1636: The Cardinal Virtues (19 page)
Read 1636: The Cardinal Virtues Online
Authors: Eric Flint,Walter H Hunt
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
Whether Gaston’s arrival was intentionally late, or if he simply felt that he had a more important place to be, Vendôme wasn’t sure—but it was clear that his half-brother, soon to be the king of France, liked to make an entrance.
The members of the
Conseil
turned their attention at once to Monsieur Gaston, offering polite bows or making a leg. Gaston caught his eye; Vendôme inclined his head but made no further indication or gesture.
Gaston’s smile never wavered as he acknowledged the obeisances of his councilors, but Vendôme could see that he was a bit annoyed at his own lack of deference.
“My lords,” Gaston said at last. “We offer our apologies for being tardy. Matters of state,” he added, allowing his smile to extend even further than usual.
Matters of state, my ass
, Vendôme thought to himself.
One more toss with Marguerite, I’ll wager.
Pierre Séguier, the duc de Villemor, stepped forward and offered an additional bow. His chain of office, which marked him as the king’s chancellor and keeper of the seals, jingled as he lowered his head and then raised it.
“Your Majesty’s Council awaits your pleasure, Sire.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Gaston said, and walked to the great oblong table. He took his seat at its head, and the others gathered, taking various places. Vendôme took a seat at the other end, directly opposite Gaston, with Gaston-Henri to his left, much to the other’s annoyance.
“There is much for us to discuss, monsieurs,” Gaston began. “We will progress to St. Denis tomorrow to visit the grave of our dear brother.” He stopped for a moment and looked down, placing his hand on his forehead in a gesture of grief. “But there are matters we must address immediately.
“Monsieur de Bullion,” he began, addressing the minister of finance. “We have read your report on our exchequer with interest. It is certain that there are many areas that you address that have fallen short in their obligations to the Crown. Effective at once, you are to direct that these omissions be corrected, by force if necessary.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bullion said. “It shall be done.”
“In particular,” Gaston added, “those of our subjects who derive profit from the
paulette
and the
lettre de maîtresse
should be informed that if they wish to continue under our patronage, they should . . .
encourage
their clients to live up to these modest requirements. Is that clear?”
“Abundantly,” the minister said, smiling. “It will be as you command, Sire.”
Both the
paulette
—a “voluntary” tax upon office holders—and the
lettre de maîtresse
, by which the crown derived revenue from craft guilds by recognition of mastership, were intrusive and much disliked (and often avoided). Such impositions were hardly uncommon: King Charles of England had been funding his royal government with such things since he dismissed his last Parliament eight years earlier. Richelieu had regulated them desultorily, depending on whether the affected party was a client or not.
“We are most grateful,” Gaston said. “Now to the next item. Monsieur
le Márechal
,” he said, addressing Bassompierre. To Vendôme’s eyes, the man perked up like a bantam rooster with free rein in the henhouse.
“Sire,” Bassompierre said. “If I may take a moment to extend my gratitude to your royal favor in freeing me from unjust imprisonment—”
“Yes, yes, a small matter,” Gaston said, waving it away as if freeing him from prison after five years were simply a
small matter
. “Monsieur, we have a particular charge for you. A military force presently under the command of the comte d’Auvergne—
Marshal
Turenne—” he added the last almost as if with distaste—“has chosen to redeploy to the south without strict royal order. As it took place after my brother’s death and before my return to the kingdom, it might be argued that this was a matter of military necessity. But now that the coronation is at hand, this force will need to be in the charge of someone with demonstrated loyalty to the Crown. What is more, he employs up-timers—and
their
loyalty is completely unpredictable.
“You will gather whatever staff you need and depart at once to take command.”
“Does Your Majesty have any notion of its present location?”
“What information is thus far available indicates that it is in or on its way to Gascony or Béarn—somewhere near the Spanish border. We consider this very provocative, and ultimately contrary to France’s interests.”
“The Spanish border, Sire?”
“Yes. In the south, near a range of mountains called the Pyrenees. Perhaps you are acquainted with them, monsieur.”
There was the slightest titter of amusement among the councilors; Bassompierre reddened very slightly.
“I believe I can locate them on a map, Sire,” he managed to retort. “But surely the Spanish cannot be considered friends—so the presence of an army close to our border, provocative or not, is of no moment to them.”
“Why do you say that the Spanish cannot be considered friends, Bassompierre? Have they insulted you personally in some way?”
“I . . . do not understand. The Spanish—”
“The Spanish,” Gaston interrupted, “are an upright Catholic nation. Our sister is married to its king, while
his
sister was married to our late brother. Surely there are many other nations that might hold greater enmity to France than Spain.”
“That . . . was not the opinion of your late brother, Sire.”
