Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  Slowly the Duke of Savoy pushed up his sleeves. He dipped his hands once into the water and then cast it intentionally across the pages of confessions and witness statements, running the ink like blood. Staring Incomel in the eyes, he said, "The blood of this forged and false confession is on your head."

  The Inquisitor would not condescend to rage in the presence of others but his breath was strained and his eyes glowered as Emmanuel spun and departed the chamber, his own guards falling in closely behind him.

  Just as Incomel had taken to prowling the castle only with armed protection, Emmanuel had done the same. He had even considered placing them within his chamber to prevent another visit from the priest. But he had a premonition that guards could not ultimately protect him from the man who knew more about this palace than Emmanuel himself.

  Emmanuel's face opened in surprise as he encountered Simon in the doorway. The old priest had an armload of books and documents and appeared ready to stay awhile. It was not simply unusual. It was shocking. And Emmanuel had suffered enough shocks.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.

  Simon did not forget their customary demonstration of courtesy and respect. "I have scheduled an inquiry with the Inquisitors," he replied humbly and bowed. "I am certain that I will occupy them long into the night, as is my right."

  Emmanuel did not understand but he sensed rather than saw something concealed within the priest's intention. Simon did not look him directly in the eyes—unusual—nor did he seem angered to be in the presence of the Inquisitors, also unusual. Whatever his true cause, Emmanuel knew it was not to debate make-believe testimony cast at make-believe trials.

  It was none of his concern.

  Emmanuel moved past the old priest toward where Pianessa was stabled, enjoying the bacchanal delights of victory.

  If only to understand the true depth of his dilemma, Emmanuel would know the marquis’ mind.

  ***

  Corbis, his utterly bald head and hairless face greased with sweat, lovingly shoved the heated iron into the brazier. His eyes were alight, as if he received vivid pleasure from being so close to the white-hot steel. His voice was a whisper, as if he spoke only to himself.

  "Is that all of them, Sergeant?"

  Corbis received no answer and turned his cannonball head toward the ashen guard. "Sergeant? Is that all of them?"

  The sergeant's mouth opened in an effort to reply. His eyes did not move from the ghastly carnage before him—carnage that glowed incredibly red though the flesh had been scorched black.

  Once it had been a man, yes. What it was now, after attempting to escape the patient, thorough interrogation of Corbis through the entire day and night, could not be easily determined.

  The guard managed, "Yes, Inquisitor."

  Corbis calmly cast his blood-soaked harness aside and washed his arms, face, neck, and chest with a bucket of steaming water. Then he moved carefully, almost daintily, through the grisly aftermath of the long afternoon.

  "Have your men clean this up," he murmured, lifting his skirt to pass over the blood. "I cannot fancy such filth."

  "Of course, Inquisitor."

  The Inquisitor tenderly treaded a high path over the remains of what had been human beings and ascended the wall-anchored stone stairway. At the portal, two guards fell in behind him and the door was quietly, almost solemnly, shut.

  ***

  Pianessa was not nearly so drunk as Emmanuel expected when he finally gained entrance to his chambers. But the marquis was enlivened enough to respond inappropriately to the Duke of Savoy's unexpected intrusion.

  Reclining upon a chair amid a roomful of harlots and drunken military commanders and badly trained musicians, Pianessa focused on Emmanuel with distinct contempt.

  "So ... the boy-king would confront me on the eve of my victory celebration." Pianessa gave no indication that he noticed Emmanuel's equal contempt. He bowed without rising, arms outstretched. "Enter, My Prince, and join the festivities."

  Emmanuel looked across the assortment. "No, thank you, Monsieur de la Marquis; I have already visited the stables."

  Pianessa's laugh was an eruption of madness and some kind of unquenchable wrath that fueled his aimless, endless hate. He recovered quickly enough, though, and leaned back.

  "And what is the purpose of this honor by the Duke of Savoy?"

  Although Emmanuel was no monk, he did not descend to Pianessa's level of debauchery. "I do not wish to linger in your presence any longer than necessary, Pianessa. I came only to ask this: Do you know what Incomel intends to do to Gianavel's family if he does not come down from his mountain?"

