As the blaze gathered strength, the Assassini stood and moved across the room. It seemed very much as if he began the fire for Lockhart's benefit and not his own.
"Only someone who freely gives his loyalty can be trusted," he added, briefly pausing to insure that the door was secure. "In this, as in anything else, if someone is forced to fidelity, then they will likely betray you the first moment no one is watching. Or, as Cardinal Mazarin says, character is what a man does in the dark."
Lockhart laid his cloak across a chair. "Yes, My Lord Cromwell says the same. He also tends to say that your revered cardinal is an effete snob."
Victor laughed. "The cardinal says your Lord Cromwell is a well-dressed basket of fruit."
"Mutual admiration," Lockhart mused. He was surprised that he had not noticed his fatigue until now. "My Lord does, indeed, respect the cardinal. I just don't believe that he likes him personally."
The priest understood. "It is a curious thing that great men agree on values while disagreeing on personalities." He poured two chalices of wine. "And it seems a common malady of the great."
The wine was deep, rich, and heavy—almost intoxicating by its sheer aroma. Lockhart studied the chalice as if it were responsible.
"These people make fine vintage."
"The Waldenses," Victor remarked, "are renowned for their winery as well as their orchards and crops. They are farmers, mostly. But they make excellent clothing and embroidery."
There was the trace of familiarity in the priest's voice as he spoke of the Waldenses. Lockhart had not noticed such a tone before and studied the severe, angled face.
"If I may ask," he ventured, "how is it that you came to be a quiet defender of the Church, Father?"
Victor revealed nothing—did not even reveal that he had heard the question. Then he released a deep breath, blinked tiredly. It was the first sign of weakness or fatigue Lockhart had observed.
"Does it matter?" He smiled wanly. "My story is no different from the blacksmith's or even the Waldenses'. I was condemned to burn after refusing to testify against another priest. He burned, and I was only saved by my village, which rioted much like Waldenses and drove the papal guards out before they could light the wood at the base of my stake. Cardinal Mazarin encountered me during the Fronde, and the rest …”
He shrugged, then actually laughed—a strangely comforting tone. Lockhart could, all of a sudden, imagine that Victor had once been a much beloved priest. He pondered how many hundreds—nay, thousands of innocent people had been convicted of witchcraft or heresy and imprisoned or killed over the past century. And yet the power of the Inquisition was finally fading. Indeed, it was virtually eradicated in England, where Cromwell had imposed severe penalties for the condemnation of English citizens by any church or assembly.
In the Valley of Piedmont, alone, the Inquisitors ruled with an iron fist that broke all civil laws, even the laws of the Church.
He thought of the Duke of Savoy, who had been so remarkably reasonable and even calm during their unexpected visit.
Without question Lockhart had expected a more dynamic response. But Savoy had retained admirable composure, considering guards were stationed just outside the door. A young man of lesser intellect might have easily panicked and chanced a quick cry, his fear overwhelming his judgment. But Emmanuel had handled himself in a manner worthy of respect.
Lockhart passionately hoped his drama had persuaded Savoy that they would indeed return to make good on their threat. But Lockhart had no spirit for killing the young prince. Even what little he had said and done had required his full cold measure of control. He did not know if Victor would carry through on the promise.
Somehow the priest seemed to read his face and spoke with a compassionate expression; "You think of Savoy?"
Raising his eyes, Lockhart did not deny it. "What will you do if he does not obey?"
Victor solemnly shook his head. "That is not my decision. My mission was to deliver the warning."
"But surely you have some idea," Lockhart said with more force. "You have done this before."
"I have killed, yes, but never in revenge. It is not my purpose to kill men, Sir Lockhart, but to save them. Yet in a land where murderers outnumber victims, a man must be as cunning and as deadly as a serpent."
Lockhart could not deny that much. "How many like you are sent on missions and never return?"
"Many," the priest said simply.
"I would imagine."