There was silence from everyone else at the table. Bassompierre looked around at the other councilors; no one said a word, or betrayed any emotion—except Gaston himself, whose smile had vanished. He placed his hands on the table in front of him, palms down, the rings on his fingers catching the light from the candles in their sconces.
“Our brother is dead,” Gaston said, and with a glance up the table at Vendôme, added, “as is his chief minister. What policies and positions they held are a matter of history. The crown rests—or soon will rest—upon
our
brow. It is
we
who will occupy the royal throne. It is
our
policies and positions which will govern.
“You may believe as you wish, Bassompierre; but if you wish to sit in this
Conseil
, and if you wish to continue to enjoy our royal favor, you will endorse them. You will carry out your direction without question, and without objection. Is that clear?”
There was a short, tense silence and then Bassompierre said, “Very clear, Sire. Very clear indeed.”
Gaston looked down at his hands for several moments; when he looked up again, his smile had returned. “There is one other matter that we would choose to lay before you at this time, my lords. Since the ambush that occasioned our brother’s death, nothing has been heard of the queen. It is difficult to believe that this is coincidence.
“Monsieur de Villemor,” he said to the chancellor, “it is our wish that a proclamation be drawn up regarding our sister-in-law, commanding her to appear at Reims two weeks hence when we take upon ourselves the crown of this realm. There she shall be received with all honors due a grieving widow and queen. It is our royal wish—no: it is our royal
command
that she be present.
“What is more,” he added, lifting his hands from the table and extending them in front of him, “if she chooses to absent herself from this august ceremony, it will be taken as an affront and a sign not only of our disfavor—but a clear indication of her
complicity in the death of King Louis
.”
Once again, the table was silent. Gaston folded his hands before him and looked directly at Villemor.
“When can the proclamation of our royal will be ready?”
“A day or two, Sire,” Villemor said. “It will take some time to be distributed beyond Paris, but that can begin as soon as it receives the seal.”
“You may begin at once,” Gaston said. Again he looked up the table at Vendôme; clearly most of the councilors noticed this. Some seemed merely curious, but a few had expressions of scarcely concealed malice, as if they perceived a sign of royal favor.
If you only knew
, Vendôme thought.
Chapter 26
Evreux
The Marquis de Montausier seemed almost obsessed with his own gallantry. After a night at Maintenon, he went out of his way to assist in guiding the queen and her entourage toward Evreux, arranging discreet lodging and assuring that the widow and child be left alone. Mazarin was reasonably sure that Montausier was keeping her identity secret; Achille was not quite as sure, making some effort to keep close to the marquis, scarcely letting him leave his sight.
“We cannot avoid trusting some that we meet,” Mazarin told him.
“We shall endeavor to keep the number to a minimum,” was Achille’s reply; and then he launched into an extended tale of his service aboard Mediterranean corsairs against the Turks.
It took three days to reach Evreux, just prior to which they parted company from Montausier, who swore a personal vow of silence to Queen Anne. She received it with dignified courtesy, but insisted that she accepted it on behalf of her infant son—the king of France.
They reached the ancient town, located in a bend of the River Eure, in the late afternoon. As they came upon it, Mazarin halted their procession and drew Achille aside.
“You have some specific destination, I presume.”
“Yes, Monseigneur. Arrangements will have been made.”
“Arrangements? By whom?”
“A friend.”
“Ah,” Mazarin said. “We are enlarging the circle of those we trust. Who is this friend?”
“I . . . am not at liberty to say.”
“I find that less than reassuring. Does our queen have some loyal servant in Evreux? Perhaps I should inquire, as she has made no representation to me.”
“You do not trust me.”
“I didn’t say that. I . . . Monsieur Achille.” Mazarin sighed, taking his time to reply. “I assure you that I am just as careful, just as suspicious, and just as tentative as you are about any step we take on behalf of the queen and the child.”
“Our king.”
“Yes. Our king, the child of two weeks that we are trying to protect. I want the same outcome you do. Yet when I ask for your trust, you are suspicious—but when you ask
my
trust, you expect me to accept it on its face and ask no questions. That may be well and good in the Order of Malta; but those rules do not apply here.”
Mazarin frowned. “Are you prepared to include me in your deliberations? We all want the same outcome, Achille. All of us.”
“Are you accusing me of—”
“I am accusing you of
nothing.
”
Mazarin looked aside, holding the reins of his horse tightly; if he were not wearing riding gloves, certainly Achille would have noticed his white knuckles. He silently recited a
Pater Noster
, calming himself.
“It is necessary that you take me into your confidence, monsieur. At once, if you please.”
“It is better that you do not know.”
“No, it is
not
. Achille, I accept that I may be placing you in an uncomfortable position; but even so, for the sake of all we hope to accomplish, we must work together and keep as few secrets as possible. Either apprise me of our situation, monsieur, or prepare to part company from the king and queen mother. I shall not jeopardize their lives by the want of this information.”
