Rora (20 page)

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 recen
tly 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 before 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 tigh
tly 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 abrup
tly 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 lit
tle 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 effor
tless 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.

"T
here 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 pries
t, 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 before 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.

Pianessa was an avid hunter and would often disappear for days, only to reappear with a huge stag or boar that he'd brought down in his unique, barbaric manner. And before he was hardly ten years old, Emmanuel had begun accompanying him. For a time he remained well shielded from the brutality and the blood, but eventually he was drawn into the ritual of the hunt, if only to be accepted by the others, and participated in the kill as thoroughly as all but Pianessa himself. But then no one was so thoroughly involved in the hunt as the marquis.

A true killer, Pianessa despised using a rifle on his favorite prey, the tuskheern—a particularly strong and evil-tempered boar more common to the Black Forest than Italy.

Roughly the equivalent weight of a man, tuskheern grew tusks six inches long that were easily capable of gutting a rider or horse. The animals were also incredibly dense with hard muscles perfectly designed for short bursts of speed. At close distances they could outrun or outmaneuver a horse, and if a rider dismounted he would barely land before he had to whirl into the attack of the beast, spear tight in his fists.

Most men preferred to take the notoriously temperamental creatures from the sanctity of a tree with a well-aimed rifle shot, but Pianessa preferred to use a spear.

Emmanuel had witnessed several of the marquis' legendary battles with the fearsome beasts, but he would not have believed the accounts otherwise.

After dogs ran the boar into a ravine or box canyon, Pianessa would advance upon it alone, spear in hand. Both he and the boar were amazingly quick, and though the boar could spin and strike within its own diameter, Pianessa had the advantage of cunning. He wisely used surrounding rocks to the advantage, stabbing deeply into the beast's side to withdraw just as quick, leaping to a new position as it attacked his last. Then, stabbing behind the neck, behind the shoulder, under the neck, the face, reducing it by blood loss, exhaustion, and fear he would savage it until it was dead on its feet. Then he would finish it—a plunging thrust that would pin it against rock or tree.

It was not pretty, or pretty to listen to, and Emmanuel had tired quickly of the rituals. He didn't remember when he had first deferred an invitation to the field, but he had never reconsidered. And he sensed that the marquis was instinctively aware of his disgust, but nothing had ever been intimated.

Emmanuel had never seen a man thrive on blood as
did Pianessa. And it was not something that came with a season of boredom. Pianessa was addicted to the thrill of combat as some men were addicted to the thrill of wine or gambling or women. If the marquis was not on the battlefield, he was on the hunt. Emmanuel's last hunt also included his first fencing match with Pianessa.

After Pianessa had killed five boar in a single day and called for camp, his blood was still hot and he politely invited Emmanuel to a fencing match, all the known rules of practice—particularly "no blood"—and courtesy, to be honored. Although Emmanuel stood no chance against the marquis, he accepted. If he could not win the match, he would at least win respect.

Squaring off", Emmanuel circled slowly while Pianessa remained relatively in place, neither advancing nor retreating. Obviously, he was confident his extensive skill and experience, as well as his longer reach and superior strength, would be sufficient to nullify any youthful advantage of speed.

Unwilling to be patronized, Emmanuel struck with remarkable quickness. It was a smooth lunge and totally without warning, he thought, but Pianessa parried with casual unconcern before the blade was halfway to the target and they began to slowly circle.

Not to be intimidated, Emmanuel struck again, but the marquis was noticeably faster with the second parry, striking the blade powerfully aside to instantly return a riposte that caught Emmanuel flat-footed and shocked. Only at the last moment did Pianessa direct the saber so that it plunged harmlessly past his ribs, and Emmanuel knew he would have died then and there.

With a nod, the Duke of Savoy honorably acknowledged the point, as custom required, and Pianessa nodded, equally gracious. Onlookers applauded the noble restrain and respect indicated by the wordless exchange, but to Emmanuel it meant much more. It meant that he understood Pianessa was the true master, and he was only a boy-king—something that could never be said but with swords and in the training arena.

But the contest was not over. In a blinding series of parries, Pianessa repeatedly deflected Emmanuel's blade before lunging, but Emmanuel was prepared for the lionlike speed and parried to riposte.

Almost—almost—he caught Pianessa off-guard, but the marquis turned his torso just so and touched the saber with
his
bare hand
to direct it perfectly past his shoulder. It was a delicate move executed with hairsbreadth precision and inhuman timing but Emmanuel could have come no closer in a real duel and would have probably died a second time as Pianessa's blade descended only to the crest of his unprotected forehead before the marquis stopped it in midair.

Although Pianessa was capable of startlingly swift attack—a storming largeness of attack when he surged inward with a bear's strength, his huge reach covering immense ground as his saber flashed up-down-
and-plunging.