  The question did gain Pianessa's attention. "Yes, Savoy, I know the Inquisitor's plan. Just as I know that there is nothing you or I can do about it." Strangely, his tone seemed almost wise. "It is not our war, Savoy."

  Emmanuel stood an alarmingly close step to the monstrous form of the marquis. "You are a man of war, Pianessa. But even you have a sense of honor in combat."

  If Pianessa wished, he could have snapped Emmanuel's neck before one of Savoy's bodyguards could lift a finger—his cautious stance revealed that the prince knew the danger.

  Emmanuel added, "By the rules of war, Pianessa, those of noble heritage should be given the opportunity to ransom themselves! It is not only traditional; it is practical! My treasury has been reduced and my lands depopulated without so much as a by-your-leave from the Inquisitors! It is your duty to help me recover what this war has cost!"

  Emmanuel expected Pianessa to erupt from his throne at the affront. But Pianessa only opened his eyes wider and listened patiently until the Duke of Savoy finished. He stared upon Emmanuel a long moment, shook his head.

  "Savoy," he said patiently, "how tragic it must be, for you have a conscience in this. You are not a practical man."

  As Emmanuel stared sullenly, Pianessa added, "The Inquisitors will burn this woman and her children at the stake, Savoy. They will burn them even if Gianavel comes down from his mountain. And then they will burn Gianavel whether he recants or not."

  Emmanuel's frown was bitter.

  Sadly, Pianessa shook his head. "You are a monarch, Emmanuel, and still you do not understand these matters."

  "Understand what?"

  "That you are the tool of fearful men, Emmanuel. You think the Inquisitors are certain in their knowledge. You think that they know each other's mind and that they stand together from strength." He laughed. "They stand together from fear, Savoy, and they have no power but what you give them. The only person who can truly end this war is you. All you have to do is defy the Inquisitors."

  No one moved, and Emmanuel asked, "And what does that say of you, Pianessa?"

  Pianessa smiled, refilled his chalice.

  "I am a practical man, Savoy. I war with Gianavel quite simply because I am not the Supreme Lord of Piedmont and because I do not have the power to defy the Inquisitors. But when the time comes that I do not have to obey them ..." Pianessa shrugged. "I would just as soon fight beside the Vaudois."

  Emmanuel's gaze projected contempt and reluctant respect. "An ultimately practical man."

  "Yes," Pianessa replied, and his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian orbs. "Ultimately."

  ***

  Corbis’ attendants made no display that they were quick to depart his presence as he dismissed them from his room. In fact, they moved with solemnity and patience as they assisted the porpoise-like Inquisitor with his nightgown, then backed slowly out the door, bowing deeply and reverently before disappearing. He did not see them after they turned away, blessing themselves with trembling hands.

  The priest hummed tonelessly as he paraded about the small cubical warmed by the hearth of hot coals. And already the room was almost too warm for clothing. His white face glistened like dew upon polished ivory. He nudged the hearth with an iron and settled back upon his bed, staring into the flames.

  He did not see the shadow that moved silently through the window located two
hundred feet above the courtyard. He did not hear the shadow as a boot settled upon the floor. He did not sense the shadow as it walked up behind him and stood. But the sudden presence of an unexplainable cold provoked a curious scowl.

  Corbis turned.

  A strong hand clamped upon the Inquisitor's neck, shutting off his scream. The phantom stared upon the Inquisitor's trembling lips, the flaring white eyes. The phantom shook his head sadly.

  "You will terrify no more," he whispered, "I give you a moment ... to seek forgiveness for your cruelties."

  Corbis's mouth twisted in terror.

  With a flash of a black robe, a long silver dagger appeared in the phantom's other hand, the blade poised at the Inquisitors fat neck.

  "I would be quick," he whispered.

  ***

  Gianavel reentered the cavern shortly before dawn. He was soaking with cold and sheathed in broken garments of ice. His hair was drenched and frosted with sleet and snow, and ice cracked as he laid his cloak beside a fire.

