, and at this point, everything was difficult. His fatigue was so great that he felt himself floating on his feet.
He was glad that he hadn't been required to help carry the rifles and ammunition from the wagon. He wouldn't have made it a quarter mile with anything heavier than his head. Even unburdened, he was assisted by the Waldenses at crevice and ladder as he stumbled or leaned upon knees, catching his breath.
Although the air was not noticeably thinner, it seemed to have a distinct effect. But the highlanders didn't seem winded as they hiked mile after mile, and Blake began to wonder if he was getting too old for this. He was not old by any means—some of the men almost tripled him in years—but, then again, age could not be completely measured in years.
Gianavel was certainly in his fourth decade, though he seemed younger in the suppleness of his stride and his seemingly endless endurance, for he revealed no more fatigue when they finished than when they began. He also seemed to have an older man's stoic patience and calm, for he was neither irritable nor critical, despite the physical obstacles they had overcome and the traumatic events of the day. The battle itself would have been disturbing enough, but the death of Silas was almost too much for Blake himself to handle. He could only imagine what emotional distress Gianavel had suffered and still suffered.
He had learned quickly that the Waldenses were an uncommonly courteous and kind people. Almost to a man, once he had been accepted, they shared their food or water with him. And after they arrived back at the ridge, the old man, Hector, had handed him a bottle of wine, bread, and cheese.
The English flintlocks he'd smuggled into Piedmont were noticeably finer than the French muskets, so Blake took a moment to explain the double-set triggers and the rifled barrel. He also explained elevation and windage screws, loading weight, and provided a good estimation of accuracy and range.
In the last case was a uniquely beautiful flintlock apparently custom designed for someone of royal rank. Exquisitely plated with antique blue steel, it had a patchbox emblem of England on the oak stock and had an adjustable sight marked to three hundred meters. Blake did not even think rifles could throw a round so far, but the maker of this firearm had high hopes.
Gianavel tested it on the side of the mountain and was openly impressed that it did, indeed, reach almost a quarter mile with the right load. A quick inspection revealed that the rifling was twice as tight as the rest, immensely improving accuracy, and also immensely more difficult to forge. Whoever had ordered the rifle had spent a considerable sum on its construction. And Blake wondered if the weapon had been crafted for Cromwell himself. If so, Cromwell had certainly known of its delivery to the Waldenses—another hidden key of his passionate endorsement of their cause.
The sun had almost completely descended when Gianavel handpicked forty men and told them to acclimate to the rifles until they lost the light. Within moments the mountainside echoed with a cacophony of blasts, and smoke flowed lazily from the jagged arena of rock to the waving green sea of foliage below.
Blake watched curiously as Gianavel walked a distance apart, finally rising on a slope. Following the captain, he watched as Gianavel knelt alone on the side of the slope, nearly hidden in the shadow of a giant oak with boughs that bent somberly in the dusk like one weeping with the grief of another, mourning with he who mourns. And he watched the cold hillside until the sun was gone and solid dark separated one man from another, and still the captain had not come down from the hill.
Others ate and drank and by twos and threes began to retire. Then Blake began to feel sleepy and warm beside the fire and lay on a comfortable bed of furs. When he awoke the next morning the hillside was bright and the tree was alone in stark light. Then he looked beside his bed and saw that the rifle with the ornate patchbox emblem had been stood carefully beside his bed in the night.
And Gianavel was gone.
***
Angela awoke and knew not why.
It was morning outside, but it was yet early, and she had worked almost through the night, not able to rest until it was almost dawn. She shouldn't have risen so early, but she thought of Gianavel.
As if she could see the ridge of the Castelluzo from the window, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stood. She
saw him before her mind could realize what she had seen and lifted an arm in sharp exclamation. But instantly she fell silent, staring in horror at the man who led Rora.
Motionless, Gianavel sat in a cushioned chair against the wall. His shirt was blackened by blood and soot. Blackened hands rested upon his knees against his black trousers. His head was bent with profound melancholy, his hair swept back carelessly from his forehead. He stared at nothing, yet he stared. He did not move, save for the soft shirting of the folds of his shirt, and the whole of him inhabited a tragic desolation of spirit that seemed beyond human consolation.
Angela took a hesitant step. "Joshua ...?"
Gianavel blinked once, then inhaled deeply and released. He didn't look up as he wearily shook his head. Angela rushed to his side, falling to a knee to stare up in the dark, tragic gaze and saw the kind of pain that broken men know. His eyes softened as she grasped his hand, and he blinked. Angela had never seen him like this and hid her shock. And she knew that no words would be adequate to quell whatever gloom his spirit had not been able to defeat.
Finally he lifted his face, shook his head slowly. He seemed to search the room as he whispered, "Such things must be done ... in war. The people need someone ... to defend them. And not all have the power to do the things that must be done."
Angela listened, waited, watched.
"I ... have power," Gianavel said bitterly. "The power to change the scope of this war ... to do what must be done. It would be easy to say that I don't, but that would be a lie. So I decide between good and evil, and enforce my will. And men die."
For a long time he paused.
"If there were only someone to tell me ... that I am right."
Angela looked at the hand upon hers. She turned her palm over and held it, placing both hands over his. Holding it tightly, she said, "I have seen this hand touch with such gentleness. I have seen it wipe away the tears of a child. I've seen it work day and night to feed your family." She paused. "I have never seen it do wrong."
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