But Pianessa seldom resorted to such mocking displays of skill. Instead, he relied upon an uncanny ability to read the tiny, almost invisible gestures— a tiny shifting of weight, the blade raised or lowered a fraction of an inch, the straightening of one's back, the direction of an opponent's eyes, or the faintest bend of a leg or wrist—that signaled what an opponent was about to do.

In that discipline, indeed, Pianessa's ability was almost supernatural.

Yet by forcefully mixing feints into thrusts, Emmanuel slowly began to force Pianessa to greater speed. Once he even came close to a legitimate
hit, but at the last moment Pianessa reacted with a blinding parry that almost tore Emmanuel's saber from his hand. And in that moment, alone, the prince had felt the mountainous might that struck behind that unbending blade, and he had known true fear. It was as if, in the blink of an eye, the Pianessa he had known was replaced by a monstrous force of nature that would destroy whatever stood before it.

In the end Emmanuel was soaked in sweat and had come no closer to touching Pianessa than touching the surface of the moon.
The marquis had made sport for him—a lion playing with a kitten. Indeed, he had never expected to even appear to be Pianessa's equal with a blade. No man who ever lived was Pianessa's equal with a blade.

Pianessa's renown for hand-to-hand combat, pistol or sword, was recognized far beyond the borders of Piedmont. Indeed, he was feared throughout France and Spain and Germany for his mastery of fencing, his uncanny marksmanship, and prodigious strength. It was common gossip that he routinely entertained others as a youth by bending iron bars with his bare hands or by taking on all comers in Savate, a savage form of fighting invented by the French.

Taken together, Pianessa's legendary skills and superhuman strength were disturbing. But even more disturbing was Pianessa's inhuman indifference to life or death—including his own.

Perhaps that had something to do with his dreams
...

The sun was much higher when Emmanuel noticed it again, and he realized it was time to reluctantly prepare for the day.

His schedule contained a tour of the "pacified" villages with Sir Morland—an expedition Emmanuel had rigidly avoided until now. He had seen butchered bodies before; he did not need to see the Waldenses to know their flesh was red like any other man or that their bones glistened pink like any other man. He only worried what manner of righteous indignation the Puritans would dare to voice and how he would have to respond.

There was a point, of course, where he could not submit to criticism. He was a sovereign and he was not required, nor did he have any compulsion, to satisfy the moral tenants of England's Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. But he was also a vulnerable sovereign who possessed neither the militia nor the resources to resist an attack by Cromwell's garrisons. They outnumbered his militia a hundred to one and would doubtless bring heavy cannon and mortar capable of reducing Turin to the ground.

The day had whitened from an orange tint to white, and the sun was blinding, almost painful. He didn't know when Sir Morland and his col-leagues would emerge, but he knew Puritans were not known for sleeping late. With a sigh he turned from the day and walked to his wardrobe. His knee-high riding boots and wool trousers and shirt were already selected.

Today he would dress as a hunter, as if he had the desire to ever hunt or kill anything ever again.

***

There was no dispute.

They would fight because they were doomed to die if they surrendered. But the fact that everyone was in agreement with the assessment did little to settle the angry and even violent attitudes of those gathered in the stable.

There were less than seven barbes remaining. The rest had been caught in their villages or on the roads of Piedmont and murdered outright or tortured to death. And the few who'd managed to crawl through enemy lines seemed angry for having survived the initial conflict. They were not so
foolish as to wish that they had also been killed, but their guilt found expression in suicidal plans for revenge.

Seated on a wooden gate, Gianavel listened for more than an hour, waiting while every man spoke, including the most revered of the barbes, Aventius Solomai, who gave an inspiring monologue intended to boost spirits. And he waited until impulsive plans for assaults upon Turin were presented and rejected.

Then a voice erupted near the open door.

"We stand no chance of winning this war!"

Gianavel glanced at the prosperous, black-haired man; his name was Silas. He was a nobleman, one of Rora's largest landowners. Easily, he had enough gold to buy his life from the Inquisitors.

"Gentlemen!" Silas raised both hands. "Think about what you're saying! Fight them? Are you insane? They outnumber us a thousand to one! They have unlimited cannon and cavalry! What good does it do to continue a doomed fight?"

Aventius turned. "And so you will disobey God to obey men?"

"I will plead for mercy!"

"You will die without mercy!"

"And how do you know that?" Silas retorted, stepping forward as if to physically fight.

Aventius stretched out his staff toward the valley. "Six thousand souls slain by the sword tell me that I know!" He pointed at Silas. "Cowardice is a greater sin than violence!"

"Avaunt!" Silas shouted. "You are fool enough to call me coward?"

"I call any man coward who does not defend his family because he fears for his own life!"

One of Silas's men took a single step forward, and then Bertino
’s low tone cut through the uproar. "Touch him not."

At the quiet words, the man stared.

Silas, surprised that his unspoken wrath was not executed, turned with unconcealed contempt to the big farmer. "First you would insult me and now you threaten me with base violence? You are
twice
as wrong as the others!"