"It is an ancient Order," the priest continued. "It was forgotten for centuries, and even now would not exist but for the fact that the Church is being destroyed from within and without by rampant butchery and corruption. Rome had become a den of thieves and murderers, and until it is reclaimed by men of God, it must be restrained."
He took a deep breath. "Make no mistake, Sir Lockhart: I am a priest. What I do, I do for my Church. But my Church is not a church of butchers and thieves. It is my mission, if God allows, to return peace to Christendom."
"By any means necessary?"
Victor did not blink. "No ... not by any means necessary. Nor do I operate without accountability." Cardinal Mazarin and others know all my actions and judge them.”
The dark eyes stared upon Lockhart with hypnotic effect. "And I know that I, too, will be judged by the Lord for my actions. It is only with reluctance that I use force. But sometimes force is necessary to persuade men that gold will do them no good if they’re dead."
A knock at the door broke the trance, and Victor moved quickly to it, listening. There were two more knocks, then three. He opened the door, and a woman entered bearing a plate of cheese, meat, and bread. She carried two bottles of wine beneath her arm. With profound reverence she bowed to the priest before departing almost as quickly. Victor closed the lock behind her and returned.
Staring at the plate, Lockhart was surprised that he was famished. Like the fatigue, he had been unaware of it until he saw the food. Victor began to slice pieces from the roast. "Eat well," he said graciously. "You will need your strength tonight."
Lockhart raised his face.
"What's tonight?"
"We give an Inquisitor his last chance at repentance."
***
Alone upon the bluff before the cliff, Gianavel held the note from Pianessa. No one approached him, well aware of the almost palpable aura of sadness. He opened the letter—
“Captain Gianavel,
I exhort you for the last time to renounce your heresy. This is the only hope you have of retaining the pardon of your prince and thereby saving the life of your wife and daughters who are now my prisoners, and who shall be burned alive. But if you come down from the mountain and renounce your faith, your family shall be freed and you will receive the land and gold and tide of a marquis. Yet if you refuse, such a great reward shall be placed upon your head that even your closest friends and family will finally betray you. And when you are finally brought living into my presence, there is no torment that you will not suffer before you die.
—Pianessa”
Utterly alone, Gianavel stood on the mountain.
He slowly crumbled the letter in his hand, stared below the summit over the valley now dark with evening and the dusky horizon where the sun had gone.
Wind, deep but close, gently lifted his cloak, and clouds moved serenely over the face of the cliff. He stood alone until the last light of the distant day was gone and forgotten. Until only stars blazed high in the dome of night like eyes from another universe peering through the night, watching to see what he would do.
And when the invisible cold rose, embracing him in a chill-like death, he stood. And when the rocks about him turned white and soft with frost, he stood. And when the sky grew wet and moist and the moon disappeared behind a deep night, he stood.
But when the night wind began to weep with snow and ice and a misty, mournful tone, Gianavel turned and walked to the summit to stand in the full measure of the cold that kills and the winter within one’s
soul that forever binds bones in a living grave.
***
Blake tossed a stick onto the fire and did not look as Bertino entered the cavern entrance, irritably shaking ice and sleet from his heavy sheepskin coat. The big man knelt beside the fire and warmed his hands, rubbing them fiercely.
Looking up from where he had been drawing a dagger across a whetstone with a skill that he thought had long deserted him since childhood, Blake asked, "Where is he?"
"He has gone up to the summit," Bertino rumbled, his eyes black pinpoints in his frost-burned face. "He will, perhaps, not return tonight. I don't know."
"Do you know what the letter contained?"
Bertino nodded. "If Gianavel does not renounce his faith, Pianessa will burn Angela and the girls alive at the stake. Pianessa has given him one day to answer."
There was no means for Blake to truly measure what he experienced at the words. It was not shock or astonishment; he had expected such. Nor was it grief or even sympathy; it was beyond all familiar sensations.