There was a short, tense silence, during which Mazarin tried to determine just what the knight of Malta might be thinking. The man was prideful and impulsive to a fault. Might he draw a weapon? Might he ride away—back to his brother, off to Gaston, or somewhere else? Or might he actually back down and tell Mazarin what was happening?
“How well do you know Cardinal de Tremblay, Monseigneur?”
“Cardinal . . . you mean, Père Joseph? The Capuchin, Richelieu’s
eminence grise
?”
“The same. How well do you know him?”
“He is a rather private man,” Mazarin answered. “He kept his master’s secrets, and I assume he has kept some of his own. I also assume that becoming a cardinal
in pectore
has changed none of that.”
“It was Cardinal de Tremblay’s direction that I accompany my brother Léonore to Beville-le-Comte when he came to witness the birth of our new king. He further indicated that I should take it as my personal responsibility to protect Her Majesty and the child.”
“From . . .”
“Anything and anyone. My
personal
responsibility, Monseigneur. He made it most clear to me.”
“This was before the murder of the king.”
“It was three months ago, Monseigneur Mazarin.”
Mazarin considered himself a fairly good judge of character. In addition to his religious vocation, the last year or two had taught him a great deal about human nature. But here was Achille, looking at him squarely and telling him this.
“Does this mean that Cardinal de Tremblay anticipated that event? Did he
expect
His Majesty and Cardinal Richelieu to be killed?”
“He planned for whatever contingency might present itself. He planned for the worst—and how to avoid it. That we are here, and not dead, means that the worst has not happened.”
“Hosanna in the highest,” Mazarin said.
“You mock me once again, Monseigneur. Do you doubt the truth of my account? Are you suggesting—”
“I suggest nothing. Pray continue.”
Achille settled himself in his seat; his horse pawed the ground and shook its head.
“Cardinal de Tremblay was devoted—
devoted
—to the king and to the crown. You are well aware of the scope and depth of the precautions taken to protect Queen Anne and the child. Since that child is the heir, those precautions seem exceptionally well-founded. I am continuing to act in accordance with my last instructions.”
“By guiding us here?”
“And other safe places, depending on our ultimate destination. The queen has more friends than she realizes.”
“And the . . . how shall I put it?
Quid pro quo
for these favors?”
Achille’s eyes flashed angrily, and once again Mazarin wondered whether he would attack or depart in a huff.
“The help is freely offered. It is true that some who would assist Her Majesty do so more out of enmity to Gaston than love for the queen.”
“Or the king.”
“Or the king,” Achille agreed. “In the case of Evreux, it is a close associate of Cardinal de Tremblay. He will have been thoroughly briefed on recent events, and is ready to help protect and assist our party.”
“Who briefed him?”
“I don’t know. You may ask him yourself. That is, if you are sufficiently
informed
that you are willing to accompany me.”
Mazarin intentionally hesitated long enough to make Achille frown in consternation. He had already made his decision, but wanted to keep the other man waiting. It was a sin of pride, for which he would say appropriate prayers . . . later.
“Please lead on,” he said at last.
Magdeburg
Joe Tillman hadn’t spent much time in government buildings up-time, and didn’t make a habit of it down-time. If it hadn’t been by invitation, he wouldn’t be doing it now. The capital city’s Government House was a busy place: lots of people going back and forth on errands lots more important than anything Clarence had for him to do.
He’d told his boss that he had to go up to Magdeburg for a few days to meet with Rebecca Stearns. Clarence had been working on a weld, and had lifted up his hood and given him a look that he might have used if Joe had told him he’d won the lottery and was quitting this crappy job: a nice mix of annoyance and disbelief—annoyance that he would want to take time off work, and disbelief that
Rebecca Stearns
would want to see
Joe Tillman.
Then he growled something, nodded, and dropped the welding hood back down and went back to work.
Magdeburg was a pretty amazing place, at least by down-time standards. It wasn’t even Wheeling: not that Wheeling had been a great world-class city, but it was the big time compared to Grantville. When the Ring of Fire had brought his town back to this century, though, Wheeling—and everything else outside of Grantville—was gone.
Just like Dorrie was gone, and Gloria too.
Joe Tillman stood in the middle of the great open hall of the edifice, alone in a crowd. He wondered to himself what the hell he was doing there.
“Waiting for the train, Joey?”
He spun around to see his brother Frank standing a few feet away, his hat in his hand.
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I expect.”
“Train.”
Frank walked over and took his brother’s hand. “Quite a building they put up here, Joe. Not quite the U.S. Capitol, but it’s still pretty grand.”
Joe didn’t have any answer to that, but said again, “what are you doing here?”
“Like I said, Joey. Same as you.”
“You mean?”
“When Rebecca Stearns sends you a letter and tells you she wants to meet with you in her office, you come runnin’. I certainly wasn’t going to argue.”