  Without expression he came to Blake and knelt beside the fire, holding his hands to the flames. He blew upon them, rubbed them, and his face was perilously pale. Blake said nothing, intended to say nothing. And Bertino was much the same, leaning against the wall, staring dully into the flames.

  It was Gianavel who broke the silence.

  "I have sent my reply to Pianessa," he said, intoning nothing more than that. "Now we will pray."

  Bertino's eyes shifted as they shifted when he spied enemies moving stealthily along a wood line. He did not blink as he studied the captain. Blake watched and then looked away. It was not his right to even speak in this uncanny hour.

  "If Pianessa intends to make good on his threat," Bertino asked, reflecting Blake's own thoughts. "What will we do then?"

  "What chains can hold belong to man," Gianavel said – as he often said – and bowed his head. "The rest is God's."

  Blake knew that to attack Turin with less than fifty men would be suicide. To attempt to sneak through the lines was no better. To capture another monarch or noble person and use them as ransom was beyond what Gianavel knew as righteous defense—beyond what he believed God allowed him to do in war.

  So they would pass the night and then the morning and then the afternoon until evening. And when they heard word from Turin again they would hear that Gianavel's wife and children had been burned alive and were now dead.

  Strange, Blake thought all of a sudden, that it had never occurred to him that Gianavel might surrender.

  ***

  It was still early morning when Emmanuel arose, not surprised that he had slept little and fitfully. He had been expecting another visit, but none had come though he felt certain his palace had been disturbed. For a moment he wondered who was ushered to judgment last night by the grim, silent man, then cast the thought aside. It had not been him, and that was all that was important.

  The sun had barely edged the palace walls, angling orange and glowing through the crystal windows of the hall when Emmanuel entered to see Incomel hedged by bodyguards. The priest was reading a letter and Emmanuel did not have to ask whom it was from.

  Incomel's face was anything but pleased with Gianavel's response. He barely noticed Emmanuel's presence, then spoke, "It seems Gianavel has relieved us of further inquiries into this matter."

  He presented the letter to the Duke of Savoy, who studied the words written boldly and without hesitation.

  My Lord Marquis,

  There is no torment so great or death so cruel, but what I would prefer to the abjuration of my religion; so that promises lose their effect, and menaces only strengthen me in my faith.

  With respect to my wife and children, My Lord, nothing can be more afflicting to me than the thought of their confinement, or more dreadful to my imagination than their suffering a violent and cruel death. I keenly feel all the tender sensations of husband and parent; my heart is replete with every sentiment of humanity; I would suffer any torment to rescue them from danger; I would die to preserve them.

  But having said thus much, My Lord, I assure you that the purchase of their lives must not be the price of my salvation. You have them in your power, it is true; but my consolation is that your power is only a temporary authority over their bodies; you may destroy the mortal part, but their immortal souls are out of your reach; and will live hereafter to bear testimony against you for your cruelties. I therefore recommend them and myself to God, and pray for a reformation of your heart.

  —Joshua Gianavel

  With a deep sigh, Emmanuel lowered the letter, not looking again at the Inquisitor as Incomel spoke. "They will burn at midmorning. And, by evening, our victory will be complete."

  In a triumphant march, Inquisitors and priests and papal guards exited the long hall. Not a word was spoken, and when they were gone Emmanuel looked upon Pianessa.

  The marquis was leaning against the hearth, head bowed. He may have been staring into the flames, or his eyes may have been closed. Emmanuel could not determine, but he could easily read the defeat etched in every line of the marquis' body as he asked, "Why so depressed, Pianessa? Is this not the victory you sought?"

  Pianessa's slow reply was bitter. "Savoy ... you are such a fool." He released a heavy breath. "By refusing to come down from his mountain, even to save the lives of his wife and children, Gianavel has won his victory. And today, when his wife and children are burned, thousands more will join him. They will come from England, from France, from Geneva, and they will never stop coming. They will never stop fighting." He straightened. "You have never seen war like you're about to see war, Savoy. And we will not be hunting Gianavel this time."

  The Marquis de Pianessa turned and stared. "This time, Gianavel will be hunting us."