Blake only understood it when he glanced down to study what wetness spread across his wrist. The dagger had run off the stone and sliced open his hand.
He was not curious that he felt no pain.
*
Chapter 21
After a quick trip through the catacombs, Lockhart found himself again inside the Duke of Savoy's palace following Victor, once more attired in complete black, through cobweb-curtained tunnels that faded to black as soon as their lantern passed. But it wasn't until they finally entered a hallway susceptible to random patrols that Lockhart felt vivid fear at possible discovery. He was grateful when Victor found a discreetly located doorway and led him through it.
As Lockhart quietly shut and bolted the door he saw the tall figure of a monk standing with his back to them. Then, when the latch closed, the man turned without surprise and moved forward to embrace Victor. He stared at the spectral priest a moment, holding him firmly by the shoulders.
"You are well, my friend?"
Victor nodded. "What have you learned?"
The monk, seemingly for the first time, saw Lockhart standing in shadow. His eyes opened slightly, and he smiled. His tone was pleasant. "And who is this bravado?"
Victor gestured for Lockhart to approach and he did so with faint caution. The monk raised his empty hand in the air, folded it back within his sleeve. "I am Father Simon."
"I am Sir William Lockhart of England. I come on a mission from My Lord Oliver Cromwell to do what can be done to stop this persecution of the Waldenses."
The monk named Simon did not express surprise. Rather, he suddenly sat at the table, as if he were dreadfully weary. Then his placed both hands flat against the roughhewn wood and spoke in a low tone.
"This is the situation as I understand it, my friends. Rora has fallen. Many have been killed on both sides. Pianessa apparently lost as many as seven thousand men – mostly Turks and mercenaries and prisoners released from the stables of Turin. Virtually all those holding the village were killed. The wife and children of Captain Gianavel were captured."
"And Gianavel?" asked Lockhart.
"He cut his way through Pianessa's troops and escaped into the mountains carrying his infant son. Pianessa has sent him a letter indicating terms of surrender."
"What terms?" responded Lockhart.
"Gianavel has one day to come down from the mountain. If he refuses, then his wife and daughters will be burned alive at the stake. Also, if he comes down, he will receive the title and the land of a marquis."
Victor spun and glared out the moonless window. "They have not even been formally tried by the Inquisition!"
"The Inquisitors are not willing to wait for trials," the monk responded. "They want the head of Gianavel. They are willing to break any laws, civil or ecclesiastical, to gain it."
Victor took a single quick step across the room, moving like a phantom. His cloak opened like huge black wings. "Where are the woman and her children being held?"
"In the dungeon," was the reply, and then the old man shook his head. "There are no passages, Victor. You would have to attack a contingent of guards."
"You are certain?"
"Yes."
For the first time since Lockhart had known him, the priest seemed to shudder with anger. His teeth parted in a snarl. His black hair rose in hackles like a wolf. His voice was hoarse and cold. "Is Incomel responsible for this slaughter?"
"The same who condemned you at Languedoc."
Once again, Lockhart deemed Victor's silence, his stillness, far more terrifying than his actions. His piercing gaze beamed upon the old man. "Is Corbis with him?"
"Where the dead are found," Simon said bitterly, "there the eagles will gather. But be wise, Victor. It is not your place to exact revenge for what they did to you."
Victor's words were terse. "It is not revenge."
Simon looked without surprise upon Lockhart. "And so Cromwell himself intervenes. I did not think England's Lord Protector would be able to remain aloof – not when the peace of all Christendom is threatened."
"He is not alone," said Lockhart.
"No, I did not believe that he was. But neither Cromwell nor Cardinal Mazarin can openly interfere in this war without risking war with Spain."
"We're here to insure that does not happen." Lockhart looked again at Victor. "What else do you need to know?"
Victor seemed to return from where he had been. "What precautions does Incomel take?"
"Every precaution."
"Guards?"