“Huh. She asked for me too.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Clarence told me. I was off in Saalfeld doing that offsite job, and when I got back he told me you’d left for Magdeburg. When I got home Lana had a letter for me. Clarence near hit the roof when I told him I was coming up here too. ‘Has the woman gone plumb crazy?’” It was a pretty fair impression of Clarence Dobbs, and they both laughed.
“Maybe she has.”
“Has what?”
“Gone plumb crazy.” Joe looked around. “
Both
of us have an audience with the wife of the so-called prince of Germany. Damn. Do you think she’s going to want to see us together, or . . .”
“I don’t know, Joey. Maybe we should go
ask
her.”
“Lead the way,” Joe said, gesturing toward the long hall of offices ahead.
◊ ◊ ◊
The wife of the prince of Germany, as Joe Tillman had called her—but not to her face—was more gracious and pleasant than he could have expected. He and his brother had stood in the outer office while her secretary checked whether she was busy, and then beckoned them to come in.
Rebecca Abrabanel had married Mike Stearns not long after the Ring of Fire, and now was almost as recognizable a public figure as her husband. She had been in the middle of all of the recent political intrigue—stuff that happened way above Joe and Frank’s pay grades—but she still seemed genuinely excited to see them. She led them into her inner office, which was crowded and small, but very organized—
everything in its place
, Joe thought,
and lots of places
. They sat in two straight chairs facing the desk, and she armed each of them with a sturdy coffee-mug bearing the USE flag before sitting in her comfortable chair behind it.
“Thank you for responding so promptly,” she said. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about.”
Joe didn’t answer; Frank smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am, we were a little curious.”
“And you should be. Do you read the newspapers regularly?”
“Is this some sort of test?” Joe finally blurted out. Frank looked at him, wondering how to follow that up.
“He didn’t mean anything by that,” Frank managed. “No offense.”
“None taken. No, Mr. Tillman, this is not a test, but rather an invitation. I’d like the two of you to be a part of a . . . delegation.”
“A what, now?”
“A delegation. I have been asked to travel on behalf of the government of the USE, to represent it at a rather significant event. The crowning of a new king.”
“The king of France,” Joe Tillman said. “Gaston.”
“You
do
read the papers.”
“I keep up,” he said. “The old king was killed, right? Some sort of ambush. And his brother is going to take his place.”
“That’s right. He is to be crowned in Reims on the twenty-first of May. I will be accompanied by Colonel Hand, who will represent his cousin the Emperor, and who will present diplomatic credentials to King Gaston as our permanent representative. I am taking some of my staff with me, and I’d like to have the two of you along as well.”
“You would,” Joe said. “For what? Do you need some plumbing done at the consulate? There must be Frenchmen you could hire for that.”
“Joey—”
Joe held his hand up. “No, this is important, Frank. Mrs. Stearns has decided that two pipefitters from Grantville are going to be a part of some
diplomatic delegation
so we can watch a king be crowned. All I can think is: why? And I bet I know the answer.”
Rebecca sat patiently as the two brothers stared each other down. Frank looked uncomfortable—he didn’t seem to like the idea that his brother was speaking so bluntly. Joe was more defiant.
“I think we should let the lady tell us,” Frank said.
“No,” Rebecca Stearns said. “Please, Mr. Tillman.” They both looked at her. “I’m sorry. Mr. Joe Tillman. Tell me why you think I’ve invited two pipefitters to travel with me.”
“It’s about Terrye Jo.”
“Joe—”
“Yes,” Rebecca said, leaning forward. “That’s right. It’s about your daughter. For the past several months she has been working for the duke of Savoy and for the king-designate of France. There are things she knows that may be of vital importance.”
“Things she might tell her dad that she won’t tell a government minister.”
“Just so,” Rebecca said.
“Well,” Joe said, “I hate to be the person to break it to you, ma’am, but my daughter and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now. I had to bury her aunt and her mother while she was working hard for this duke. I don’t think she’ll be curling up on my lap and telling me secrets.”
“I understand.”
“You do. So . . .” Joe looked at Frank and then back at Rebecca, who didn’t seem too surprised at Joe’s answer. “So I still don’t see what’s the point.”
“You act as if you haven’t communicated with her at all since she left Grantville, Mr. Tillman. She came home after her tour of duty, before she went with the team that installed Duke Victor Amadeus’ radio tower, and hasn’t been home since—but you’ve received letters from her.”
Joe’s face reddened. “How the
hell
do you know that? Did you open ’em too and read what she said?”
“No. Of course not. But we do know that letters to you arrived in the Grantville post office. Savoy is a . . . place of interest for the USE at the moment, due to the duke’s relationship with Monsieur Gaston. So
any
correspondence with
anyone
in Savoy is of interest to the government.”