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Authors: James Byron Huggins
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adversary."
Elizabeth was listening intently. "This is the same man who defeated your troops today?" "Yes."
The duchess waited a moment more, then strolled with flowing, aristocratic poise across her bedroom.
"Can this man be bought?"
Pianessa shook his head. "Doubtful." The Waldenses refuse to betray their neighbors even when we torture them. They have been raised to endure persecution. They prepare for it their entire lives. So when one is captured and.. .questioned.. .they are fully resolved to die with their secrets. I've seen it time and again. Today we burned six hundred of them at the stake and not a single one renounced." He seemed truly stunned as he took a deep breath. "Incredible ..."
The duchess cradled her wine in both hands. "But, surely, even Rora has criminals imprisoned at El Torre. If you promised them full pardons, they might prove beneficial as spies ... or, even, as assassins ... for the right price."
Pianessa smiled wryly. "My dear, you think I have not considered this, also?"
She broke into laughter.
"Yes," Pianessa continued, "I've dispatched a rider to El Torre with orders to search for anyone familiar with the mountains." He gazed moodily into his empty goblet, as if suddenly uncertain what he beheld. "I will destroy the Waldenses. But I must do it quickly."
"Why?"
"Because if others see that my throne can be successfully defied, I'll soon have no throne to rule. And neither will you."
Elizabeth turned and stared. Her voice took on a sudden edge. "That will never happen, Pianessa."
"No?" Pianessa steadily held her gaze. "Who will you lead, Duchess, if no one follows? A king is only a king, my dear, as long as the people allow him to be king."
Her dark eyes remained controlled, but her voice was subdued. "Then what is your plan?"
With a sigh, Pianessa replied, "Tomorrow I will send a thousand of my mercenaries up the mountain. Before I commit myself, I want to further test the resolve of these people."
"You do not expect to win?"
"No, my dear, I expect to lose. But it is a necessary sacrifice in order to know their strength. And I would rather lose a thousand men than ten thousand."
Elizabeth laughed with mock anxiety. "A guilty conscious?"
A corner of Pianessa's mouth hooked in a smile. "Hardly, my dear. The mercenaries are doomed with or without my assistance. If not in this battle, then the next, or the plague. Or in some drunken brawl over some diseased harlot." He chuckled. "Few soldiers are worth more than the horse that bears him."
Elizabeth came closer. "Of course not, Monsieur de la Marquis." She placed her goblet on the table. "Any fool can be one of your soldiers. But only a stallion can carry them into battle, and a stallion has needs that must be satisfied."
Pianessa stared over her.
"Indeed."
***
Howls hideous, rhythmic, and horrifying even to him ended as Incomel descended into the depths of the Prison House of Turin, a subterranean world crowded by those accused of heresy.
Prisons for heretics were termed murs and were distinctly different from formal prisons. For one thing, they were remarkably lacking in structure and schedule. Prisoners, men and women, were generally free to roam about the grounds unsupervised and were largely prisoners only in the fact that they could not leave.
Interrogations were done chiefly with carefully orchestrated questions and documents meant to deceive the prisoner. If the prisoner could be "led," as it was described, into an inadvertent admission of guilt, then that was taken as evidence of a crime. It made little difference whether the accused understood the pattern of questioning or even the questions themselves. And those who bandied words more wisely than the Inquisitors were encouraged by the use of physical pain to not be so circumspect and careful. But even torture had limitations; it was commonly accepted that a prisoner resolved to die for his faith could not be coerced by physical suffering, however hideous.
False
Elizabeth was listening intently. "This is the same man who defeated your troops today?" "Yes."
The duchess waited a moment more, then strolled with flowing, aristocratic poise across her bedroom.
"Can this man be bought?"
Pianessa shook his head. "Doubtful." The Waldenses refuse to betray their neighbors even when we torture them. They have been raised to endure persecution. They prepare for it their entire lives. So when one is captured and.. .questioned.. .they are fully resolved to die with their secrets. I've seen it time and again. Today we burned six hundred of them at the stake and not a single one renounced." He seemed truly stunned as he took a deep breath. "Incredible ..."
The duchess cradled her wine in both hands. "But, surely, even Rora has criminals imprisoned at El Torre. If you promised them full pardons, they might prove beneficial as spies ... or, even, as assassins ... for the right price."
Pianessa smiled wryly. "My dear, you think I have not considered this, also?"
She broke into laughter.
"Yes," Pianessa continued, "I've dispatched a rider to El Torre with orders to search for anyone familiar with the mountains." He gazed moodily into his empty goblet, as if suddenly uncertain what he beheld. "I will destroy the Waldenses. But I must do it quickly."
"Why?"
"Because if others see that my throne can be successfully defied, I'll soon have no throne to rule. And neither will you."
Elizabeth turned and stared. Her voice took on a sudden edge. "That will never happen, Pianessa."
"No?" Pianessa steadily held her gaze. "Who will you lead, Duchess, if no one follows? A king is only a king, my dear, as long as the people allow him to be king."
Her dark eyes remained controlled, but her voice was subdued. "Then what is your plan?"
With a sigh, Pianessa replied, "Tomorrow I will send a thousand of my mercenaries up the mountain. Before I commit myself, I want to further test the resolve of these people."
"You do not expect to win?"
"No, my dear, I expect to lose. But it is a necessary sacrifice in order to know their strength. And I would rather lose a thousand men than ten thousand."
Elizabeth laughed with mock anxiety. "A guilty conscious?"
A corner of Pianessa's mouth hooked in a smile. "Hardly, my dear. The mercenaries are doomed with or without my assistance. If not in this battle, then the next, or the plague. Or in some drunken brawl over some diseased harlot." He chuckled. "Few soldiers are worth more than the horse that bears him."
Elizabeth came closer. "Of course not, Monsieur de la Marquis." She placed her goblet on the table. "Any fool can be one of your soldiers. But only a stallion can carry them into battle, and a stallion has needs that must be satisfied."
Pianessa stared over her.
"Indeed."
***
Howls hideous, rhythmic, and horrifying even to him ended as Incomel descended into the depths of the Prison House of Turin, a subterranean world crowded by those accused of heresy.
Prisons for heretics were termed murs and were distinctly different from formal prisons. For one thing, they were remarkably lacking in structure and schedule. Prisoners, men and women, were generally free to roam about the grounds unsupervised and were largely prisoners only in the fact that they could not leave.
Interrogations were done chiefly with carefully orchestrated questions and documents meant to deceive the prisoner. If the prisoner could be "led," as it was described, into an inadvertent admission of guilt, then that was taken as evidence of a crime. It made little difference whether the accused understood the pattern of questioning or even the questions themselves. And those who bandied words more wisely than the Inquisitors were encouraged by the use of physical pain to not be so circumspect and careful. But even torture had limitations; it was commonly accepted that a prisoner resolved to die for his faith could not be coerced by physical suffering, however hideous.
False
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