"No less than six." Simon stared upon the Assassini without fear. "It is impossible for you to reach the Inquisitor General, my friend. Even together, the two of you would stand little chance. Once the alarm is raised, all of Pianessa's guards would respond."
Victor did not move. "What about Corbis?"
After pondering it, Simon answered, "Corbis is, perhaps, within your reach. He spends most of his time in the dungeon, torturing the Waldenses. But he is vulnerable when he returns to his room." He sighed deeply. "Even demons must rest."
"For the final time," Victor muttered and moved forward. "When do they burn this man's wife and children?"
"If Gianavel does not surrender? Tomorrow."
Victor swept past Lockhart and listened closely at the door. He gazed once more upon the old man. "Spend tonight in the company of your enemies."
Simon nodded. "Worry not. I will be engaged in a debate with Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel when Corbis is sent to defend himself before the Almighty."
Without another word or glance or gesture, Victor slipped through the door and Lockhart pulled it shut quietly behind him. In another thirty seconds they were again hidden and the Englishman felt the distinct thrill of fear as he followed the phantomlike specter of Victor quickly through the corridors.
Silent and black and spectral, the priest moved with a sense of doom and dark purpose—Death stalking the world of the Living, come to claim what was his.
***
"You're insane," said Emmanuel.
His words were equal parts fear and rage but he knew the fear was hidden well enough. Nor would it do well for the Inquisitor General to know it existed at all.
Having taken to inhabiting the castle only in the presence of six or more Inquisitors and papal guards, Incomel no longer indulged surreptitious conversations. He did not allow anyone to approach him closely enough for a whispered threat, nor did he say anything that was not faithfully recorded by scribes in one of the large, leather-bound tomes that were to become the official record of this "pacification."
Emmanuel felt confident that he knew what was recorded within those pages, just as he was fairly certain that it had no more relation to the truth than fairy tales or the eyewitness accounts of the blind.
Incomel, chin on hand, stared placidly at the Duke of Savoy from his chair. He had remained still and silent since Emmanuel entered, berating him for his obviously illegal decision to burn the woman and her c
hildren alive at the stake. Not only was it impossible for Incomel to have organized a tribunal to hear any witness accusations of Angela Gianavel, there had, in fact, been no accusations and no witnesses. Further, to sentence someone to death for heresy or witchcraft was the right of a tribunal. But to actually execute the punishment of death was the solitary right and power of the governing civil authority.
Emmanuel had not approved such an action, yet four stakes in the courtyard were being heaped about with loosely tied armloads of dry brush and planks. A glance at the place of execution lent the impression that they were preparing to burn Satan himself.
"Well?" Emmanuel leaned forward. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Incomel lifted his chin from his hand, then gestured at a scribe. "Please read for the Duke of Savoy the confession of Angela Gianavel, as well as the unanimous judgment of five Inquisitors that she is to be purified by flame."
Emmanuel did not have the heart to hear it. It was one thing to know that hundreds, even thousands, had been killed in this war. It was another to look one in the eyes before she was burned alive for what was not a crime.
"No," Emmanuel shook his head as the scribe began to read, yet the scribe did not cease bleating words.
Shocked, Emmanuel turned upon him with. "Are you a fool? I said No! Read another word and you will be the one who burns!"
Incomel was vividly alert to anything that might condemn Emmanuel— words that would remove him from his throne as surely as a sword cut. Frowning, the Duke of Savoy stared into the Inquisitors eyes and separated each word: “This war nears an end, Inquisitor."
Incomel smiled. "Yes, Savoy, it does. Because now Gianavel will come down from the mountain. He will come for love, for mercy, and for the lives of his wife and children. But he will come. And when he does, this great prince of the Waldenses will be defeated."
Without another word Emmanuel spun and snatched a water bowl and slammed it upon the Inquisitors desk. The violent movement actually startled Incomel, though he recovered quickly enough.
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