  Seeing Emmanuel's reaction, Pianessa laughed.

  "Why the pallor, Savoy? Did you expect to live forever?"

  ***

  In the depths of a dark, soundless, subdued day in May 1655, as thunderclouds hung oppressively in a dead sky that seemed to cast a curse across the land, Angela Gianavel and her three young daughters were led through a strangely silent crowd at Turin and burned alive at the stake.

  *

  Chapter 22

  Gianavel, surrounded by white strands of snow and ice that lay across the Alps even in the warmest months, but even more so now, stood upon the pass that led downward to the city of Geneva sprawled across the fields below. Here his son would be safe with friends and family, protected by the army of the Swiss.

  He had traveled across the Alps alone after the death of his family, bearing Jacob, wrapped warmly in sheepskins, upon his back. He had evaded Pianessa's patrols by traveling at night and hazarding only the most treacherous trails, and now his journey was at an end.

  Gianavel stared over the city, listening to Jacob s soft breaths while he slept. Here, if Gianavel wished, they would be safe—they could begin again. Never again would he have to fight for freedom of conscience—such a grim fight that had already cost him so much that he loved.

  Slowly, he began to make his way down the pass.

  ***

  Deep in bitter defeat and untold personal grief, Jahier tossed wood upon the fire as if it hardly mattered now. Surrounding him, Bertino, Blake, and Laurentio gazed dully into the flames.

  No one spoke prophetic words. No one recited the Psalms—most often the fifteenth Psalm—as Gianavel had done in both victory and defeat—in hours of joy and in hours of sorrow.

  No one commanded them to continuously prepare for battle, to sharpen dagger and sword or eat so they might have strength to resist the dragon. No one cautioned them to pray and be vigilant and to guard their hearts, for no one spoke of victory.

  ***

  Lockhart watched the heavy, continuous rain descend outside the palace of Cardinal Guilio Raimondo Mazarin and felt a disturbing sensation of standing upon a cloud of heaven floating upon a sea of blood.

  Frowning, he bent his head to watch Mazarin as he had watched
him for hours, sitting and staring morosely into the flames, his rosary moving lightly through his fingers.

  When Lockhart himself had delivered word of the death of Gianavel's family and the apparent escape of the prince of the Waldenses to Geneva, the cardinal had not expressed either grief or relief. Instead, he had fallen into a close silence that excluded all from his mind, though Lockhart knew that whatever was within that great mind might well be beyond the rest of them anyway.

  ***

  Sir Samuel Morland stretched out his hand to Lord Oliver Cromwell, who stared out the window of Whitehall, despondent and churlish at this strange, endless summer rain.

  When word arrived that Rora had fallen, and word that Angela Gianavel and her children had been executed, the Lord Protector of England had almost mobilized the entire English army for a full-scale invasion of Piedmont for a "truly righteous war to defend Christendom." Only a letter from Cardinal Mazarin, who begged him to wait only a little longer, had dissuaded his lionish wrath.

  The cardinal, as was his custom, revealed nothing of the covert actions underway but he did imply that forces were secretly at work in Piedmont, and that the final moves were yet to be made in this very deadly game. But he had passionately pleaded with Cromwell to not provoke a continental war. And so England's Lord Protector had temporarily relented, though for how long was uncertain.

  Standing somberly to the side of England’s uncrowned king, Sir Samuel Morland pondered what colossal forces were even now colliding in that tiny region in what might be the greatest battle ever fought for religious freedom in the history of the world.

  He also knew that if England, France, Geneva, and Austria joined the fight, the battle would become so terrible that no nation would escape without profound injury. The principle—that every man, and woman, and child has the right to worship God according to their freedom of conscious—left little room for compromise.

  To the steady drone of moaning water and the fevered trembling of Lord Cromwell, Sir Samuel Morland remembered the words of the horribly wounded peasant he had found in the forest. He remembered the hope that he beheld in the man's bloodied face—a hope somehow above physical suffering. He remembered the expression of peace that found full freedom even in the face so ravaged by torture—a peace that even death could not overcome.